Scott Warren (books)

MBGSP Chap 26 thru 30

Added 2024-06-29 22:10:06 +0000 UTC

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Chapter 27 - Battlestart Gobsplatica

“What is with noise?” yelled Mitri.

“Oy! Told ye shut it!” Rotte shouted from his tent.

Armstrong hooked two of the goblins in the crooks of his elbows and melted back into the brush. The third started to run, then grabbed the flat rock they’d used to mix the putty. I sat stock still.

The three rutters emerged from their hide tents, and boy, let me tell you, they’re even uglier with their helmets off. All three had thick, hairy jaws with oddly protruding tusks that I’d assumed were fixed to their helmets and not their faces. Above that, they looked about like uglier versions of the dwarves you’d see in a movie. Least of all because I’d interrupted their beauty-sleep. But if any of these things were to get enough of that to look pretty, they’d be a shoe-in for a fairy tale of their own.

Rotti and Muthus grabbed the spears from beside their tents before they trotted up. Mitri just cracked his hairy knuckles.

“I warn talking goblin!” said Rotte. He lifted his spear and thrust it. I squawked and dove out of the way, wrenching my arms on the chain, but narrowly avoiding being impaled. This just made Rotte mad, though the others chuckled. He thrust again, and once more, and I managed to barely get out of the way. By now, the other Rutters were laughing openly.

“Mitri!” Rotte Snarled.

Mitri trotted forward and grabbed the chain just above my wrists. He yanked it up, easily lifting me off my feet, and sank a heavy fist into my gut.

Really? That’s all it took? Granted, it hurt like a devil! But were goblins really that paper-thin?

No. Something else was happening. Something back home that I wasn’t there for. Night haunts? The wranglers should have been protecting the village against them. But I had more pressing concerns. Mitri wound up and slugged me again. I gasped for air, kicking my feet helplessly.

“Something odd,” said Muthus.

The others ignored him. Rotte lifted his spear again. “Hold it still, Mitri. This one no miss.”

Mitri moved to the side to be out of the path of Rotte’s spear. Beyond the spear, I saw several shadowy forms creeping in from the other side of the camp. Coal light glinted off rough iron in their hands. Armstrong and the others getting into position.

“Rotte!” insisted Muthus. Rotte started to turn back, but if he did that…”

“Wait!” I gasped. “You were facing me this whole time? I thought I was talking to your backside!”

Rotte snapped his attention back to me, face reddening. Foam started to trickle at the corners of his mouth.

“You were prettier with the helmet on.”

“I made goblin sorry,” seethed Rotte. He gripped the haft of his spear so tightly the wood began to creak under his fingers. Behind him, I saw my improvised riflemen plant the butts of their poles in the glowing coals and angle the mouths toward the trio of rutters.

I hadn’t wanted to do this. I hadn’t wanted to introduce firearms to this world along with all the horrors that came with them. I certainly hadn’t wanted every goblin in my tribe to be running around a few bowel movements and a bath away from a boomstick. I would have liked to skip every conceivable variation on a gun that I reasonably could on the way to securing my tribe’s path to the moon. But now I was looking at my first formation of goblin cannoneers. And I hated myself just a little bit for its necessity.

“Did goblin have one leg, before?” asked Muthus.

“He has no legs, idiot!” barked Mitri. He looked down. And stopped. I looked down as well.

Oh hell. Armstrong and his pals had tracked us here from the glider wreck, and they’d brought my other leg. The rutters had brought me here with only one.

“How he get…”

Rotte spun around, raising his spear and hurling it at the fire pit. One of the goblins squawked and dropped his pipe, diving to the ground to get out of the path of the spear. But Armstrong and the other two held steady.

Mitri dropped me to the ground and charged along-side Muthus. I didn’t know how long it would take the fire to heat up the putty in the tubes, but I had to—

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Icky-sicky boom-putty.>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Basic goblin rocket-tree.>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Basic goblin blastics.>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Goblin-guided payload.>

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Single-stage rock-it boost ‘em.>

<This is going to be interesting.>

We must have tamped the stones in the tubes down too hard, because they didn’t explode out the front end. It was the back ends that blew, the ones in the fire. They exploded in a shower of sparks and a shrill, mounting whistle. And it didn’t launch the detritus in the business end. It launched the whole kit and caboodle.

The first one to go was the one that had been dropped in the fire. It fizzed, ignited, and careened skyward where it popped in a burst of yellowy sparks.

Everyone in the clearing stopped and stared. Especially the goblin that had dropped the pipe, now clinging gratefully to the ground. The two goblins that had held on to their pipes rocketed forward on plumes of sparks, screaming and holding on for dear life. They impacted Mitri and Muthus before the pair had time to register what was going on.

A shower of blood and blue fur, thankfully shielded from view by the unfortunate javalines, erupted at the same time about a half-meter of iron pipe sprouted from the dwarven backs.

I hadn’t invented guns. I’d invented missiles. Goblin-guided missiles.

Armstrong was a heavier payload. When his ignited, he looked more like a witch riding a flaming broom as he shouted and flew toward Rotte. The blood-covered javeline rutter stared, and then tried to dive out of the way at the last second. The pipe missed him, but Armstrong hit him. The hobgoblin was made of sterner stuff than the average goblin. He bowled the heavier rutter over and the two went rolling. The other eastern bluff survivor, the one fortunate enough to be carried off by his own gun, yowled in rage and chased after them.

With them fighting, I worked at my chains, no longer caring about the noise. In fact, my little goblin ears were ringing anyway. I managed to get the loops off, just as I saw the camp tender emerge from his hiding spot. He took one look at the tableau and ran for Mitri’s spear.

“Armstrong!” I shouted. I cast the last loops of chain off and dashed over to the tousling trio. The hobgoblin had a pair of cleavers tucked behind his belt. I pulled one out and started to hack at the flank of the javeline, for all the good it did. I just wasn’t strong enough to get through his thick hide.

The thunder of hooves sounded, and a spear took me in the back.

The force drove me into the ground, and the pain took my breath away. I dragged through the dirt and the foliage as the camp keeper kept his charge up. Every meter became a fresh hell.

He was killing me over and over. My arms were useless by my sides, and both of my prosthetics came off.

Some snarling creature brought the javeline rutter to a screeched to a halt. He dug in all four hooves, barely arresting his speed. My own momentum kept me going, sliding off the end of the spear and tumbling through the dirt and brush at high speed. Though my spinning vision, I caught a glimpse of big red shapes charging toward me, and of the backside of the camp keeper as he threw the spear away and retreated.

A pair of feet thumped to the ground near me, and hands wrapped my shoulders to pull me upright.

“S’alright chief, we got yer back.”

The spinning had made me sick, and I heaved what little was in my guts—which wasn’t much, since the javelines hadn’t fed me. If they had, I’d have likely been too lethargic to mount an escape.

I finally managed to look up at the hobgoblin with the mandible mask. “Chuck?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Rangin’. We knew there’bout where you went down. But not where they took you. ‘Least til we saw yer signal,” he said. He pointed to the sky. The first pipe gun had gone off like a bottle rocket and detonated in the sky. But that was still miles from Apollo.

My vision cleared enough to see the other wranglers, and my jaw dropped. They were riding cliffords, the red canines from the savannah that had tried to eat me on my first day in Lanclova. Each one had a tight grip on their clifford’s mane in one hand and a spear in the other, while a second goblin balanced on the back haunches with a rock slinger. Even now, the goblin riding behind Chuck struggled to control the beast, but they didn’t have the animal handling skills of the wranglers.

Chuck tried to help me to my feet, and then realized my lower legs were missing. Instead, he picked me up, punched his wayward mount on the nose to remind it who was boss, and then slung me over the back of its haunches like a sack of potatoes.

I figured we’d be getting out of dodge, but instead he spurred the clifford on toward the one javeline still fighting. We bounced and jostled our way back into the clearing. I struggled to get my arms between me and the clifford so that I could tilt my head up far enough to see what was happening.

Armstrong was up and clear of the melee. He was bruised and bloody, but hobgoblins are built tougher than the rest of us. The rutter leader, Rotte, was sprinting off into the woods, looking a bit like a pin-cushion with all the wrangler spears sticking out of him. But it’s not easy to kill a wild pig. I had no doubt he’d make it back to the rest of his kind.

Chuck dismounted again, and clasped wrists with Armstrong.

“Good lookin’ out fer the boss,” said Chuck.

Armstrong put a hand behind his head, looking almost embarrassed at the praise. “Weren’t nuffink,” he said.

The other goblin on our clifford helped me to sit up.

I looked at the other two rutters impaled on the poles. “Sorry about your friends, Armstrong. I wanted to save you all, but you ended up saving me instead.”

The hobgoblin waved me off. “Big group o’ rutters done for the ol’ village. I fink me mates’d be proud wot to have done-in a few back.” He grinned. “You see ‘em? Were all shwoooosh—Splat! Proper scrap, that!”

The scrapper laughed, and it seemed his mirth was contagious as the rest of the goblins started making shwoosh-splat noises and howling with laughter.

I looked to the woods in the other side of the camp, where the other wranglers were returning after having run off the other javeline. “Rotte is going to report this. If there’s more rutters in the woods, you can bet they’ll have their sights set on a goblin king before long. We need to show them that we’re tougher quarry than some impotent elf’s wallet is worth.”

“Aye, boss,” said Chuck. He patted the side of his clifford. “Ain’t no helpless hands they’ll be finding. Tribe Apollo claws back.”

“That we do.”

Chapter 28 - Muthus with a side of Mitri

There’s good eating on a javeline, it turns out. Once I got over my qualms about munching on the flesh of a sentient species (which my goblin side was frighteningly willing to do), I realized that being half pig made them the closest thing to a taste of home that I’d had since coming to Rava, and it was worth staying up a little past my goblin bed time to roast. They went especially well when seasoned with the block of salt Rufus gave me in acknowledgement that I’d won our wager (<Goblin technology unlocked: Sneezy-seasonings>). He’d left as night fell, heading south this time for the city of artificers. But he’d left behind the books and trinkets. I set them aside for the morning and crawled onto a mound as the lethargy took me.

<Your tribe has decreased to 61 members

<2 Hobgoblin Scrappers have been added to your tribe>

<1 Hobgoblin Wrangler has been added to your tribe>

<Your tribe has increased to 69 members>

I awoke to the patter of rain on clay tiles, which left me blessedly dry. Buzz was already up and checking the waterproofing on them, evidently satisfied with his work. I pulled myself off the pile and whistled up at him.

“Welcome home, boss,” he said. “Figured you’d want a good roof once Chuck fetched you back. I’d have come with, but I’m not much use in a scrap.”

“That’s ok,” I said. “Neither am I, as it turns out.”

Buzz dropped down and grinned at me. “Kings ain’t s’posed to fight. That’s why you got the hobbies, yeah?”

I sat in the shelter and watched the rain fall for a bit. The tribe had had a rough day, prior. We’d lost a lot of goblins between daily attrition and the fight with the javeline rutters. The night haunts hadn’t gotten into any of the new improved structures, as far as I could tell. But that meant the lizard war had continued with the tribe to the southeast. They were now my top priority.

Rufus woke up a short time later and extricated himself from the mound of goblins that had decided the half-badger made a better bed than the straw and moss flooring. The disheveled trader pulled on his boots and fished through his bag for a drink. “Any o’ that pork left?” he asked.

I pursed my lips. “Don’t you see any moral qualms about eating a javeline? They’re intelligent beings.”

Rufus raised a bushy eyebrow. “You’ve met them, yes?”

“Unfortunately.”

He moved to the fire and started sifting around the stone grill for morsels. “And you still think they’re intelligent?”

“They’re self-aware, free-thinking beings,” I said. I sighed. “In my world, eating another intelligent being is one of our ultimate taboos.” I paused for a moment. “Did you know they were cutting off Goblin ears and tongues?”

Rufus hesitated. That told me everything I needed to know.

“My friend…” he said carefully. “Until you got me down from that tree, I admit I thought of goblins as little more than a nuisance—best ignored if not avoided outright. I don’t brook with the trading of such snake oils. But I admit, I never gave the practice much consideration.”

“Until now,” I finished. The rain petered off, so I walked closer to the firepit and sat near the beast-kin.

“Until now,” Rufus agreed. He licked the grease from his fingers and came and sat down beside me. “The last 10 days have given me many reasons to see things in new light. I fear you will not be looked on kindly by those seeking to exploit Lanclova. Your ears and tongue will be the least of your worries.”

Rufus pulled his pack over and fished out his journal. He thumbed through it, reaching the pages that I assume pertained to the scholarly details he’d gathered about myself and Tribe Apollo. He tore them out and laid them on the smoldering coals. They caught quickly, crisping in the heat. I watched them curl and char, until the ashes rose on the breeze.

“I could have just held onto those for you,” I said.

“Ah, yes, but then what of my grand gesture?”

I huffed a laugh, and then sighed. “I’m not a fighter,” I said. I cradled my head in my hands. “I’m a scientist and an engineer. I never even joined the military—never raised a hand in violence against anyone until I came here. All I ever wanted to do was go to space and explore.”

The badger-kin trader straightened from the fire and cast a look over his shoulder. “If it is as you say, then I am with you. In the quest for knowledge, you share more with me than those who seek to exploit the land beneath Raphina’s watchful eye. Perhaps it’s folly to cast my lot with a goblin king. Yet here we are. I will go south. I will speak to the artificers. Try not to die before I return.”

Most of the goblins were up and milling around now. Not all of them were early risers like Buzz. The hobbies would sleep past midday, of course. But there was still work to be done.

I looked up at Raphina, the tidally locked moon that hovered over this land. With the sun in the sky, her eye was closed—a void in the morning starlight made of the daily new moon. She was waiting for me. And It didn’t matter what it took. I’d walk on her surface. But first, there was work to do.

I called over some of buzz’ builders. “Bring me the javeline heads.”

Chapter 29 - Multi-tasking

The effect was near instant. The goblins seemed less impacted by the effect of the rain on the village, continuing to work—if slowly—instead of huddling inside the shelters until it stopped.

I found Sally at the edge of the bluff, hard at work with a charcoal stick and a sheaf of bark filings under a lean-to. She’d woken up with the new knowledge passed down through the Tech Tree in the wake of my ill-fated attempt at making black powder. Well, black putty, at least. Instead, I’d made something close enough to what this world considered rocket fuel to unlock the basic concept of rocket motors. As expected of my chief engineer, she was busy combining new and old concepts into amalgamative technology to further her own understanding.

She passed some of the sketches over, and I looked at the primitive schematics, nodding, and equal parts impressed and appalled by her ideas.

“We’re going to need more sulfur,” I told her. “And clay. And hides.” I scratched my head. “I hope the artificers can get us refined copper wire. There’s so much we need.”

Behind me, I heard cheering as several of the goblins loaded into the flex-a-pult. They had new contraptions with them that I hadn’t seen before. As soon as the flex-a-pult launched the first five goblins, they unfurled mini gliders that caught the wind and launched them skyward. They floated in circles as the next several wind surfers loaded up and got a boost. Only one of them lost hold of their glider and plummeted into the forest at the base of the bluff.

I watched the lazy floaters, taking enjoyment off the sheer act of soaring, and I couldn’t help but smile. These little astronauts in the making—though they didn’t know it yet— were fearless in the face of heights and willing to embrace change at an unheard-of rate. Two weeks ago a smooth rock had been the height of their technological prowess. Now they were conquering the skies. But we needed more. If I was going to rescue the remaining goblins on the southeast bluff, I needed the hobgoblins, and I needed something that could carry them.

“Have your team make more of those gliders,” I said. I took one of the bark scraps and a piece of charcoal and began sketching out a modification of the stubby-winged design that extended the wings out, added winglets, and made it better for soaring.

I left her to find Neil, who hadn’t yet set out with his hunters and fishers.

He looked up at me from where he was greasing the rails of his slinger. “Yes?”

I sat down next to him. “Got a special task for your boys today. Javelines left their camp in a hurry. I need the supplies they left. Tents, poles, tools, anything they can carry back. I’m sure they had food, too. See if you can salvage anything from the crash site. Also, we need sulfur and rutter scat for putty.

Neil tilted his head. “Ours works near as well,” he said.

“It does?” I asked, looking at the overflowing latrine pit on the edge of the village. I’d been planning to use it for fertilizer once we started an agrarian tech path. But apparently goblins were little phosphate factories who literally shit components for primitive rocket fuel. Which meant, the more goblins, the more icky-putty.

He nodded. “Ask Armstrong. He knows poppers.” He held up a small, round clay jar and tested the fitting in his sled. “What’s that?”

He made the goblin pantomime for an explosion. Good god. The little psychopath was turning my rock slingers into grenade launchers. I took the jar. It was about the size of my hand, which meant it wouldn’t be much of a payload. But it would certainly ruin the day of whoever or whatever got hit with it. The javeline might think twice before running down goblins if every wrangler on a clifford had a goblin with a slinger riding shotgun. I looked around and saw several of his hunters working on other clay jars to set out in the sun to dry. The First Apollan Grenadiers Division. Yikes.

As loathe as I was to condone the creation of explosive weaponry, I had to admit it was at least safer than the bomb fruits. And we desperately needed to defend ourselves long enough for the tribe to grow and develop more variants.

Neil collected his hunters and loaded their equipment and folding gliders into the flex-a-pult. They launched off toward the southeast—no longer falling straight down after the apex of their parabolic launch but catching the wind and pulled away. These new gliders massively extended the range of the flex-a-pults when launching goblin-based payloads. Which, in turn, expanded our own rapid response territory from just a few kilometers from the bluff up to about five kilometers. That encompassed the hotsprings, as well as the edge of the grasslands to the south. To the west? Well, to be completely honest, I hadn’t given much thought to the west, yet. There were other bluffs on that side, but none as close as the ones to the east and through thickly-forested terrain that offered few spots for thermals to form.

To the north, humans were a 10-day journey for a half-badger across the forests and foothills of a mountain range. But how much territory did a half-dwarf beast-kin cover in a day? I should have asked Rufus. We just knew too little.

I worked with Sally and her crew until mid-day. They were busy with the new glider pattern, while I had my own task. But we wouldn’t be able to make them until we had the canvas from the javeline tents that I’d sent Neil to retrieve. Canvas was something our aeronautics program needed, but maybe I could substitute more wing membranes from night haunts. Of course, that required hunting them during the day. That would almost certainly cause casualties. A better solution would be setting traps for them at night to lure them in and take them by surprise with hobgoblins. I threw my project over my shoulder and went to see the resident experts on nocturnal dealings.

The hobgoblins woke up about the time as Raphina’s eye, stumbling from their shelters bleary-eyed and yawning. I had jobs for both the scrappers and the wranglers.

Chuck and Armstrong came over first thing.

“Armstrong. Did your village ever have contact with the one south of you?”

“I seen ‘em,” he said, looking out to the southwest. “Small like. No hobbies. Never caused us no grief. Recluses, boss.”

“They’re at war with pale lizards that don’t like sunlight. Or, it would be more accurate to say, they’re being predated upon in the same way the night haunts were attacking us. Think your boys can give them a hand on the warfront so they can make start making gliders instead of spears and head this way?”

Armstrong looked around. “Getting cozy up here, boss.”

“I’ll deal with that.”

The scrapper cracked his knuckles and grinned. “In that case, we can do for some lizards.”

I clapped him on the arm. “Good. I’ll send support your way as soon as we get the new gliders built.”

Armstrong rounded up his unruly rabble of scrappers and trotted off to the eastern flex-a-pult.

I turned to Chuck. “Nice save with the cliffords last night. How did you manage to get them following your orders?”

Chuck shrugged. “Just an understanding, boss. Best to raise ‘em as cubs. Then you don’t gotta remind ‘em who’s boss as much. Hard to hold on when they get to bucking and biting.”

I hefted the leather on my shoulder. “This might help with that. Where are the kennels?”

Chapter 30 - Bogged Down

<Goblin Technology Unlocked: Skinny saddle>

I carefully looped the under-strap and ran it through the cinch beneath the clifford’s muscular belly. I didn’t know much about riding, but I’ve seen westerns. Saddle on top, bridle in front, straps below. Right? How tough could it be?

I backed up as the clifford snapped at me, but Chuck dipped in and popped the red canine on the nose. Properly chagrinned, the beast settled, and Chuck was able to swing up onto the hide saddle. He wiggled around, then gave a nod. “It’ll do, but I still want my glider.”

“It’s coming. Neil should be back with the canvas and sulfur before midnight. In the meantime, I want to get a lay of the land from the land. It’s hard to spot resources from the air, and there are a few we still really need.”

It didn’t hurt to project our power out a bit, too. Once we had the numbers for it, I intended regular patrols by both ground and air so nothing could sneak up on us. It would take a few more reproductive cycles, a lot of work, and a lot more hobgoblins to be able to cover the territory, though.

Chuck held the clifford still while I clambered up onto its back. Then he swung into the saddle with coordination unbecoming a goblin. Someone handed me a slinger and a small sack of stones. The rest of the wranglers mounted up with their goblin gunners in tow. They looked at our saddle with jealous eyes, and I had no doubt that all of them would have their own by morning.

Each of the hobgoblin wranglers had a small hide holster on their backs with two short spears, as well. Between the spears, the slingers, and the cliffords themselves, this was about as well-armed as I’d seen my tribe. But I still only had 6 wranglers and there was a lot of ground around the village to cover.

“Where to, boss?”

“Northwest, I think,” I said. “Rufus said the closest settlement was humans to the northwest. I want to see what’s out that direction.”

Chuck reached back and smacked the flank of his clifford, and we were off before I could squawk with surprise. Cliffords, it seemed, shared one trait with goblins: they only had two speeds: still, and complete mania. The canine dug its claws in and launched into a sprint, barking and bounding through the woods. Despite being a savannah creature, it seemed well equipped to traverse the dense forest, as well. It changed directions quickly by jumping up and kicking off tree trunks, and surmounted foliage by simply barreling through it while Chuck ducked low and I held on for dear life. I got the impression he was more suggesting directions than steering it, but the way the wranglers and their gunners hooted and hollered while the cliffords barked their heads off made it seem like everyone got max enjoyment out of the experience.

I suppose it was a bit closer to a motorcycle club in rowdiness than any kind of horse-riding club. At times, the hobbies were leaned so far forward I’m not sure how the cliffords didn’t topple ass over teakettle. Unlike the peaceful soaring of the glider, this close to the ground the sensation of speed was immense. As fast as I thought we were going, when we broke onto one of the goblin trails, chuck really gave the dog its head and the thing tore down the straight-way, tongue lolling out to the side like a pennant. A look back through the canopy and I could see the bluff. We must have covered four or five kilometers already, which was not bad for creatures only about a meter tall.

Chuck finally slowed us up near a stream so the dogs could drink and the goblins could grab some wild onions from the bank. I knelt down at the bank and ran my hand through the water. The water was red-orange in color—much like the clay had been. Upstream were some higher hills in the distance, bordering on mountains. I thought for a moment, then cupped my hands and took a drink. There was definitely a metallic taste to the water. I ran a hand through my fur, considering.

“Chuck, where’s the river dump out?” I called.

He was ruffling the muzzle of his clifford, who was growling and chomping the air. Clearly the pair had built something of a bond, even if the dog got a firm punch on the nose whenever the chomps got a little too close to Chuck’s face. He glanced over at me. “Downstream,” he said.

Well obviously. I headed back over. “You been there?”

“Not yet.”

I headed back over to the hobbies and the dogs. “Let’s check it out.”

I climbed back up on the back of the clifford and waited while the rest of the crew got situated. Chuck pointed the dog vaguely southwest and gave it a smack to get it going. We tore down the river bed, scattering some critters and birds. I spotted a splash in the water and several fish jumped out on diaphanous fins—only to be snatched from below by a long-snouted reptile. My eyes went wide. I wondered if that was what had gotten my goblin the first time we tried fishing. It certainly looked big enough to drag one of my fishermen out into the water and then make a meal of it. Note to self, postpone the swimming lessons.

I noted a possible pocket of clay along the way—based on a resident stone-sloth that we outpaced as it charged after us. The cliffords seemed to need no extra encouragement to avoid the large, clawed creature. It was, by far, the biggest one I’d seen yet, and had a high level to reflect its stature. A volley of rocks from the slingers might have discouraged it from following us too far, but I suspected it just hit the edge of its territory. The stream started to level out, and I caught a whiff of more stagnant water up ahead. The trees got shorter, and then turned more to tangled vines and twisted shrubbery.

Chuck called a halt, and I hopped down from the back of the clifford and rubbed my backside. While fast, the bony canines weren’t exactly the smoothest ride. My feet sank about five or six centimeters into the turf, and I could feel water underneath. Chuck moved some foliage out of the way and hissed.

“Bog,” he said. “This what you wanted to see, boss?”

“Sure is,” I said. He and one of the other hobbies held back branches and let me scramble underneath with a pair of slinger-toting goblins and go out into the bog. I was quickly in water up to my knees, pushing through the vegetation. The bog was wide and mostly open, with few, large trees offering broad cover from the heat of the day that turned the air into a humid mire. I could see the spot where the stream emptied out, as well as other slow flows on the other side. The water ran slow through the bog, and the entire thing was covered in a layer of mossy, mulchy vegetation.

Was this peat? I had only a vague idea of what peat really was. I hadn’t had a chance to read the bog-iron book Rufus had left on collecting metal from the swamp, but this seemed like a sound place to start looking once I had a better idea. I reached down and pulled up a handful of the loose matter. It was soaked through, matted, and woven together.

Once I got about waist-deep, something startled a flock of birds across the bog, and I watched them take flight. Underneath them, several of the mounds of peat—at least, what I hoped was peat, slid and slipped on ripples of something entering the water of the bog. Something big. I hadn’t read the bestiary, either. I slowly backed away, unable to see what had slid into the bog. If it was anything like the river monster that had snatched the flying fish, I didn’t want to tangle with it.

I kept my eyes forward for any sign of the creature, but I should have been watching where I stepped. An angry buzzing and snapping brought my attention around in a hurry.

“Boss, freeze!” shouted Chuck.

A small cloud of big bugs flew out of a hive in the peat that I’d apparently disturbed. I stood as still as I could, looking at the flying insects as they flew around, looking for something to take their aggression out on. They looked like some sort of wasp except they had two stingers. And as I watched, a tiny arc of electricity climbed up between the stings like a tiny Jacob’s Ladder. They were like some sort of lightning bug, except in a more literal sense. Mentally, I dubbed them tesla wasps. One of the goblins squawked and dropped his slinger in the drink, jumping and grabbing his backside.

I heard a buzz mount behind me, and then a snap. A jolt of electricity arced through my little goblin ass, causing my leg to spasm and dropping me face-first into the stagnant water. The thing had stung me and shocked me! I didn’t know what being tased felt like, but I had to imagine it was pretty similar. I let out a cry that bubbled under water and flailed around. I completely panicked when I saw a pair of luminescent eyes coming toward me in the murk and burst back above the water in a cloud of the agitated tesla wasps. Their disposition hadn’t improved any. My splashing attracted their attention, and I’m sure the volley of stones from the goblins on the bank of the bog didn’t calm things down.

Several of the tesla wasps swooped down, narrowly missing me with their sparking thoraxes. They came close enough for me to hear the snap and pop of the electricity between their stinger tines. Another one scored home high on my back and my right arm spasmed, luckily knocking aside another that was diving in on me—but then it went completely numb.

Something big burst out of the water near me with a snarl, and I looked behind to see something vaguely crocodilian, but with four eyes and thick, bulbous tongue. The System didn’t even bother assigning it a level, just a vague “??” over its head—probably its way of telling us we were completely outmatched. My other companion saw it, too, and leveled his slinger at it. He sent a stone arcing forward, but it sailed above the bog lizard’s head and skipped off the surface of the water.

Turns out, the croc-thing had a similar trick. It opened its mouth. The tongue shot out like it was spring-loaded, and I barely got out of the way. My companion wasn’t so lucky. The tongue had a knobby bit on the end, and it impacted the goblin’s forehead with a crack like an egg against a frying pan.

<Your tribe has decreased to 68 members>

The goblin dropped below the water with a splash as the croc roared.

The wasps luckily switched to the bigger, louder target. They swooped down on the snarling bog monster with the hiss and pop of discharging voltage. That just made the thing angrier, and it thrashed about with tail and webbed claws while I made my escape with the remaining slinger goblin who would win no badges for marksmanship. I got stung/shocked twice more before I reached the bank of the bog and stumbled onto sort of dry ground. I gasped, fur dripping.

Chuck helped me to my feet, which were still shaky since one of my legs was still numb. “You had enough, boss?”

“Not nearly,” I said. I looked over my shoulder as the bog monster retreated beneath the water. “This place is awesome!”