here,” he said to his horse.
This crater was different. Ancient. Mysterious and out of place. Maybe it was carved out by the Giants or Dwarves at one time. Maybe it led to the mines. His keen eyes scanned it from one rim to the other.
“Ah ,” he said. He hopped over the lip and―nimble as a spider―climbed down the wall.
It was deep. A hundred feet down, maybe two in some places. The f arther down he went, the more he heard. He pulled his cloak over him and covered his head. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end. His hand fell to his sword. He sniffed. Shook his head.
Not good.
The bottom of the grade was a forest of rocks and trees. Birds, dark and black with yellow eyes, darted in and out of the tree tops. The sunlight was blocked by the rim, bringing darkness early. Shum could see the warm patterns of the creatures that scurried.
The smell became stronger the f arther towards the middle he went. On cat’s feet he moved. Swift and quiet. He could hear them better now.
Voices. Harsh. Unfriendly. Threats were made. Whips were cracking.
Women sobbed and cried.
He climbed a tree. Fingers digging into the thick wood and knotted branches. Up he went. Across a branch towards the sounds. He hunched down and narrowed his eyes.
Goblins.
Wolf faced, hairy, and ugly.
Gnolls .
Thick skinned yellow eyed minions.
Village women.
Dozens of them sat in barren clearing. A camp. Sewing nets similar to what he used for fishing. Hunting. Trapping.
It was a surprise. Why would poachers be aligned with Giants? Shum made a quick head count. Five Gnolls. Nine Goblins that he could see. It would take hours of scouting to cover the rest of the crater. He watched. Waited. The Goblins stood guard, hand axes on their belts or in their hands. The Gnolls ate slabs of meat and barked out orders. Every so often a Gnoll would come and go out of sight, but no others returned. Manageable.
The women ’s fingers worked hard at the nets. He could see they were frightened, hungry, and thirsty.
“Water, please,” one said. She held her hands out.
A Goblin walked over, held out a jug, tipped it to its lips, and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth and shook the jug in her face, the water swishing around.
She clutched for it. The Goblin jerked it away. Swatted her in the face with his other hand. The Goblins laughed. Holding their little pot bellies. Mocking the cries and tears of the women.
Shum had seen enough of that. His blood stirred. The muscles in his jaw tightened. Roving Rangers weren’t the aloof clan the other races made them out to be. They believed in doing right wherever there was wrong. Slavery was wrong. Goblins were wrong. Gnolls were wrong. He slid his sword from his scabbard. It was time to make it right.
He hopped out of the tree. Strode right into the camp, sword resting on his shoulder.
The Goblins froze. The women stopped working. Silence fell among them. The Gnolls didn’t even notice.
“Let the women go,” Shum said, looking down at the Goblins.
“ Huh?” A Goblin said, turning his way.
“ What!” A Gnoll dropped his bowl on the ground and snatched up his flail.
The others jumped to his side, reaching for weapons. “You dare!”
The Gnolls were big. Bigger than Orcs. Bigger than Shum. He wasn’t much of a threat to them at first glance.
“Kill him , the trespassing Elf, Goblins!” the tallest of the Goblins ordered.
No hesitation. No fear. The Goblins raised their axes and charged.
Swish! Swish!
The women screamed.
Two Goblins fell dead at Shum’s feet. The other Goblins stopped. Blinking.
The lead Gnoll’s lip curled over his long canine teeth. Fear was in his eyes. He looked like he might consider talking.
Shum decided to give it another try.
“Let the women go,” Shum said, “and no harm will come to you.”
The Goblins, the remaining seven, had him surrounded now. Axes poised to attack him from all directions.
“Come any closer, little minions,” Shum said, “and
This crater was different. Ancient. Mysterious and out of place. Maybe it was carved out by the Giants or Dwarves at one time. Maybe it led to the mines. His keen eyes scanned it from one rim to the other.
“Ah ,” he said. He hopped over the lip and―nimble as a spider―climbed down the wall.
It was deep. A hundred feet down, maybe two in some places. The f arther down he went, the more he heard. He pulled his cloak over him and covered his head. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end. His hand fell to his sword. He sniffed. Shook his head.
Not good.
The bottom of the grade was a forest of rocks and trees. Birds, dark and black with yellow eyes, darted in and out of the tree tops. The sunlight was blocked by the rim, bringing darkness early. Shum could see the warm patterns of the creatures that scurried.
The smell became stronger the f arther towards the middle he went. On cat’s feet he moved. Swift and quiet. He could hear them better now.
Voices. Harsh. Unfriendly. Threats were made. Whips were cracking.
Women sobbed and cried.
He climbed a tree. Fingers digging into the thick wood and knotted branches. Up he went. Across a branch towards the sounds. He hunched down and narrowed his eyes.
Goblins.
Wolf faced, hairy, and ugly.
Gnolls .
Thick skinned yellow eyed minions.
Village women.
Dozens of them sat in barren clearing. A camp. Sewing nets similar to what he used for fishing. Hunting. Trapping.
It was a surprise. Why would poachers be aligned with Giants? Shum made a quick head count. Five Gnolls. Nine Goblins that he could see. It would take hours of scouting to cover the rest of the crater. He watched. Waited. The Goblins stood guard, hand axes on their belts or in their hands. The Gnolls ate slabs of meat and barked out orders. Every so often a Gnoll would come and go out of sight, but no others returned. Manageable.
The women ’s fingers worked hard at the nets. He could see they were frightened, hungry, and thirsty.
“Water, please,” one said. She held her hands out.
A Goblin walked over, held out a jug, tipped it to its lips, and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth and shook the jug in her face, the water swishing around.
She clutched for it. The Goblin jerked it away. Swatted her in the face with his other hand. The Goblins laughed. Holding their little pot bellies. Mocking the cries and tears of the women.
Shum had seen enough of that. His blood stirred. The muscles in his jaw tightened. Roving Rangers weren’t the aloof clan the other races made them out to be. They believed in doing right wherever there was wrong. Slavery was wrong. Goblins were wrong. Gnolls were wrong. He slid his sword from his scabbard. It was time to make it right.
He hopped out of the tree. Strode right into the camp, sword resting on his shoulder.
The Goblins froze. The women stopped working. Silence fell among them. The Gnolls didn’t even notice.
“Let the women go,” Shum said, looking down at the Goblins.
“ Huh?” A Goblin said, turning his way.
“ What!” A Gnoll dropped his bowl on the ground and snatched up his flail.
The others jumped to his side, reaching for weapons. “You dare!”
The Gnolls were big. Bigger than Orcs. Bigger than Shum. He wasn’t much of a threat to them at first glance.
“Kill him , the trespassing Elf, Goblins!” the tallest of the Goblins ordered.
No hesitation. No fear. The Goblins raised their axes and charged.
Swish! Swish!
The women screamed.
Two Goblins fell dead at Shum’s feet. The other Goblins stopped. Blinking.
The lead Gnoll’s lip curled over his long canine teeth. Fear was in his eyes. He looked like he might consider talking.
Shum decided to give it another try.
“Let the women go,” Shum said, “and no harm will come to you.”
The Goblins, the remaining seven, had him surrounded now. Axes poised to attack him from all directions.
“Come any closer, little minions,” Shum said, “and
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