My Big Goblin Space Program - Chapter 25 - Javeline Hot Potato
Chapter 25 – Javeline Hot Potato
“We take it,” Rotte growled. “Kill later.”
Mitri reached down and scooped me up, throwing me over his shoulder. I winced. The pain of the Javeline spears was still fresh. But the bastards trussed me up like, well, like a prize pig, and cantered back into the woods.
We didn’t go far. They must have seen the glider from the ground, just as the night haunt had, and come to investigate. I started to smell sulfur and feel humidity dampen my fur, and realized we were heading toward the hot springs that I’d flown over. We broke into a small clearing with several steaming pools and a campsite nearby. Their camp was small and disorganized, with three small hide tents and some supplies. They’d left a fourth, smaller rutter to guard it and cook dinner, by the looks of things. It had a metal cook pot hanging on a hollow iron pole. The tender looked at me curiously.
Mitri tossed me down onto the ground, knocking the wind out of me.
“Tie up.”
The smaller boar-man went to the packs and retrieved a length of chain—real metal chain. Not the rough cordage we were working with. God, the things I could do with a metal chain. They looped my wrists with the chain and then strung the whole thing around a branch, hoisting it to where I could barely sit.
“My tribe will come for me,” I said.
Mitri looked up at the last of the fading light and made a rude noise. “Is night. No goblin come.”
He was right. Goblins are chaos personified until about an hour after eating. When they crash, they crash hard. The javelines disregarded me for the time being, busying themselves instead with scooping whatever stew they’d brewed out of the cook pot into wooden bowls, which they slurped from, slopping half of it down their bristly flavor-savers. That finished, Rotte trotted past me into the woods, and a few minutes later, a stench wafted out that made even my raw-meat-eating goblin throat clench up and gag.
Rotte came back into the camp, trailing the stink along with him. He huffed a laugh. “Was bad one,” he said, and then went to the cook pot for seconds. Disgusting creature. Once the hunting trio had eaten their fill, they sat back on their haunches and began to joke and laugh while the camp tender ate what little burnt scraps clung to the bottom of their pot.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
After a few hours, the third javeline, the one that had scared off the night haunt got bored or restless and wandered over to me. He prodded my sloth-claw blade with his hoof. “Is truth you talk?”
I debated staying silent. But I had a feeling it would just lead to me getting the business end of a spear, again. “Yeah,” I said. “I talk.” I looked up. “My name is Apollo. What’s your name?”
“Muthus,” said the javeline rutter.
“Why are you keeping me prisoner?”
The javeline shrugged. “Is strange, goblin that talk. Don’t die. Maybe is worth sell.”
“We don’t have to be enemies,” I said. “If you take me back to my tribe, we could trade. You have metal. I’m sure we have things you could use.”
Muthus shook his head. “We trade goblin for metal. For spear. For pathfinding needle.” he stuck out his tongue and pulled his ears. At first, I thought he was just being rude. Then I remembered what Rotte had said at the crash site. Kill. Take tongue.
I shivered. “Why would anyone want goblin ears and tongues?” I asked.
Muthus rubbed his belly. “Tongue is good to human for cure poison.” He flattened his hands and raised them up. “Ears to elves for make potent.”
“Make… make potent?” I asked. Then I realized. “Oh… oh… Oh, no.”
Muthus squatted down on his haunches. “But goblin that talk like man? Goblin don’t die? Worth ears of twenty goblin. Maybe ten and twenty.”
“Is this what you do?” I asked. “Hunt goblins for a living?”
Muthus shrugged, getting back to his feet. “Hunt what need hunt. Goblin good. Goblin vermin. No one miss.”
No one miss. Again, I was reminded just how alone goblins were in this world. How dismissed and discarded they were. Elves were huffing our powdered ears before sexy-times to raise their pavilions. Javelleros rounded us up for sport and profit. Lanclova was a harsh land, untamed and coveted by jealous eyes. If I was to have any hope of achieving my goal, or even living long enough to have a chance at it, I had to secure Tribe Apollo’s place in the shadowed lands.
The javelines retired to their crude tents. I pulled at the chain, but the branch held firm and the chain just rattled loudly in the night.
“QUIET!” Rotte shouted from his tent.
I settled back, thinking. The tribe would be fine. For now. In the morning they might come look for me. Javelines were strong, and if I interpreted the situation correctly, they could gain levels through this world’s System—unlike goblins, who were perpetually destined to be the weakest creatures. We were the joke, the speed bump for adventurers on their way to the real challenge. Well, there were 70 of us, and only 4 javelines. We may not have levels, but we’re legion.
The only problem was, how do I get them to come find me? Where would they even start looking? If the javelines broke camp and moved out early enough in the morning, they’d simply out-pace any goblins on foot, even with the benefit of flex-a-pult assisted launches and wranglers. No. I had to do something.
