Ululululu! Ululululu! Ululululu!
There are races born to be miners in this world. Dwarves are like that, and gnomes—now exceedingly rare—are too. And though not widely known, goblins are natural miners as well. Their strength may be feeble, but their small stature makes burrowing into the earth advantageous above all. They possess the virtue of diligence—which, in their case, often equates to obedience.
Goblins can't band together. That's common knowledge. They live scattered in tribal societies, never forming a proper kingdom. Yet historically, goblin kings have appeared twice. Which comes first, the kingdom or the king? Obviously the kingdom. A king can't exist without subjects to rule.
But goblins aren't like other subhuman races. In history, two individuals evolved from goblins into 'Goblin Lords'. These lords rallied the countless goblins scattered across the continent. Each time, the land was engulfed in flames of war. Though modern views dismiss goblins as laughable, the potential for a Goblin Lord to emerge remains ever-present. Aware of this latent threat, the kingdoms have prepared countermeasures...
Author Unknown
Clang— Kang— Clang—
For nearly a year now, raucous noise had echoed daily from beneath Elephant Rock. It started after the Crock tribe seized the massive stone outcrop. True to its name, Elephant Rock was a colossal boulder pinnacle, its roots plunging deep into the earth. The sounds came from shattering the rock underground.
Clang— Kang!
The goblins' crude pickaxes made mining agonizingly slow. But they'd dug quite deep by now.
"Dig straight, you worthless shits!"
A potbellied hobgoblin—fattened from good eats—cracked his whip. One goblin struck by it collapsed. It was from another tribe enslaved after the Crock invasion.
"Hey, old timer, quit whining."
"Sorry, sorry! Gah!"
The hobgoblin kicked the elderly goblin trying to rise.
"Oh? Not getting up?"
"Guh, urk."
He alternated kicks and lashes until the old goblin's face was black-and-blue. Only then could he grip his pickaxe again. The other goblins pretended not to see, just kept digging. Fear was the easiest way to control them.
But there was another reason they never rebelled. Digging under Elephant Rock wasn't the lowest rung. Pity those even more wretched.
"Huh."
A digging goblin startled, then raised his hand.
"We found something again!"
"What!"
The whip-wielding Crock goblin rushed over, inspecting the spot freshly chipped by the pickaxe. Traces of a structure. Amid natural rock, something man-made lay hidden.
"First in a month...!"
Since the chieftain ordered excavation, they'd uncovered four artificial structures. The intervals were shortening. Their digging was nearing the goal—though only the chieftain knew what lay below.
"Bring the prisoners!"
At his command, the diggers' faces lit up. A brief rest for them.
Three goblins were dragged in by hobgoblins, all bearing facial bruises. Failures from a raid on Runka warriors by the river, who'd fled.
They trembled, clutching pickaxes. The hobgoblin pointed at one.
"You first. Dig it out!"
"Redeka, please spare me!"
These weren't slaves—they were original Crock warriors, acquainted with their overseer. But he slapped the pleading goblin.
"You idiot, if you didn't wanna be a prisoner, you should've died fighting."
"Sniff."
"Heart-eating snake? Talking bullshit like that to the chieftain got you beat and in this mess."
Defeated warriors became worse than slaves: prisoners. The goblin reluctantly approached the exposed structure, digging cautiously. Stopping meant brutal flogging.
"Do well, and you might live. If the chieftain's pleased."
That slim hope forced his hand. The rest backed away sharply. Only the lone prisoner excavated gingerly.
About thirty minutes passed.
"Huh?"
An exclamation of discovery. Then a strange sound.
Ting.
Flames erupted from within.
"Aaaagh!"
The pickaxe-wielding goblin ignited, screaming horrifically before collapsing. Silence fell.
The hobgoblin broke it. "Next."
"Hic, ugh..."
"Next!"
This was their trap-clearing method: feed prisoners and slaves into traps until exhausted. Time-consuming and bloody, but effective.
The one directing it all: Chieftain Hobgoblin King, Crock.
A hulking warrior, head taller than average hobgoblins, watched impassively. He wore armor of linked metal scraps. Normally, goblin tribes split power between chieftain and shaman. Not Crock. He'd slain the grand shaman himself, claiming the title. He killed other chieftains, stringing their skulls as a necklace. His menace was palpable.
Yet a young hobgoblin raised his voice fearlessly beside him.
"Father!"
Fear laced the tone, though. Crock, once just gruff, was now a tyrannical sovereign.
"Please, I beg you. Spare Nanaruk and her siblings."
"..."
"I'll do anything you ask!"
Crock ignored him as if deaf. Then suddenly turned.
"Chandal."
Nanaruk's lover, Chandal, choked. Flames seemed to flicker in his father's eyes. Crock seized his face.
Crunch!
"Guhk."
"You enrage me."
Chandal struggled, but the grip was iron. Crock hoisted him off the ground.
"I'd have spared Nanaruk if that's all you asked. Protecting one's woman is a man's instinct. But... her siblings too?"
"Guhk."
"My son!"
Crock roared like spewing fire.
"Making such a feeble demand!"
"Kk."
"Kill Nanaruk's siblings yourself."
Chandal's eyes widened.
"Slay those young goblins with your own hands, and I'll spare your woman."
"..."
"Refuse, and you both die."
Chieftain Crock never misspoke. He flung his son down. Chandal realized his fate, blood and spit drooling from his shattered mouth.
Crock ignored his wailing son, focused solely on the excavation. There it was. The power to make him true Goblin King. Sovereign of all continental goblins...!
Heh heh.
One downside to being a snake: I can't sing. Not that I was into it before, but even humming when happy is impossible. All I can do is flick my tongue: shlick shlick.
In that vein, maybe my next evolution could add a rattle to my tail. Rattlesnake-style. An instrument on the tail? Not bad.
I was in high spirits for a simple reason: delicious food.
Crunch.
I bit into a bright red fruit on a tree. Juice burst, filling my mouth with sweetness. Human or snake, fruit's always great.
Nanaruk followed, bit one, then spat it out.
"This is poisonous—makes your stomach hurt. You okay?"
Hm, that warm tingle inside. But my poison resistance was high enough. No issue.
"Snakes are amazing. Wish I'd been born one."
Nanaruk knew her stuff. We strolled the forest near her village. Like a date.
-Snap out of it. Blue Water Star Grass there too.
Pellelian prodded. I tapped Nanaruk's shoulder, pointing with my tail. She dug the herb.
"This?"
I nodded. Pellelian's picks. Her sack was already full.
Hearing Elephant Rock was taken by the Crock tribe, Pellelian got urgent.
-Goblins can't breach my dungeon defenses. Layers of traps, plus guardians.
His words belied panic. Time erodes even the best prep. Those goblins might break through.
And frankly, it pissed me off.
-They're after my stuff...
Right. It was Pellelian's—and mine.
-Grab that Silver Bellflower too.
I tapped her shoulder; she uprooted it.
-That should do it.
I patted her shoulder to head back. Well, shook my head and spun my tail. She got it somehow. Words weren't needed with this goblin.
"You're a weird snake. Sometimes you seem more goblin than monster. You understand us."
I'll take the compliment, Nanaruk.
We returned to the village. Naturally, I drew stares. A talking snake? I'd gawk too. Plus, said snake was up to something odd.
"Hold on."
Nanaruk fetched a large iron cauldron I'd indicated that morning with my tail.
-Fill it with water.
Done. With able assistant Nanaruk, things progressed smoothly.
What was I brewing? Potions.
-The Great Forest grows every plant imaginable. Rare ingredients abound.
I knew Pellelian was a mage, but this know-it-all level? He even knew potion recipes.
Potions were running low. To breach goblin guards and reach his dungeon, we needed more.
-Add the crushed Bloody Frog first. Skim the foam.
Skim how? I mimed it. Nanaruk nailed it.
"Like this?"
Hm. 'Wish I could travel with Nanaruk instead of you, Pellelian.'
-You brat!
-Do you know how valuable this recipe is? Sold one for a castle.
'That pricey, huh.'
-Exactly!
Guess I should memorize it. Might buy my own castle someday.
Simmering the full cauldron to sticky syrup halved it. Goblins gathered, mistaking it for food. Shamans too.
"What're you making?"
Even Nanaruk didn't know. Soon they'd see.
She prepped ten bamboo flasks. Filled perfectly.
Miraculous wound-healing brew. Its recipe is highly secretive, making it a rare treasure.
Whoa, legit. Decent potion. Lacked mana recovery, but better than squire Zain's.
-We've been had before.
I slid three to Nanaruk. Payment.
-Such a waste.
'Gotta pay for the labor. She did it all.'
Nanaruk was grateful.
"Dunno what it is. Drinkable?"
She uncorked one to sip. Fearless without knowing potions. I stopped her.
Better demonstrate. Approached a watching goblin.
Follow me.
"M-me?"
Hand wound. He followed politely.
"Understood."
Why formal with me? Anyway, I coiled my tail around Nanaruk's opened vial, poured on his wound.
Sizzle!
"Wha!"
Steam rose; he yelped. Wound knit shut. Amazement.
"I-it's really Ululululu!"
Gawkers murmured.
What's with Ululululu again? A shaman rushed up, eyeing me and cauldron wildly.
"Is this truly the Water of Life?"
Potion, actually. Goblins lacked the concept.
Ferociously, she sliced her palm, smeared remaining potion.
Steam, healing. Pellelian's brew worked well.
"Ahh... The sacred snake understands our tongue and bestows the Water of Life..."
She whispered pale-faced.
"Ululululu..."
Onlookers chanted, clasping hands: "Ululululu!"
-Oh? This...
Pellelian's expression turned sly. Fun—I wagged my tail.
"Ululululu! Ululululu!"
Some joined, waving hands.
This is hilarious.