Trapped in Another World With No Magic

A carriage creaks as it rocks back and forth. Chains and anchor rings rattle and jingle with every little jostling motion. Insects buzz and hum in the distance as amphibians sing their evening songs.

They are normal sounds, filling the forest with their noise.

Hungry eyes gaze upon the carriage as it and several others behind it make their way down the dirt-laden path towards the war mountain.

This hunger is not one that can be sated, however. It is not food that is desired. Pure greed and malice are the driving forces of those watching the carriages from their hidden positions amongst the trees and shrubs. Many treasures of all kinds are ferried to and from the war mountain. They are easy targets, and those who are the quickest and strongest get to take the spoils of their choosing.

The only being in the world that matters is the one whose gaze trails to the tallcat driving the leading carriage as it approaches. Tallcats are tricky to deal with because they are fast as well as strong. But, they are arrogant because they are tall, just like all of the other talllings. Their blood still flows when they are cut and stabbed, and their screams and cries still make this particular green-skinned warrior laugh.

The most satisfying victories are against those who think they are stronger than him, since he is the greatest and most important being in the world.

The Warrior glances cautiously from his hiding place. Others have constantly started appearing to try and take his loot, and many of them have successfully stolen his treasures. He would love nothing more than to kill them all and steal his rightful treasures back, but they have their uses. They make great distractions when fighting talllings, and some of them even save the only true warrior in the world the effort of killing the enemies himself. If he’s really lucky, they kill each other.

Today is just another such hunt for treasures. The tallcat appears to be female, which is a bonus whether she lives or dies. And, most likely, there are other talllings in the carriage. As long as he’s not the first one to charge, he can wait for the right time to attack and outlive the fools who lead.

Sure enough, a cry from one of the other green-skinned thieves arises as he bursts out of the trees from a high branch, landing on the carriage. Dozens of other green-skins join the attack just as quickly, and the Warrior cackles as he rises to his feet. He will wait for just the right moment and take what is his.

He rushes towards the pullbeasts of the front carriage. Pullbeasts can be frightening when they panic, but they are the first thing that needs to be dealt with, or else the prey might escape.

The green-skins far outnumber the greatest army of the foolish tallings, making this just as easy as all of the other attacks before.

The tallcat doesn’t move, stricken with fear as the Warrior closes in on the pullbeasts. Even the pullbeasts are afraid to move. The Warrior cries out his mighty battle-cry as he swings his ax with its painfully jagged blade. “Gyaaaahhhhh!”

Reddish brown slow poison marks his battle-harden weapon, and the pullbeasts will be helpless when he takes out their legs.

The ax comes across with ferocity, and the pullbeast doesn’t even look at him. He slams the blade straight into its knee, but to his surprise, the ax bounces off with a surprising ‘clonk!’.

Confused by this turn of events, the Warrior snarls. “Shi-shi mo-al-okka!” curses the Warrior, swinging his ax again, this time for below the knee.

Still, the same ‘clonk’ follows the impact, and pain sears through his hands. He cries out, “Bakyaka! Ba! Fusu-lesa!” He stumbles back a step, plopping his ax head down onto the dirt.

He looks up at the pullbeast, which has neither moved to get away, nor even looked at him. And, where he struck its legs has no signs of blood, even though two fairly deep chunks of its flesh have been chopped out. In all of his wise years of life, the Warrior has never seen a pullbeast not respond at all to being attacked, even if it wears shinyshell like the weak and cowardly talllings do.

Neither pullbeast has moved, and they haven’t even made a sound.

Likewise, a chorus of pings and clangs are filling the forest as the lead carriage is attacked, and confused green-skins snarl and chatter towards the back where the other carriages seem to be empty.

The Warrior looks at the green-skins ahead of the carriage, who are waiting to take down the pullbeasts if they do manage to escape him. They are just as confused as he is, and those attacking the lead carriage are getting frustrated.

Another peculiarity starts to dawn on the Warrior. The only voices he is hearing are green-skins. There are no screams of even the tallcat that was driving the lead carriage, nor anyone inside the carriages. He looks at the tallcat, who has been struck by weapons several times by now-confused green-skins. Her flesh has chipped away, but there is no blood. It looks more like wood.

It’s then that the Warrior sees the tallcat’s face. It barely looks like a person now that he can see it behind the hood. There is no fur anywhere on its body. Only paint denotes a difference between skin and the parts that should be fur or hair.

The greatest and most intelligent Warrior in all of the world is puzzled. Something is very strange compared to the other ambushes.

The Warrior begins to grow concerned, feeling a tingle in his body that replaces the dull pain in his hands and arms. He doesn’t fear tallings, but he is not stupid like the others. He’s not going to die.

Just as he’s pondering this, the side flaps of the lead carriage open, leaving about four holes too small to crawl through on each side, and three on the front.

A mechanical ‘Clunk!’ sounds out from within the carriage’s hidden interior, and then a startling roar that turns into a strange, monster-like low growl rumbles the Warrior to his bones.

He stumbles back a step as many of the other green-skins cry out and chatter in surprise, all readying their weapons against the carriage.

There’s another metallic cough from the center-front hole, passing by the tallcat and through the pullbeasts towards the group behind the Warrior.

Thunder booms loudly, causing the Warrior to shriek in terror as the green-skins scream in pain and agony near the blast.

From their, terrifyingly loud pops and cracks spit fire and smoke out of the holes on the carriage, and green-skins all around the warrior cry out and scream as blood sprays in every direction. Just as some of them try to retreat, the rear carriages explode violently in violent puffs of white, grey, and brown, sending even more screams into the air as the last of the Warrior’s hearing vanishes.

All he can hear now is a strange drum beat, too fast to be music, as it thumps rapidly. He looks around frantically. Green-skins are falling in sprays of blood, while others try in futility to attack the carriage, only to be killed by unseen attacks from within.

And then, the true terror strikes.

Flashes erupt from the trees as green-skins try to flee, flickering like skyflashes, but filling the undersides of the trees with light.

The thumping drum beat continues in the Warrior’s ears. He can’t see anything. Phantoms are slaughtering the weaker green-skins, and the cowards are unable to even leave the trail.

Several green-skins have the clever idea to hide beneath the carriage, and they seem to last a while.

However, from his vantage point, the warrior can see something drop into their midst from the bottom of the carriage. Just like the ones out in front of the carriage, an explosion of white, grey, and brown engulfs the cowards who took cover beneath the vehicle.

Even with all of the chaotic attacks, the pullbeasts haven’t even attempted to move, nor has the tallcat driving the carriage.

A memory finally resurfaces in the Warrior’s mind. Talllings often make fake versions of themselves and other things. Some are carved from stone, others from trees, and still more from shinystone. The fake tallings do not move, do not respond, and seem to be dead, but because they are made from those things, they are not edible.

The tallings of this carriage have used the fakes instead of risking themselves, like the cowards they are. And now, phantoms are slaughtering all of the thieves that the Warrior had to contend with for treasure.

He is no fool, though. He alone is not enough to defeat all of the phantoms and whatever talllings might still be in the carriage, even if they are craven weaklings.

The bravest Warrior in the world walks cautiously backwards as smoke and flashes still flicker out from both the lead carriage and the forest behind. If he’s not careful, he’ll be spotted by the phantoms and attacked. Most likely, they can only attack if he isn’t looking at them, since he has been watching the carriage the whole time, and not one of their foul invisible attacks has come near him.

Suddenly, the Warrior bumps into something, and he is violently shoved to the ground. He screams in anger and surprise as he faceplants into the dirt of the trail, and he feels pain shoot through his nose and one of his ears as strangely familiar cackling sounds out all around him, still muffled to a degree and partially drowned out by the unending rapid drum beat.

He scrambles to lift his head and looks around.

He can feel the rapid squeezing in his chest tighten even more as sweat starts to form all across his skin. The greatest being alive is gazing upon dozens of green-skins. But, unlike those who joined him in his attack, these ones are wearing shinyshells like tallings, not just scavenged trophies made to fit. They all look identical to each other, with a headshell painted black, along with chest, arm, and leg shells painted dark green with various shades of green, black, and grey mixed in. And, on the front of their helmets, from which their green-skin ears protrude, there is a frightening face with sharp teeth and evil eyes as black as the darkest caves where even the mighty Warrior cannot see.

The green-skins facing him are carrying strange black rods with protrusions all over, some of which are emitting smoke from one end. His frantically jumping eyes see one of the green-skins emerging from the forest further back, and the weakling points the smoking end of his cowardly stick in a specific direction. A burst of fire comes out of the black stick before a thief who had helped the raid flops lifelessly to the ground from a pleading position.

The Warrior is the wisest being he knows in the entire world. He may be surrounded, but his heroic wits are easily too much for these hardshelled cowards, even if they hide their terror behind cackles and chatter the Warrior is too intelligent to understand.

“{Look at this one. He made urine on himself.}”

“{Let’s put him out of his misery and return.}”

As the second one speaks unintelligibly like the craven wretch that it is, another steps up and puts its hand on that one’s firespitter. This arrogant weakling of a green-skin is wearing a long piece of fabric that reaches from his shoulders to his ankles, and it is a solid grey color.

“{Hold, brother. It looks like he’s the only survivor. Tag him and let him flee.}”

The craven smallfry that dared to attempt to attack the Warrior retreats a step in fear of his greatness, and he grips a fist full of dirt in his left hand, while his right hand still holds his trusty red-brown poison-bladed axe.

Suddenly, pain hits the Warrior’s shoulder from behind, and he shrieks in anger. “Greeeaaaahhh!” He sweeps the ax in a wide arc, and all of the green-skins hop back fearfully, giving him an opening. He flings the fistful of dirt at the pompous weakling wearing the longcloth, springing to his feet into a full sprint. His brave and ingenious strategy will be to gain distance and attack the cowards one by one if he truly is the only one to survive. Then, he’ll claim the firespitters for himself and become even mightier than the fire scalebirds.

After all, he is the mightiest warrior in the entire world. His feet have never let him down before, and he runs as fast as he can through the woods, pain still burning his shoulder. He’ll devise new cunning plans to wipe out all of the cowards who would dare gang up on him.

For now, the Warrior returns to the hoard where he and those other thieves have agreed to hold a truce to store their treasures. Some of the weakest green-skins are already present, likely having turned back before the raid even began.

He’ll have to kill them later and take what is rightfully his. If they were too cowardly to even join the raid, then they are obviously too weak to stand against him. After all, he is going to defeat the hardshelled cravens and take their firespitters.

Just as the Warrior snarls, “Glakka boort fuon bok,...” He hears a sound from behind him. He is deep within the depths of the burrow now, where the weak and cowardly captured talllings are huddled together, waiting for their turn to be a meal.

The Warrior readies his backup rending cleaver, a handle that fits his impressive hands with an even more impressive blade, though it is heavier than the ax, which is why he doesn’t use it as often. But, because he didn’t have time to keep hold of his trusty ax, he’ll just have to retrieve it after he slaughters the phantoms and their pathetic green-skin slaves.

When he turns, however, the greatest and most powerful Warrior in the world is met with a surprisingly sharp pain under his lower jaw. He is stuck and unable to move as his eyes roll back for a moment from sharp pain piercing into his mouth and behind his nose, and he can feel hot liquid draining into his throat.

He struggles to lower his gaze to look at the source of this pain, and he finds the same green-skin weakling who was wearing the long grey rag on his back, but it is no longer present. The green-skin’s gaze is as cold as ice, and that chill sends a shiver down the Warrior’s spine.

The name ‘Alkus Gristak’ once found its place in the Warrior’s thoughts after a dream he had. Green-skins who live like talllings have their pathetic beliefs, and that place is why they don’t dig deep into the ground.

This green-skin, from the look in his eyes, is one of those who have come back from that place.

The hot liquid draining into the Warrior’s throat causes him to cough, and blood sprays out, splattering the Gristak demon lightly. Even so, the impossible terror-beast doesn’t even blink. It simply growls in a cold tone, “{Scum like you give us goblins a bad name. May the chains of Alkus Gristak never release you.}”

The Gristak demon raises its right hand holding something that looks like a strangely shaped hammer or boomerang, but without either of the usefulness of those two.

Regardless, its shape looks even more specifically like something the Warrior learned of only today; firespitters.

He can only widen his eyes as he looks down the pitch-black maw of the weapons of the Alkus Gristak.

It’s not a firespitter.

It is a soulstealer.

***

“Look at this one. He made urine on himself.” The goblin of “Grendel 6” who just spoke is Locke, one of the few who have been blessed with an Earth name by order of the Emperor. He was a feral goblin living in the Citadel prior to the arrival of the Emperor and Empress, and didn’t have a name. Regardless, goblins are fast to adapt and learn, and Locke’s best chance at survival was to become a loyal soldier for the Fievegal, which he now eagerly bears with pride.

Field Marshal Klur studies the carnage around them. A light blinks from inside the disguised and heavily modified ‘Iron Buckrokh’. While not as heavy and nigh-indestructible as the iron drakes, the iron buckrokhs are still classified as tanks, according to Daniel. Using a high power boiler empowered by water and fire crystals, it emulates a similar high torque engine design from Earth.

And, the iron buckrokh is much faster and more maneuverable than the iron drakes, perfect for this mission.

“Let’s put him out of his misery and return,” replies Olk, a goblin from the far north, where it is much colder and harsher weather. His stoic personality matches the scar spreading across his face.

Olk aims his compact machine gun, the largest weapons goblins can handle safely.

Klur steps forward and places his hand on the barrel of Olk’s weapon. “Hold, brother. It looks like he’s the only survivor. Tag him and let him flee.”

Olk sighs in disappointment, stepping back. In that moment, the last surviving dumgob swings his rusty ax and flings a handful of dirt, and the goblins of Grendel 6 all hop back to easily avoid the last-ditch attack.

The dumgob springs to his feet and bolts, sprinting as fast as he can away from the ambush sight.

The elite forces of the Fievegal gather as they see him off, cackling together. The tank is already running, in case they needed to evacuate, so it’ll be an easy escape. To run silently for the trap, Klur requested a rapid retrofit to include a smaller engine like the iron drakes, but the High Goblin Ahok already had a new design specifically used as a prototype; an iron buckrokh with both the water and fire powered engine, and an electric crystal powered engine that runs almost silently.

Klur’s cup has always been full since joining the Fievegal, and seeing these disgusting wretched feral goblins enrages him. Everyone hates, fears, or underestimates goblins because of them, treating the diminutive demon-kin like beasts.

But, not Emperor Daniel and his Empresses. They arm and armor goblins as well as they would any other soldier, and now Klur can go toe to toe with even drakes and gulpoxen on his own. He’ll struggle, but he could potentially win.

And, goblins never fight alone.

He smiles as the dumgob stumbles, disappearing into the brush. “Grendel 6! Forward unto riches!”

“Raaaaahhhh!” cheer the goblins in both the tank and on the ground. Klur leads his primary squad forward while the rest of Grendel 6 reattaches the carriages in order to follow. This area’s main group of dumgobs was part of the ambush, so there shouldn’t be another raid. That said, their ability to escape will be greatly amplified if they’re already chained to the tank, which no amount of dumgobs will be able to stop.

Olk jogs alongside Klur, with Locke leading the way. He has the prototype mana tracker that Ahok’s subordinates produced under her supervision, and it follows a linked ‘tag’, which was jammed into the back of the dumgob’s shoulder like a fish hook. Even if he realizes what it is, the dumgob will likely be too afraid of the additional pain to try to remove it, and none of the others will help him, since his death means his loot belongs to them.

Klur hates that he knows how dumgobs think. Fundamentally, they’re still goblins, meaning their instinctual greed and desire for treasure as much as the screams of others is hardwired into them all. Social goblins like Klur and Olk learned long ago to cooperate with each other on a more trusting level to increase the overall wealth of their tribes, which led to the construction of villages and even recognition by some of the other demon-kin.

But, something even Locke can attest to, being a former bloodthirsty dumgob himself, is the fact that the screams that sate their inherently malicious hearts don’t have to be innocent women and children.

They can be the terrified screams and suffering of other goblins.

Particularly, feral goblins giving the rest of them a terrible reputation.

Klur calls out over his shoulder as they jog at a leisurely pace, “Make sure to sweep the forest! Scenthunters, find them and smoke them out. We’re leaving none of them alive.”

“Yes, Field Marshal!” reply the members following him.

“Field Marshal, does that mean we’re fully free?”

“Against the dumgobs, yes. Give no quarter, spare no mercy. Any prisoners and dumgob children need to be corralled and protected.”

Olk grins maliciously. He was, as one might guess, banished from the north because he has a very low bar for his temper. In the Fievegal, treasure and blood are in great supply, as long as impulse control is maintained. Olk is likely pent up from being a field trainer for the other goblins becoming soldiers.

“Your wish is my command, Field Marshal.”

“What about the female dumgobs?” asks one of the soldiers in the back.

Klur’s grey mantle flaps behind him as he looks over his shoulder, still keeping his pace. “If they fight, they die. If they surrender, then tie them up. But, there will be no slaves. We’re here for vengeance, not conquest.”

Several cheers of agreement join him. Klur is certainly not the only one angered by the dishonor dumgobs create. The grey mantle flowing in the wind behind Klur is proof of the Emperor himself acknowledging the goblin during the battle with the eastern empire. While it was something Daniel cautioned against after the fact, Klur had led his team of goblins behind enemy lines to steal anything and everything of value, including troop movement plans, magic scrolls, and logistical documentation. Goblins didn’t win the battle the way Hekate and the dragons did, but they did what goblins do best; create a great deal of pain and rot in their enemies.

Word won’t spread quickly, but Klur intends to make every being ever born with green skin and goblin ears fear ever becoming a dumgob again.

The burrow appears before them quickly, with various dumgobs milling around. One is dragging a seemingly lifeless being by the leg; it could be a child of the taller races or an imp. Regardless, time is of the essence.

Klur gives hand signals as he was taught, and his troops nod in understanding. Locke takes a handful of the elite goblins off to the left, while Olk stalks out of sight on the right.

Klur is a goblin, so his intelligence will never be as high as other races. Ahok is an anomaly because of her half human or elven blood, meaning the First and Second Princess of the Fievegal may be anomalies as well.

But, Klur has strived to learn from his liege lord everything that the Emperor will teach. Some of it is in books, others are by demonstration. Every time the Emperor graces Klur with his time and effort, Klur is stronger for it.

And so, the goblin Field Marshal withdraws a special tube that attaches to the end of his submachine gun. With just a simple tube, the weapon spits a sound little more than a soft cough and the clanking of its metal parts. And at range, it’s almost unnoticeable, even for the powerful ears of a goblin.

Once the others are in position, Klur checks his own team, who have also added their own suppressors.

Everyone takes aim, and with careful precision, Klur fires, taking out the dumgob dragging the small person. He flops to his side with out time to grunt, while his blood spritzes out.

When the others turn to look at him, whispered coughs fill the air with light amounts of smoke, and the rest of the goblins fall.

Klur runs to the girl, signalling Locke and Olk to track down other entrances, which they quickly sweep the area. The Field Marshal then kneels next to the girl, keeping his eyes peeled as he checks her pulse. She moves on her own, which gives him some relief. He clicks his teeth with his tongue twice, signalling the medic to move up.

Floria, a female goblin member of Grendel 6 jogs up. Her armor is lighter than the rest, and instead of a black helmet with the Feldrok Grin, she wears a grey helmet with the Fievegal’s healing emblem; a special flower with a halo and golden ropes sweeping around it. She has both potions and potations in her void bag, which allows her to safely treat the widest variety of people possible. Floria was also a feral goblin, though she’s very young and is still recovering from the terror of living in the Citadel before the Emperor and Empresses. Having been spared, Daniel asked her what she wanted to do, and she answered that she wanted to heal the injured, including on the battlefield. He then bestowed her the name “Floria”, an easier to remember tie to a famous healer on Earth.

The injured girl is terrified when she sees the goblins of Grendel 6, but she doesn’t have the strength to fight back. Floria quickly checks her condition. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay. We’re here to help you,” coos the goblin medic. The girl is a human, which means she most likely came from the far side of the mountains somehow. There’s no telling how she ended up on the other side of the Fievegal for certain, nor how she ended up in the clutches of feral goblins, but it makes Klur feel a hole in his heart. He knows why Daniel is the way he is. When good deeds are done, people will happily reward you. When you can help someone, it feels almost as good or better than spilling blood.

The only advantage to a situation like this is the fact that the Field Marshal and Grendel 6 have the privilege of spilling blood and helping people.

“She’s weak, but I can get her stable, Field Marshal. I’ll stay with her until Mobile arrives. Send a runner for me if you need me.”

Klur nods. His job isn’t finished yet, and he can smell the beast that fled from him back at the ambush site.

Klur takes off his mantle, placing it on the girl’s body to cover her. He says as reassuringly as he can, even though he knows human children fear goblins rather easily, “With this, you have my protection. You won’t be hurt again.”

The girl starts crying, and the Commanding Goblin stands up, marching into the cave. “Let’s move.”

Klur and his squad storm the cavern, sweeping each and every tunnel and pocket, exterminating dumgobs with swift and precise attacks, overwhelming and surprising them. He can already hear the same suppressed coughs of submachine gun fire deeper in, indicating one of the other teams found another entrance. It’s imperative that they secure all exits to prevent any of the dumgobs from escaping. Those that can be reformed will be dealt with later. For now, they have to capture the burrow and rescue any prisoners while exterminating hostile dumgobs.

After killing around a dozen dumgobs, Klur’s nose leads him exactly where he wants to be. And, to his morbid satisfaction, he is the first one to arrive.

This is the prisoner room, which is usually the territory of only the strongest and highest ranking of dumgobs, so their treasures are also often located here. The Field Marshal had a suspicion, given the nature of the ambush, that the dumgob allowed to flee was a little higher than a peon or a leech, but he also doesn’t seem to know where anything is, suggesting that he’s just treating everything as his now that he knows the others of his ‘tribe’ are gone.

Klur draws his dagger, swooping up behind the frantic savage. The feral wretch cheers eagerly in unintelligible gibberish, which is a scare tactic dumgobs use because they rarely learn languages unless they become social goblins.

Like the rusty ax, the dumgob prizes a rusty blade that looks like an elongated butcher’s cleaver, with a rectangular blade and a handle traditionally suited to a taller race’s single hand. To a goblin, it’s closer to a heavy shortsword, but because this one is so poorly cared for, it would be a slow and painful death for anyone foolish or helpless enough to be hit by it enough times to die.

The goblin honored by the Emperor doesn’t give the feral dumgob a chance to even realize that he’s there, let alone swing. He swoops the dagger blade-up into the underside of the dumgob’s chin, and his eyes roll back from the painfull shock. But, because of the force and a blade now piercing into a part of his brain, his motor functions give out. He probably doesn’t even realize that his feet are dangling due to Klur’s superior strength honed over months of training.

The dumgob is finally able to look at him with trembling eyes full of terror, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he is already dead. His brain just hasn’t realized it yet.

The dumgob coughs weakly, spitting up blood that sprays a little on Klur’s face and helmet. He doesn’t even flinch as his cold, angered eyes stare deep, watching the dumgob’s soul fade.

“Scum like you give us goblins a bad name,” growls Klur with his voice cold and full of malice. “May the chains of Alkus Gristak never release you.”

He lifts his side arm from its holster, aiming it directly at the dumgob’s head. The fading wretch has just enough cognizance remaining to process what it is, and the terror renews in his eyes as he weakly tries to move his pierced tongue.

BANG!

Blood sprays both forward and behind the dumgob as its soul is cast into the deepest pit of the world.

It is said that the Chains of Alkus Gristak grow heavier over eternity, and they forever burn the flesh of the imprisoned with molten steel. Once the Chains ensnare someone, they will never be seen again. They will cease to exist.

They will cease to be important.

Klur has had his goblin beliefs shaken up by the eminence of the Fievegal’s unrivaled Emperor, but this is the first time he hopes Alkus Gristak is real. It is a place said to be prowled by the most vicious and evil of demons, created at the dawn of time to punish those who dig too deep and heed not wisdom, having become slaves to greed and vanity.

Klur holsters his pistol and sets the dumgob down, pulling his dagger out and dropping the lifeless body to the floor.

The Field Marshal surveys the room around him. A couple of dattakoriens, one of them roughly as young as the girl outside, three humans, a succubus, and an Uhl’tall. Those that are conscious and have the strength cower in the corner, huddling together to try to avoid the goblins they know are present; specifically one that created a flash of light in this dark cavern.

Goblins can see almost as well as dattakoriens in the dark, so he can see them perfectly fine, just as the dattakoriens can likely see him. The humans, however, are glancing around, listening for signs of whatever vile things are to come.

But, Klur is a goblin and a Field Marshal of the Fievegal. These people are under his protection now, and that of the entirety of Grendel 6.

And, around him, the other members of his squad have assassinated the dumgobs that either fled into this room or were already present when he pounced upon the one he just killed.

Olk’s squad appears at the entrance, and he nods at Klur, who returns the gesture to confirm the burrow is secure.

“Please stay calm,” states Klur in his gentlest voice he can manage. “We are soldiers of the Fievegal’s Grendel 6 Unit. I am Field Marshal Klur. You’re going to be free.”

The women tremble, too afraid to speak. Only the dattakoriens can likely see him, and the younger one whimpers, “A-Aren’t you goblins?”

“That’s right. These beasts are false goblins, a stain on my honor. I will not stand by while these things continue to happen.”

Locke approaches, handing Klur a handkerchief, and the Field Marshal wipes his face off, approaching the women huddled together. They’re tied to the walls with collars, so it would be a challenge for them to escape normally.

“Emperor Daniel granted me the privilege of coming to help you. Please, accept our hand of helping.” Klur kneels in front of the group where they can see them, and they recoil in surprise.

The young dattakorien girl whimpers, “I… I want to leave… I don’t want to be here anymore…”

“M-M-Me too!” whimpers the other, before many of them are sobbing. The goblins of Grendel 6 step in to try to comfort them, providing water, food, and blankets to help them. Many of the goblins are covered in blood, but blood is like food. It only satiates one’s hunger for a time because it is not everlasting. Likewise, the prisoners, the survivors, have seen much worse, no doubt.

For most of his life, Klur was an aimless goblin without a calling. But, as he looks at the survivors being escorted out by his soldiers, he finally knows what his purpose in this world is.

A goblin with a true purpose is a rare thing.

He will savor the terror in that dumgob’s eyes; that feral goblin that shared all the traits of a goblin like Klur. But, it will remain a bittersweet memory, because of what others had to suffer for him to be able to enjoy it.

Klur has a new resolve, and a new request for the Emperor.

***