“Punishment is better than death,” Toran implored Hohza as he trailed the orc.

The War Master’s attention was split a dozen different ways as he roamed the prison grounds: here were gangs of goblins asking where to lay a trap as others hammered down fences and slathered grout on crumbling buildings; there were squads of orcs asking where to be positioned; elsewhere trolls asked for equipment that was large enough for them; and all-around goblin trucks hauled supplies, belching white steam, and crushing green grass.  Everyone was scared as they hastily finalized preparations, knowing that the enemy could arrive as soon as midday, which was not far off. 

Tugging at the orc’s arm, Toran made one last appeal.   “Admit to the invaders that the defenses were compromised and turn over the lures as an apology!”

“I think, in that case, punishment would be worse than death, Doctor,” Hohza responded, his voice grave and cold as he freed himself from the elf’s feeble grip.  

The elf flinched and clutched his hands together. “The blame belongs to the Logistics Corps, Hohza! It’s not a burden you should endure.”

The orc turned and stared down Toran. His nostrils flared over clenched teeth and bared tusks.  As the elf cringed at the sight, his arms and hands curled up to his chest.  This was not some orcish display to maintain pride. It was genuine fury, which he’d not seen on Hohza’s face since he was but a boy, before learning to temper his temper.  “Doctor,” he began with a growl. “We are presently engaged in a campaign against invaders from the World of Light.  Your place is at the medical tent south of here.  I would ask that you return there and prepare for the casualties to come.”  His jaw chawed unspoken words as his muscles quivered with tension as they held back his fury.  

Toran lowered his head as the rebuked underling he was.  “Yes, War Master Hohza.”  There were too many eyes on them and too much fear in the air.  The War Master needed to maintain control. He stepped back, keeping his head down, and suffered to hear Hohza walk off and address the pressing matters, all which took priority over his self preservation. 

All those evenings they’d spent arguing the finer points of philosophy, warfare, and self determination had come to this; he would follow failure with folly in hopes of salvaging some semblance of pride.  What drove him: fear of the Dread Lord or duty to them?

As Toran slinked to his horse he hoped his reputation as a doctor would not be tested with the life of his pupil.  Over the centuries his renown as a doctor had exceeded his ability.  He’d specialized as a medic during his time in the Yendell military and never expanded on those skills once his service ended.  The first couple of hundred years in the Land of Darkness had been rife with mistakes as he struggled to recall his long-neglected training.  

The thought of having to operate on Hohza after suffering grievous injuries made Toran’s through parch.  He touched his right hand to his throat.  A thin film of sweat spread across his forehead. While the elf had lost pupils to war, those had always been fought at the borders or beyond; where he was not allowed to follow.  He’d never before considered what a mercy such helplessness had been. 

He spotted Glum, the Machines Works tinkerer, who’d found a niche as an intermediary between Hohza and the Logistics Corps, which was comprised entirely of goblins. He sat on a stool, his body bent over with age, surrounded by young goblins donned in the cap of a Corps novice.  The old goblin explained to them how to weave the barbed fencing to ensure it retained the proper tension.  One of the communicator devices hung from his belt.  Seeing it reminded Toran that he was not alone in this matter.  He walked past his horse and waved at Glum.

“Warrior Glum,” Toran called out, waving to the senior. 

The goblin chuckled, a bemused smile on his face.  “Even in my younger years, ‘warrior’ was not a title that applied to me.  Hearing it now feels like calling a nail a screw.” He rose, and one of the boys handed him his cane, and oversized screw.  He dismissed them with a quick “get to work” and they departed.  As he shuffled toward the elf, jabbing the end of the screw into the grass with each step, he shrugged and smiled.  “Yet now I serve an educated orc and hold counsel with an elf doctor.”

“As invaders from the World of Light bear down on us.”

The smile faded.  “I’m just here to work.  Unless the enemy is leaking pipe I’ll leave them to the orcs and trolls to fight.”

“Is your young assistant so wise?”

The lack of a smile turned downward. “I fear he suffers from the delusion that a goblin can be a warrior.”

“Have you heard any more from him?”

Glum shook his head.  “Just that he captured a sprite and was on his way here with Gohta and soldiers from the North.” He let of a low, quiet laugh.  “While I’m glad he’s alive, I fear there will be no convincing him it was a fluke.”

“Certainly not before he arrives here … perhaps at the same time as the invaders,” Toran said, his tone striking a lurid balance between casual observation and salacious insinuation.

“Yes,” Glum answered, hesitant.  He looked about warily and seemed satisfied that the pounding of mallets, yelling of orders, and dread of impending battle provided adequate cover for their ensuing discussion. “But what can we do besides build better defenses or provide medical support? Neither of us are fighters.” Glum looked the elf over from head-to-toe. “At least, I know I’m not.  You look like you once knew your way with a sword.”

“I did my mandatory five hundred,” Toran said.  “It was all training and simulation; my brother and I were never unfortunate enough to fight in a war and got out as soon as we could.” He sighed.  “My sister-in-law, however.  She went career.”

The old goblin stared up at the elf, blinking his perpetually closed eyes in mild befuddlement.  Toran supposed to the idea of leaving the nation’s service could be unfathomably foreign to one in his position. 

Bowing low, Toran whispered to Glum: “We can help them.”

“Oh?”

“Do you have your things?”

“My tool belt is up there,” Glum pointed at the platform high up  on the prison tower, where they’d spent the previous night. 

“Does War Master Hohza still have the enchanted lures up there?”

The old goblin nodded his head.  His smile communicated his understanding; the enemy would follow the lures.  Hohza and his soldiers, including Tad, were preparing to fight to defend those lures on the Prison Grounds.  However, were those lures not at the prison their preparations would be for naught.

“War Master Hohza!” Toran spun about, raising his right hand, index finger extended still further.

Although the orc had been busy giving orders he froze mid-sentence. “Yes, Doctor?” His tone was warmer.  Toran might even think familial.

“I am returning to the medical tent, as we discussed.  However, I was thinking I ought to bring Warrior Glum with me.”

Hohza cocked an eyebrow.

“I believe having a representative of the War Master there would be beneficial.”

Hohza tilted his head as he cast a skeptical gaze on Glum.  The goblin stood, resolute, hands overlapping as he gripped the head of the walking stick. 

“He won’t do you much good once the fighting starts here. He’s much more useful organizing teams and distributing supplies.  It’ll be good to have him there.”

Glum nodded his head with more enthusiasm than Toran would have thought the old man could muster.  “I also used to work in the Logistics Corps,” he added.

Hohza shifted his weight towards the two.  The glower on his face was almost confrontational.  He must have seen it on a hundred times as a boy, whenever Toran sussed a fib.  “I would have thought Warrior Glum wanted to stay for the arrival of Warrior Tad.”

Toran winced.  It was true the goblin had done all but say that his utmost priority was the young goblin’s safety.  It was why Toran was so confident in broaching sabotage with him.

“I would, but I realize that’s … unnecessary.  The doctor is right that I’ll be of no use once the fighting starts.  I’ll be most useful at the medical tent,” Glum said.

Had the boy always felt so caught in a lie when being stared at with that glare?

“Very well.  Go with the doctor.” Hohza’s gravely tone belied apprehension just as it always had when Toran used it after abandoning hopes of getting the boy to fess up.

While being watched by Hohza, Glum whistled for his steed, the mangy old wolf named Greybrow.  The animal scurried over with his tongue hanging and tail wagging as though he were a lapdog.  The goblin climbed into the saddle and rode to the watch tower’s staircase.

Just as Glum got to the first step, Hohza yelled out. “I thought you were going to the medical tent?”

“He left his things up there,” Toran was quick to answer.

“Very well,” Hohza grumbled before returning to the preparations.

Toran waited by his horse, hitched to a post in front of a derelict guardhouse; a remnant of more active times.  Just as the elf began to worry he’d need to aid Glum, he spotted goblin and wolf trotting towards him.  The old goblin strained to hold a bundle and steered well out of sight of Hohza during his approach.

“You got everything?” Toran took the satchel from Glum and placed it on his horse’s back.

“My tool belt, sleeping bag, clothes, and …” he hefted the bundle. “Other things,” he added with a sly grin.

“Good. We’ll take inventory of those other things when we’re away from the prison.”  Toran headed south and Glum followed.  The wolf drew near, whining out of fear of being stepped on by Toran’s steed.  They rode in silence through the prison grounds, always apprehensive of any approaching squads.  Eventually they were far enough from the tower that the sounds of preparation were distant echoes.  Then they passed beneath the dilapidated southern gate and into the woods.  The stinging smell of grease and roar of steam engines were drowned by the rustle of leaves and aroma of drifting pollen. 

“We are going to the medical tent,” Glum asked.

“No, Warrior Glum.  The Logistics Corps is tending to the causalities of last night’s attacks there and I wouldn’t risk them.   Although the tents are south, they’re off the road. With luck we won’t be spotted as we ride past.  From there we’ll follow Hangman’s Road all the way back to the Keep if need be.”

“With hopes we encounter the enemy along the way?”

“Yes! Then we give them what they want. They can take their prizes and redeem them with the Dread Lord for whatever they sought.”

“It might spare Tad and I death at the hands of a dwarf or elf, but afterwards …”

“Tad managed to capture a sprite! The Dread Lord has more of a victory than any other domain invaded by Bonnelle can claim.  Don’t worry, I will make it clear that this was my idea.  They won’t punish any of you for my interference.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Glum said.  They rode a moment in silence. “Would he dare to punish you?”

“The Dread Lord has been petty with me … but never cruel. I can endure a decade of his puerile silent treatment.”

“I suppose a Dread Lord who had a reputation of torturing or killing their guests would be forced to make companions of their servants.”

Toran belted a boisterous laugh. “I can’t imagine such a thing happening! How would a goblin react if Withering Sorrows extended a personal invitation to join him for dinner?”

“Well, the goblins under him would assume a wave of promotions were coming.  The funerals of higher-ups are always happy occasions.”

“Very morose, Glum.  You would assume the invitation was secretly for an execution?”

“I would assume the goblin was going to be the dinner!”

After 1,000 years in this domain the Machines Works and culture of those who dwelt in it remained a mystery to Toran.  Orcs often taunted their enemies—and even allies during heated training—with threats of cannibalism.  Such a fearsome, brutal jibe was born of the belief that doing so would grant them greater power in the same way that wraiths absorbed their own kind.  “Wraiths don’t eat,” Toran remarked.

“They don’t?”

“At least, not the way you or I do.  For them ‘eating’ is not too different than how you or I breathe.” He took in a long, deep breath of the chill noon air.  The dim sun cast stunted shadows as it ventured as close to their side of the world as it could, its indirect light slanting toward them from across the Terminator.

“That leaves a million other ways for the Dread Lord to kill me,” Glum said.  “Are we far enough away from the prison?” The goblin looked over his shoulder with a sour grimace on his face.  The gate was long out of view.

“I believe we are, and I doubt Hohza has scouts watching us.” He pulled on his horse’s reins.  The brown and white spotted mare whinnied as it came to a stop.  When Toran leaped off the horse his feet noiselessly hit the ground, with only the gentle clatter of pebbles and dirt marking his landing.  In contrast, Glum dismounted with an assortment of grunts, groans, the wolf’s huffing, and the rough scratch of his walking stick as he dragged it along the dirt road.  Toran dropped the sack of lures onto the ground, stirring a cloud of dust that made the goblin wave it away while coughing. 

Toran knelt as he tore into the bag.  They seemed to all be there: some of the Many Rings of Power, the Bridle of Turning, a useless dagger, the cracked mirror.  He set each aside, lining them up in the dirt after a quick examination.

Glum picked up the mirror. He gasped after looking for a split second and then set it down again, the face turned down.  His lips quivered as he and Toran locked eyes.

“What did you see, Glum?”

The goblin was silent. He looked away. 

Toran placed his hand on the goblin’s shoulder.  “The mirror is not what it once was.  Long, long ago it could foretell the future.  But it’s long since been cracked.  Now it shows things that may never be.”

“I will hope the part where I’m riding through these very woods and lose my head was one of those things that will never be.” Glum looked over his shoulder, wary of unseen threats.

“Were you riding the wolf?”  Toran glanced in Greybrow’s direction.  The animal was already laying on his side, napping. 

“Yes.”

Toran rose, gripping the Bridle of Turning in his hands, the straps of leather flopping about.  “Then you’ll ride with me on the horse.  The easiest way to avoiding prophecy is to affect its particulars.  Even then, it sounds like we need to be careful; the enemy is more bloodthirsty than I’d anticipated.” He turned the bridle about in his hands.  As he did, the metal buckles clacked against each other.  “This is a unique item. It might give us an edge should the enemy give chase.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Glum said.  He whistled to the wolf, who dutifully rose and walked over, head bowed.  The goblin began unfastening his gear.

“Do you think the wolf can keep up with us?”

“If we lighten his load he can.”

“I’ve a better idea.” Toran stuffed the remaining enchanted lures into the sack and fastened it to the wolf.  “Worse comes to worse, he can run in one direction and we the other.  I doubt the enemy will keep with us when their targets are wandering away.”

“Yes but … would they hurt him?” Glum stroked the wolf’s head and it sighed with pleasure. 

In truth, Toran had little concern for the animal.  He may not have taken to the military life, but he accepted that some losses were more tolerable than others.  He held out his right palm, and the wolf licked at it.  “This is an old wolf who has served the Dread Lord for many years.  I’m confident he’ll figure out a way to survive the enemy’s pursuit just fine.”  Toran looked between the saddle on his horse and Glum, who stood below the elf’s knees.  “I don’t mean to be indelicate about—“

“Feel free to pick me up,” Glum answered with a snap of indifference. 

Over the years, Toran has handled individuals in many ways.  From cutting a woman open to help her deliver a baby to rubbing sprite-made ointments into hideous gashes to stave off infection.  For some reason, picking up an elderly goblin who huffed with embarrassment felt particularly awkward. At least Glum didn’t squirm in his grip like a child might.

He set Glum down on the saddle.  The goblin crawled further back.  He grabbed hold of straps meant for affixing a bag to the saddle and wound them around his wrists.

“You’ve ridden like this before?” Toran kept an eye on the goblin as he replaced his horse’s bridle with the enchanted one.

“Several years with the Logistics Corps.  Sometimes you find an orc willing give you a lift somewhere; especially into battle.”

“‘Battle?’” Toran stowed the regular bridle into a bag hanging off the fender.  “Perhaps there is more to ‘Warrior Glum’ than a mere title,” Toran said through a playful smirk.

“I was no warrior,” Glum spat the words like he detested their taste on his tongue. “Just someone who had to get through a battlefield to a Machines Works node.”

“My mistake,” Toran said.  He climbed into the saddle, took the reins.  “I should not be so presumptuous.  Perhaps I let my imagination get the best of me.”  He shrugged. “For just a moment, I pictured a younger you charging through fields of enemies.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes. He was quite the dashing figure,” Toran added, a laugh in his voice.

“Well, elven imaginations seem to be as wild as some young goblins’,” Glum said.  “Are we ready to go?”

“I suppose.  You know, you forgot to grab that egg shaped rock. I believe Hohza was using it as a paper weight.”

Glum choked on a gasp.  His eyes almost opened from shock. “Will the enemy still be drawn to the prison?”

“Hopefully they split their force proportional the lures.  Regardless, we can’t go back to the Tower to get it without raising the War Master’s suspicion.”

“So … does this change the plan?”

Toran sighed.  It did seem like a nice day.  The air was decently warm, the sun was as bright as it could be, and the sky was clear.  Somehow, he’d hoped to picnic by the clear waters of the Tears of Torment River which crossed Hangman’s Road.  Maybe the enemy would have approached the pair as they snacked on a sandwich, and they could have peacefully given them the lures and shared the rest of the meal.  However, the vision that Glum beheld in the mirror indicated a more aggressive bunch of invaders than Toran hoped; bloodthirsty mercenaries who were as eager to lay waste to the Dread Lord’s servants as the Dread Lord was to lose them.  He smacked the reins down, pushing the horse forward at a gentle gallop.  He glanced down and back, pleased to see the aged wolf keeping pace, tongue hanging out in glee. 

“We ride for the Keep, Glum.  If the enemy fails to intercept us on the way, I’ll ask the Dread Lord to bring this mess to a stop.  Once Withering Sorrows is directly involved, those invaders will be forced to relent. It won’t be a defeat to him.  Tad managed to capture one of their sprites! He’s the hero of this disastrous campaign and the reason I expect the Dread Lord to accept ending things early.”

“Tad … the hero?” Glum tested the words several times over, quietly, under his breath. “I’d best not let him ever know that; he’d want a promotion!”