Machines Works Head Council Meetings were regular and always momentous according to the notifications they issued. A collection of the wisest, most experienced goblins in the domain, these prized tinkerers, fixers, and designers met to discuss “high level” matters affecting operations, including how to better align them with the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows’ needs. 

Glum, not so well esteemed as to warrant a seat on the Head Council, was occasionally called upon as a subject matter expert on the Gears Works. Since Tad became his protégé he’d always brought the junior goblin with him.  Dry and dull, Tad spent most of those meetings completing forms on his boss’s behalf while idly listening to the matters being discussed in more dire tones than he felt they deserved.  All the while his stomach grumbled in anticipation of the meal which awaited after.

The Head Council, and its guests, enjoyed lavish meals served on finely painted ceramic plates eaten with well-polished, intricately decorated utensils.  These were luxurious compared to the simple, stained, wooden slabs for dishes and the crude tools that patrons used to handle their food in the mess halls. The difference between a plate and a bowl was how worn out the wooden wheel had become over the years, and a spoon with a sharp handle doubled as a knife.

The first time he enjoyed on of these meals, Tad had been entranced by the painted pattern along the edges of his bowl.  It wasn’t just the way the dark blue gears with golden accents popped from the white bowl’s rim, but that the gears’ teeth were ever so slightly shifted with each image, so that the gear was effectively rolling along the bowl’s lip.  He’d become so entranced by the design that Glum had to prod the boy to remember to eat by jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow.

When he did get the stew into his mouth, Tad was disappointed to discover the chunks of pink meat, diced into cubes, were unmistakably ratoad.  Although ratoad stew was a common dish in the mess hall this one was distinguished by a surprisingly flavorful broth.  It had spices that caused his tongue to tingle and balanced the gamey meat.

 

Now, Tad sat on a stool in Toran’s kitchen and swung his legs with anticipation.  Fresh eggs sizzled on a griddle while muffins that sprouted out of a tin like mushroom caps baked in a stone oven with flames licking the bottom of the pan.  The elven doctor stirred a thick, bubbling gravy with a ladle, bent over the pot as he crumbled more sausage into the mix.  

Tad was confident this meal would prove more impressive than anything the Head Council enjoyed.

“It doesn’t smell like elven food,” Glum commented, looking up at Toran.  He’d been warming his hands at the fireplace, leaning into his cane, its head nestled into the crook of his arm.

“You’ve smelled elven food?” Toran raised an eyebrow, his lips pursed from a confounded smile.  

“That is to say that it smells like orc food,” Glum said.  His nostrils flared as he breathed deep and savored the aroma of the cooking breakfast with a sigh.  “Fancy orc food, at that.  Like when representatives from the other Dread Lords stop by and their armies’ leaders need to dine. But there’s definitely something from abroad in there as well.”

“Yes. Hohza has told me about those meetings.  He was quite surprised by it his first time,” Toran said while tending to the cauldron of boiling, popping gravy.  “I’ve never been able to attend the orcs’ side of those state dinners.  I’m always stuck with the Dread Lords and their councils. I should remember to ask Withering Sorrows to let me slip out of those some time.”

Tad was frozen on his stool, his legs suddenly still as he sucked in the air in fearful anticipation. Even Glum’s eyes were opened wide, which was to say they were just a crack more open than practically closed. 

“My apologies, I meant: ‘Dread Lord’ Withering Sorrows,” Toran corrected, whipping the ladle out of the cauldron and directing it at Tad.  Drops of gravy slopped onto the table top.  “As I’ve said, the Dread Lord and I are good friends.  I can get away without using the title.” Toran dipped the ladle back into the gravy. “You are safe to do so within these walls as well, should you feel so bold,” he added with a mischievous grin, daring the goblins to blaspheme their Dread Lord.  

Tad hadn’t even cracked his lips apart, considering the notion of taking the elf up on his dare, when he felt the weight of Glum’s finger pointing at him.  He looked away.

Toran finally slid a dented, tin plate toward Tad which was laden with eggs and muffin sopped in gravy.  Eager to eat, Tad snatched up the muffin in his hands and tore it open.  It was bright yellow inside the browned crust and sweet-smelling steam billowed out.  As he dipped one end into the gravy, he looked up at Toran, who stared at him with a bemused grin. He was holding one of the muffins with a tong, about to plop it onto another plate.

“What?” Tad asked, looking up at the elf.  Did elves do blessings before eating? He was pretty sure he’d once heard that they were obsessed with ceremony.  Some Dread Lords insisted upon their armies praising the Makers, while others only demanded the Dread Lords themselves be praised.  In contrast, the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows was indifferent to worship.

“I would think you’d find that terribly hot on your hands. It is fresh from the oven, after all.” Toran waved the tong-held muffin in the air before dropping it into place.

Tad shrugged, unconcerned.  He held one half of the muffin close to his mouth, pushing his tongue past his lips to test its taste and heat.  Satisfied with both, he proceeded to take a bite.  As he chewed, he wondered how creatures so delicate as elves could be so feared. “It’s a little warm,” Tad commented to assuage any of his hosts concerns.

Hohza sauntered into the cabin, sweat dripping off his body.  He grabbed a towel draped over a chair and swiped it across his chest and rubbed his arms, then tossed it out the still opened front door and onto the deck where it landed, draped across the railing, with a wet flop.  Seeing Tad’s and Glum’s befuddled faces, he commented “so it’ll dry” before closing the door behind him. 

After strolling across the main room and into the kitchen Hohza plucked a muffin from the tray, winced, and plopped it on an empty plate.  He mumbled a “thank you, Doctor” to the elf as he crouched before the pot to heap gravy onto his plate.  As he used the ladle to drown the muffin, Hohza spoke: “I thank you again for your aide last night, Glum and Tad! And please, take your time to enjoy Doctor Toran’s cooking.  Before my morning exercises I sent word of your new roles, so the Machine Works won’t be expecting you.”

Tad was too busy chewing a mouthful of muffin, his tongue struggling to find space among the food, to think about what he’d just heard. 

Glum had been more attentive: “I’m sorry, War Master Hohza, but exactly what word did you send?”

“That you’ve been named members of my War Party!” Hohza placed the plate down beside Tad’s.  The little goblin, still struggling to chew, looked up at Hohza.  The towering orc winked at Tad, then gave him a hearty slap on the back.  Tad spit his half-chewed food.  Most of it landed on the plate.

“Hohza, when we talked about this last night, I thought you said you’d consult these two, first.”  There was a chill in Toran’s voice, not unlike the one in Glum’s when he was trying to talk around accusing Tad of an error.  

“Come now, how could these two Machines Works goblins say ‘no’ to such an opportunity,” Gohta said with an oblivious laugh in his voice.

Glum stormed toward Hohza, staring up at him, roughly stabbing the tip of his cane into the wooden floor with each step.  “I’m glad to hear it’s so wonderful an opportunity; you should have no trouble findings some other goblins to fill this position!  Even better, get some of those wild goblins from up north! I hear they can fight!”  The old goblin shook with fury as he spoke, but the words stopped coming as he doubled over in a coughing fit.  Those came when he lost his temper.  Tad jumped down from the chair to rub his boss’s back as he hacked and wheezed, his eyes turning red with tears, before he finally settled.  The boy goblin shared a concerned look with the elven doctor, but otherwise the elf made no comment.

With Glum breathing normally, Hohza responded by way of diverging.  “Up north?” The orc leaned back, arms crossed over his chest.  Tad couldn’t distinguish fresh scars from aged ones.  “The moonberry farms?  Yes, there are some tough goblins that way.  Skilled with knives.” Hohza held up two fists. “Smaller, one in each hand.  It’s like facing a hailstorm of blades fighting them!”

Leaning against Tad, Glum answered, responded yet reserved: “Yes. Great idea! Put out a call to have a couple of those stationed here, and they can take our places in your War Party.” Glum looked up at Tad, who hesitantly nodded in agreement.

“There are also farmer goblins up north,” Hohza said.

Also out west, Tad recalled.

Hohza rubbed his chin in thought. “I’ve never heard of the farmer goblins being put in a War Party, either. An interesting idea, Warrior Glum. You’re already proving to be of use!”

The old goblin scowled at Hohza, the head of his cane rattling in his grip.  Finally, he yelled out: “We refuse the positions” loud and sharp enough to startle the orc.  The kitchen was silent a moment, with even the crackle of the fire fearful of crackling too loud.  Then, Glum pleaded: “I’m an old goblin and he’s too young, Hohza.  We’re not warriors. We would only be a burden.”

“Hohza, you should have consulted with them,” Toran said, his stern tone and furrowed brows accentuating his disappointment.

Hohza shook his head slowly, eyes closed.  He struggled a moment to control his breathing, holding up his hands as he exhaled slowly and deliberately.  “I appreciate your concerns.  However, we are in a time of peace.  After the last few wars, our borders are shared with domains struggling to defend their lines while they replenish their numbers. Our Dread Lord’s own forces are too thinly stretched to be able to wage any invasions of its own.  We’re too deep into the Dark Lands to worry about invasion from the World of Light. Because of all that, it is unlikely you two will be pressed into duty as warriors.  However, I don’t desire for your arms to take up blades. Instead, I hope that your minds will do far more than any amount of stabbing could accomplish.”

 “Non-warriors in my war party.  Goblins who think rather than thrash.  Who knows? If I can recruit a magic troll I’d be so unpredictable that no enemy could out-maneuver me,” Hohza said to Toran.

“Such as a Dread Lord?” Toran frowned. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Hohza said with shocking ease as he took another bite of food.

Glum sat on a small stack of books. One of them slipped out from under him and he slid to the floor with it.  He caught himself with a gasp, gripping the leg of a chair by his side.  His cane dropped to the floor with a clatter and rolled some distance, stopping against one of the three legs of Hohza’s stool.  The orc was quick to lean over to pick up the cane, choking down his mouthful as he did.  He stepped off the stool and walked over to Glum, who was wobbling as he tried to re-seat himself.

“War is a far way from our doorstep, Warrior Glum.  This will be an easy position for you and your Apprentice.”

“Senior Apprentice,” Glum corrected on Tad’s behalf. He took the cane once Hohza presented it to him.

“Also, if you’re worried that you may fall under threat from the other War Masters and their Parties, don’t.  We will keep the both of you safe from them,” Hohza spoke so softly that Tad had to lean toward them to hear.

“’We’? I seem to recall Tad and I brought you here last night,” Glum said.

“Yes, but that was after I kept the two of you safe, wasn’t it?”

“Regardless, who is ‘we,’” Tad asked. “I can’t imagine Doctor Toran is in your war party.”  He shrugged. “But then I wouldn’t imagine I’m in your war party, either,” the boy mumbled.

Toran answered on the orc’s behalf.  “He means Gohta,” the name came out with some displeasure.  “He was, until this morning, the only member of Hohza’s War Party.”

“Where was he last night? He must have gotten hurt really bad if he couldn’t even get out of the bar,” Tad shrieked in surprise.  War Parties were loyal to their War Masters to a fault; Yurzan was more than eager to beat Hohza senseless in the name of his War Master, Bigrummar, and then for his Dread Lord.

“No. I sent him away before fighting broke out,” Hohza said.

“That doesn’t seem tactically sound, Hohza,” Glum said.  The goblin cradled his plate in his lap as he sat among the books.  He favored the eggs instead of the gravy.  He’d torn a muffin in two and was trying to slide the bottom half under the eggs to make a sandwich. 

“Gohta is,” Toran began, then caught himself. “He is a difficult one.”

Raiding a fist into the air, Hohza cheered on his comrade. “He is an excellent fighter nonetheless.  In battle, there is none I would rather have by my side.”  Hohza directed his words at Toran as this seemed to be a discussion they’d shared in the past. Then, after a helpless shrug, the orc added “however in a Drinktown brawl he might get carried away.”

“So that was a mere brawl, was it?” Glum looked to Tad.

“It was merely a disagreement,” Hohza assured the goblins.  

“Yes. Orc disagreements can be rather brutal,” Toran responded.

“What’s merely brutal for an orc would be deadly—perhaps excessively so—for a goblin,” Glum said, still staring Tad down.

“If it came to that I’m sure Hohza would see fit to send us away, like Gohta,” was Tad’s sharp retort as he tore slurped gravy into his mouth.

“Right I would, Tad,” Hohza confirmed with another enthusiastic slap on the boy’s back,  this time causing the gravy to spurt from his mouth and dribble down his chin.  The orc gestured back and forth between himself and Toran, indicating their combined efforts.  “As for Gohta, we have tried to teach him to be more ... restrained.  But there is still a terrible anger deep inside him.  Perhaps someday I will trust him to engage in our more heated disagreements without elevating it to warfare.  Maybe having sensible fellows such as you goblins around will help with that.”

“Where is that orc, anyway,” Toran asked as he took another bite.

“I sent a message to the barracks. He should be on his way with our swords.  There is a War Council meeting this afternoon, after all!”

Still holding his sandwich, Glum pointed at the orc accusingly.  “Begging your pardon, War Master Hohza, but I thought you said we were in a time of peace?”

“The War Council discusses matters besides war.  They give progress on the training of the latest brood, discuss inventory and logistical matters, and even report on enemy sightings in and around our territories.”

“Oh! That doesn’t sound so bad! It’s just like those status meetings you sometimes bring me to, Glum,” Tad said.

“Yes.  Just like those. Except there are no orcs or trolls at those meetings, nobody is armed, and the Dread Lord isn’t in attendance,” Glum replied.  The old goblin looked to Tad, worry wrinkling his face.  Not seeing the doubt in his senior apprentice’s face that he might have expected he sighed in resignation as a broad smile spread across Tad’s face.  “Very well, Hohza, we’ll join your War Party.”

Ottis never knew a day as odd as this!