The Ambush

Gnikpaugh’s brief foray into the world of successful scavenging – a half-gnawed apple core here, a bent copper nail there, his prize possession being a small, tarnished brass buckle he wore proudly on his loincloth – had, predictably, rekindled his innate overconfidence. The terror of the Deep Deeps’ "Big Cold" was fading, replaced by the more immediate, tangible allure of dwarven leftovers. He was still jumpy, still prone to shrieking at sudden noises, but the lure of a discarded bit of something, anything, shiny was a powerful motivator.

He’d started to ignore my more subtle warnings, the gentle intuitive nudges that suggested, "Perhaps not that particular poorly lit tunnel, Gnikpaugh, the one with the fresh dwarven boot prints leading into it?"

He’s going to get us killed, I lamented internally, as he crept down a side passage that fairly hummed with recent dwarven activity. His entire survival strategy seems to be based on the assumption that dwarves are both blind and incredibly generous with their discarded possessions.

He was so engrossed in trying to pry a loose, faintly glittering chunk of ore from a wall with my tip (a sacrilege I was powerless to prevent, beyond projecting waves of intense disapproval that he blithely ignored) that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps until it was far too late.

I felt it first – a shift in the air, the faint scrape of a boot on stone behind us. I tried to send a jolt of alarm through Gnikpaugh, but he was too focused on his prize, grunting with effort.

A deep, gravelly voice suddenly boomed from the tunnel entrance, "Well, well. What's this bit of tunnel trash crawled up from the lower slime?"

Gnikpaugh froze, the chunk of ore falling from his grasp with a clatter. He spun around, his eyes wide with terror. Blocking the only exit was a dwarf. Not just any dwarf, but one who looked like he’d been carved from the mountain itself. He was broader than he was tall, with a magnificent, iron-grey beard plaited into intricate patterns and tucked into a wide leather belt. His armor was scuffed and worn, but clearly serviceable, and the warhammer he casually rested on his shoulder looked capable of tenderizing a Cave Troll. His eyes, hard and grey as granite, narrowed as they took in Gnikpaugh. This was Grond Hammerfall, a veteran of countless skirmishes with tunnel vermin and a guard who knew these outer perimeter passages like the back of his calloused hand.

Grond’s initial expression was one of weary annoyance rather than immediate aggression. He’d seen goblins before, plenty of them. They were a persistent nuisance, like cave rats, only uglier and occasionally armed with rusty implements.

"Thought we cleared most of you pests out last season," Grond rumbled, taking a step forward. The passage was narrow; there was no room for Gnikpaugh to maneuver. "Lost your way, little green streak?"

Gnikpaugh, a trapped animal, could only whimper and brandish me, Ol' Rusty, in a trembling, two-handed grip. His grand plans of scavenging easy shinies had just run headlong into a very solid, very unamused wall of dwarf.

Aaaand there it is, I thought, a cold certainty settling within me. The inevitable consequence of a goblin believing he's clever. Cornered by a beard with an axe – well, a hammer, but the sentiment stands. This is going to be unpleasant. For Gnikpaugh, mostly. But my front-row seat isn't exactly a picnic either. Right then, Gnikpaugh, let's see if any of my increasingly desperate ‘suggestions’ have actually sunk into that thick skull of yours.