As they jostled around in the rickety wagon down the dirt road, Qolmador, Nomad, and Sangna sat on rough, uncomfortable wood.

  A robust earthen aroma of the forest filled the confined space of the wagon, mixing with the musty smell from the three men. Pale green light from the moon offered little through the thick canvas covering the wagon.

  Around the wobbly wagon, nocturnal predators cawed and cried into the night while packs of worgs howled in the distance, chasing down prey. Even under the canvas, the threats of the forest seemed too close.

  Qolmador huddled at the back of the wagon, tasting the dust in the forest air. He held a stack of parchment with charcoal smeared along its surface, illuminated by a light on his finger. Skimming through the pages of hastily rubbed text, the coffins told a story of five goodly warriors. They gave their lives to kill the first demon lord in his home plane of existence, thus ensuring he could never return.

  Each one worshiped a god of Light and claimed to be the champion five of the Light gods several thousand years ago: Caden, Galatea, Celeste, Sylas, and Cypher. At the final battle, they did something to kill the First Demon Lord. However, the engravings had eroded, leaving only vague hints at what had occurred.

  With a scoff, he brought the parchment to his nose, blowing at the charcoal dust covering his fingertips. It made the parchment feel chalky and rough, which he turned his snout up at. A hard bump caused him to lose his place in the parchment, and he let out a slow deep breath.

  “Zee roads need to be paved,” Qolmador complained.

  “Or you need to go to sleep,” Nomad grunted, pulling his long ratty coat over his head.

  “Aye, turn yer damned finger off,” Sangna grumbled, pulling a ratty blanket over his head away from Qolmador.

  “Some gratitude for saving your life,” Qolmador mumbled, rolling his eyes. He snuffed out his light by blowing on his finger.

  “Aye, kobold, ye save my life, but ye caused Bythorin’s death.” He spat, sitting up on the rough wooden bench. His thick armor scraped against the rough wood, leaving behind shavings as he moved.

  “Who?” Qolmador asked, looking out the back of the window.

  He had studied all he could for the time being and could use a few hours of rest. However, several thoughts nagged at him.

  How had the goblins come to possess this cave? Do they know the heroes buried there? Why did they put their shanty town within a few miles of such a place if they did know?

  Qolmador looked outside of the wagon, rapping his finger to his snout, he dwelled on the coffins. There had been more to that cave than he had— A rough jerking pull wrenched him from his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the muscular dwarf slide over to him, grabbing him by the hem of his robes. The dwarf breathed out of his scarred bulbous nose, inches from Qolmador’s snout.

  “Ye little shite,” Sangna growled, his nostrils flaring. “The elf was my friend, and ye didn’t even know his name?”

  “Why should I care?” Qolmador asked, his face calm if not amused. “If anything, you and your god failed him, cleric. It’s not up to me to bring back zee dead.” Qolmador sneered and lifted one eyebrow in Sangna’s face.

  “I’m gonna snap his neck.” Sangna thought as Qolmador skimmed his mind.

  Qolmador’s looked down his snout at the dwarf gripping his robes, curling his lip into a sneer unfazed by the violent thought. His eyebrow raised slightly while he tilted his head to one side, and he heard another thought slip into his mind.

  “Qol, keep tilting yer head; give me a clean shot.” Nomad thought into Qolmador’s mind; a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Don’t ye talk about my god.” His anger bubbled over.

  Sangna’s bloodshot eyes bulged out of his head, causing a vein to pop and throb on his forehead; he tightened his grip on the kobold’s robe. Tightening the knuckles on his other hand, he pulled the kobold to within a hairsbreadth of his face, forcing them to eye to eye. The supple military-issue robes in his calloused hands somehow made him hate the kobold even more; everything about this blue lizard was soft. The smirk on his scaly face turned his vision red; he reared back his fist to smash his face. But he hesitated, seeing the kobold’s pupils shattered into spinning mandalas locked directly onto Sangna’s eyes.

  “Nein,” Qolmador said. “Don’t move.”

  Sangna’s body stiffened, but his dark gray eyes shifted around his skull in quick jerking motions around the wagon. Locking eyes with the kobold, he felt utterly helpless in his own body, staring wildly at the kobold who ripped free of his grasp. It walked around him moving to sit next to Nomad.

  “Damn, Qol,” Nomad said. “A bit harsh, dontcha think?” He extended his dusty boot to give the dwarf a light push, making him wobble harder in the unsteady wagon. Nomad turned to Qol with one raised brow, silently urging him to let go.

  “If I let him go,” Qol started. “He will attack, und I do not want to deal with zat; you were right. I need sleep.” With a grunt, he pulled up his robes and drifted into a deep sleep.

  “Sorry, Sangna. I’m sure that’ll wear off.” Nomad assured him with no reason to believe it. He stretched his legs as far as he could and let himself shut down for the rest of the ride to the goblin town.

  Uneasy dreams plagued Nomad during the ride back to the goblin town, hideous experiments by a crazed orc doctor who poked and prodded him. Bright, colorful vials that gave off an acrid stench when burned into his skin caused him to toss and turn. Frigid metal slabs beneath his head made it impossible to get comfortable, and the coarse leather straps cut his flesh, holding him down. Flashes of lightning flashed across his vision the erupted from his mouth in a blinding pain tearing him apart.

  A familiar voice broke through the pain; it broke into his mind past the torment coursing through his body. The voice called to him. It wanted something from him, something he didn’t want to give up. He tried to fight it but couldn’t; he was tied to that damn icy metal with leather straps cutting deeper into his flesh. A shine from something sharp drew his eye, and he couldn’t stop it from slicing down his body, lower and lower—

  “Wake up!” Qol said into his mind, his eyes turned back on taking in information again. He shot up from the rough splintering wooden bench rifle drawn; he stared down the barrel at the angry yellow eye of the ogre commander.

  “Go on, you little git,” He dared with a tongue click. “I’d enjoy breaking your met’l body apart.” The ogre’s heavy chin and permanent scowl blocked most of the sunlight out the back of the wagon.

  “Calm, calm, calm,” Qolmador urged in his mind; Nomad felt the fog of sleep lift, and he gained his bearings.

  He could hear the chittering goblins outside the tent, seemingly surprised to see it return full of living creatures. A sour taste of cooked rotting meat assaulted his nose, mixed with a tang of smoke that threatened to make him vomit. Locking eyes, eye really, with the ogre, he realized his rifle was still trained at his head.

  “Sorry….” Nomad mumbled, lowering the weapon. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

  The ogre grunted in response and thrust his chin inside the wagon.

  “What ‘appened to him?” He asked.

  Nomad and Qol turned to see the still frozen-in-place Sangna, his eyes utterly bloodshot from being unable to blink. Despite, or because of, his eyes, his visage seemed set in an undying rage.

  “Whoops,” Qol said. “Let me get zat.” He flicked a wrist that shot out a simple triangle.

  It spun in the air toward Sangna before lightly kissing his forehead. He collapsed on the wagon’s rough wooden floor; he could feel the jagged splinters on his dense palms. He coughed and rubbed his eyes to try and get moisture back into them, glaring up at Qolmador.

  “Yer dead, lizard.” He threatened.

  “Ja, because zat worked so well for you already.” Qolmador taunted with a sneer, showing his razor-sharp teeth.

  “Knock it off,” the Ogre commanded declared. “You lot cleared the cave; I expected you to die, but now yer gettin’ a feast.”

  “No,” Sangna said, glaring through bloodshot eyes at Qolmador.

  “Wot?” The ogre asked.

  “Pay me so I can be on my way; my duty to the 7th is over,” he spat.

  Looking down at the dwarf, the ogre shrugged. Reaching into his loincloth, he fished around before producing a bag of coins. “One hundred gold.” He grunted, tossing the bag to the dwarf. It clattered on the wooden floor with a thud.

  Twisting his face at the bag, he snatched it up, pushed past Nomad, and threw his shoulder into Qolmador for good measure. As he plopped out of the cart, a cloud of dust puffed into the air, trailing behind him as he walked back into the forest. Qolmador coughed from the grainy cloud of dust.

  “Wot’s his deal?” The ogre asked with his hand still down his loincloth.

  “The elf was a friend of his.” Nomad offered in response.

  “Boo hoo. Anyway, welcome to Gubbins.”

  With long beefy arms, he removed the canvas covering the wagon, revealing the shanty goblin town. A sign above the gate read: Gub--n; several letters appeared missing for one reason or another.

  Too-tall shacks built haphazardly above sturdy, angular buildings leaned on one another for support, stretching from the border of the forest to the far horizon. A short rusted gate stood about ten feet away from a well-crafted stone wall made from whatever the goblins could find. Beyond the gate were hundreds of shoddily crafted shacks stuck into the black stone of the city. Broken cobblestone roads ran through the city at odd angles, bisecting other roads at inconvenient places; several ended abruptly into the side of awkward buildings. Tiny goblins roamed the street in equally confusing attire; their clothes didn’t match and hung off their bodies.

  Looking over the strange bustling crowd, Qolmador straightened up and stood half a foot over the goblins. He and Nomad followed the Ogre to the gate and watched him begin to argue with the gaggle of goblins blocking their path. His peach cheeks grew flush as he started yelling down at the goblins, who all wore the same scowl at him shaking their heads. One of them lowered a pinprick of a spear at the ogre, who turned to the pair slack-jawed and wide-eyed, offering them a shrug.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Zis city was not built by zee goblins.” Qolmador thought to Nomad. “Do you know who lived here before?” He never looked up at Nomad, keeping his eyes locked forward on the goblins, but Nomad tensed up.

  “Shit, Qol, are you just in here now?” Nomad thought, looking down at Qol. “I gotta tell ya, it’s unnerving.” He said, moving his lips.

  “You do not need to move your lips or look at me, und yes,” Qol said. “Now, do you know who built this city originally?” Looking past the arguing band of goblins and the ogre, he tried to examine the city closer.

  Everything in the city was too big for the goblins, from the doorknobs’ placement to the roads’ width.

  “It wasn’t them, that’s for damn sure. I think it was built before the First Demon lord took power, but history ain’t my thing.” Nomad explained.

  The ogre spun on his heels toward them, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw looked like it might pop off. Stalking toward them, he thrust out his hand, shoving a small piece of rolled parchment with a seal made of what looked to be snot into Nomad’s hands.

  “They don’t want me in their city.” He said, throwing up his hands. “I’m too big, or somfing, and only you two gits can enter.” He spat on the ground and stomped back to his wagon.

  “We’ll bring some grub before the nights out,” Nomad assured him.

  The Ogre commander’s face brightened up a bit, and he grunted a nod at him. Nomad and Qolmador approached the rusted gate, looking down at the group of guards. Up close, Qolmador could make out their armor, almost bursting out with laughter from the kitchenware they wore as armor. Several had pots over their heads with iron cast pans covering their body; some had been worked flat, but every handle remained attached. A brass trim around the head of one of the guards signaled him as the leader; he approached the pair with his tiny green palm up.

  “Do you has invitation?” He asked in a guttural tone, to which Nomad handed him the scroll. Snatching the parchment out of his hand, the one he had given to the ogre, he read over it several times with a finger up his nose. Qolmador curled his lip and scrunched his snout at the goblins as they burped and farted on each other, blocking the gate.

  “Okay, you has invitation; the Oracle waits for you; go go.” The brass-helmet goblin said. “Up the gates! You go to the city center. Walk through the market, pass the fountain of yum, and you can’t miss it.”

  The other three goblins scrambled and worked cranks at either side of the gate to let them in. Once the rusted gate lifted, the pair were hit with a haze of stenches directly in their nostrils. Nomad brought a fist to his nose, holding back a gag while Qolmador used his robe to cover his snout. Flicking the tip of his nose, Nomad deadened his sense of smell and led Qolmador into the city.

  Qol kept his back ramrod straight as he walked tall through the throngs of goblins going about their business. Cold, slimy stone made his bare feet stick in some places and slide in others. Looking down his snout at them all, he snarled if they dared get too close to him. The crooked street they walked down had tents set up down alleys for homes, and poorly constructed storefronts directly on the road, clogged traffic. Odors of rotten meat and burnt baked goods overpowered the sewage scent permeating the city’s makeshift market.

  “Hey, Qol. Can you hear me?” Nomad thought to Qol. They pushed through a market toward a fountain spewing a fetid sludge that goblin children splashed around in.

  “Ja, I can hear you. Stop asking.” Qol responded. Past the sludge fountain was a massive square at what he assumed was the city center. It must have been a sight to behold when the original owners lived here. Now it had a gaudy tent city with a large blue and white striped tent at the true center surrounded by more guards.

  “I had a dream last night, more of a nightmare, really.” Nomad thought.

  “Okay,” Qolmador responded, his right eye split into a golden mandala that moved independently of the left. He let his mind loose to scan the crowds of goblins milling about, searching for any threat.

  “My kind, don’t dream, Qol,” Nomad said out loud.

  Raising an eyebrow, Qol looked at Nomad with intense interest. “What did you dream about, zen?” He asked.

  “It’s a bit blurry now, but I think there was some crazy orc that was running experiments on me.” He thought.

  Qolmador was impressed that his thoughts carried the same drawl as his voice; this android was sure of himself. Then the words sunk into his mind. “Was the orc wearing a white lab coat and round glasses?” He asked.

  Twisting his face, Nomad looked at Qol and nodded.

  “Zat is interesting,” Qol agreed, stopping in front of the striped tent. “Tell me more after we talk to zee king.”

  The broad striped tent had hundreds of goblins standing outside in a line that wrapped through the other patchwork tents. They walked to the front of the line ignoring sneers and jeers from the gathered masses, approaching a gnarled goblin. His deep green face was bulbous and snub-nosed, and he wore a brown robe with red trim. In his hands was a clipboard that he referred to each goblin that dared to bother him. As the duo approached him, Nomad held out the parchment they got from the gate goblins.

  “What is this?” The bulbous goblin said in a shrill voice. “You think I can read?” It spat on the paper and threw it back at Nomad.

  “I… I thought this would get us inside,” Nomad stammered. “It got us into the city….” He adjusted his rifle by yanking on the leather strap. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he looked down at Qol with a wide-eyed stare jerking his head to the goblin.

  Blinking away his surprise, Qolmador stepped forward. “Zen, why do you have a clipboard?” Qolmador asked, scrunching his face.

  “What, this?” The goblin asked, holding up the clipboard. “This is for hitting.” To emphasize his point, he smacked a goblin, trying to sneak into the tent. It scurried away with a whimper. Looking down at them, Nomad stifled a laugh but saw a golden flash on Qol’s face.

  “How inventive of you; it is clear you are a goblin of some great importance. As such, I’m sure you are aware zat we are the warriors that cleared out zee northern cave.” He paused as the surrounding goblins gasped. “Ja, ja, we do zee goblin king’s bidding on behalf of the Second Demon Lord. And when we tell him that….” Qolmador paused momentarily, letting the mandala in his eye focus on the goblin. “…Yilth the mighty was instrumental in finalizing our final report.”

  Yilth stared at him hard through his one good eye while the other eye’s milky texture wandered around the crowd. Giving Qolmador a sage-like nod, he stepped aside and let them enter but grabbed Qolmador’s arm. “Tell them I’m ready to guard the bathrooms!” he begged.

  “Uh, sure thing.” Qolmador nodded.

  Walking inside the tent wafted new smells up Qolmador’s nose in a confusing swirl of cooked meat and rotten fruit. Arguing goblins and loud chewing noises filled the empty air under the tent. Cold, slimy cobblestone gave way to a dry, rough tarp covering the ground that relieved his feet. On either side of the tent, three large buffet-style tables overflowed with food under soft yellow lights. Qolmador noticed the lights emanated from the bodies of pixies and other small fae creatures trapped in bulbs, dangling from strings. Clumps of similarly colored creatures illuminated specific parts of the tent; at the far end was a sickly green color, and in the middle had fluorescent white pixies.

  Nomad kept pulling up his coat to keep the goblins from getting whipped as he passed them. Several of them shook their tiny fists at him for dropping their plates of food that scurried when it hit the ground.

  “Gah!” He grunted, jumping back and knocking into a group of goblins wearing powdered wigs with oddly applied makeup. They bit and clawed at him until he straightened up away from them. He caught Qol looking at him with a confused look.

  “What is wrong with you?” Qol asked.

  “Nothing, I don’t like… shut up.” Nomad shot back.

  “Nein, not zat. What happened with the little goblin with the clipboard? You were nervous und nearly ruined our mission.” Qol clarified.

  “Shut up,” Nomad growled, moving toward a tiny throne under the green lights. “Let’s finish the mission.” Stomping away, he ran through the goblins with abandon and sent several plates crashing to the floor.

  Qol shrugged, making a mental note to watch this behavior.

  As they approached the throne, they saw the minuscule goblin king sitting on a stack of pillows, hardly moving. He had a long stringy, gray beard that went well past his knotted feet. Two goblins fed him fat, squirming creatures with hundreds of little legs that fought against them. Another goblin pulled the king’s toothless mouth open and closed to chew the morsels. Chalky eyes fixed on the duo, waving away his feeders.

  “Good evening, great goblin king,” Nomad started. “We… uh. We have done the mission, and it’s done. We… The goblin with the clipboard wants to clean the toilets.” He added in word vomit before Qol stepped in.

  “What my esteemed colleague is trying to convey is zat we have cleared the northern caves of any zombification,” Qolmador said, eyeing the gunslinger. “Und we have discovered some secrets zat may be of value.”

  “You have done… us a great… service,” He strained to say. “My gift to… the Oracle can… now be given… and our Oracle loves secrets.”

  As if on cue, the lights dimmed, and all the talking, slobbering-chewing, and other bodily noises stopped. A group of finely dressed goblins floated into the tent from one of the side entrances. Each wore wonderful black silken robes with silver embroidery and silver trim that covered their dark skin. They floated in a perfect circle waving their hands to clear a path through the mass of goblins.

  At the circle’s center was another goblin with pale green skin wrapped in a deep red robe inlaid with golden embroidery. The robe’s hem had golden trim and words going up and down the entire robe. Without moving its body, it turned its head to look at Qolmador; its eyes glowed from within.

  Unable to help himself, Qolmador let his eye shatter into the mandala; he touched the Oracle’s mind for but a moment. Then the world went white.