Fear does not feed

“Son, come to burden me with even more work?” the old Hobgoblin by the table spoke in a rusty, mature voice.

“Pa. We brought more antlers.” Ragnulf said as he handed a pair of antlers to each of his sisters. “Expect more work for the time being,” he grabbed a bag of spears from me and put them by the table. All the spearheads were either splintered or missing.

The old man scoffed. “Your sisters are toiling here day and night to repair your stupid spears, and you repay them with more work?!”

“Pa,” Ragnulf replied calmly, “you know antlers make for poor tips. They splinter. Too brittle. You taught me yourself.”

“Father, it’s alright. Our brothers and chief Albar provide us with game every day. We’re proud to contribute,” one of the ladies sitting next to the craftsman spoke up, her voice tender.

“Yeah, pops,” the other lady spoke up, “but if ya wanna help us out, you ‘n chief Albar ‘ere could beat up them dread lynxes by the mine, then we wouldn’t hafta do this repairin’ no more!”

“Heheh,” the old man chuckled, a happy smile on his face. His daughters had completely pacified him. The truth behind the matter is that he was delighted to have more work to do. He seemed to enjoy spending time with his daughters, repairing our tools all day long. The old man was Ragnulf Senior—a veteran hunter who has hit retirement age, and spends the rest of his days helping out at his family’s hunting lodge, skinning animals and repairing tools, while his sons have taken over his hunting profession.

For the past three months, I have provided the Narzakii family with a successful hunt—ranging from one to three catches—every day. Whether they be hairy bushpigs, four-eyed deer, or Horkean minks, I could chase down any animal with my absurd speed.

Today, the Narzakii brothers and I managed to catch but one bushpig, but we also found a field with a few deer antlers. It’s currently late-winter, so the male deer have shed their antlers, and left them for us, ripe for the picking. Our spear- and arrowheads are made from the stuff, but they splinter and break with ease. Not very good for hunting.

The cause is once again the dread lynxes. Apparently, with the arrival of the pack’s alpha, the migration was complete and the beasts settled in the hills and forests surrounding Casbriga. The alpha lynx itself has settled near an iron mine from which all the region’s iron originates. With the spike in price, we had no choice but to switch to bone and antler-based tools.

In any case, I volunteered to bring the bushpig into the town’s market to sell its tusks to an artisan and deliver the carcass to the Narzakii’s next-door butcher. I reached the entrance of the town, and the guards acknowledged me with a deep nod, their eyes closed.

“Chief Albar,” they said as they did so.

I strolled past, and passed the barrack I had previously terrorized with my unprovoked duel. That very same captain I had brutalized, straightened his posture and gave me a similar nod upon spotting me.

“At attention!” He barked. Not a shred of disdain towards me.

The sparring warriors stopped in their tracks, acknowledged me with a curt nod before swiftly resuming their drills.

I reached the butcher’s place and dropped off the bushpig. The butcher was absent, like he always was, so I quickly moved on to the artisan to sell him the tusks. Because regional trade had come to a halt due to the dread lynx migration, he could not offer me much in return. Despite it being way below market price, I accepted the trade regardless, knowing that he could not make a profit otherwise.

“I shall never forget this, chief Albar,” he said, also deeply nodding like the others.

My disgraced standing in the tribe evaporated seemingly overnight. People saw me not only as a contributing member of society, but especially as someone who has put their immense strength to use in order to provide value to the tribe. Though the Highgoblins still regard me as Frasmul, everyone else recognizes me as no one but Albar.

My uncle did say that our kind naturally falls in line to whomever stands on top of the ascendancy line, provided they maintain a powerful and respectable image, so I would assume that this process is currently at play. I’m strong, and a Goblin King. With my damaged image slowly healing, goblins will naturally come to defer to me.

It was a weird feeling; I did not expect authority to feel this way. With the goblins’ innate disposition towards deference, it felt like I was born with a biological burden to live up to their expectations, lest I disrupt the balance of nature or something. It’s different from leading humans, whom you must thoroughly convince through your words and actions before they feel the need to defer another. With humans, you had to earn obedience. With goblins, you were burdened with it. Most profound, if I do say so myself.

While I thought of this thought-provoking thought, I made my way to the town square. A couple of Highgoblins stood on pedestals, listening to the complaints and problems of the populace.

“Chief Glotbertar, my farm to the east has been wrecked by a dread lynx, and my son lost his arm in our escape. Please, provide us with food, or help take back our stead!”

“Chief Frakaldhelm, I swear by Anz that my neighbor Vermul Sigcae has trespassed on my land and stolen a full sack of my yield. We are already struggling with hunger ourselves, we can’t afford to lose an entire sack! By Anz, he must repay me in full as per the law!”

“Chief Altberulf, I beg you! Please, send forth the war chief to wipe out the lynx menace once and for all…!”

Half the crowd cried out in hunger, while the other half wailed in pure terror of the dread lynxes.

“We shall confer with the chiefs Hardalgmar and Aremfrid, so please remain patient!” The Highgoblin named Frakaldhelm replied, his tone helpless.

I could relate to that feeling of powerlessness. I had tried to help out some townsmen as well, wiping out a dread lynx here and there. However, whenever I did so, the dread lynx would be replaced by another one a day later, so nothing substantial had changed. Folks still thanked me for my efforts, but just like the Highgoblin who replied to the crowd, I felt helpless as I watched people suffer in hunger and desperation.

***

Another month had passed, and spring was upon us.

Gripping my spear, crouched low in the underbrush, eyes locked on a set of tracks. I was about to leap forward and spear my prey when Wergnar grabbed my arm, hissing under their breath. “Most genius chief Albar, you’re holding that spear like you’re poking a campfire!” he yelled. “If you wanna bring down that deer before it bolts, angle the shaft lower, keep the point just above your knee, and don’t plant your lead foot so heavy—use the balls of your feet instead.”

I did as he advised, positioned myself correctly this time, and leaped out, piercing the deer and killing it one hit. The four-eyed deer completely lacked a sense of hearing due to its lack of ears. It compensates by having four incredibly sensitive eyes, giving it a near 360 degree view of its surroundings, and yet, it hadn’t seen me coming. The trick to succes requires four steps:

1. Be a goblin: Your green-grey skin provides excellent camouflage in the forest.

2. Let it be windy: With the wind constantly moving the leaves, your own movement is less noticeable.

3. Don’t be downstream of the wind flow: Your scent will travel with the wind, making your prey aware of your presence. Hunting 101, people, you know this already.

4. Have the sun in your back: Sensitive eyes will get hurt even more by the bright sunlight, so your prey’s vision gets disturbed.

I admit, all these steps are out of your control, so they’re more like preconditions. There are some other ways to catch the four-eyed deer though, like by running after it with your Kragnin until it tires out, but so far, I’m the only one in this hunting party capable of that. Everyone else is a Hobgoblin after all.

“There we go! Now you don’t have to chase it around for half the morning like some crazed monkey,” Wergnar snarked.

“Monkey? I’ll have you know, running after a deer with a Kragnin is a great way to prepare your appetite for some quality eating,” I said with a haughty grin of self-satisfaction plastered on my mug.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Your Majesty. It’s not like the tribe has a food shortage or anything,” He retorted. He too wore a haughty grin on his mug.

“Uh... you’re right.” My head slumped in self-disappointment.

I was indebted to this family. Ragnulf and his younger brothers, Lobnar and Wergnar, have taught me the ways of hunting. Of spear throwing and archery. They taught me how to silent step, to camouflage, to ambush. They did not stop there; skinning, cooking, and… Uhm. I guess that was it? It was still a lot, and I owed them for teaching me so many skills. Instead of repaying them, I waste time chasing deer just so I can work up an appetite? Man, I’m trash.

Anyway, I want to teach them something in return. I mean, I showed them how to overcome a lagsrik—“grimder” as the Ausmulli call ‘em—but I wanted to teach them more. I’d taught them but one thing, whilst they had taught me a plethora of things. Suddenly, my ingenious noggin produced an idea.

I looked back up at Wergnar. “Wanna be able to chase a deer with your own Kragnin too?”

His initial surprise gave way to a snarky grin, as if he had hit the comedy jackpot. "Oh, I see. So your grand plan is to ditch the finesse of a real hunt and trick me into your sweaty deer-chasing slog, huh?”