Ifonsa lurked.

She hid amongst the trees watching it.  Waiting for the right moment.

They were all different.  This one was grey, with streaks of white running diagonally across its face and down the right arm. Its left arm twisted at an angle, almost to the point of being useless, and the left side of its head appeared to have been melted with fire .  

It stood taller than most of them, but still not as tall as her.  Not a boss, she thought.  One of the underlings.  A warrior.  

It wasn’t just the cruel-looking curved sword hanging from its left hip, or the rusting armoured-plates covering its chest that confirmed her evaluation.  It was the way it carried itself.  Arrogance borne of extreme trial and suffering. It had survived, despite its infirmity, and proven itself worthy.

If she had brought her bow, she could have easily picked it off.  An arrow through the throat would silence it.  Then she could have hid the body before anyone knew what had happened.  But this was personal.  This required close-in wet-work. Already her blade had dispatched its comrades.  This would be her fourth of the night.

It patrolled, back and forth in front of the narrow mouth of a cave.  Every now and again, it would suddenly stop and peer around.  Some times it would sniff the air, as if it could smell something not quite right.  The randomness was just enough to make it difficult for her to strike.

Once, she was about to pounce, only for it to stop short.  It made a sharp detour to its right, drawing its sword, and  prodding at the trees there .  Finding nothing it returned to its patrol, sheathing its weapon again.

This time the goblin stopped immediately before her.  It was as though it had suddenly detected her scent, and was seeking confirmation with its eyes.

Ifonsa remained perfectly still.  The magic would protect her.  She had faith in its power.

Near the end of the Goblin War, Ifonsa had slipped into an encampment hidden in The Miwold.  Her grief had driven out any remaining wisdom or self-preservation.  She had butchered five of them before they noticed. The sixth had raised the alarm before she could silence it. She killed three more, before they began to swarm after her.  That’s when her sagacity returned and she fled into the trees. 

She glimpsed the goblins as she dashed between the trunks of ancient oaks and ash trees. They were closing in on all sides.

 Then she spotted a gnarled  blackberry in a dry riverbed.  On a whim she leapt into it.  The thorns cut her exposed skin to shreds, but she hung there, her clothing lanced by the branches, watching as the goblins neared.  She expected them to pounce, rending her limb from limb.  Instead they all raced past without so much as a glance.

All... but one. A runt had stopped at the lip of the bank, looking straight at her. 

It must have been half her height, with long, sinuous arms and short thick legs. Its lower jaw protruded  out beyond the upper, drool falling from its mouth constantly. 

Ifonsa could have silenced it easily, had she not been trapped by the blackberry.  All she could do was watch as the mite crept down the embankment.  She could hear it panting, not from the run, but from anticipation.

It knew she was trapped.  It knew what was about to happen.  It reached out...

...and plucked a swollen berry from the branch immediately in front of her face.  

The creature stuffed the fruit into its maw, uttering cooing noises as it ate the sweet flesh. It repeated the act over and over gorging itself, blissfully unaware she was so close.  

Moments later a senior warrior appeared.  It bounded into the riverbed and grabbed the runt by the scruff of the neck.  The runt squealed like a speared pig.  The warrior bellowed at the runt (many kind things, Ifonsa was certain) and together they disappeared into the trees, resuming the hunt.

Abruptly the goblin whipped out its sword.  However it did not strike at Ifonsa, but twisted away toward the cave.

Ifonsa could only just see the figure as it emerged from the cave.  Barely more than a silhouette. It was taller than the warrior, and heavier.  It said one word.  A command, Ifonsa didn’t quite catch, the accent too thick.

The warrior hurried after the larger goblin, as both disappeared into the cave.

A moment later, Ifonsa followed after them.

 

Heric schemed.

“Which clan are you?” he asked the goblin.”Rapid claw?  Black rage?”

“I’m asking the questions, boy,”  the goblin spat, poking Heric in the chest.  It was a strong blow.  Heric was glad for the armour he wore, even if it was just the bandit stuff they had stolen.  It probably saved one of his ribs. “What are you doing in here?” the goblin repeated.

“We were ordered to retrieve The Princess,” Heric replied.

“Arbarek enesti,” the goblin snapped.

Heric had no idea what that meant.  He glanced to Ganthe, but he didn’t appear to know either.

“Ordered by who?” the goblin asked.

“Stuska,” Ganthe replied.

“She’s here?”

Ganthe nodded.  

Heric nodded too, “Close by,” he said. “We’re the outriders.”

“What’s Stuska want with Arbarek enesti?” the goblin asked.

Both Heric and Ganthe shrugged.

The goblin snorted, “Big sword.”

“I’ve had it for years,” Heric said, defensively.  Ganthe’s goading had gotten to him.

“I’m not going to steal.”

“Would you like to have a feel?”

“Yes.”

Heric handed the goblin his sword. The goblin hefted it with one hand, in the same way Heric would an arming sword.

“Good,” the goblin said.

For the first time in his life Heric saw a goblin smile. It made the goblin look maniacal and demented  

“Take a few swings,” Heric suggested.

The Goblin turned away, out of the doorway, and drew the heavy blade back.  

That’s when both Heric and Ganthe struck.  Ganthe low, underneath the armoured plates into the lower back; Heric high, a back-handed manoeuvre his dagger piercing the side of the goblin’s exposed neck.

The goblin twisted, trying to bring Heric’s sword into play.

Heric grappled the goblin, twisting his knife as he used his bulk to force it to the ground.   The sword clattered to the ground uttering a chilling ring.  Heric grabbed the sides of the goblin’s head and twisted sharply.  There was a loud snap as the neck broke.

Afterwards, as both Ganthe and Heric cleaned their blades, Ganthe asked, “What’s an Arbarek enesti?”

“I think we need to find out.”

 

Together they approached the guard.

They had hidden the goblin’s body behind the hut, dragging it instead of carrying it.  The goblin was simply too heavy and unwieldy to lift. Ganthe had taken a few moments to scour the body, seeking any items of note.  There were no passes, or tokens, or even rings.  The Goblin did have a long knife, similar to the one Ganthe already carried.  He took it and left, wearing one on each hip.  

“Why this way?” Ganthe asked.

“It’s guarded,” Heric answered.

“So?”

“Why guard an abandoned mine?”

Ganthe considered the matter, “Who said it’s abandoned?” he asked.

“It’s no longer being worked.  It’s likely played out, or they’ve found better deposits on the far side.”

“So why guard it?”

“Exactly.”

The guard turned toward them as they approached.  Yet he made no overt movements towards his weapons or raised the alarm. He was armoured similarly to how both Ganthe and Heric.  

Heric noted that he wore a silver ring upon his left hand. He wondered if it was one of the snake cult rings, and whether they should have worn the ones they had found.

 “Arbarek enesti,” Ganthe said as they drew near.

The guard snorted, and thumbed over his shoulder pointing into the mine.

“Thanks,” Heric said, and the two of them entered the mine.

The long tunnel was just wide enough for them to walk abreast.  It had been chiselled out of the grey rock, the surface uneven and jagged. They passed through as though they were meant to be there.  There was no point in hiding, there was no place to hide. 

Heric had expected there to be lanterns or at least torches hanging from braziers on the wall.  That’s what he’d seen the last time.  Admittedly, he hadn’t been in  this specific tunnel before.  There were many entrances to the mine scattered across the hill.  Instead lit candles lined the floor on either side. Most were the usual tallow candles, thick and off-white in colour.  However as they continued up the tunnel they saw a few thin red candles and  even one massive black candle.

Heric moved over to examine the black one, but Ganthe guided him away.  

“Bad,” Ganthe said, with a shake of his head.

They eventually reached a junction, where five other tunnels converged, stretching back to their right like the fingers of a splayed hand.  None of these were lit, and they could hear the scampering and chirping of rats from one of the branches.  

To their left was a large cave, the floor cragged with many dips and bumps.  Several paces away, it dropped away out of their view. Like the tunnel,  the upper level was scattered with candles of various colours, offering a ethereal light.  

A large column, the convergence of a stalactite and stalagmite, partially obscured part of the cave. As they moved towards it they heard a gong, its distant timbre reverberating off the ragged walls. 

They both halted, fearing they had inadvertently triggered an alarm.  Ganthe’s hands moved to his weapon in response, kneeling to lay the bow and quiver out-of-the way at his feet. 

 Yet there was no cry of alarm, or the sound of guards approaching.  Instead the gong rang out again, followed by chanting.  Distant, deep voices melodious and transcendent, the words unfamiliar to Heric’s ear.  Both the gong and the chanting were coming from beyond the column.

Heric gestured to move around it, but just as they were passing it a voice challenged them from behind.

“What re you two doing?”  It was a goblin, emerging out of the lower parts of the cavern.

“Arbarek enesti,” Ganthe said.

“Stuska sent us,” Heric added.

Ganthe lowered his head in resignation.  He knew as soon as he heard Heric’s addition it was a mistake. It was always better to keep a lie simple, and allow the dupe to fill in the blanks.

“Stuska’s dead,” the goblin said, “Where are your rings?”

All three of them grabbed at their weapons in the same moment.

The plan had turned to sqit.