MBGSP Chpt 89-91

Happy Friday, goblin fans!

Hope you enjoy this week's chapters. It introduces yet more inhabitants of Lanclova, even if these ones are only here on retreat. Dig in!

Chapter 89 - Healthy Competition

“Regroup!” I said. Keep distance!”

I didn’t know what I was dealing with here, but we were not ready to be facing cavalry in the middle of a fight we were already losing. Armstrong pulled us out about the time the thundercleave noticed the new arrivals. It bellowed out a warning, before turning and running again.

“Ready all guns and slingers!” I shouted as the desert cavalry came on. But rather than angling for us, they shifted toward the thundercleave. As they did, I got a better look at the riders in profile. They weren’t human, that I could tell. They were shorter—maybe halfway between a hobgoblin and a human. They were lean and lanky, with long arms, and they each wore wraps around their heads to keep out the dust. Their saddles were minimal on the antelope, but still ornate and worked with beads and charms. Their weapons, likewise, were decorated with feathers, beads, and sported black metal blades.

One of the riders broke off, coming close enough to us get a look of his own. I saw the puzzled tilt of a head. Clearly not sure what he’d found, he yanked his reins around and kicked the sides of his mount.

“Who are they?” I shouted down.

“Dunno, boss. Wot we doing?”

I considered, watching them spread out to flank the thundercleave and keep it from heading for a thicket of tall grass. They clearly knew their way around the desert.

“Follow them,” I said. “But keep your distance. Maybe we’ll learn something. They obviously think they can take down the thundercleave.”

Armstrong kicked the buggy back into gear and we shot off, with the other goblins following behind us. We maintained a respectful distance as the hunting troupe ahead of us got riders out ahead of the beast, casting back some sort of dust that made the thundercleave flinch and slow. It slowed enough for the larger of the hunting animals to draw close, and much to my surprise, hunters leapt from the tops of the bunkers onto the back of the thundercleave. These ones had thick, sharpened poles, and they wedged them down around the head and tusks of beast to arrest its head movement.

The beast, caught, tried to work its head loose. But couldn’t manage it. It tried to arc electricity between its tusks, but the poles must have had grounding wire, because the voltage just sparked off one tusk, and nothing else happened.

“Look at ‘em go,” said Armstrong, standing up in his station.

I climbed down closer to the engine. “Girmaks, you with us?”

“Indeed we have that privlege,”

“What are we looking at here? Elves?”

“No, King Ap. These are orcs. But it is rare to see them this deep in the interior.”

Orcs. Rufus had all but warned me about them, with their name for Rava translating to something like “To be trampled beneath our feet.”

Judging by how neat they’d trussed up the thundercleave, I wondered if they might not actually be capable of such a thing.

“Based on what Rufus said, I’m surprised they didn’t attack us,” I thought aloud.

“The orcs mistakenly believe the Ifrit are spirits of their ancestors. They will not readily attack if they see blue flame in your company.”

I looked down at the pale blue glow. “Seriously? Do the Ifrit maintain this fiction?”

Girmaks flared with embarrassment. “Of course not, King Ap. The Ifrit have told them many times this is not truthful. But they do not believe.”

I looked out across the plain. The orcs had finished off the thundercleave and were beginning to process it. We held positions over the next hour as a large train of pack animals caught up with the hunting party and began to unpack. An impromptu camp was already starting to spring up around the carcass. Maybe they’d leave something for us—bone marrow or offal, or something. I wasn’t above scavenging like hyenas if it meant keeping the tribe fed.

“Why don’t the orcs believe you aren’t orc ghosts?” I asked.

“Orcs are cunning, and they believe the older the orc, the more cunning they become. Therefor, the spirits of grand elders must be the most cunning of all and would never admit to being who they were. Staunch refusals only stoke their conviction. A most vexing situation.”

“It’s a classic catch-22,” I said, running a hand over the top of my fur. “So they won’t attack us?”

“Not readily,” said Girmaks. That wasn’t an absolute negative. But we had guns and buggies and almost a hundred goblins. We might not have had the proper tools to take down a thundercleave, but we’d been fighting javeline and I had to imagine weapons that had worked on the piggies would work well enough on an orc.

“Let’s go meet the new neighbors,” I said. “Maybe there’s parts of the ‘cleave they won’t want.”

Armstrong coughed. “Boss, is this is one ‘o them times I ought warn you it’s a bad idea?”

I looked up at the scrapper in charge of my Secretive Service.

“We’ll split if it turns ugly. But I want to know who we’re sharing the plains with.”

“I shall join you, if I may,” said Girmaks. “It may aid your entreaty to be perceived as under the demesne of a grandfather spirit.”

“I thought the Ifrit didn’t play to superstitions,” I said.

“They also did not fly or drive infernal engines. Yet, here we are.”

I got Girmaks’ bottle out of the saddlebag and held it up so the Ifrit could move from the engine to the brass bottle. Armstrong and several scrapper bodyguards came along, as well as the canoneer.

As we approached the orc camp being broken out, I noticed that the patrolling orcs regarded us not as threats, but as curiosities. They noted us, but didn’t challenge us. I also saw that they each had a band tied high on their right arm. Many wore yellow and blue, others had red on black, and a few had more had various other color combinations. I didn’t know what it represented. Maybe rank or standing within the group? Many of them offered two fingers pressed to the side of their nose when they noticed the brass bottle. I took it to be a sign of respect.

“Strange they’re just letting us walk in here,” I said, looking around. The orcs were breaking out tents and tables, and pulling freight down from the back of their larger mounts. “Looks like they’re staying a while.”

“A night, at least, little brother!” said a surprisingly feminine voice behind me. It was so unexpected that it almost startled me, like turning on the TV and having the volume suddenly way too loud might do. I turned to the speaker, who had dropped her face wraps to reveal a slate-colored face with yellow war paint marked beneath bright, copper eyes. A mane of jet-black hair covered her head. She had two spearmen behind her, both of whom had similar face paint. “Lura Sunskin, am I, hunt-chief of the Dawn’s Light team. Be welcome to my table, little brothers, but touch not, take not. A thing curious, is a goblin on the plains. More still when he talks and carries an elder spirit.”

“King Apollo. Charmed,” I said. “Gracious of you to welcome us. I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re so welcoming.”

The orc huntress rolled her head back and laughed. “What threat pose you, to we who stride the world? A time for honor and rivalry, this. We may not have seen the thundercleave if you had not its ire roused by strange, rolling artifice. I know not what tricks our elders play, but they have conspired such that I owe you the scout’s share. Come.”

Lura turned and walked back into the camp. Tents and pavilions of hide or cloth were already being raised against the sun. With the heat of the day beginning to bear down, it offered the hunters some shade to work in as they processed the ‘cleave. They were efficient in skinning and butchering the beast, with tanning frames ready and cookfires already starting to smolder. But the strangest thing, to me, was hearing them talk. From Rufus description, and their toad-like faces, I would have expected guttural, gravely voices and simple, brutish sentences. But Lura talked more like she was reading a classic play.

“Few songs sing yet of goblin kings, and deeds done by they,” said Lura. “Tell me true, how many are you numbered?”

“We have over 100 on the plains,” I said, not wanting to give her an exact count. “And more in the jungle. But food is getting scarce. We came out here to hunt for livestock.”

Lura rubbed her protruding chin. “You come at ill time, little brother.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because in the midst of the Stampede, are we. The great hunt. All beasts upon the plains of Lanclova are hunt chief property claimed.” She nodded to the brass bottle. “We compete for the right to hunt them the year round.”

I bit my lip. “So you’re saying we can’t hunt the badlands because of this… Stampede event?”

“To do so, poaching it would be, little brother,” said Lura. She looked back at the thundercleave being strung up to have the blood drained into barrels. “Be glad twas my team which prevailed and not your kin. For the punishment would make you envious of our departed quarry. I give you the scout’s share in part so that you and I need not come to quarrel, for I do not wish the ire of the elder spirits, nor is there sport in the slaying of little brothers and sisters.”

My heart dropped. “So what you’re saying is, we’re screwed,” I said. “If we hunt while you’re hunting, other orcs will attack us.”

“Not all my kin are as magnanimous as I. Had it been the Sunless Shrine or the Hawk’s Due, you might have found yourselves ‘a cookpot lining, tiny king.”

There was silence for a moment. If you were listening closely, I’m sure you could have heard my heart break to learn that any attempt to feed my tribe would me met with outright hostility.

A small, brassy voice from between my hands split the silence.

“King Ap wishes to join the Stampede.”

Chapter 90 - A Hunter Past Prime

I looked down at the brass jar in my hands with the tiny blue flame licking out of the open throat. I like to think I recovered quickly.

Lura pursed her lips. “Impossible. Goblins have no standing to join the Stampede.”

“It is my standing as a grandfather spirit which grants claim.”

Lura Sunskin looked uncomfortable. “Elders are, of course, able to join the Stampede—but not so late in the season. The bones whence cast dictate the counting of the chiefs. They will not brook more—lest discord grow within the cadence of the spirits and the Stampede. Such a thing is taboo. You know this.” She shook her head. “It is too late in the season for a new team to be founding.”

“Is it his right or not?” I asked.

Lura chewed her lip. “It is,” she admitted. “You carry the elders with you and honor the hunt—even if your methods of artifice are strange. Eligible, if ill-favored, this makes you. A conundrum.” She considered, working through the idea in her head. “But another team so grows the competition, thus stacks my glory ever higher when I the victor am named. Perhaps there is yet another way. Come with me.”

We followed Lura deeper into the camp. Most of the orcs weren’t strong individually. Lura herself was only level 12, and most of the orcs ranged from 7-15. But they worked together with a level of coordination and diligence that put goblins to shame. It seemed they operated off pure muscle memory, as most of their time was spent in raucous laughter after telling each other jokes or anecdotes. Some worked with weapons, practiced riding in formation, and I could already make out the ring of a hammer on iron.

I also spotted several totems lining the camp, and stopped to examine one with the skull of a creature I didn’t recognize cresting it.

System, can you tell me what this is?

<Masher Skull Totem: Orcs who appreciate this totem receive a buff to blunt weapon damage for a short time>

Do the orcs have their own tech tree?

<Yes, but it is not as robust as the Goblin Tech Tree.>

Interesting.

“Dawdle not, Apollo,” warned Lura

I double-timed it to keep up. We crossed over to what seemed to be the workman’s portion of the camp, already choked with coal-fire smoke and the smell of oils and lye. It was here I saw the metalworkers forging and mending equipment, as well as other artisans making arrows, saddles, clothing, dyes, and various other sundries.

Off in the corner, a shaded table sat beneath a stretched hide, where a half-dozen orcs relaxed with mugs spread across a low field table between them. Some of them had armbands of grey and white, others no armbands at all. Most had the lopsided muscle of smiths, clearly stronger on their hammer-hand side with corded muscle and faces framed by forge soot. Smiths by trade, I took them to be.

One of them, larger and higher leveled than the rest, looked up and scowled at Lura’s approach, then looked at us and scowled. Then looked back into his mug and scowled even deeper. One of his teeth was cracked and blackened, and his lips were drawn back over that side as though it pained him. His hair had gone mostly grey, with only a few black patches remaining in the bundle of locks bound behind his shoulders.

“Lo there, dawn huntress,” said one of the other orcs, whose cheeks and nose had gone red. “This is a Flock table, and your own ought you find.”

Lura leaned in. “And gone ought you get, little Wormwood spawn, for Sourtooth’s ears my words are. Difficult you’ll find it to jest through tusks clipped and nose awry.”

Jesus. I had expected a grunting, guttural exchange of limited vocabulary. Did all orcs talk like a drama club who just discovered Shakespeare?

“Be off with you, Lura,” said the older orc, hunching lower over his cup. “Poor enough the season cut short, without your come to gloat of fresh killing.”

“Sour words from a sour orc spill forth, proven lies before reaching the ground. These little brothers wish to join the Flock—unless a stubborn old orc prefers continuing to turn out nails, rings, and oryx shodding.”

The orcs leered over the table at us, as though noticing us for the first time. Then they all burst into laughter.  The only one not laughing was Sourtooth as he glared daggers up at the huntress. Lura waited for them to finish.

The old orc reached under the low table and dragged out his stump of a leg, thumping the remnant and a crude, peg prosthetic, on the top of the table, overturning two drinks in the process. “It seems the morning star of the dawn hunt has forgotten. Numbered are my hunting days. One who cannot ride, cannot run, and cannot leap? Cannot stride the world, he. And now goblins, you bring? This jest is salt rubbed deep in fresh wounds, Lura, and insult so easily offered may not be as easy forgiven.”

I looked at the remnant of his leg, severed raggedly just above the ankle. His peg leg wasn’t much better. It was poorly balanced, and slightly too short for him. Likely he’d walked with a terrible limp ever since he’d gotten it, which based on the bruising under the strap, had been fairly recently.

Of my own initiative, I bounded up onto the table, knocking a few drinks over and putting my own prosthetic blades on full display.

A couple of the orcs shied back, startled. But Sourtooth stared. Even without lower legs, I’d jumped up the half-meter or so to the field table—fully half my own height—and landed without a stumble.

“Clear off, lads,” Sourtooth finally said. He scowled at Lura. “And back to your skinners, you. Think you not that I see your ambitions?”

Lura Sunskin bowed out with a grin. “My work here is done, then. I shall set eyes on you afield, Sourtooth.”

The old orc waved her off and then craned his neck to make sure she’d gone before gesturing me closer.

“Far too clever, she, for an orc so young.” He leaned in and squinted at my prosthetics. This is no orc artifice,” he said, peering at the spring-steel blades. “From where came these feet of steel?”

“My Igni made them,” I said. “And I can make you one, as well.”

Sourtooth massaged his thigh, digging long, lean fingers deep into the knobby muscle. “Would be a waste of fine steel to do so. But Igni… and scrappers aside, unless my mark be untrue. And…” he narrowed his eyes at the canoneer. “whatever that one be. your tribe numbers higher than the gaggle what suns south of the Stampede.”

“Yes,” I said. “And they’re hungry. They’re hunting and fishing, but they haven’t taken to farming. I need to hunt the plains, and I can’t hunt the plains because I’m not part of your Stampede. If you quit because of your injury…”

Sourtooth huffed. “Not the injury you can see, little brother. I retired when the horn-job that took my leg cleft the souls from the bodies of my hunters’ mounts numbering 20 and 9. Near 3-dozen oryx to the spirits gone, and half again as many riders, leaving a hollow shell of a once-proud team.”

“Rough accident,” I said.

“Twern’t such.” The orc spat on the ground. “Braced between the stabbing horns and Lura’s hunters, my team under foot was forced.”

“Ah,” I said. “That’ll do it.” Explained why the orc hated Lura, at least. I had to imagine orc hunters were a bit like lawyers—cut throat and quick to blame the victims of their cruelty.

“I don’t expect a goblin to understand loss,”

I thought of Dave Sanders and Sandy Davis. I thought of my dad, who never got to see me be an astronaut (though maybe it’s best he didn’t see his son explode). I thought of after the accident, when people I’d long thought were my friends never even tried to reach me in the hospital, or in physical therapy. And I thought of how my dreams had been dashed until NuEarth headhunters came along.

“I understand it,” I said. “I can’t give you back everything you’ve lost. But I’ve got a hundred hungry goblins atop self-propelled chariots and they all want to eat. And I can give you a new leg. Like mine. We can scout, we can chase, we can even fly.”

Sourtooth shrugged.

“Plus, with my craftsmen and your forges, I can build you a motorcycle,” I said.

“What’s that?”

I revved my hands. “It’s got two wheels, it’s loud, and its fast.”

“Is it safe?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “You’re likely to kill yourself learning to ride it. But,” I pointed to his peg leg. “You’ll only need one foot.”

“Welcome to the Flock,” said Sourtooth. He looked up into the air. “Grandfather spirit?”

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Orcxiliaries>

<You have unlocked your first auxiliary. By partnering with the Flock, you can share certain tribal benefits from both groups—including temporary access to the Goblin Tech Tree. Note that auxiliary races may not be able to create or properly operate many advanced goblin devices.>

‘Advanced’ goblin devices. There was an oxymoron.

<Congratulations! You have joined The Stampede! This orc festival of big game hunters establishes hunting rights for the coming season.>

<Congratulations! You have joined The Flock team of The Stampede. Your tribe’s hunters have been granted all bonuses.>

My tribemates behind me slipped into a stupor for a moment as their little goblin brains absorbed the new changes.”

Sourfang shivered and pushed to his feet. “Always sends my flesh a shiver to see that happen.”

I looked at the old orc. “You’ve seen goblin kings before?” I asked.

“Of course. The humans and elves as a nuisance see your kind. But Kelem has many tribes, and oft does a king emerge from within their ranks. Of course, we do the sensible thing and kill them ‘fore they get too strong.” He slapped me on the shoulder and grinned, broken tooth looming in his smile. “Fortune favors you, we are not in Kelem, little brother.”

I swallowed.

I suddenly didn’t feel very fortunate.

Chapter 91 - The Flock

Unbelievably, we had the run of the camp. Once the armbands (somewhat blood-stained) were passed out, the orcs seemed to take it completely in stride that there were goblins running about their camp. If Sourtooth was to be believed, goblin tribes coexisted alongside orcs in the homeland—though not allowed to grow beyond measure. Goblin kings were killed on sight for the threat they represented—which means their entire tribe was wiped out. Apparenly all bets were off in Lanclova, though.

I sent two of the bike back to link up with Promo at the Big Hoss Rig and have them bring the camp to meet up with the Stampede. Now that we had access to the Flock’s forges and resources, Promethius was going to have a field day. Metal was in no short supply to the orcs, and they had some idea of the basics of chemistry so I made a note to secure sulfur and charcoal from their stores, as well as iron bar stock.

Sourfang accompanied us to the vehicles so that he could see the artifice for himself that his temporary access to the Goblin Tech Tree had given him.

“I believe it not,” he said, clambering awkwardly aboard one of the buggies. “The grandfather spirits must be playing some great jest. They are the true source of this contraption’s power, yes?”

“It’s actually a liquid that burns and creates torque,” I said. “The Ifrit were just as surprised that it works as you are.”

“They would tell you to say that,” he said. He settled in on one of the stations, if a bit tightly. He was maybe a third again as tall as a hobgoblin. We brought the vehicles into the Flock’s dismal corner of the camp, where I saw several riderless mounts tied off, near pack animals that hadn’t yet been unpacked. I surmised most of them belonged to Sourtooth’s decimated hunting team. I directed my goblins to help get supplies and provisions down.

It was close to nightfall when the Big Hoss Rig approached the Stampede camp and set up in the forge yard with the new vehicles that had come from Apollo. I’m sure that’s where promo found himself most at home, among the smog of coal smoke and the ring of hammers. By the time the sun went down, the temporary tower was erected and the thundercleave had been seared.

The ‘scout’s share’ turned about to be about two-hundred chooms of offal and gristle, which was fine by the tribe as it disappeared down the goblins throats almost as fast as the cooks could flip it onto wooden platters. Even then, we still had plenty left over. If we’d brought down the ‘cleave ourselves? Well… we’d probably have been killed for poaching. But now that we were part of a hunting team, we could bring one down. With my tinkering and Sourtooth’s experience, there was no way we could lose. At least, that’s what I thought until Sourtooth told me otherwise.”

“We’re definitely going to lose,” he said over his ‘cleave burger. The orcs had apparently mastered the arts of ground meat, bread-making, and cheese. My mouth watered so bad watching him eat that I had to ask him to repeat himself.

“The season has seen an Idle flock for weeks. Trailing the pack, we. There are few prizes yet unclaimed, and none would see us sit at the winner’s table,” he continued. I noticed that he chewed entirely on one side of his mouth, avoiding the inflamed tooth. “But hunting rights require not a place of glory, only one of standing. If to feed your tribe you seek, then we yet have merit. But we must focus efforts on prey not easily conquered. What is the greatest beast you’ve bested? A level 30? 35?”

If I had a collar, I’d have been tugging it. “We killed a stone-sloth alpha and a crock-knocker in their 20’s. Oh, but we defeated and entire javeline army.”

“Mention of the porkbellies makes a rumble in my stomach to rival a giant’s tracks. Hunting big game is like fighting a war not at all, little brother.”

“Well,” I said. “I’m hoping my technology ideas will help close the gap, some. Tomorrow, we’ll get to work getting the Flock back in the game.”

  *

<Your tribe has decreased to 374 members>

<Your tribe has increased to 406 members>

<Goblin Technology unlocked: Infernal combust’em bi-gliders>

Huh. Sally still hard at work on the home front, I guessed.

The orcs were slow to wake, and in fact it wasn’t until mid-morning that a growing buzz overhead drew their attention. I shaded my eyes and scanned the horizon until I saw a dot that started to grow larger. The pilot banked, and I could make out the profile of a pusher-prop bi-plane soaring under power. The pilot made a circuit of the orc camp as the Stampede shook off hangovers or dragged blankets over their heads against the noise.

Finding a flat enough stretch, the plane bled off altitude and leveled out, flaring off for a landing on what appeared to be a set of two-wheeled landing gear—at the front and back like a motorcycle. I briefly wondered how they would keep the paper wings from being shredded on landing until a pair of goblins scrambled out and hung beneath the wings, pumping their legs as if they were running through the air. The rear wheel touched down and the craft lurched, but the goblins’ feet touched the ground and the aircraft trundled about as the pace goblins struggled to keep up. The whole ensemble finally came to a stop and a handful more goblins piled out of the vehicle, including Sally, who began immediately fussing over the aircraft and squawking at the wrangler climbing down from the control station.

I approached, looking at our first powered airplane. Sally had built a leather fuselage over a frame of wood and bone, with paper-covered wings and a multi-rotor engine at the back. The wings, stacked as they were, were each of slightly differing lengths, but it didn’t seem to affect the performance much.

Armstrong ran past me and plucked my lead engineer right off the side of the plane to wrap her in a bear hug until she squawked and bit him, at which point he dropped her on her head. She responded by clamping her jaws around his ankle, and he shook his leg frantically trying to dislodge her. I caught up a few moments later, after I finished laughing, and took some time to admire the quick work she’d made of rigging up the aircraft and applying composite technological theories. But I was a little concerned. Sally was simply much too valuable to be risking out in the field. Of course, she was a free goblin and I couldn’t keep her cooped up on a bluff—even if it was where she chose to spend most of her time anyway.

Maybe she just missed Armstrong.

Armstrong finally managed to shift my lead engineer off long enough to report.

“Food situation eased up some, what with us out ‘ere keeping our own bellies full. But still more out than in—or maybe in than out, innit?”

“We’re still running a deficit, is what you’re trying to say.” I said.

“Yeah, that. Anyway, Sal’ figured you’d want to peep the latest in airy-knotics. Din’ even crash it once!”

“That’s a good start,” I said.

Armstrong leaned down for Sally to whisper in his ear. He nodded. “Two more buggies and a trike headed our way,”  he said. “Another ignis, s’well.”

I rubbed the top of my head. “Good. We’ll need all the smiths we can get if we’re riding for Sourtooth and what’s left of the Flock.”

Speaking of the foul old orc, the leader of the Flock himself was stumbling out of the camp with a blanket clutched tight around his waist, staring at the biplane.

“Goblins on wings! Tremble the skies, once free from shackle. In all the tribes in mine eyes seen, I knew not that little brothers could make such… racket! Damned if the cry of its coming echoed a thousand-fold in my head.”

I grinned up at the hungover old orc. “Still think we’ve got no shot?”

Sourtooth slumped down to his haunches, and his eyes took a glazed over look as they scanned back and forth. I realized he was reading through System menus. “No simple spears and stubby legs, this. How came you by such discoveries? I have knowledge passing of the goblin artifice, but have never seen one progressed in this manner. Nearly half the tree, you’ve jumped, and rarely from such narrow path tread. Infernal combust’em? Rock’ems? I know not these artifice, but I know well enough the path from whence they spring. What need have you of such singular purpose?”

I slapped the orc on the shoulder. The orc might have been old and withered, but it still felt like slapping rock. “It’s a long story, Sourtooth. And a long road ahead to get where I’m going.

“What, prithee, are boom tubes?”

I whistled and sent one of my bodyguards to bring over his rifle and a handful of rockettes. I worked the action and loaded in a few shells. “Well, they’re not going to help your hangover any. But I think you’ll like them.”