The Wandering Inn_Volume 1, page 195
Up close, the Hob Goblin looked like some kind of Goblin war god. His scars shone in the light, and his red-forged sword was beautiful—far too well-made for any Goblin. His giant wolf lay near the fire, glaring at Rags as he stared into the flames.
The Chieftain looked up. He had told Rags his name. Garen. It was…an odd name. Not a Goblin name. But Garen Red Fang was a legend in his own right, and Rags was certain, yes, certain that she shouldn’t have won. Even with a thousand Goblins versus his sixty.
You pretended to lose.
He looked up from the fire and shook his head.
No pretend. Tested. You won. Did not think you would.
Why?
He paused.
Must have good Chieftain. Must have better one than I.
It was an explanation, but not a satisfactory one. Rags had seen Garen fight. He was a devious leader, and a peerless warrior. She said so, but he laughed.
I am not Goblin enough. Not to lead all Goblins.
She understood that even less, but then, Rags was practically asleep on her feet from the healing and the battle. She could ask later, and she sensed he would tell her. He had submitted to her, and, stronger or not, she was now in charge. She was now in charge of the entire Red Fang tribe and all the lesser tribes. It hadn’t sunk in yet. But when they joined the main group…
Small Goblin. Chieftain. What is name?
Rags jerked, and then realized Garen was asking her. No Goblin had ever asked that question before. She hesitated, and then shook her head.
No shaman. No name.
He frowned slightly.
No name is bad luck. Must have one.
Again, Rags hesitated. She knew that. She looked into the fire and then at him.
Others have name for me. “Rags.”
There was no word for ‘rags’ in the language of Goblins. Rags had to sound out the word slowly. Garen frowned, and then laughed as he realized what she was saying.
“Rags? It is good name. Good name for Goblin.”
He spoke! Rags was so stunned she took a step back. Garen had spoken! Not with the Goblin’s language, but like a Human or a Drake or Gnoll! She’d thought that was impossible.
How? How speak?
He shrugged carelessly in reply.
“Many days practice. Many, many days. Learned to once, when adventurer.”
Liar.
“No liar. Was once adventurer. Became strong. Strongest.”
That was impossible. Even the most tolerant Human would kill any Goblin—especially a Hob—on sight. But Garen just grinned when Rags said that.
“Special adventurers. Once. Trusted me.”
And?
Rags was intensely curious, but Garen’s face closed. He studied the fire, and looked at her.
“Trusted. I fought with them until one day. Then I killed them.”
Rags was suddenly bursting with questions. She wanted to ask them all, but Garen looked at her, and she realized he had something to say.
Came here to find Chieftain. Me or you. Must unite tribes.
Why?
Enemy is South. Great enemy. Bad Goblin. Goblin Lord.
Goblin Lord. Rags stared at Garen as his words struck her. No. It couldn’t be. But if he said it—
She stared at the sky. The cloudy sky. It was a peaceful night now, now that the bloodshed had stopped. But if Garen was right, it explained everything. Bad Goblin? A bad Goblin Lord? If that was the case, then—
She looked out at her tribe. If that was the case…if a Goblin Lord was really growing, then it meant only one thing.
It meant all of the violence, all the death before this was only an opening act. A Goblin Lord was rising, and with it, war would engulf this region.
Garen grinned, and in his eyes Rags saw fire and war and death. She couldn’t help it. She laughed, and felt the world begin to move again.
2.23
The Stone Spears Tribe was not the largest Gnoll tribe in the southern half of the continent of Izril, nor the wealthiest or most powerful, not by far. They occupied the northernmost lands below the Blood Fields, and mainly roamed the rocky slopes close to the mountain range that separated the continent in two.
It was sparse living so far north, with far fewer animals than down in the rich flatlands or populated swamps. And the dangers of the mountains could not be ignored; Grisrith, the mountain range revered by the Gnolls as a place where legends and myths still roamed high above the sky, often saw deadly monsters descend the slopes to find easier pickings down below.
And yet, the tribe lived and even prospered in their own way here. They had made a good living prospecting for gemstones and other valuable minerals in caves and on the slopes; the constant avalanches and shifting geography meant that it was possible to find the gems close to the surface, and they had many Gnolls in their tribe who specialized in [Miner] classes.
Everyone loved shiny objects. Gnolls did, Humans did, and Drakes really did. Their shared ancestry with Dragons meant that the Stone Spears Tribe could sell their uncut gemstones to Drakes in cities at a steep price, which paid for food and supplies when shortages occurred.
But it did mean that much of the tribe had to spend all their time digging or prospecting for rocks, away from their main camp. It was too dangerous for their young and elderly to venture up the slopes, so most of the adults and warriors would leave on long trips while the young and a few experienced warriors stayed behind with the tribe in safe territory.
That was where the Stone Spear Tribe was now, in the center of a snowy patch of ground far from the distant forest or bottom of the mountain to the north and west. It was exposed land, which meant the cold wind could be harsh, but the sturdy huts the Gnolls had built kept away the weather, and besides, this way they could see any approaching dangers from miles away.
The small camp bustled with activity even this early in the day. Older Gnolls were busy tanning hides, tending the cooking fires, or fletching arrows and skinning dead animals in preparation for later processing. Nothing went to waste in a Gnoll tribe.
Young Gnolls, awkward furry creatures that scampered around on all fours as much as two legs and nipped and got into trouble all over the camp were the only exception to this efficiency. They had pretty much a free rein to do what they liked…so long as they didn’t involve getting in the way or into too much trouble. Gnoll adults and elders were quick to cuff an errant child and send the unfortunate troublemaker whining back to play with the others.
There were the Gnolls, working, busy, living out another normal day. They had organized their tents in a rough circle to help mitigate any sudden winds, and closer to the center, the largest tent stood, a place for the entire tribe to eat and gather at, or where important decisions had to be made. The fire in front of it was large, but guarded by stones so that none of the flames could jump into the tents made of hide and wood.
And there, in front of the fire, sat a Human. She stood out in the bustling camp, not least because she had no fur, but also because she looked like she had been through a war.
Ryoka Griffin sat on a rough woolen rug, shivering and looking at nothing in particular. She stared ahead, gaze empty. Eyes tired. She was very, very…
Tired.
Over a week had passed since the day Ryoka had left The Wandering Inn. And it was not the same Ryoka who sat in the center of the Gnoll camp now as the one who’d left.
She was injured. Ryoka’s face, her neck—all of her exposed skin not covered by clothing was red and raw. She’d taken off her heavier layers to expose her arms and legs, and they were cut in places and yellow, black, and purple in other places. She had stings on her right leg and shallow, thin cuts on the left side of her body and face. Her face looked like parts of her skin had been rubbed right off.
And she was exhausted. Ryoka’s eyes were deeply shadowed, and her gaze was sunken, marked by desperation. She barely looked up as the Gnoll Chieftain of the Stone Spears tribe walked over with a bowl in his hands.
“Hrm. Here.”
He bent, and sat cross-legged next to Ryoka as he placed the bowl at her side. Ryoka glanced over disinterestedly, and saw a strange grey-brown paste with flecks of red mixed with what looked like…a fish?
Yes, it was a fish, a trout or whatever this world’s equivalent was. It looked like a normal trout, cooked and still steaming in the cold air. The Gnoll indicated the fish.
“Here. Eat while I apply this.”
Ryoka hesitated as she looked at him. She’d only met this Gnoll thirty minutes ago when he’d helped dig her out of the snow. His name was…Urksh. Ryoka had to struggle to remember. He was the Chieftain here, and he’d offered her food and shelter. She’d been too tired and hurt to refuse, but—
“Thanks. But you shouldn’t be doing this. I’m being followed.”
“Mrr. By the Winter Sprites? Yes, you have said. But they will not bother you here, I think. And hospitality has been offered; it would be wrong to refuse, yes?”
Ryoka shrugged. She eyed the paste as the Gnoll dipped a large, furred finger into it. He reached for her arm and she pulled away.
“What’s that?”
“Healing ointment. It is not a healing potion, but works well either way, yes? And it is better than wasting a potion.”
“And the fish?”
“Food. Eat. The ointment does not make it taste worse.”
Ryoka eyed the Gnoll for a second, but then picked up the fish, ignoring the heat that nearly scalded her fingers. She was starving, and she quickly began to tear into the fish, spitting bones into the fire.
Urksh raised his paw and carefully took Ryoka’s right arm as she ate with her left. She winced, and he adjusted his grip to hold her as lightly as possible.
“Apologies. But it must be done, yes?”
“Go ahead.”
Ryoka tried to ignore the stinging pain and burning that cooled as the Gnoll began to spread the thick paste over her arm. It felt wonderful; she’d been running with the pain for so long, the absence of it was pure release.
Urksh frowned as he studied Ryoka’s arm. He looked at the circular red bumps on her arm and the unnatural swollenness of her flesh that began to recede as the ointment did its work.
“Wasp stings. Odd to see in the winter.”
Ryoka shrugged, winced, and snapped a fish bone with her teeth. She remembered, and tried not to as she spoke around a full mouth.
“A colony wasn’t quite dead when the faeries woke them up. Got me before I could run away.”
“I see. And the skin? It is too red, even for Human flesh.”
“Snowballs. Lots of snowballs.”
“Hrm. And this?”
Gently, Urksh spread the ointment over the cuts on Ryoka’s face. She flinched a bit, but kept still, chewing on the hot fish.
“Ice shards. They made a bunch of icicles explode as I ran past. ”
The Gnoll sat back and frowned. Ryoka sighed as the pain radiating from her arms and legs began to ease. She wondered if he was going to ask her to take off her shirt and pants so he could treat the rest of her body; she was certainly bruised enough, but she had no idea if Gnolls even acknowledged Human nakedness.
But Urksh was more interested in the skies. He looked around, searching perhaps for the Frost Faeries. There was no sign of them in the sky overhead, but Ryoka had learned they were always nearby. He shook his head as he studied Ryoka’s injuries.
“We know the Winter Sprites. They bring snows and sometimes sleet. But though they play tricks, never have we seen them attack like this. Defend, yes, and cause trouble, but never cause such misery.”
“Well, I’m special.”
“Hm. Evidently so, yes? What did you do to anger them? Even those who shoot at the faeries with iron do not incur such wrath.”
Ryoka grinned, or rather, bared her teeth.
“I hit one.”
“Hr.”
The Human looked at the Gnoll, and the Gnoll looked at her with both furry eyebrows raised.
“It is a story, this.”
“Yes.”
Ryoka sighed. She’d explained some of what had happened when the Gnolls had rescued her from the snowdrift, but now it was time for the rest.
“To put it in a sentence…I was defending a friend from the Winter Sprites and I hit one to make them stop.”
“Interesting. Your friend, this was a half-Elf, yes?”
“Yes. They don’t do well with Frost Faeries.”
“No. This is known. But their dislike of you—it is concerning, yes?”
Ryoka closed her eyes.
“Yeah. It was a mistake.”
A mistake. That was an understatement. Ryoka shuddered and she tried not to remember again. Urksh looked at her sympathetically.
“How long will they pursue you, do you know?”
“A month? A year? A thousand days and one? Until they get bored, I guess. Or until I die.”
Silence. The Gnoll stared at Ryoka as she sat by the crackling fire. Warmth. She’d nearly forgotten the feeling after so many days of running through the cold.
“That does not seem fair.”
“It’s not about being fair. They want vengeance and so they’ll have it. Rules and mercy…they could care less about what other people think. They do what they want, and they want me to suffer.”
Ryoka half-smiled.
“I envy that kind of mentality.”
Again, the Chieftain of the Stone Spears paused. Ryoka knew he was important—at least, as much as any Chieftain was. How important he might be compared to say, Zevara, the Captain of Liscor she couldn’t tell, but she didn’t have any diplomacy left in her at the moment. Just exhaustion.
“We of the Stone Spear tribe have offered you our protection, and you shall have it. Many of our warriors are gone to mine in the mountains, but our tribe is strong, and we have fire and iron.”
“It won’t be enough. Seriously just—if the faeries come back, don’t bother them. You can’t even see them right?”
“It is…faint. And they smell of nothing. But we have promised—”
Ryoka laughed.
“I respect that, but you can do nothing.”
She stared at the fire, remembering now. The Frost Faeries. They had chased her the day she’d left Liscor without mercy or pause.
“I’ve been running for over a week now, nonstop. All the way from Liscor.”
“Far.”
“Yeah, but guess what? On my way down here, not once have I been bothered by a single monster. Not one.”
“That is…odd.”
“Not so odd. It’s the Frost Faeries. They’ve scared away every creature around me for miles.”
Urksh frowned at Ryoka, as if he wanted to doubt her.
“I did not know they had such power. They are spirits of winter and can bring cold, but many things here are dangerous.”
Again Ryoka laughed, bitterly.
“Have you ever seen a Wyvern get taken out by a herd of faeries? They froze the damn thing two miles up in the air.”
Ryoka had just heard the terrifying shriek overhead when the half-dead creature had crashed into the ground a few feet away from her. The Wyvern had been a humongous beast, nearly three times as tall as she was – a lesser Dragon without claws and dark, purple scales.
She had no idea how it had even been able to lift off the ground; the impact the Wyvern had made as it hit the earth had thrown her off her feet. Worse, the faeries hadn’t actually killed the beast, and as it slowly regained consciousness and mobility as the frost dissipated, it had looked around and realized there was a nice snack nearby it could eat to warm itself up.
“I’ve been running from them and only them. I can’t get away from them, though, and they don’t want to kill me. They just want to see me suffer.”
Yes, suffer. The Frost Faeries delighted in Ryoka’s anger and annoyance. Ever since she’d hit one. Ever since then, her life had been torment.
—-
Ryoka had known she’d made a mistake after hitting that faerie in Erin’s inn, but what should she had done? She had been defending Ceria, and she wouldn’t regret that. Besides, she was on an important delivery for Teriarch anyways.
So she’d run. Run out of the inn and through the snow, as fast as she could. At first, the faeries had just followed her, pelting her with snow, shouting in her ears, freezing her skin. Annoying and painful as it had been, Ryoka had felt relieved that was all that was happening.
Then it got worse.
She’d passed through the frozen landscape quickly, running past the Blood Plains after four days of being struck by snow at random times. The first night, the Frost Faeries had dumped cold water on Ryoka as she slept. It had lowered her body temperature so quickly that she’d had to practically lie on top of the campfire to get warm.
The second night, they somehow managed to lift the burning coals of her campfire into the air and toss them onto Ryoka as she slept. She’d healed up her burns with spare use of her healing potions, but in the following days she’d stopped using them – if she had healed every cut and bruise she’d received, she would have used up her small supply by the end of the second day.
Each day, Ryoka had gotten up, eaten, and run, all the while being harassed by as few as one, or as many as forty faeries at once. They threw snowballs – that seemed to be their default mode of torment when they were out of ideas – but they also got creative. Some used twigs to poke Ryoka endlessly, while others blew wind in her face, or found horribly smelly things to drop on her.
As Ryoka ran, she encountered every miserable winter weather pattern imaginable. Blinding flurries that led her off course and into patches of briars, pelting rain that took away her precious body heat, hail—and sometimes, blessedly, the faeries would get bored and stop bothering her for a few hours. But they’d always come back with some new prank.
