The one nearest to Thistle, tall for a goblin and wearing a red buckler on his arm, spoke up.
“He wants you to take off the armor,” Gabrielle translated, looking at Eric as she was escorted over to their cage-cart. None but the paladin corpse had armor that would fit them, and Eric had examined it only to determine it would be more effort than it was worth to try and get accustomed to it. Instead, he’d elected to keep his guard armor on, since that, at least, he was accustomed to dealing with. When they’d been captured, part of him had hoped they’d leave it be, but now, he realized it was merely a matter of waiting for a more convenient time to take it from him.
Red Buckler clicked again.
“He says they will cut it off you, but they’d prefer if you did this voluntarily, since it will damage the armor less.”
“Sure, why not,” Eric sighed, pulling himself to his feet. “Honestly, I don’t even like wearing the stuff. It’s heavy, it’s loud, and I’m always tripping over myself wearing it.” He began carefully removing each piece, a process that grew quicker as the amount of armor he wore lessened. “Still, I don’t think I’m much a paladin without any armor.”
“Right now, the only identity aspect any of us should concern ourselves with is staying alive,” Thistle reminded him.
Eric continued to strip off the metal adornments until they all lay in a pile at his feet. Red Buckler stayed by the door, while the other goblins formed a quick conveyor line to move the armor out of the cage. Once that was done, Gabrielle was sent into the cage with Thistle and Eric. Before the door was closed, a burlap sack was brought in and set before them. Red Buckler made a few goblin sounds and left.
“He thanked us for being cooperative,” Gabrielle said.
Thistle opened the sack to reveal a generous amount of bread, cheese, meat slices, and even a bottle of wine.
“I’ve been held by worse hosts, I’ll give them that,” Thistle said, helping himself to a slice of bread.
In the transport of the party after the scramble, their equipment had been strapped to the backs of various goblins, since they obviously weren’t going to allow prisoners to have weapons. The only item of difficulty had been the spellbook. Goblins understood the value of magic, especially when bargaining, however, they also knew that magical items were unstable, and the less time spent around them, the safer. Spellbooks especially were frequently booby-trapped by wizards to discourage their theft. The result of this knowledge was a healthy disinterest in being the goblin stuck holding onto any items dealing with magic. After five minutes of bickering about who would have to hold the book, they’d ultimately reached the compromise of throwing it in the cage with the half-orc. If it was trapped, it would only hurt him, and the worst thing he would be able to do by reading it was set himself on fire, or turn his feet into pudding.
At first, Grumph had ignored the book, focusing instead on taking in his surroundings and examining his cage for weak points. Once they arrived, and he was stuck away from the rest of his party, boredom teamed up with curiosity to prompt him into flipping through its pages. The vast majority of them were blank; only about five had actually been filled out. The wizard it belonged to truly had been just starting out. Each spell was interesting, a combination of mental images, physical gestures, and specific words; all required to invoke the magic contained within. For most, they would have been very difficult to memorize, especially under pressure. For a veteran bartender who memorized all his mead recipes so they couldn’t be stolen, it was relatively easy. Strangely, in all of the specific instructions for how to cast each spell, there was never any mention of what the effects would be. Grumph quickly realized this was likely by design, so that, even if the book was stolen, anyone with a smattering of sense would be too smart to cast a spell they couldn’t predict.
The flaw in this strategy was that it failed to take into account a person who was aware they could soon find themselves in a life or death situation. Grumph turned back to the first page and began reading again. He didn’t know if barbarians were supposed to cast spells, but he didn’t really care. If a spell-casting barbarian was an oddity, then he would simply be the first.
Grumph had never been one to wait for others to clear the trail in advance.
5.
As night fell in earnest, more goblins began gathering in the central area of the camp. Tables were set up, food brought out, and charming melodies filled the air as the musicians started to play. Though the sound wasn’t traditional or familiar to anyone but Gabrielle, each of the party members found themselves enjoying it. Warm, peppy, and with an exciting tempo, the music helped make them feel at least somewhat at ease with their situation.
“Do they always party like this?” Eric asked.
Gabrielle shook her head. “This is the celebration they throw the night before trying to bait adventurers. It’s partly an offering to Grebspluk, one of the goblin deities of the hunt, but mostly, it’s a last meal with the warriors and their families. Some of them probably won’t live to see another hunt.”
“I’ve often wondered about that, actually,” Thistle piped up. “Why bother luring out adventurers at all? Surely there are safer ways to live.”
“I asked that once,” Gabrielle said. “They know adventurers would come after them anyway — though they aren’t sure why — but this way, they control the circumstances and give themselves the best chance of survival. Evidently, almost no adventurers go goblin hunting when there’s a kidnapping to pursue. Plus, they get about thirty percent of their income from looting dead adventurers.”
Thistle let out a low whistle that sounded dry despite the ample water available to them. “A not-unhefty sum.”
“I’m still stuck on the fact that they have a deity named Grebspluk,” Eric admitted.
“It’s a rough translation. Gobleck names sound like the rest of the language. Part of why I haven’t tried to introduce any of you.”
“Still seems silly,” Eric replied.
“Don’t be too quick to judge another’s deity,” Thistle cautioned. “I, myself, am a devout follower of a god with an unimpressive name. Yet Grumble is a kind and devoted god to his followers.”
“I’ve never heard of a god named Grumble,” Gabrielle said.
“Nor would I have expected you to. His shrines are modest, and off to the side in any temple, but they are abundant if you know how to find them. Grumble is the god of henchmen and minions. Once a former lackey himself, after his deification he chose to look over his own people rather than putting on airs.”
“I can see how that guy might get some followers,” Eric said. He knew the minions were the lowest on the hierarchy of any organization, regarded as disposable and useless by most commanders. At that thought, he took a long stretch, enjoying the sensation of his muscles’ movements now that he was unrestrained by the armor. In truth, he hadn’t been much more than a minion himself. Maybe he should drop a prayer to this deity next time he was in a temple.
Around them, the festivities had begun to escalate. As plates were cleaned of food, more goblins transitioned from eating to dancing. There was no established pattern that any of the adventurers could make out, no coordinated effort to create a temporary moment of sublime beauty. Mostly, it was just each goblin going out near the fire, finding a spot clear of others, and thrashing about in whatever way delighted them most. There was no grace or delicacy in their movements, yet it was strangely entrancing all the same. Perhaps it was the way they felt so free to dance in any style that pleased them, with no apprehension, or fear of being judged by the others of their tribe.
The musicians picked up the tempo. This, it seemed, was an unspoken signal, as many more goblins rose from their seats and began to dance. Soon, there wasn’t room enough for everyone to move without contacting another, but this didn’t dissuade them. Small claws scraped against a neighbor’s skin, feet were stomped on repeatedly, and occasionally a pair would end up tangled together, crashing to the ground in a still-writhing heap. None of this seemed to diminish the goblins’ enjoyment in the slightest.