Chapter 24 Urgent Discussion

The next few days were a tight, silent strain. Fort became one with the trees. He stopped coming back to the stump to sleep, only appearing at dawn or dusk to whisper reports that grew steadily worse.

"Found more tracks. Small feet, close together. Goblin feet but not our kind. They walk like they own the ground. Also found a snail shell pile. Crushed different. Not our way. Evil goblin way."

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Two days later, his eyes were wilder.

 "Found human tracks today. Big boots. Overlapping the goblin tracks. They are following each other. Or hunting the same thing."

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On the fifth day, he did not appear at dusk. He came in the deep black of midnight, his body trembling from a close-lived terror. He stumbled into the stump, making us all jump.

"I saw them... Humans. Four. Metal shirts. Long knives. They passed... maybe ten long throws from the cattail stand. I was up a tree. I was hidden. They did not see me, did not follow. I left no track leading here."

He sank down, hugging himself. 

"I heard them talking. One said, '...nest has to be nearby. Stinking goblins can't have vanished.' Another said, 'Check the tree line where the forest meets the swamp. They love filth. Probably holed up in some cave.' They were pointing... pointing near our way."

He looked up, his face pale.

 "They are not just looking for evil goblins. They are looking for any goblin hole. Any nest. They mean to clear the whole edge. They suspect we are here. It is not maybe. It is days. A wrong turn by them. One of our paths found. One loud sound from us. They find the stump. Or the bad goblins find us first. Friends, we are not safe here anymore."

The last fragile hope just been shredded. The hunters were at the edge of our field, and they were sweeping the grass.

Grub spoke first, "We have to go. We cannot wait any longer. We grab what we can carry and run. Before it's too late... But where? Where is safe for us?"

"The river," Muddy quietly said, "The slow water that runs past us. It goes up. Into the swamp heart. Towards the forest, but... not all the way to the forest. Just... the wet place between. I lived in swamp before. Long time. The river goes up to places where the mud is so soft even trees cannot stand. Big flat water with tall grass. Hard for humans to walk. Hard for monsters to hunt. Maybe... maybe we find hole along the way. Old log. Mud bank with deep scoop. Something."

Fort slowly nodded.

 "If no safe spot... we go back here? No. Here will be found. But... we hide in trees. I stayed in tree top. It is good. Quiet. You can see far. Sleep well, if you tie yourself to branch. Maybe... maybe not. But if we find nothing... we think new."

 "We need to move," I said, "We need to try. If we wait, even one more day, it could be too late. Humans could walk right to our door. Bad goblins could smell us. We could wake up with spears poking in, just like the cave. I don't want that happen again. Not again."

The words hit hard. No one wanted to be trapped again. No one wanted to hear those laughing voices, feel those boots.

Minutes of scattered, urgent discussion followed. Grub, Snag, Grill, Trog. Each added their fear and their small wisdom. In the end, the decision was simple: go now, while dark still hides us.

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We moved with a quiet, desperate speed. The good pot was packed with dried fish and roots. The rusted tools went into a bag. Moss and cloth for Bog to lie on. A waterskin. The sharpest sticks we had, more for balance than fighting.

Trog rigged his harness again, settling Bog onto his back. The young goblin made a soft, questioning sound. 

"Dnhhada? Hungh?"

"Shhh," Trog whispered, patting his hand. "We go on adventure. Quiet adventure. I need you to be as quiet as a bug."

When we were packed, we stood at the entrance, looking back at the stump that had been our shelter, our nursery, our home. The clay roof. The warm walls. The two small graves outside, with pretty stone.

No one spoke. There was no time for goodbyes. Grill pulled the moss aside, and we slipped out into the wet, black night.

We moved in single file, Fort in front, his night-eyes picking the path. Then Muddy, guiding by the memory of water. Then the others, with Trog and Bog in the back. I took the rear, ears straining for any sound of pursuit.

The great stump vanished behind us, swallowed by dark. 

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We walked through the soft, stinking mud for a few hours. Fear was a constant knot in our guts. Every shadow was a monster. Every rustle was a human. 

Then the tall grass ahead of us moved.

Not wind. Something else.

Two figures rose from the grass like nightmares given shape. Evil goblins. They had been taking a piss, hidden in the grass, and we had walked right onto them.

One of them spotted us.

"OI! What is this?! What are these stinking slaves doing here!?"

The other one, already fumbling with his loincloth, let out a barking shout. 

"Hey! Stinking slaves?! Where did you come from?! What breeding farm did you run away from?! What is that stuff you carry?! Come here and talk! NOW!"

We didn't think. We didn't plan. A sound came out of us, one shared shriek of pure animal terror.

"WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Everything we carried hit the mud. Pots, tools, bags. All abandoned. We scattered like bugs from a kicked log, bursting in every direction. It wasn't bravery. It was instinct. Two of them, many of us, they couldn't catch us all.

But Trog.

He was slow. Bog on his back was heavy, awkward. He tried to run, his legs pumping, but the mud sucked at his feet. He made it three staggering steps before his foot caught a hidden root. He pitched forward, face-first, and smashed into a half-buried rock.

He went limp. Face down in the black mud. Not moving.

Bog, tied to his back, flailed uselessly. His dead legs dangled. His arms beat against Trog's unconscious body. From his throat came a terrible sound. The broken, gurgling screams of a mind that could not understand what was happening but knew it was bad.

  "Gaaa... kkh... UHHH... DAHDA... DAHDA... UNHHHH!"

The evil goblins walked over, slow and casual. One of them grabbed Trog by the back of the neck and lifted him one-handed out of the mud like a sack of shit. Bog dangled behind, still tied on, still screaming his broken screams.

The other evil goblin grinned. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Trog's face.

SMACK.

Trog's head whipped to the side. No response. Out cold.

SMACK. Another. SMACK. Another. The evil goblin hit him ten times, fifteen, each blow snapping Trog's head back and forth like a rag doll. Blood sprayed from his nose, his split lip, his open mouth.

"BRAAAA!" the evil goblin shouted, shaking his stinging hand. "This shitty slave is USELESS! Won't even wake up to scream! What a boring sack of stinking dog shit!"

He dropped Trog. The body hit the mud with a wet thud. Bog, still tied on, landed on top of him, still flailing, still making his horrible, wordless sounds.

The first evil goblin spat on them both. "How about we drag them back to camp. Maybe boss wants fresh meat. Or fresh slaves. Whatever."

"Nah! We need to get information out of this shit sack. How about we tie him to the tree and ask."

From my hiding spot in the reeds, I watched them grab Trog by one ankle and start dragging him through the mud, Bog bouncing along behind, still tied to his Dada, still screaming his broken screams. 

"Shut the fuck up, trash!"

One of the evil goblins kicked Bog so hard that the vines snaped and sent him flying. 

 They tied Bog to a thick, twisted tree near the water's edge.

Trog was still out cold, his face a swollen, bloody mess, tied sitting against the trunk. Bog was tied standing beside him, his useless legs folded under him, held up only by the ropes around his chest.

Evil goblins wandered over to Bog. One of them squatted down, peering at the younger goblin's face. Bog stared back with his clouded eyes, making his soft, wet sounds.

"This one," the evil goblin said, poking Bog's cheek.

 "He just does noises. No real talking. You think he's bad in head, or just pretending?"

The other evil goblin shrugged.

 "Maybe. Or maybe he's smart. Plays dumb so we don't ask questions. Only one way to find out."

He drew back his hand and slapped Bog across the face. 

Bog's head snapped to the side. A choked gasp escaped him. His eyes, already blank, went wider with a confusion that could not understand why the world kept hurting.

"Hey! Retard! Where your slave buddies at? How many of you? Where you hiding?"

Bog just wheezed, a thin line of blood trailing from his split lip.

SLAP. Another one, harder. Bog's whole body shuddered against the ropes.

"Answer, you stupid shit!"

SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. Each blow made Bog's head rock, made his broken sounds come faster, higher, more desperate. His dead legs twitched uselessly. His bound arms pulled against the ropes.

From the dark tree line, hidden in the thick leaves, Fort watched. His claws dug into the bark hard enough to draw blood from his own palms. Beside him, crouched on a low branch, Grill's face was a mask of barely contained sorrow. Below, hidden in the reeds, Snag, Muddy, and I waited for opportunity to save them.