Session 10: Tracking

Cold water splashes across your face and shocks you awake. Sunlight slams into your eyes like a blade.

“AHH!” you cry, throwing up an arm to shield the glare.

“Why are you crying—oh, right. Your eyes are more light‑sensitive now,” your Father says, bonking himself on the helmet. “We’ll fix that. Sunglasses, maybe? No, we couldn’t find them here. Thin black cloth… like the Persian Immortals. That’d look bada—”

“Dad!” You cut him off. “Please stop with the chatter.” Every sense is screaming: the sun carves your eyes, his voice grinds your skull, the water needles your skin, your throat is sand, and each breath drags floss through your nose. Even your mouth tastes like bad medicine.

“I was afraid of a hangover,” he observes. “Sorry. I meant to give you water, but you passed out way sooner than expected.” He presses a cup into your hands, and you chug. “Not so fast,” he warns. “Sometimes water just makes me puke more,” he says as you gulp away. Cool relief soothes your cracked throat—right up until your stomach heaves and you lurch to the side.

*Hurk*

“That’s the third time today,” your Father notes, watching you empty your guts. “Starting to think you actually caught something from the stream.” When you finish and sag against the stone, he hands you a second cup. “Slowly this time,” he instructs. You take his advice this time and slowly sip. As your eyes adjust, you clock your surroundings. You’re in the thin shadow of a stone wall. His armor gleams like a signal mirror, so you avoid looking straight at him… but notice he’s not carrying the big sword.

“Better?” he asks after a few sips.

“A bit,” you croak.

“Good. Status update time.” He sits beside you. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I remember… we went to the jail… you poured drinks… then you—” The ending hits, and your ears go hot. “You tried to make me kill him!” You accuse, glaring at your Father.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head as if confused.

“You demanded I kill Nerr. You cut off his arm and smashed his face into the table.”

“Son, I don’t know what liquor‑induced dream you had, but let me correct you,” he says, kneeling to your level. “Yes, I killed the goblin—but only after you passed out and it attacked you.”

“No. That was a lie,” you declare, lifting your hands. “Then why are my gloves still wet with blood?”

“First—that’s water, not blood,” he says, calmly. “Second, they’re wet because I washed you off after you passed out.”

“But you… I…” your thoughts tangle in the fog of your mind. The worst of the stupor had passed, but you still felt some lingering effects.

“Don’t spin out,” he says, patting your shoulder. “We’ve been through a lot since yesterday—your brain’s swimming in hormones and neurotransmitters. Adding a copious amount of alcohol may not have been the best idea. Sorry for the hangover and the weird dream.” You meet his warm, steady eyes, and begin doubting your own memories.

“Could I actually be misremembering?” you wonder. “Sure, he was ruthless with goblins last night, but fending off attackers isn’t the same as executing a chained prisoner.” You look down at your gloves, and they’re soaking wet. Though it’s clear they’ve been scrubbed, you notice one seems more orange than the other.

“Anyway,” your Father says, tapping the shield on his back. “After you conked out, I washed you, dragged you here, and checked in with our tracker.”

“Tracker?” you ask, allowing him to change the subject.

“Didn’t I tell you? While you were investigating the tavern, I went to the blacksmith. I sold the handaxes and got you a solid knife, among other things,” he says, holding out a sheathed blade.

“Thanks,” you say, sliding it onto your belt.

“It’s about noon,” he adds, standing. “Goal is to reach the camp before sunset and hit the nocturnal bastards while they’d normally be asleep.”

“How do you know they’re nocturnal?” you ask, pushing to your feet.

“Umm, hello? Creator of the world,” he says, pointing at himself. “Day‑active goblins are the exception. I’m betting they’re sleeping off victory drinks. Any questions?”

“How far is the camp?”

“No idea. If we get there before dusk, we can wait. I’d love a nap—but no time.” He leads you toward the edge of town where a lone figure waits, bow on his back. “All ready to head out?” he calls. The figure jolts. Up close, you peg him as a boy your age or a bit younger. He’s tanner and lankier than you.

“Yes,” he says when you reach him.

“This is my son,” your Father says. “Son, this is Gideon. He’ll guide us to the camp.”

“Nice to meet you,” Gideon says, removing his glove and extending a hand.

“Likewise,” you say, taking his hand. Though his grip is soft, he has total control as he shakes your arm.

“Did you scout the woods and pick up their trail?” your Father asks.

“Yes, they, um…” Gideon says, turning toward the trees. “They went that way,” he finishes, pointing at the forest beyond.

“Well then—lead on,” your Father says, hand outstretched towards the forest.

“Right,” Gideon calls, setting off into the grass. You fall in behind your Father as the forest swallows you. At first, even your untrained eyes can follow the stomped grass and torn brush. Deeper in, the signs vanish, but Gideon never hesitates, over hills, between trees, even across a stream. As you go, your Father chops marks into trunks like yesterday, but with less frequency. After an hour, you rest in a shady fold of the valley. “If you d-don’t mind me asking, sir,” Gideon says, breaking the silence that’d held since you left the village. “Why are you marking trees?”

“Insurance,” your Father answers, carving another notch in the tree. “If anything happens to you, we can follow the marks back to the village.”

“Oh. Uh… I g-guess that makes sense,” Gideon says, nervously.

“We’d carry you back, of course,” your Father assures. “Make sure you’re cared for.” That calms him a touch, but you still feel him retreat into himself. “Tell us about yourself,” your Father says, taking a seat under the canopy. “How do you know the woods so well?”

“My Father was a hunter,” Gideon says, digging into the leaves with the toes of his boots. “He took me out and taught me to track.” He scratches the dirt with his heel, silence weighing heavily on him. “He wasn’t killed in the raid, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Gideon adds, taking note of the pause. “He… Wasn’t here.”

“Where is he?”

“I uhh… d-don’t know,” Gideon says, as if struggling to remember. “He left one day. Said he’d be back, so I stayed.”

“How long ago?”

“Seven, maybe eight years,” he said with a forced grin. “Being self‑reliant made me a better hunter, tho. I can shoot a squirrel through the eye from a hillside away.”

“Can you now?” your Father says, a grin forming on his face. “Could you show my boy a few things. He’s got a bow, but I’m not sure how well he uses it.”

“I know how to use a bow,” you protest, thinking back to summer camps you'd attended.

“So do I. It’s about how well,” your Father corrects, dusting off as he stands. “I’ll carve a target on that hillside. You two shoot from the other. Then I’ll fetch the arrows.”

He splits off, and in no time, he’s cut a crude bullseye into a trunk. He ducks behind a tree and waves you on. Gideon demonstrates the form by drawing to the corner of his mouth and then loosing. His arrow thuds just above center. You copy his movements and miss the tree entirely. Your arrow is flying off, vanishing into the woods.

Gideon coaches you for a while. By the time your Father returns with the arrows, you’re hitting the trunk almost every shot.

“One more round, then we move,” your Father says, handing arrows back.

He takes his place behind cover, allowing you and Gideon to trade shots, falling into a rhythm.

“Thump*

*Thump*

*Thump.”

“It almost sounds like marching,” you think, nocking another arrow. You hold longer, hoping to finally get a bullseye.

*SNAP*

Something cracks far to your right. You flinch; your arrow sails past the target and into the trees. You turn and freeze when you catch sight of it. A half‑dozen goblins marching down the valley: green skin mottled like leaves. The one in front holds a bow and has a dented helm. The rest are in ragged loincloths, all armed with spears, swords, or clubs.

Gideon yanks you behind a trunk and presses a finger to his lips. Across the dip, your Father peers out, then he becomes a mime. He begins firing off gestures so fast you aren't sure when one ends and a new one begins. You look, but can only make a few out: a rolling bowl, a bowstring draw, hands to his head like a crown, then a brief shing of steel as he cracks his sword an inch free and slides it back.

You glance at Gideon for a translation, but he just flashes a thumbs‑up and rolls to the next tree. He knocks an arrow but doesn't draw his bow. You swallow and mirror him. Your hands are shaking as you pull an arrow from your nearly empty quiver. The goblins tramp closer, their footsteps almost drowned out by your thumping heartbeat. Your knees burn from crouching when you see it. Your Father sends a rock rolling down the hill, throwing it like a bowling ball once the goblins are between you. The stone rolls first, rustling leaves and snapping twigs as it tumbles. The goblin heads turn to look at the rock, and Gideon rises from his croutch. He pulls his hand to his cheek and lets his arrow fly.

Gideon rises and draws to the cheek, loosing at the helmeted one.

*TING*

The arrow scrapes the bottom of the helmet, lodging deep into the goblin’s neck as it falls to the ground.

You follow suit. Yanking and firing, but not fast enough. The goblins are already staring straight at you, mouths opening in a howl‑hiss as your arrow spears the dirt in front of them. They charge, weapons raised high as a battle cry echoes through the forest, but not their own.

“AAAAUUUGGHHH!”

At the top of the opposite ridge, your Father screams like a madman. He hurtles downhill, sword high, and legs windmilling. Unable to slow, he slams his shield into a goblin, sending it flying as his sword slashes another, nearly severing its chest and torso. Two break off and sprint up your hill. You draw, flinch at your Father’s second war‑cry, and miss again. Gideon’s next arrow finds a shoulder; the creature staggers but keeps coming. You fumble your second‑to‑last arrow, nock, draw, and release.

*Thunk*

The arrow flies true, sinking right into your target’s shield. You snatch for your last shaft, but it’s too late. The goblin barrels into you shield‑first and knocks you flat on your ass. It raises its rusty scimitar and brings it down. You roll; the blade cuts through leaves where your head was a second ago. Without time to dodge again, you rip your rapier free.

“Clang clang clang.”

Its longer reach lets you knock the scimitar aside. The goblin’s blows grow wilder with every parry. It throws its shield away and lunges, pinning your sword arm with its free hand. You hold onto your blade, knuckles white, as it digs into you.

“AHH!” you cry as teeth clamp your hand. Fangs pierce meat; bone creaks in the vise like jaws. You pound its head with your off‑hand, to no avail.

“Weapon—need a weapon!”

You grope and feel a rock, but the goblin yanks your arm like a crocodile’s death‑roll, pulling away your grip. Your hip slams the dirt, and a hard shape jams your belt.

“The knife!”

You claw across your waist with your left, catch the hilt, and yank. The retaining strap tears loose as you pull the knife from its sheath.

Your grip is awkward, but sharp beats perfect. You swing, connecting with the goblin’s neck—at the wrong orientation. Pommel presses into the goblin’s neck, only serving to anger it more. You adjust, twisting your wrist, and aiming for the jugular—

*thunk*

A shaft sprouts from the back of its head, and the goblin goes slack. You shove it off and stagger up, staring at the red mess that used to be your right hand. Red drips from your hand and trickles downhill, mixing with the orange spilling from the goblin, creating a vivid smear against green and brown leaves.

As Gideon scans the trees for more, your Father stands over four fallen goblins in the valley, armor splashed in fresh orange.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT UP THERE?” he calls, once sure all the goblins are dead.

“I’M FINE!” Gideon answers, seeing the clear hills. “Looks like one got your son.”

“Let me see,” your Father calls, beckoning you down. You trot down, presenting the bloody mess that was your hand.

“Why’d you let him bite you?” he jokes, cupping both hands over yours. “Lord, cleanse and heal,” he prays. Soft yellow light blooms, and heat washes pain away. Once the light fades, your hand is as good as new.

You spend a few minutes getting your gear squared away. You and Gideon yank arrows from the target tree while your Father searches the bodies for anything useful. Once you return, he hands Gideon the goblin arrows. Gideon’s face tilts, and his eyes squint in confusion. “You might as well use sharpened sticks,” he says, dismissing the idea. “They’d fly better and last longer to boot.”

“They’re that bad?” you ask, looking down at the goblin quiver with a half dozen arrows.

“I wouldn’t use them,” Gideon says, drawing an arrow from the goblin quiver. He tries balancing it on his finger, to no avail. “They’re unbalanced and thick, so your shots will fly false and put extra wear on your string.” He brings the arrowhead close to his face and sniffs, pulling the arrow away immediately and wriggling his nose. “Plus, these are poisoned, making any game you hunt inedible.”

“Poisoned?” your Father asks, drawing another arrow from the quiver. He looks at it and sniffs as well. His face doesn’t contort; he simply hands the arrow to you. Before you take hold of it, your eyes water at the bitter scent. You dare not bring the arrow any closer to your face, as you look at the simple, brutish craftsmanship. “What do you think?” your Father asks, looking at you. You consider for a moment.

“Gidon says the arrows were no good because they’re unbalanced, which will make you less accurate, but it’s not like you’ll have that many long shots in a cave. And if they’re poisoned, then you may not even need a deadly shot; just a scratch would be enough.”

“I’ll take them,” you say, looking up to your Father.

“Good man,” he says, tossing you the quiver he’s already picked up from the goblin’s corpses.

“Alright—AAR time,” he calls as you tighten the quiver onto your belt away from your regular arrows. “If Gideon is right about the arrows ruining hunted game, then I should avoid mixing the two.”

“What’s that?” Gideon asks, tilting his head. Your Father lifts a finger, opens his mouth… and deflates.

“I don’t actually remember,” he admits, tucking his lips into his cheek. “The army has a million acronyms. But the idea is to go over what was supposed to happen, what actually happened, and what we need to improve or sustain.”

“How do we assess ‘supposed to happen’?” you ask. “We didn’t plan for this encounter.”

“Excellent point,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “We had no plan for meeting the enemy en route. That’s on me. I assumed they’d be nocturnal and asleep, so I discounted fighting in the woods.” He claps. “That said, this improvised ambush couldn’t have gone better. I worried you wouldn’t read my signals, but you did. Excellent first shot,” he tells Gideon. “That helmeted one was probably a leader. Cut off the head before they know you’re there—always good. Stone to distract, then charge—no casualties.”

“What about my hand?” you say, lifting your freshly healed hand.

“You can still draw and swing, right?”

“I guess.”

“Then you’re not a casualty,” he declares. “You got a boo‑boo and it’s all fixed now.” You tuck your hand back, embarrassed. “And a little advice for if you're ever pinned like that,” he adds. “Don’t bother with bare‑hand punches; use your knife.” He looks down and picks up a severed goblin head by the patchy hair, blood trickling from the neck as he lifts it. ”Failing that, jam a knuckle into the eye. Like this.” He curls a single knuckle and presses into the eye socket. He forces his way in until his finger is completely hidden in the socket. Then, with a rapid twist, he pulls his finger out.

*Pop*

Blood and other fluids trickle out as the eye bursts like a grape. You gag at the sight, hunching over, only to realize your stomach is still completely empty. Your Father looks at the decapitated head, and then you.

“Or something like that to make them regret picking you,” he finishes, tossing the head aside like an apple core.

“He’s so casual with a corpse,” you think, more disgusted than anything else. Once you’ve recovered, you notice Gideon puckering a knuckle and mimicking your Father’s movements, sending a shiver down your spine.

“And with that, I have good news and bad news,” Your Father says, wiping the remaining goblin blood off his gauntlets.

“There’s g-good news?” Gideon asks, tilting his head again.

“Very good news,” he says, then turns to you. “Do you remember how many Nerr said were in the tribe?” You start to answer, but decide to let him ramble unimpeded for once, hoping he might reveal more details about the interrogation. “He said around twenty, and if we count the confirmed dead,” he says, holding up a hand to count fingers. “Three at the cottage last night. Five bodies in the village. That’s eight. Nerr makes nine. Plus the six here, fifteen in total,” he counts the dead like raffle tickets at a fair, his smile growing with each addition. “Even if their true number is closer to twenty-five or thirty, we’ve cut their numbers by at least half. I'd say that bodes well for us.” His grin is bright; you can’t quite share it.

“What’s the bad news?” you ask.

“Always with the negative,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Bad news is I’m probably wrong about them being nocturnal. This smelled like a routine patrol, trap maintenance, and territory scouting. That’s usually during their active period. So… likely not nocturnal.”

“So d-do we wait till nightfall?” Gideon asks.

“I’d call that unwise for two reasons,” your Father says, holding up yet more fingers. “One: darkness favors them, even with your night vision, and especially if we have to run. Two: if this were a scheduled patrol, the camp would expect them back. Since we don’t know the schedule, every minute we dawdle is a minute for them to hide or fortify. Both are bad, so we should hurry and hit the camp. Any questions?” He turns from you to Gideon, and then hustles you both back into formation. Gideon finds their trail, and another hour brings you to a rocky outcrop.

“Trail ends here,” Gideon says, looking up at the cliff. The setting sun casts the bottom half of the cliff face in shadow. High above you lies a cave mouth with stalagmites pointing like fangs. Just inside, you notice a faint hint of red, a banner flapping in the wind.

“Looks like we found them,” your Father says, throwing down his pack. “Now we just need to get up there.” He cocks his lips into his cheek and strokes his beard, scanning the cliff face. The face is clear of any obvious ropes or ladders. Only a few veins give any hope of scaling the otherwise sheer cliff. Your Father reaches to tug on them, shaking the leaves and pulling a few vines down. It’s immediately apparent that the vines would snap under his weight. “I don't suppose there’s another entrance we could find?” your Father asks, looking to Gideon. “Or we could climb up another way and rappel down to the opening up there?”

“I suppose we could,” Gideon says, looking around the sides. “But there’s no telling how long it’d take to find, and even if we d-did, it’d certainly be d-dark by then, so if they sprang a surprise attack in the night…” His words trail off as he grips his bow tighter.

“That is a pickle,” your Father says, lips still tucked in his cheeks. He gives the vines another tug, harder than last time, and they come crashing down, debris falling like snow and sending him into a sneezing fit. As your Father shakes the cliff with his sneezes, you also take a look at the vines. Half now lay in a heap on the ground, allowing you to see a bit more behind them. It's faint, but you notice something shining. You pull away the vines, noticing that they aren't connected to the cliff face. You plunge deeper and deeper, the darkness never fully encompassing you, until the vines disappear entirely. You look out, and see only stone walls around you. You look back, seeing the thick vines acting as a curtain, blocking most of the sunlight, but at your feet, you see a footprint marked with dirt on the stone floor. The same kind that littered the tavern kitchen.

“Son, where did you go?” your Father calls. His face goes stark white when you step out from the vines, as if he’s seen a ghost. Then melts into a joyous smile.” Well done!” he cheers, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you into a bear hug. “Behind the vines, it’s the oldest play in the book. Why didn't I think of that?” he whispers to himself.

You fall back into the trees, drop your packs, and make a small staging point. Your Father pulls a torch and presses it into your hand. “We’re splitting,” he says. “You and I will go in. Gideon, you stay out here. You’ve already done us a great service; no chance we’d have gotten this close without you. I’m placing you here to cover the exit. The walking codeword is ‘fireguard’ and the running codeword is ‘spendex’, got it?”

“Codeword?” Gideon asks, tilting his head.

“It’s a way for you to know if it's us or a goblin coming out,” he explains. “If we’re coming out, we’ll call ‘fireguard’ to let you know it 's us, and if we’re being chased, we’ll call ‘spendex’ to let you know to prepare an arrow for whatever follows us.”

“Oh, I see,” Gideon says, nodding.

“If anything comes out and doesn’t call one of the codewords, or looks remotely goblin‑like, tries to slip past, shoot on sight. No warning shots, just death. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Shoot them d-dead on sight,” Gideon echoes, gripping his bow tighter.

“Good lad,” he says, patting Gideon’s shoulder. He turns to you. “We’re the assault team. I’m the point man; you're behind me with the torch. I need your eyes and ears—I won’t see well.”

“Then why don’t you carry the torch?” you ask, handing it back to him.

“Night vision,” he says, tapping his eyes. “My eyes can adjust a little. If you carry the light behind me, it won’t blow my vision, and I can keep both hands for sword and shield.”

“But I can’t use a bow one‑handed.”

“You won’t be shooting if we’re ambushed. Caves are too tight for bows; keep your sword ready. Besides, the last thing I need is a stray arrow in my back because you panic‑pop without looking.” He mutters under his breath, “lost more than a few characters that way…”

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he says dismissively, drawing his shortsword and tightening his shield. “Hold the torch, stay behind me, and call out at the first sign of goblins.” You nod, and he steps towards the vines. “Let’s go.”