MBGSP Chpt 104-105

Hello goblin fans! Only two chapters this week, since I'm a little behind due to Dragon Age related events. There will be a third chapter coming Saturday.

This week and next week's update wrap up the Stampede arc. I hope you've enjoyed hunting along with the orc in their mad tournament of glory and bbq.

Chapter 104 - A Meteor Made Flesh

I ran back to the chopper with its engine still hot and running.

“What did she demand?” asked Girmaks.

“She wouldn’t say,” I said. As soon as all the goblins were aboard, I pulled us into a rolling takeoff. We still had our trump card: the two-stage rocket mounted in the belly compartment. I’d already seen the whistler take a direct hit on the armor from one of them and keep trucking. A headshot would probably do for it, but with the erratic way it moved, we’d never nail its head with a rocket—even if the goblin guidance pilot rode the warhead all the way in.

I lifted us up off the deck and soared over the ranks of Dawn’s Light hunters on their oryx, spilling over the side of the canyon and bounding down its walls on the sure-footed beasts towards the battle below.

“How did you know she would demand something?” I asked.

“She is an orc. She is devious and exacting—always ulterior motives and plans within plans. But I believe I know her mind. I believe I know, King Ap, what she will ask.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“It is not my scheme to expose. To do so would be—”

“Crude and reductive?” I guessed.

“—dishonoring her culture.”

Considering her culture was currently, in large part, the extortion of Tribe Apollo, I couldn’t find myself to be too sympathetic. But we had bigger fish to fry and a freight-train millipede monster that sounded like it was tearing through the Flock. I angled down into the valley, flying almost low enough to brush the tops of the Dawn hunter spears as I built speed. Ahead, I could see the wreckage of another chopper and at least two buggies on the floor of the canyon. The narrow spires were crisscrossed with the body of the whistler. It continued making passes at the fleet of choppers and ground vehicles.

The first wave of the dawn hunters hit the canyon floor and thundered toward the whistler. Before they reached it, they split into several groups and circled, shouting and waving spears. The whistler, which had been making another run at the BHR, instead shifted. Its eyes tracked the bright light reflecting off the spears, and it zig-zagged towards the closest contingent of Lura’s hunters.

I tilted my stick to the side, following along as they wrapped around the back of a pillar, then changed course abruptly. The whistler rammed through dirt and gravel where they would have been and caused a gale with its passing.

I pulled up, watching as another group of hunters angled small, polished shields to catch the sun’s light and reflect it into the whistler’s eyes. It diverted for them, mouth open wide. Not all of them were fast enough to get out of its way, and an orc and mount both disappeared down its gullet without it slowing.

What were they doing? Not striking any decisive blows, that was for sure. Hell, they hadn’t even attacked it at all. I climbed in altitude for a better view but had to angle quickly out of the crisscrossed segments of the whistler. Again, I marveled at its length, easily hundreds of meters of stampeding legs headed by what looked like a cast-iron dome of a skull plate that could crush through a bunker door. And even as I watched, it smashed a boulder to gravel with barely any notice.

Again, a group of Lura’s hunters flashed light into its eyes and distracted once more it split from the group it chased in favor of, quite literally, the new shiny thing. This time it had to maneuver over one of its own segments in order to reach the target. The thing was so damn big it was doubling back over itself and…

Oh.

Oh…

Lura was a devious one. She’d seen what these aircraft could do and put it together even better than I had. She wasn’t going to make things easy for me, because it suited her pride to rub my little goblin nose in it that I’d bought into a bargain I hadn’t even needed. Damned orc. Use its length against it. And she knew we could do it because I’d already shown her. I grabbed the handset. “Flares!” I barked. “Pass the word! Every chopper, scatter and ignite flares!”

“I believe I understand what she is trying to show us, King Ap.”

“Way ahead of you!” I shouted.

My little semaphore zealot worked his flags while another of our crewmen ignited a smoldering torch and slotted it into the back of the chopper. None too soon, as Raphina’s shadow passed over us, and the Dawn hunters lost their method of distracting the beast. That’s why it was more dangerous during the eclipse, because it was easier to distract with shiny things. Now the only source of light was the flares igniting on the backs of the choppers.

I wasn’t low enough to see its eyes fix on us, but I did see it suddenly snake towards the nearest pillar, spiraling up.

Wait for it…

It lunged, gaping maw coming within a few lengths of our aircraft as I dumped us into a temporary autorotation. I quickly maneuvered behind its skull-plate, and it fixated on another chopper’s glowing flare. It hit another pillar, swung around it, and shot right back. Unfortunately, this chopper pilot wasn’t as quick on the sticks as me, and barely had time to bail out along with most of his crew as the hardened skull of the whistler obliterated the aircraft.

<Your tribe has decreased to 554 members>

“Ready the missile!” I shouted into my handset, looking at the central spire the creature had wrapped several times. The crew of my ship squawked and fought to be the first down into the belly compartment. One of them got situated, and I brought the craft around.

The rest of the fleet, cast out of formation, were now flying as erratically as any goblins—which was perfect. The whistler simply had too many bright lights to chase. It had doubled back on itself so many times that it had coiled around the same pillar in three different places. For the first time since we’d stirred the beast, I actually saw the end of its tail snaking towards the spire.

I pointed the nose of the chopper between two of the sets of coils, at what looked like the narrowest part of the spindle formation. “There!” I shouted. “At the skinny part, just like the practice run! Tally ho!”

I yanked down on the plunger and felt the mechanism beneath me give way. The squawk of the goblin riding the missile fell away, and a moment later I heard the rocket motor ignite. Our payload shot out, erratic and barely under control. But its pilot managed to get it on track. Even the whistler took notice, and it screamed after the rocket, mouth open and ready for the kill. The goblin pilot bailed out at the last second, and the warhead hit the pillar and exploded. The crack echoed off the canyon walls, but it was nothing compared to the thump of the whistler skull-bashing the impact. A spiderweb of cracks spread out from the impact site, and you could feel the impact in the air. It quickly reeled back and circled the spire, shooting off in another direction. But when the dust cleared, I could see a fissure had been opened in the rock face. What’s more, so could the rest of the fleet, and the BHR on the ground. Two more chopper missiles followed, and then the cannon of the new and improved Big Hoss Rig. And it had a secret of its own.

The back of the armored vehicle split open, and a pair of the largest rockets we’d made yet raised on geared platforms. Cased in steel and tipped with several chooms of explosives, these were multi-staged monsters built with a single purpose: to kill a whistler. And that’s what they were doing, but not exactly as I’d intended it.

The two motors ignited on the platform, and even in the chopper I could hear the distant rumble over the shriek of the whistler’s perforated carapace. The two rockets shot off their launcher—one of which immediately exploded, knocking three buggies and BHR completely over.

<Your tribe has decreased to 560 members>

The second rocket struggled to right itself, pilot desperately wrestling with the controls. But the first stage fell away, the booster kicked on, and the second stage shot up toward the gap, sun-bright flame of the burning accelerant illuminating the eclipsed canyon.

“Come on baby!” I shouted, pumping my fist in the air. Armstrong was leaned so far forward watching that I thought he would tip right out of his seat.

“Woooo!”

The goblins on board were all cheering and whooping at the sight of the full-fire rocket riding a plume of hot exhaust. But a sound was mounting over both their shouts and the sound of the rocket: the shrill freight-train horn of the whistler. It’s iron-plated head shot up, mouth wide.

And it swallowed the rocket whole.

The noise of the rocket motor cut off with the snap of powerful jaws, and my mouth dropped open. The goblins on the chopper froze mid-cheer, and the whistler barreled past, deafeningly loud.

<Your tribe has decreased to 559 members>

“Did… did that really just happen?” I asked.

BOOM

A wave of hot air and steaming viscera hit us from behind. Some of it hit the rotor, which showered us even further with finely mulched whistler meat.

I brought the chopper around and wiped my face off. The enormous millipede monster, now headless, slumped to the canyon floor. The weight of its body hitting the ground made the whole canyon quake, and for a moment I thought the damaged spire would come down. But it held, and I brought the chopper in for a landing near the capsized Big Hoss Rig. I jumped out and ran to the tank, and over the ringing in my ears I could hear a clanging from inside.

The side hatch on the rig opened, and a very discombobulated Sourtooth pulled his wiry frame on top of the wreck. He looked around, finally seeing the decapitated whistler. He looked at me, looked at the whistler, looked back at me.

“Pray, o’ king: why this was not our opening gambit?”

Chapter 105 - Finish Line

“Perhaps not the path I laid before you, yet a king haunts not the steps of those who walk before,” said Lura. She climbed down from her oryx and surveyed the carnage. “Still, a bargain struck, honored it must be. Will you keep faith?”

I looked up at the huntress. “I’m a goblin of my word. Now, what’s this favor you want?”

Lura looked southeast toward the high desert. “This land has a great creature that devours magic. A sky king of unimaginable power. But it never touches the ground, except to feed—so no orc could hunt it. Not even with a shaman of immense power. But you fly without magics. This, you will give to me, that we may hunt the greatest of quarry.”

Sourtooth’s sharp intake of breath quickly turned into a cough. Clearly this creature had some major significance.

“I…” I considered. The bestiary had mentioned a creature from the desert that was at least in the 90’s level range, well above anything we’d fought before. Even the whistler now had a 52 superimposed over its head. “You’re asking me to build you a fleet of aircraft to hunt a magic-eating dragon.”

“It is strong and swift, and these ramshackle vessels will avail us not. I want a sky chariot that can keep pace with a thunderstorm and climb just as high.”

“Oh… oh no…” I said. This was the favor she wanted, that she’d been so afraid that I’d balk at she’d been unwilling to give it voice? She wanted me to build aircraft the flew higher, faster, and further? The horror. It was tough to keep the grin off my face. “Lura, I don’t have the materials for a project like that. I don’t think I could make you anything fast enough for you to win the Stampede.”

“Put the Stampede from your mind. I intend to withdraw. I will provide what materials you require, for my ambition has elevated.”

“Clearly,” scoffed Sourtooth. He scratched his head. Then he shook it, then he groaned. “Argh, I suppose someone had to be fool enough to try it again.” he looked at me. “You’ve ensured the Flock’s placement in the Stampede—and with it, your rights to hunt the plains. Without the rudder of vengeance, I now find myself without path. I should like to see this folly to its end, if you’ll have it.”

“Sourtooth, I have a feeling this folly is just getting started. Having your smithing skills is something I’d welcome with open arms,” I said. And then, to Lura, “Like you said. We have an accord. I can’t promise you the sky, but I can promise that I’ll do whatever I can to get you flying as high and as fast as this dragon.”

Lura nodded. “Good.” She leaned back as one of her orcs riding next to her team’s Keeper whispered in her ear. “The other teams are on their way. The day is yours, Apollo. Orc tradition dictates your kill you ought share. Will you honor our ways?”

I looked at the massive length of the whistler. There was enough meat on it to feed the whole tribe for months. And if the meat was as nutrient packed as a smaller scale grub, then as far as I was concerned, our food shortage was at an end.

“When in Rome,” I said. And then added quickly, “Er, that means yes. I’ll share.”

Many of my goblins had already started to tuck in, and my mouth already watered at the scent of the flash-barbecued whistler meat. Still, there was something else that caught my eye.

The ridged armor on the whistler had seemed more like rock than bone. But as I approached it, I could see a dull, metallic luster where we’d cracked the surface of it, and in the cross-section of its decapitation. Sourtooth followed me, eyeing me curiously as I broke off a piece with a small hammer I kept in my pouch. I looked at the material. It didn’t look like iron or zinc.

“Sourtooth, how does this thing get so much metal build-up on its carapace?”

The old orc pointed up at the spires. “During storms, thunder calls the dust up from the earth, and when the bolt strikes the whistler’s tail, holds fast the metal to its hide. This whistler has been growing for centuries, getting tougher all the while.”

I hummed to myself. Strange. This world’s version of electro-plating? Galvanized carapace? I’d seen plenty of broken steel parts since unlocking the boom furnaces, and this didn’t have the right grain. Plus, it was too light-weight. Despite the whistler’s size and strength, it still had to be able to move fast and strike hard. But there were other metals that you refined with electricity. I knelt down, picking up a few more pieces of the pinkish gravel that covered the floor of the canyon.

I whistled, getting the attention of every goblin in the canyon.

“Collect as much of this shell ore as you can!” I shouted. “And find me the tail!”

Sourfang scratched his head. “Pointless,” he muttered, kicking his prosthetic against the hide. “This ore is too light and brittle, far too-so for weapons. It serves only to lend to the whistler’s strike.”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe, we just found ourselves a goldmine.”

“A metal of equal worthlesness,” said Lura, approaching. I brought my head around. “You don’t use gold for coinage or…?” I looked back at my work. “Right. Orcs. I suppose central monetary systems aren’t your forte.”

Several goblins ran up, chittering. I followed them, and they led the three of us up a small slope and through several pillars to where the end of the creature dangled from where it had wound around a pillar. The end of the tail had a pair of prongs that were a slightly different luster than the rest of the carapace. They were massive, too. Big enough that half a dozen goblins would struggle to heft one of the tail prongs between them. I took a handful of iron nails from my pouch and tossed them up in the air. The couriers squawked and covered their heads, waiting for the rain of sharp iron to fall on them. But it didn’t come. Instead, the nails shot up, holding fast to the surface of the whistler’s tail.

Natural permanent magnets—powerful ones, too. Neodymium equivalents? Probably not quite that strong but loads better than lodestones or raw magnetite ore. If I couldn’t mine or manufacture magnets, could I pull them off the various creatures of Rava that used lightning on their own, like the thundercleaves and the whistlers? That, of course, meant hunting more of them.

Did I really want to think about there being more whistlers that I had to kill for magnets?

No, not especially.

Within a few hours, the other teams began to arrive. Their convoys of oryx and pack beasts made camp in the canyon, and the echos of tent-stakes being pounded and processing knives being sharpened rang off the rock walls. Chuck returned towards the evening, fuel-empty chopper being towed behind a Blood Gorger pack-boar. He grinned when he saw me and Armstrong sitting near Promo’s forge grilling whistler meat.

I offered the wrangler a strip of dripping meat fresh from the forge. “How was hunting with the Gorgers?” I asked.

“Boss, you should’a seen it,” he said between bites. “This thing they hunted, it was fast, fast. Could barely keep up with the choppers. But They’d have got it. Mark me, these orcs know their trade when it comes to bringing down beasties.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “Because we’re on the hook to take down the baddest one in the skies above Lanclova with Lura.” I poked the coals in the forge with a stick, but Promo swatted me away.

“How you plan to do that?” asked Chuck. “The choppers don’t go that high before they start winging and sputtering. He tilted his head up to where a pair of biplanes circled above the camp. “More of those?”

“Something like those,” I said, watching their lazy loops in the sky. But, as I watched, one of the planes diverted east, and the other wheeled around soon after to follow it. I tapped Armstrong, who followed the action. A moment later, the crack of a signal popper echoed through the canyon, and I scrambled.

“Get to the buggies!” I said, running.

I reached my customary trike, looking between the brass bottle and the engine for the pale blue glow. But I saw nothing.

“Girmaks?” I called out. No response. I grit my teeth. The Ifrit must be elsewhere. I’d drive it myself.

I dropped a rockette into the starter and kicked the trike into gear, almost before Armstrong and my other secretive service had time to get aboard. Overhead, the green puff of smoke that marked the signal popper was drifting on the breeze. I angled the front wheel toward it and opened up the throttle. Vehicles flanked me, and I wasn’t sure what I expected to find. But the orcs were taking note as well, and a few of their scouts had spotted something. A few mounted up on oryx. Lura joined me, and a moment later, and Sourtooth on his motorcycle.

“What comes, little brother?” demanded Lura. “Does something challenge the Stampede?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” I shouted over the sound of the engine.

In the distance on the hard pack, beyond the edge of the canyon, something approached on the ground—something small, scrabbling toward the camp. I shaded my eyes with a hand, but couldn’t quite make it out, until it started waving its arms, and then tripped and tumbled across the hardpack, stubby legs waving in the air.

“Is that a noblin?” asked Armstrong.

“I think so,” I said, trying to think. “Did we lose a noblin today?”

My scrapper chief shook his head. “Maybe he fell out o’ the glider?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

We pulled up closer, and I could see the noblin was dressed in frayed and tattered robes and covered in myriad scratches. Even the tip of one of his ears had been docked. But through all that, I still recognized my canoneer chief.

“Luther!” I shouted. I pulled up the trike and jumped down as the canoneer collapsed on the ground outside the canyon. He had a small brass jar wrapped in his hands, and the portly noblin huffed and puffed as though he’d run a marathon—which he might well have done, since we were miles from the edge of the desert.

“What the heck happened to you?” I asked. But it wasn’t my canoneer who answered, seeing as he mostly just heaved for breath he didn’t have to spare, and sat back on the ground.

“King Apollo! We were betrayed!”

“Taquoho?”