Tireless dings echoed across the hallway; black charcoal grime clung to the walls, the ceiling, and in his nose. Annoyed, he picked at his ear with a long nail and fished out a yellow booger. Rows of bedrooms passed him by as he walked; inside, carved wooden beds with fine sheets squeezed and piled onto each other like luxurious slums.
Forges blew hot air against his face as the great hall came up ahead; frost goblins hammered away at anvils, a blade hissed as it dipped into a bucket of water.
No throne in sight—not enough space for one—just work and thousands of goblins crammed in an old keep.
Why not just spread his tribe across the southern mountains?
Sornik thrust his head through open gates like an alarmed meerkat. Goblin crossbowmen guarded the narrow approach as handcarts loaded with iron ore and coal creaked up from the mines.
Because everybody hated them. Harpy war flocks were regular visitors, though they’d been suspiciously quiet for a while. Even their biggest clients, the werewolves, only bought from them because it was more convenient than raiding them. But that was fine—
Screw ‘em, hehe.
The goblins hated them too.
They used the harpies’ soft feathers to stuff their mattresses and pillows. The stinky dogs knew better than to try to storm their fortifications, and if they did anyway, well, more hides to sell at Bjornhavn.
A breathless voice traveled up the mountains. “Sornik! Where is he?!”
Other kinds of goblins existed. He recognized the voice. This one in particular belonged to his fancypants kinsmen from the south.
Sornik clicked his tongue and descended the path, then a long line of green-skinned, armed goblins popped into view.
Their captain let go of his frightened worker and pointed at him. “Why do I have to come here myself?! You're late, Sornik! Tribute should've arrived a month ago!”
“Eh.” Sornik reached into his breeches and scratched between his lower cheeks. “We’re short on money, Gravik.”
“Then stop spending so much!” Gravik stomped his foot. “It's the same thing every time!”
“But it's ours! Frost goblin coin!”
“Wrong! You'd still be living like animals on the ice sheets if it wasn't for us!”
That was kind of true. Roughly two hundred years ago, the Goblin King helped them take over this castle from the harpies and bootstrapped them with the technology to work metallurgy, which they had perfected since then.
But that was old history! He wasn't even born yet.
Sornik sniffed his finger and snorted. “When are you gonna let this go? Huh?!”
“Never! Go get my money!”
The other green goblins glanced at their captain suspiciously, and murmured, “Get the what…?”
Gravik panicked. "I-I mean the Goblin King's money!”
“Right…” Sornik said.
“My point stands! Pay up in a month, or we'll take this castle from you!”
“But—”
“I won't say it twice!”
Sornik glared at them as the green goblin delegation left.
My damn money…
But he knew better than to say anything else. Unlike these tribes of the North, the Goblin Kingdom was a serious realm that even boasted of international recognition.
They took the castle once; they could take it again.
“Anyone got coin to spare?!” he asked.
They shook their heads and went back to work.
Goblins were pretty good at squandering money. Him too. It didn’t help that they didn’t farm or produce anything but steel, which forced them to import everything else.
“Argh!” He threw up his hands. “I hate those leeches!”
Piles upon piles of weapons and armor clustered the great hall’s corners, more hanging from the walls. Grime scattered in the air as Sornik jumped on the worktable nearby. “Grab all the junk you can carry and let’s get moving!”
“Huh? What for?” a worker asked.
Dealing with the other races was a pain in the butt for any sane goblin, but what option did he have? The werewolves’ orders had slowed down, and they couldn’t manufacture another war out of thin air.
“We’re going peddling!” Sornik said.
“Eh?!” They stared at him, mouths agape.
One didn’t even need to go into Werewolf Country to reach the frost goblin castle; a discreet mountain pass cut straight from Bjornhavn to it, making his tribe an especially convenient middleman for the werewolves’ pelts.
Humans buzzed through the open market’s aisles, browsing the stalls under colorful canopies as merchants announced their goods—pies, fabrics, fresh produce—out loud around the goblins’ stall.
Sornik joined in, waving a machete in the air. “Sharp knives, sharp axes—blades of all kinds to gut your annoying neighbor like fish!”
“Yeah!” His men smashed weapons together, cheering.
The art seller nearby grimaced at him.
“What’re you looking at?!” Sornik cried, making him flinch. “That’s what I thought.”
He went back to business.
Though ‘business’ was an exaggeration. For hours they screamed and jumped around, but were only able to sell a few tools, not a single weapon.
Sornik scratched his face, his pockets light and his patience running low, when a distracted old woman crossed in front of his stall.
He snatched her arm. “Buy this machete!”
Her eyes widened; she let out an annoying scream in his face.
“Stop it!” He released her with a hiss. “Screw you, grandma!”
Four Snoutling spearmen approached him as the woman ran away.
“Is there a problem here, goblin?” their captain asked.
When did these guys become so self-important?
Sornik showed him the machete. “I did nothing wrong!”
The Snoutlings stepped back and aimed their stone spears at him. “Hey, back off!”
“Argh!” He tossed it into the stall. “We’re just trying to sell these weapons!”
The captain glanced at the stall, then back to him. “You should leave.”
“But we barely sold anything, Chieftain!" one of his goblins said.
The vein on his forehead throbbed. “I said pack it up! We’re going home!”
“Stinky dogs!” Sornik paced back and forth across the great hall. “We need new clients!”
“Who? The humans don’t care about weapons,” a worker said.
The goblins scratched their heads.
“Maybe… we could raid someone?”
Sornik choked. “D-don’t be stupid! T-that’s not our business.”
They agreed eagerly. “Yeah, different business.”
He wiped his sweaty forehead.
Without the protection of their walls, frost goblins weren’t the best or the most valiant fighters, and they knew it.
“Screw it, I give up! Let the Goblin King try to take the castle from us if he wants!”
“Y-yeah…” his men cheered half-heartedly.
Sornik went to fetch a cask of ale to forget about his problems when the lookouts outside cried—
“Snoutlings!!!”
He halted. “Those bastards came after us?!”
Goblins rushed inside, arming themselves as they came in.
Sornik snatched up a crossbow and ran upstairs. “Close the damn gates!”
The gates slammed shut behind him as his men locked them with chains and a heavy drawbar.
“We’ll show ‘em!” He loaded his weapon and thrust it through the window. His men did the same, turning the castle into porcupines of crossbows.
The Snoutling army halted on the slope.
“That’s what I thought!” he said. “Drop your weapons, or we’ll skewer your stupid hides!”
Their formation parted instead. A short female Snoutling emerged through the gap. She wiped her forehead. “Phew… that’s quite a ramp you’ve got here.
“Tsk! I said drop—”
A handful of Snoutlings followed her, carrying heavy chests. At her command, they threw the chests on the ground—copper and silver coins poured out.
When did they get rich…?
She opened her arms. “How about this instead?!”
Sornik swallowed.
That’s a heck lotta money…
Where and when didn’t really matter. Money was money.
A grin spread across his face. “Hehe, that works.”