Mid Lamashan, 4708
In the wilds, south of Haugin’s Ear
The dull thud of his head hitting something hard brought Ianus fully awake. He forced his eyes open and found he was on his back looking straight up. Naked tree limbs moved against a grey sky in a stiff but eerily silent wind. He turned his head slightly to one side. Brown, yellow, and orange leaves slid past. His head hurt and his left ankle seemed to be caught on something that tugged his leg.
He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, and using all of the patience his six years could muster he listened. At first the only sound he heard was the scratching of the brittle dead leaves that blew past him. And then crunching. Something was walking through the leaves. Something close by. Something near his feet. He opened his eyes and looked toward his toes and saw a blurry figure walking away from him — walking but not getting any further away. It was holding something in its left hand.
Ianus pulled on his leg to free his ankle. The arm of the figure jerked back suddenly and the creature swiftly turned about and chattered angrily at him. Its mouth was filled with lots of small sharp teeth. He quit struggling and the creature turned back and resumed walking. And the leaves began to move again in time to the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of its steps.
“Oh!” thought Ianus, but then his head thunked hard against a very large rock and darkness took him.
Natre Mossdreamer grumbled softly to herself has she dragged her burden across the forest floor. “It is good. It is gift. Hanspur reward for loyal Natre.”
She was a stranger in these parts, but her sense of smell told her to give the woods a wide berth. Something large and hungry lived in there. She could feel that violence had happened nearby and quite recently. Still, she reasoned, if the beast had just fed then surely it was safe for her to quickly look for anything its prey might have dropped.
Greed and caution had briefly warred with one another before she considered what her patron deity would do. “Hanspur would not let such an opportunity go by.” And so she had plunged into the woods, letting her nose guide her.
Natre had been disappointed when she found the site of the encounter. Blood had been spilled — she recognized both human and something bear-like — but they humans had apparently escaped and the creature had run off deeper into the forest. “Ringworms,” she cursed, “this is wasted morning!”
She kicked a rock in frustration which skittered across the ground and then suddenly dropped out of sight. She heard it bouncing between hidden rock walls. She scrambled over and peered into a crevice only a few feet wide. Something was down there in the dark that didn’t belong. Maybe something worth retrieving.
Fallen twigs and leaves covered most of the fissure, making it nearly invisible, and it took much of Natre’s skill to safely follow it westward. The land fell steadily and after a few hundred yards she was able to safely jump into the now shallow crack and work her way back in the dim light.
She sniffed and poked and prodded the still form. “It be a human cub and it still breathes,” she said, delighted with her discovery. “Natre founds it and so Natre now owns it! Hanspur wills it so.”
Still she had a feeling that the fleeing humans might return to look for it, and so she drug the child from the chasm and was worked at putting as much distance between it and herself as quickly as she could manage.
Once out of the wood she paused and built a crude travois from some small branches and a blanket. Afterward she came upon an animal trail that led along the River Keld. The trail widened into a footpath that undoubtedly led toward Haugin’s Ear. She had come that way on her journey out, and knew she could cross the river there and make her way back home to the Chitterwood. But how would she explain the human youngling to the townsfolk?
Early Abadius, 4709
The Chitterwood (near Umok)
“Ga, ka, kaga, aath, kaas, kron, hirot, kaath, gath’mokaas, mokaas.”
Ianus beamed proudly at the goblin woman as he completed his recitation. The two were sitting around the fire pit in the main room of her hut. It was deep winter, snow covered the ground, and it was cold even inside.
She simply stared at him blankly and so he added, “I got them in the right order this time, didn’t I sora?”
“Oh! Boy count to ten rightly after only two months try. He some skai golin!” Natre replied with contempt. “You want I bake you cake?”
“That’s not fair,” he replied, “I know lots of other goblin words… uh, volaar.”
“You slow. Not learn fast enough. How I show you to tribe when you not speak right? From now on you spend more time with speech and less time at hunt!”
Ianus frowned but, wisely remained silent. Who would have thought that learning a new language would be so hard? And it was so much more fun to be outside, stalking woodland creatures with his shortbow.
Late Abadius, 4709
The Chitterwood (near Umok)
It was bitter cold outside and the blaze inside her hut barely kept the room above freezing. The fire-pit had never held so much wood before and she had already gone through half of her stored wood for the winter.
In a corner on the cot (her cot) beneath every blanket and fur Natre owned the small form shivered but was otherwise unresponsive.
A gnome stood beside the cot with its case of chemicals and reagents open as he muttered and mixed some elixir.
Yesterday Natre had walked to gnomish town of Umok through the heavy snow to find a healer. The human boy had been sick for a fortnight and despite her ministrations every day had seen it get sicker and weaker. She found the healer’s house but he was out. His wife assured Natre he would come to her place the next day after the snow had passed.
Pleghelwin came before lunch to find the fire blazing and the child bundled in the cot. Fortunately he had arrived in time and knew what the child needed.
“You fix? You heal?” Natre asked in her halting gnomish.
“Yes, I will give the boy a drought now and then you must do so again for the next three days.”
Later Ianus would only remember a seemingly endless dream of darkness, screams, a giant bear, and falling.
Early Sarenith, 4714
Saringallow
“And so it’s 25 gold pieces for each of these potions of the highest quality, brewed in the Chitterwood by local crafters. It is quite a deal and you’ll get nothing but compliments from your clients who use them.” Ianus Gath’gan smiled at the merchant, trying not to show too many teeth. Still, he was aware that his smile did not always convey the emotions he wanted to show.
The man behind the desk looked over the crate of carefully packed potions and eyed him, noting just how young he was. He decided to try to low-ball the offer. “Made by Goblins, you mean. I am not sure I should pay you that much. How about I pay 20 per vial? That’s plenty generous.”
Gath sighed inwardly but hoped he didn’t show his frustration. This was the usual treatment he received from new merchants, which was why he preferred to trade in the towns and villages immediately surrounding his home in the Chitterwood. Those merchants knew him and didn’t try to pull this sort of crap. But the local tribe had decided that the markets in the nearby villages were saturated and that they were not buying enough merchandise, which meant traveling further from home and breaking in new shopkeepers — or “establishing business contacts,” as normal tradesmen would put it.
He decided to fall back on his usual tactic when dealing with the uninitiated. “Hmm, well I am not authorized to accept that large of a discount. Why don’t I go and bring my clients here so you can discuss it directly with them. It looks like there is space for a dozen or so goblins in here.”
“Ah…” the merchant began to back pedal. Gath knew that the shop’s inventory was low and his position was strong. That morning in the pub he heard about a band of explorer types that had passed through some days before and had depleted the shops of their adventuring supplies.
Gath pressed his advantage, “It’s no trouble, I assure you. They are encamped just outside of town and I am sure they won’t be put out at all by having their lunch interrupted to come and discuss why they shouldn’t be paid a fair market value for their products.”
A band of sweat was forming on the shopkeeper’s head as he quickly said, “Now that I think of it I do recall hearing about the quality of Chitterwood potions. I am sure they are worth the er, um, 23…” Gath squinted and by tilting his head back managed to glare down at the merchant, who physically towered above him. “Uh, right, 25 gold pieces per potion.”
“Deal!” cried Gath. “Dee-lighted to do business with you.”
He collected the payment and after counting it left the shop with a parting, “We’ll see you again in a couple of months then.”
He breathed a sigh of relief: he had sold the last of the tribe’s stock and he could return to the camp, which in reality only had two goblins: Natre and Vlaung. He could take his fee and maybe do some shopping of his own before they left for home.
Gath was not a very good trader and the best he usually got was just market value — no matter how desperate the local merchants seemed to be. But compared to how the goblins did on their own he was effectively a master at the craft, and so the local tribe insisted he handle all of their dealings with others.
Of course Gath was not a member of the tribe (he wasn’t a goblin, after all), but his guardian, Natre, who was a goblin (but also not part of the tribe) insisted he accept this role.
“It was goblin kind that raised you and so you owe goblins this,” Natre kept reminding him.
“Actually,” he would reply, “It was you who raised me and prevented the others from eating me. You do remember how I came by my name, right?” Gath’s full name was Gath’gan, which in goblin tongue literally meant “Don’t eat,” which was how Natre had introduced him to the tribe.
“You be much thankful Natre stopped goblins from eating you when you was smaller! Where you be without me?”
And to that Gath had no answer. He had no memories of his life before Natre beyond a vague dream-like trip through an autumn wood when he was quite small.
Mid Arodus, 4716
The Chitterwood (near Umok)
“See, this type bow better than simple bow you use. You bow single piece of yew — easy to make and good enough for most hunts. This bow made from different woods. Take advantage of different tree hearts. It shoot farther and pierce deeper.”
Natre knew a lot about bows, and making them was one of the things she did for the local tribe — her former tribe. Why she was no longer a member and why she lived alone with only Gath for company she never explained. She had taught Gath how to make simple shortbows (for goblins) and longbows (for selling), but now she was teaching him the complex steps needed to craft a composite bow.
Goblins typically didn’t care for this type of bow, but now that she had someone tall enough and strong enough to help (and test) a heftier weapon she wanted to sell them to humans in the villages around Chitterwood. Longbows fetched a reasonable price in town, but apparently composite longbows demanded much more.
Of course there was more work and skill involved with building a composite bow, but she had free labor in Gath, and he was more than skilled enough for the precision work required. And he enjoyed it.
Early Gozran, 4718
The Chitterwood (near the Voghul Caverns)
“As usual Natre got her way,” Gath mumbled beneath his breath. He was perched atop a promontory with the rest of his team while watching for their quarry to arrive at the planned ambush site.
The goblin tribe’s main settlement had been invaded several times over the past few weeks by large boars. They left huts flattened, goblins trampled, and worst of all, food taken. The chief had demanded his warriors take action, and action they took. On their first foray they forgot what they were tracking and returned to the village proudly bearing the corpses of numerous squirrels, rabbits, and starlings. Two days later they managed to remain focused on the tracks long enough to find the pack of tuskers, but had no plan for dealing with them. Two were gored to death and most of the others injured before they limped back home.
Natre heard of this and insisted that Gath lead a hunting group out to find and slay the marauding pigs. “You better hunter. You better warrior. You lead tribe to victory over pigs.” But most importantly she had said, “Remember Natre and bring back shoulder and belly.” This she repeated several times.
It turned out that she had failed to tell the goblins about her plan, and Gath was in no mood to argue the point when he arrived in the settlement ready to lead a team of warriors on the hunt. Fortunately (or unfortunately from Gath’s perspective) the chief sided with Gath and assigned six of his “best” fighters to accompany him.
The tracks were easy to follow even days later. No other animal seemed to delight in trampling and rooting up the ground like boars. The pack had moved further into the Chitterwood and it took several days to catch up to them. The pigs had found a bog in which they wallowed and slept.
To the south Garth had noticed low limestone hills not too far away. He left his squad hiding in a thicket after reminding them that they needed to be quiet. The ground turned rocky and sloped upward. He found a wide cleft in the rock that natural forces had carved into the hills about a furlong in length. The surrounding rock rose higher and higher on either side and at the end the crack squeezed shut in impassable walls. “Perfect,” Gath said to himself, “Now to explain my plan to the thickies.”
His plan was simple: set up a dead-fall of branches and boulders at a narrow spot in the ravine where the walls closed in and lure the boars in. They team could then seal off the entrance and trap the pigs within. After that they could pick off the porcines at their leisure using spears, arrows and rocks. It was a simple plan and even the goblins seemed to understand it.
“And here is the best part,” Gath explained to the goblins, “one of you — the chosen one — gets to slather himself with the rancid sheep fat we brought along and lure the boars into our trap. We will have a knotted rope tied and ready at the far end of the crack to serve as an escape. Of course we can only have the fastest, strongest and bravest warrior take on this important task.”
The result was sadly predictable and the goblins quickly came to blows over who was the most deserving of this honor. Gath had to step in to settle things before someone was killed. “Clearly each of you has some special talent or skill that makes you a good candidate. The only fair way to chose the prime warrior” — Gath’s public name for the role he privately called the bait — “is to let Hanspur decide.” In short order five goblins glumly held short pieces of grass while the sixth proudly held forth the long piece and gloated.
As the five sullen goblins made their way to the fissure’s entrance Gath handed the bait a worn pair of boots. “Your chief loaned these to me for the hunt, Hansire’s champion, and so it is fitting that you should wear them. Once you have the boars’ attention and you begin to run, activate them and they will help speed you to safety.”
Gath was a bit worried his instructions were too long and had too many syllables, but the warrior nodded sagely and so Gath trusted he understood. “Watch for the flaming arrow and when you see it bring the pigs to us!”
The plan worked surprisingly well. Actually, really, phenomenally well. The bait lured all of the boars into the narrow canyon, Gath and the other goblins sealed them in by dropping boulders and logs at the choke point. And all of the beasts had been slain. The only thing to go wrong was that the bait was unable to climb the rope fast enough (the rancid sheep fat made his hands too slippery) and he had been gored and trampled to death. The other goblins didn’t mind, and in fact seemed a little pleased because he had been so annoyingly smug about his role as the chosen one.
They hauled out the bodies and buried the goblin beneath a pile of rocks. The pigs were butchered and the meat smoked in makeshift racks set next to low fires. Some of the goblins objected to this, but Gath had no intention of traveling for days with spoiled pork in his pack (and surrounded by others with the same) and so he held firm. His reputation from the successful hunt carried the day and so smoked meat it was.
They returned several days later as heroes. The goblin hunters were called “the fearless five” (nobody had asked about the missing sixth) and even Gath was looked upon with respect for some time.
“And most bestly,” Natre said, smacking her lips as she chewed a greasy piece of pork belly while Gath recounted the hunt, “you bring back pig meat.”
Late Neth, 4718
The Chitterwood (near Umok)
Gath left the goblin village after completing the circuit of their usual market towns. People tended to not travel in the cold months and so trade had been slow and profits less than usual. The goblins, of course, blamed him.
His thoughts turned to home and of Natre. She had not gone on this trip nor any of the trips this year, citing aches and pains as the reason. He couldn’t blame her: it was cold and ice hung from the trees and the wind cut right through even the thickest clothing. And the trade circuit had expanded to take nearly a fortnight.
A new thought struck him then that stopped him dead in his tracks. “Just how old was Natre?” She wasn’t young back when he first came to her and many years had passed since then. In fact he could not think of a single goblin from the tribe whom he had known back in his early days among them who was still alive.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and picked up his pace.
There was no smoke rising from the round hut’s central vent hole. Not a good sign.
“Natre!” he called as he pushed open the door. There she was, lying in her cot. Face up. Fully dressed in her “nice clothes” with her arms across her chest. A necklace had been placed around her neck and a bow laid at her side. She was dead.
Someone had been there since she had passed and seen to her. One or more of the goblins from the tribe. Gath appreciated that. It was a sign of great respect for the goblins to do anything for their fallen, much less an outsider like Natre.
But then he realized that all of her valuables were missing. Even the secret stash of coins she kept in a hole beneath a flat rock was gone. Anger briefly blazed in his heart. “Thieves!” he spat.
He pulled the small stool next to the cot and sat by his guardian’s still form. The anger slipped away and he once again thought of the care and respect the goblins had shown Natre.
“Goblins will be goblins,” he thought, “and honestly we would have done the same given the circumstances.”
Some hours later he considered his own situation. Natre’s place had truly been picked clean: there wasn’t a pot or scrap of food or even twig of firewood left. All he had were the clothes he carried with him, some leather armor Natre had stitched together for him, his bow and a dog slicer. He did have some gold from the most recent trade run.
What to do? He could not see trying to continue his life with the goblins. Not without Natre. But it was winter and a bad time to wander in search of a new home… and a new career. But he did not want to spend the rest of the winter living in the hut haunted with memories of his old life. One more night he would spend. Sitting next to Natre in respect.
The next morning flames and smoke engulfed the hut. Gath had filled it with fallen branches, twigs and leaves and set fire to it.
He set out headed towards the town of Umok. “I hope I can find someone in need of a hired hand. And I can still craft bows to sell. And it is the perfect chance to improve my gnomish.”
He was convinced that in the new year he would leave the Chitterwood for good and forge a new life.
