T. Kingfisher - Nine Goblins

Many of the subtleties were lost on the humans. The lean bodies of war-pigs in fighting trim looked feral and half-starved to human eyes, and the patterns of black earth, in which a goblin could have read whole volumes about tribal affiliations and clan standing, looked like streaky dirt and caked dust. Coup markers of bone and stone, denoting enemies slain and great deeds done, were seen as garbage trapped in unwashed hair. Where goblins would see high-ranked emissaries in full regalia, the humans saw a raggle-taggle band, ill-kempt and filthy, to be held in pity and contempt.

The mayor came out to meet them. To give what little credit he was due, he probably thought he was trying to be kind.

“Goblins, huh? You-um want beer?” he asked, hunkering down in front of Severspine, the heir to Clan Uggersplut. “We-um give you beer, you go away.”

“We have come to discuss the ongoing human expansion,” said Severspine coldly. “We want our lands back.”

“ Good beer,” said the mayor, winking at the townspeople over Severspine’s head.

Negotiations did not proceed well after that.

Three days later, the war had started, and nothing much would ever be the same again.

They’d been marching half the night. A halt had been called for fifteen minutes, which was time enough for Murray to whip out his small travel stove and make tea. The Nineteenth crowded around, brandishing their tin mugs and watching with owlish intensity.

Goblin tea resembles a nice cup of Earl Grey in much the same way that a catfish resembles the common tabby. They share a name, but one is a nice thing to curl up with on a rainy afternoon, and the other is found in the muck at the bottom of polluted rivers and has bits of debris sticking to it.

Murray poured the tea. Hands went into packs and came out with fistfuls of crude rock sugar. The resulting brew resembled a kind of sweet gritty mud. Sounds of slurping were followed immediately by cheerful complaints.

“Tastes like rat squeezins’.”

“Huh, we haven’t had anything as good as rat squeezins’ for six months. Tastes like a water buffalo got sick.”

“I’d kill for some good rat squeezins.’”

Thus complimented, Murray beamed.

A pig-rider cantered down the road, and pulled up in a squealing cloud of dust in the center of the Whinin’ Niners. Nessilka saluted in a desultory fashion. Pig-riders were generally a higher class of messenger idiot than runners, but still nothing to get excited about.

“What’s the word, then?” she asked.

“Another hour, then we’re in position and make camp. Dawn attack, so sleep fast.”

“Dawn? We’ll get, like—” she did a little mental math, “—four hours of sleep! After a day’s march!”

The messenger grimaced. His pig danced under him. “General’s orders.”

“Yeah, not your fault.” Nessilka waved him on. “Thanks.”

It always takes longer to get somewhere than you think it will, and this is twice as true in the military, so the goblins marched into camp a mere three hours before dawn.

“Okay, troops, equipment check, and then get some sleep. We’re getting up too damn early, so catch what you can.”

The tents went up quickly. When your tent is three sticks and a whole cowhide, there’s not a lot of time spent dithering. At the beginning of the campaign, the cowhides had been uncured, with the resulting smell of rotting leather and ripe goblin, but Murray had gotten the bright idea to salt the things. The end result was a kind of tent jerky. It still didn’t smell great, but it kept the rain off, even if folding the hides was becoming increasingly problematic.

Nessilka figured if worse came to worse, they could always eat the tents.

“Is it even worth…”

“…going to sleep?” asked the twins.

“Boys, it’s always worth going to sleep. Sleep whenever you get the chance, because you don’t know how long it’s going to be until the next time.”

“And eat,” said Algol from behind her.

“Thank you, yes, Corporal. If there’s food available, eat it. Meals can get awfully thin on the ground sometimes.”

She glanced around the group to see who looked the least tired. “Gladblack, you’re on second watch. I’ll take first.” Since there were plenty of sentries around the edge of the army, there wasn’t much point in watching for the enemy, but you never knew when one of the other units was going to sneak over and try to nick your goat.

A teddy-bear popped into her field of view. Nessilka winced, but it was only Blanchett.

“He wants to know when we’re attacking,” said the owner of the teddy-bear.

“Tell him dawn,” said the sergeant.

Blanchett, unlike much of the Nineteenth, wore a helmet. It was a complicated mass of fangy bone and spiky metal. He had taken it from a dead orc and it didn’t fit terribly well, but Blanchett almost never took it off, even to sleep.

You couldn’t really blame him. A few months back, the Mechanics Corps had been working on a design for a new showerhead. The resulting explosions had involved terrific loss of life on both sides, and Blanchett had taken a flying log upside the head.

A battle had been raging at the time, so nobody really noticed this, and had chalked him up as missing, presumed dead.

Two days later, covered in soot, with a knot on his head the size of an eagle’s egg, Blanchett had staggered into camp, clutching the teddy-bear. It was ragged and moth-eaten and was missing an eye, which gave it a permanent squint. As teddy-bears go, it would be difficult to find a more disreputable specimen. Nobody knew where he’d gotten it, and nobody was quite willing to ask.

The teddy-bear, so far as Nessilka could tell, was now the brains of the pair. Blanchett refused to answer any query that was not directed at the bear, and only spoke when translating for the bear. In battle, the bear rode on top of his helmet.

It had been a long war. By that point, everybody had just figured it was easier to go along, particularly since Blanchett seemed rather more intelligent and helpful these days, under the bear’s direction.

“He says okay,” said Blanchett.

Nessilka nodded. Blanchett made the teddy-bear salute and went off to get some sleep.

Weatherby stood up, tugging at his clothes, and said “Right, then! I’m—”

“Not tonight, Weatherby. There’s a battle tomorrow.”

Weatherby heaved a sigh. “Fine…”

“You can desert next week. That’ll be fun, won’t it?” Gods , thought Nessilka, listening to her own wheedling voice, these troops don’t need a sergeant, they need a babysitter.

“Wanna desert now …” Weatherby muttered, slouching off to his tent. He kicked sullenly at a rock. Nessilka stared up at the sky and counted to ten.

She finally looked down, and then around the Nineteenth. Algol and Murray, her corporals. Thumper and Weatherby and the twins. Blanchett and his teddy-bear. The half-dozen others who didn’t make trouble and just kept their heads down and tried to get through things. The great grim goblin gods only know who’d be alive after the battle tomorrow. All you could do was pray.

She wasn’t very good at it—her prayers tended to sound like “You! Up there! Pay attention and heaven help you if you don’t keep an eye on my boys!”—but as she had every night since becoming sergeant, Nessilka prayed.

The unicorn was gone, and the foal with her. Sings-to-Trees felt a moment of pure relief. The stall needed mucking out, but that was fine. He’d rather have mucked a dozen stalls than deal with a grumpy post-partum unicorn.

It was, all things considered, a glorious late spring morning. Birds sang in the trees and the air was that tantalizing temperature which was just warm enough so that it didn’t feel like anything, until a delicious cool breeze would flicker across your skin. The leaves had come in brilliant, blinding green, and glittering like hot stained glass when the sun lanced through them.