Nine Goblins(2)

It was really pretty easy to desert—people did it all the time—but Weatherby had made an art of it. He would nod to the rest of the Nineteenth, as they sat around the campfire, and say “Right, I’m off then!” and then walk in a straight line until he hit the edge of the Goblin Army encampment. Once he was fifty feet from the edge of camp, Weatherby proceeded to rip off his clothes, run to the nearest hill, rise or tree stump, and begin dancing wildly in the moonlight, while shouting “I’m free, you sods, free! I’m a free goblin! Waahoooo! Free!”

Eventually the guards would come get him and bring him home again, although his clothes were usually a loss.

Since the Goblin Army had blown almost all its uniform budget on red coats for the officers, everybody was wearing loincloths from home anyway, so nobody much noticed.

A runner came up to the edge of the fire where the Nineteenth were sitting. “New orders, Sergeant!” he said, saluting Nessilka.

Nessilka muttered something under her breath. She was the ranking member of the Nineteenth since Blockhammer had gotten splattered, followed by Murray and Algol, who were corporals, and everybody else, who weren’t. You could tell the ranks by the stripes on the loincloth, although this system had drawbacks if you were trying to tell the difference between a general and somebody who just didn’t do laundry often enough.

Nessilka didn’t like being in charge. She was good at it, but she didn’t like it. She had been the oldest of six children and was the veteran of three campaigns, and as a result, both responsibility and suspicion of rank were etched in Nessilka’s bones. Finding herself as the senior member of the Whinin’ Niners was like a constant itch between her shoulderblades.

“What’s the word, then?” she asked.

“General Globberlich says to break camp. We’re movin’ out!” He saluted again. He had to be new. Nobody was that enthusiastic after the first month.

“Will do,” said Nessilka, and waited.

The runner saluted again. He was a scrawny little green fellow, probably with imp blood somewhere a few generations back.

He saluted for the fourth time, hard enough to bruise his forehead.

Sergeant Nessilka took pity on him and saluted back, and he ran off to the next camp.

Nessilka was a female goblin, which meant that everybody was a little scared of her. Occasionally you saw women in the enemy armies—generally slim, willowy young women with longbows and grim expressions. She wondered if everybody on their side tiptoed around them like naughty children with an unpredictable schoolteacher.

Somehow, she doubted it.

There was nothing slim or willowy about Nessilka. She was built like a chunk of granite, and she could carry a live boar under one arm. The only concession to femininity was that she wore her hair in a bun instead of a long queue, and she wore slightly fewer earrings than everyone else.

“Alright, maggots, you heard the man,” she growled. “Pack up and move out!”

Most of the Whinin’ Nineteenth groaned and grumbled and sulked. Murray and Algol, however, got to their feet and went to start packing their kits, and eventually, the rest followed.

Sergeant Nessilka had just shoved her spiked club into her belt when a flash of red indicated that the officer had returned to his position on the cliff. Now he was mounted on his parade pig, a big white porker with its hooves polished and ribbons twined in its tail. He made a sweeping gesture with his sword. The pig squealed.

“And that’s our cue,” Nessilka said. She slung her pack over her shoulder, and looked around her unit. They were mostly packed. Murray was helping the two newest recruits get their gear arranged. Algol had the lead rope for the supply goat. Gloober had a finger up his nose.

“Mooooooove OUT!”

The Whinin’ Niners moved out.





TWO





How the Goblin War (if you asked the humans) or the Glorious Conflict Resisting The Ongoing Human Aggression (if you asked the goblin generals) or the Bloody Miserable Mess (if you asked the Nineteenth Infantry) got started really depends on which side was doing the talking.

Humans and elves will tell you that goblins are stinking, slinking, filthy, sheep-stealing, cattle-rustling, henhouse-raiding, disgusting, smelly, obnoxious, rude, unmannerly, and violent.

The goblins would actually agree with all that, and they might add “cowardly” and “lazy” to the list as well. Goblins have lots of flaws, but few illusions.

As far as the human side of the war is concerned, one day the goblins, who had been keeping to themselves pretty well in the high hills and deep mires, came out to a human settlement, riding their pigs and waving banners, and holding a list of really laughable demands.