The Maid Is Not Dead

The signs were present and well visible. Ghouls did not loot shops or smear signboards, beyond fashion and worldly needs as they were. The absence of the undead in this burg gave way to a more mundane menace, which made no attempt to cloak its presence. Even now, an exemplary band of goblins held open camp near the midway mark down the bridge, squatting in a loose circle around a decrepit fire and grilling whatever small rodents had made their way into these august caverns and didn't seem to leave.

I took cover behind a broken stall and observed them for a time.

I had never before seen or heard of goblins cooking their food before eating. It was a fascinating new discovery of their culture, but overshadowed by greater concerns. Two in the group were distinctly larger than was typical of the goblinkind; at least six feet tall, if not taller, and brawny. They were of dimensions that would give even a hardened knight a pause, long-limbed and grim-faced, their orange-brown hides marked by pale scars and tribal paint. clearly enough, they were hobgoblins.

Against a common misconception, reflected in their archaic name, hobgoblins were not an evolved form of goblins, or their better-fed cousins, or related by however distant family lines, but an entirely different breed of monsters. Not as numerous, but notably more ferocious, as well as more intelligent. A most dangerous combination. Hobgoblins would subjugate the smaller fiends wherever the power balance allowed it. Instead of perceiving goblins as rivals for the same resources, to be killed on sight, it seemed the hobs were able to recognize the upsides of cooperation, and kept the little folk as subordinates of sorts, if not plain slaves. Perhaps they simply liked to have others look up to them.

And goblins, thanks to their excellent self-preservation instincts and utter lack of pride, would rather submit voluntarily to oppression than fight in vain for freedom—an altogether abominable concept to a human of the West. Hence, the two species were often seen collaborating, despite the lack of biological or cultural common ground.

In addition to the two hob leaders, I counted seven goblins. No, there were eight. One kept a lookout atop the roof of a cabin on the east side, removed from the rest. What I faced there was a force to be reckoned with. I would not have challenged them alone even at full strength, never mind so far weakened. But the thought of turning quietly back after coming this far seemed even more difficult than death to me. I had to at least see what awaited in the district on the far side of the bridge. But how?

As wide as the bridge was, I wasn't going to sneak past the camp of monsters. Their hearing and sense of smell were too good to even try.

One way or the other, they had to be disposed of, quickly and quietly, without alarming the rest of their kindred, which might be lurking close by.

Another unreasonable task. I didn't want to sully the tool knife I cut my food with in goblin blood. My broken main dagger was greatly shortened, but it still had some edge left. Enough to kill, maybe, though I had to get very close to put it to use—Which, in case of goblins, was not recommended. A bow or a spear would have been welcome.

I watched my trembling hand, barely firm enough to support the weight of the bladeless dagger hilt, and uttered a silent oath. It really was impossible. If only I could make the foes feel as wretched as I did….Oh, but I could.

I had just the thing for that.

I took out my medicine case and singled out the clear glass vial containing Master Vivian's experimental psychoactive agent. The so-called potion of prescience, which I had sampled firsthand once in the past. I had asked to have another sample all the same, though I held not the slightest intention to take another mouthful of the poison. I remained firmly of the opinion that my worst enemy was the better recipient. And here we had arrived at the ideal opportunity to obtain some priceless field data, even if not the way the young alchemist intended.

Keeping low and silent, I advanced towards the goblin camp. My fragile state prevented me from making very rash movements at any rate. Broken clutter filled the floor between the forsaken market stalls, toppled carts, shattered crates, split barrels, and blockades. The mess provided ample cover from view, as long as I took care not to knock anything over.

So far so good. The attention of my opponents seemed entirely taken by the dinner preparations. No doubt the highlight of their bleak days.

One mischievous fellow made an attempt to seize the wrong skewer and earned a swift slap on the wrist from the stick's jealously protective owner. A passionate exchange of snarling and growling and macho flexing followed, which I hoped would escalate into a brawl and help reduce the numbers. But one a solitary sour note from one of the hobgoblins caused the rivals to quickly settle their differences and return to smoking their rodents. The big brother's authority couldn't be contested.

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I made my way as close as fifteen yards off before the watcher on the rooftop began to sniff at the air suspiciously, turning hither and thither. It had to have caught my scent. It appalled me to think my BO could reach that far, but then again, goblins did have noses many, many times more keen than human beings. Another person would surely have smelled nothing!

The cool breeze blowing down the canyon carried the indistinct scent and made its source harder to locate. But I couldn't trust it to hide me forever. I had to make the first move and it could only be now. I took the potion vial from my pocket, eyeballed the distance, and cast the vial in a high arc at the bonfire, at which the clandestine creatures squatted.

The small glass landed smack-dab in the middle of the tortured flames, shattering with a queerly pleasant, light crash, hiss, and rattle. This sent the company up onto their feet in a snap, greatly mystified at how such a sound could come out of fire.

Getting over the initial surprise, the fiends gathered closer around the sputtering heat, frowning at the glittering shards spread among the red-hot coals. At the same time, they ended up inhaling Master Vivian's spilled concoction as it was fast vaporized by the heat. Absorbed through the lungs, the chemistry was delivered into bloodflow quicker and easier than had they downed it liquid. Shortly, the troupe began to display such a liveliness of expression, I did not doubt they saw the world with new eyes, as I once had before in Master hauflin's brewery.

The expert had said the inner workings of all creatures were a little different. I couldn't be too sure how the mind-expanding potion worked on goblins, whose monstrous senses were honed sharper than those of humans to begin with. By reason, the mixture should have been even more potent on them, so that either the villains ascended straight to sainthood in one go, or else were ten times more out of their gourd. But the looks on the creatures' faces then were certainly not showing great insight, as far as I could read them.

Quickly now. The effect would not last long.

I left my hiding spot and went on to approach the gang.

They noticed me soon enough, despite the fumes. Or, they did notice something. The goblin on the rooftop, apart from the others and spared from the poison, began to shriek out shrill warnings, pointing my way and anxiously jumping. But its companions did not charge out in a united front, as expected. Indeed, the gang appeared almost docile, overwhelmed by the chemically induced sensations, only dully blinking at me, unsure of what they were looking at. How fortunate. The potion worked as intended. Otherwise, the protagonist of this tale would soon have been replaced by someone greener.

As I still drew nearer, the goblins grew visibly spooked, but could not reliably estimate which direction I was coming from, how far away I was, or even how many maids there were, precisely. One of the hobgoblins then, startled by the spinning light show, raised its rough machete to cleave my image in two, but misplaced the target by about eight yards. The monster's wild swing fell on the head of its shorter companion instead, sinking halfway through the skull with a sloppy chop, and was left firmly embedded in the bleeding turnip.

Alarmed by the sudden violence so close by, another goblin reflexively cut in the direction of the motion and stabbed into the flank of its boss. Or maybe it was not an accident at all, but his long-nurtured fantasy? The injury was not lethal, but undoubtedly very painful. The wounded hobgoblin abandoned its stuck machete, spun around, and began to beat down its squealing subordinate with such blind, bestial rage, I could only be glad I was not on the receiving end. Another goblin followed the hair-raising scene of homicide quietly from the side, wearing a spent face, arms hanging loose at the sides, as though it had, by an abrupt epiphany, realized the futility and aimlessness of the violent goblin way of life. Then, for whatever reason, it went and poked its small, crooked, charred knife into the back of the raging hobgoblin.

In short order, an all-out, free-for-all, cannibalistic battle royale was underway in front of my eyes. The fire and the skewers were trampled and scattered, the monsters rolling and wrestling in the midst of the flying coals and embers, punching at air and each other and even their own faces, and biting at any limb that stuck out and clawing at any flat surface their palms landed on.

For a time, I could see no opening nor any reason to get mixed into the scrimmage, but merely held back and patiently waited for the worst of the heat to die down.

The watcher on the rooftop looked at me, then at the quarreling band on the ground, its mouth hanging wide open, unable to comprehend why things had turned out the way they had, but also deeply unwilling to be the one to sort things out. It was a scene like straight out of the Ministry of Finance, which I had gotten to observe at his majesty's side a few times before—the only exception being that nobody here wore a tie.

Little by little, the non-fiscal fisticuffs began to die down, with several of the attendees incapacitated or in their death throes. Surprisingly few had actually died, but almost all were injured, badly or worse. The potion's effects gradually wore off, and the survivors looked around with groggy, bloodied faces, perhaps wishing it had been but a bad dream—if indeed goblins had the capacity to dream, or be aware of potential states.

Before we could have a monster philosopher in our hands, I went and delivered the coup de grâce upon all the fiends with their eyes still open with the stump of my dagger. Rest in peace. Then I picked up the hobgoblin's machete, still stuck in the skull of its fellow gangster, set my boot firmly on the slick neck, yanked off the blade, and then turned, took aim, and with a quick twist cast the machete rolling at the watchman on the cabin roof. The goblin had freshly made up its mind about running away and was ill-prepared for the catch, receiving the weapon with its torso instead. Knocked off its feet, it went rolling off the precariously slanted roof into the bottomless Vein awaiting under the bridge. I looked around and listened for a time but it didn't seem there would be any more meetings today on the market bridge.

I then proceeded to stroll across the long lane into the district of Mawe awaiting on the far side.