Malcolm stepped away, tossing his hammer aside. He straightened the letter, careful not to tear it on the nail. One last time, he looked over the envelope. Queen Estrellia, it read. He thought for second, hoping he remembered everything. Every detail since he left his village with Sven. Their troubles in Toehalla. The Toe-Worm’s pursuit. His meetings with Armedious. Where he and Sven were going. What they planned to do.

It is time she knew, he thought. I should have told them all from the start. He glanced over the rolling hills. Faint smoke still drifted from the Tribe’s camp, the last tendrils reaching to the dark clouds. He let out a deep breath, calming his nerves. The thought of going back shook him.

Tearing himself away, Malcolm slunk away into the darkness to join Sven. Passing a small bush, he paused to dig around in the brush, pulling out the lantern and oil he had stashed there. The liquid-filled canteen sloshed softly.

Sven sat at the crest of a hill, his little bare feet rubbing across the grass. He turned his knife over, inspecting the blade. Beside him lay Malcolm’s light leather tunic and a new sword and scabbard. “About time.” The Goblin huffed. Only the moon and stars illuminated him in the darkness.

“I had to finish the letter,” Malcolm explained. “There was more than I had expected. It took a while.”

“You sure that be a good idea? Tellin’ her Majesticness?”

Malcolm picked at the ground, chucking a clump of grass. “I hope so.” He buckled the scabbard, lopping the oil canteen through his belt. He began unbuckling the tunic, fumbling with the metal latches. Sven scooted over to help. His nimble fingers pulled apart the leather straps with ease.

Nodding his thanks, Malcolm squeezed into the armor. Sven immediately began buckling it back up. “You sure you don’t want some armor?” Malcolm asked, pulling the last strap tight.

Sven grunted, slightly offended. “I do not be needin’ one of these nasty things,” he paused. “Although, I do be appreciatin’ the thought.” The faintest of smiles cracked through his lips, revealing rows of crooked pointed teeth. He fidgeted with the handle of his knife, picking at a dent in the metal.

Malcolm stood up, straightening the armor. “Best be going.” He muttered through gritted teeth, pulling Sven up by the back of his tunic. Grumbling, the Goblin grabbed his own unlit lantern and canteen of oil, swinging them over his shoulder.

Sven set off down the hill, crouching low in the tall grass. Malcolm followed close behind, keeping his eyes just above the meadow. In the distance, the dark outline of guards paced back and forth, their backs turned. A long swath of tramped grass ringed the camp. The sentries marched back and forth along the path, their steel armor glinting in the moon light. Malcolm’s heart beat faster and faster as they neared the careful gaze of the watchers.

Sven paused at the edge of the path, waiting for an opening. Once the nearest guard’s back was turned, he darted over. Malcolm kept close, holding his sword so it didn’t make a noise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard turn sharply, looking over the fields.

“Who’s there?!” The guard shouted. He twisted around, scanning the hills. Malcolm tried to compress himself into the grass. His heart pounded, thumping against the cool earth. The tips of the grass tickled his nose and face, covering him in their seeds. He crinkled his nose, forcing in a sneeze.

“Probably a rabbit!” Another guard answered from along the path. “I saw one of ‘em ‘round here ‘bout an hour ago!” He waved his spear a little, turning away. “Just get movin’! Next shift ‘ll be here soon!”

Casting a last look around, the first guard turned away, continuing his rounds. Malcolm watched him disappear over a dip in the hills, the tip of his spear bobbing just over the crest.

“Get movin’,” Sven whispered. The Goblin seemed to appear from behind a small bush, sliding forward on his stomach. He gestured at the Tribe’s camp, just visible in the distance. “We ain’t be havin’ all night.”

Malcolm followed the Goblin over the rolling hills. The thigh deep grass swayed in the breeze, rustling against itself as far as the eye could see. As they drew near the Tribes’ camp, the faint smell of wood ash and burnt leather wafted over. A thin layer of soot coated the plains, leaving streaks across Malcolm’s legs.

A few hundred yards from the camp, Sven crouched down, surveying the sight. Sentries stood at their posts, occasionally pacing back and forth a few steps. They clutched their signal horns tight, ready to blow at the slightest movement. Behind them, makeshift tents dotted the burned plain.

“Curse their wretched toes!” Sven swore, turning away. He spat at the ground, using a stick to mix the spit into mud. “There be more guardin’ then I was expecting. No chance a human like you be gettin’ in there.” He unbuckled his lantern, gently tossing it aside. The pouch full of oil still hung from his belt.

“But you could?” Malcolm asked. He glanced at the guards. One man stood every dozen yards. A ring of torches fully illuminated the area, leaving only the faintest patches of shadow.

Sven grinned, pulling his mask over his head. “You best be waitin’ for my signalin’.”

He darted into the night, leaving only a rustle of grass behind. Malcolm tried to track the Goblin, but soon lost him in the darkness. After a minute, a green blur shot across the line of guards, disappearing behind a tent.

Suddenly, a plume of flame fired up from a hidden torch, shooting high into the air. Black smoke poured from the blaze, filling the sky. Another pillar flared up behind another tent, adding to the smog.

The guards turned their backs to Malcolm, transfixed by the inferno. Seeing his chance, Malcolm rushed out of hiding, sword in hand. He rammed his blade through the gut of the nearest guard, pulling out just in time to catch another in the shoulder. A quick kick to the jaw silenced each guard.

Wiping his blade, Malcolm glanced around. The rest of the guards had abandoned their posts, disappearing somewhere in the camp to fight the blaze. Horns blew, rousing more of the tribesmen, who stumbled from their tents.

Sven appeared from the darkness, nodding a greeting to Malcolm. He tossed aside his empty pouch of oil, letting the last few drops soak into the ground. Malcolm could tell the Goblin was grinning beneath the white mask. “Good idea with the fires.” Malcolm said, glancing at the flames. They had begun to die out, slowly decreasing in height and intensity.

“It was good thinkin’,” Sven agreed. “Nothin’ you’d be seein’ from a human,” he chuckled, studying the camp. He paused for a moment at the long tent near the rear of the area. “Best be gettin’ movin’. Flames won’t be lastin’ too long.” He darted off behind a tent, not bothering to wait for a response.

Malcolm followed the Goblin through the camp, darting from cover to cover. The burned shells of carts littered the camp, along with the fields of burned tents. Arrows still protruded from the ground, along with shards of metal and bone.

Men rushed around, desperately carrying buckets of water to the blazes. In the distance, Malcolm could make out the shape of the massive Trolls. The beasts lumbered along, carrying an armload of buckets. Commanders shouted orders, occasionally chucking pails at their men. Sven chuckled as he watched a group go by, leaving a trail of water behind. “Foolish humans. It’s an oil fire!”

Before Malcolm could ask what he meant, the ground rumbled as a pillar of flame exploded, showering the camp in the sparks. In the distance, he could see another man toss on a pail of water. The pillar surged again, spreading to a nearby tent. Flames darted across the camp, burning anything they touched. More shouts rose up as the Tribes fell into confusion. Men ran around aimlessly, clutching their empty buckets. A Troll bellowed, beating the ground with its immense fists. Flicking its handler aside, it lumbered towards the livestock fields, arms outstretched. The other Trolls followed suit, hungrily grasping at anything that moved.

Still cackling, Sven moved on, sliding under a wagon. The long tent loomed in the distance, growing closer with every step. The back of the camp was almost abandoned, save for a few cowards conversing in their tents. Large ruts left by the archer wagons crisscrossed the ground.

Sven crouched near a line of barrels, looking at their target. The long tent was a dozen yards away, its fabric sides fluttering. Four men milled around the entrance, arguing among themselves. Less than I expected, Malcolm thought, scanning the area. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Beside him, Sven fired his slingshot, hitting one of the guards squarely in the temple. The man crumpled instantly, hitting the ground with a crunch. His companions immediately gathered around, shouting at the man.

Rushing out, Malcolm drove his sword into the shoulder of one of the guards, twisting the grip in his hands. The man screamed as the blade rotated, tearing the muscle and bone. While Malcolm was occupied, Sven quickly dispatched the other guards. His knife flashed in the light of a sole lantern, darting in a flurry of slashes.

Keeping his blade in hand, Malcolm ducked through the tent flaps. At his hip, the lantern clanked against the canteen of oil, echoing across the tent. Sven followed close behind, putting away his mask to see better in the darkness.

The outlines of a half dozen wagons stood before them. Spare planks, nails, and tools surrounded the carts. Stacks of oil barrels lined the back wall. Racks of bows and quivers were haphazardly placed around, many leaning against various other crates of materials. Unlit lanterns hung from the rafters.

Malcolm handed his canteen of oil and lantern to Sven “Better get started on those barrels. I’m going to take a look around. See what I can find.”

Sven nodded, darting off into the darkness towards the barrels. The faint smell of oil drifted over, along with a faint trickling sound. Malcolm grinned. The plan was working. Once most of the barrels had been coated in oil, they would light the whole pile, taking out most of the Tribe’s camp.

Malcolm wandered through the line of carts, keeping his eyes open for anything of use. Iron hammers, piles of rough hewn boards, and leathers pouches of nails littered the floor, set down wherever there was room. The wagons themselves were in a similar state. Large burns marred many of the wheels, and arrows dotted the sides. In places, a sword or axe had chipped off the corner of a board, leaving a section of the interior exposed.

After a few minutes of searching, Malcolm reached the end of the line. Behind the last wagon, several gigantic cots lined the remaining area of the tent. Beside each bed lay a Troll’s club, along with a leather harness, and a small pile of animal bones. Leather harnesses hung from a rafter.

A sharp crunch echoed across the tent, followed by the faint ping of fallen metal.

“Sven?” Malcolm called, turning back. The smell of oil had begun to fill the tent, making his nostrils burn. Where is that little Goblin? he wondered, weaving back through the carts. “Sven!” he called again, stepping around a pool of oil.

Sven had poked holes in a few of the barrels, letting the black liquid spill over the floor, mixing with the dirt. A faint thud drifted from further down the tent, along with a muffled thump.

Heart racing, Malcolm crept forward, keeping his head on a swivel. The back of his neck tingled. His heart beat louder than his footsteps, seemingly echoing for the whole camp to hear. A faint tickle ran down his spine, making him shiver. Something brushed against a bag of nails, sending them cascading out in a river of clinks. Shouts drifted from beyond the tent, along with a cascade of muffled clanks. The fabric flapped with each puff of wind, sending ripples across the tent.

From somewhere in the dark, a lantern sputtered to life, illuminating part of the tent.

Malcolm tightened his grip on the sword, turning the blade around in his hands. The weight was comforting. He tried a few mild swings, reassuring himself of the weight.

Sven’s oil canteen lay discarded under the final wagon, its contents thoroughly empty. The dirt around it was kicked up in a mess of swirls. A few yards away, the crumpled shell of the lantern leaned against a barrel. “SVEN!” Malcolm called again, twisting his head around. He could feel the panic rising in his chest, slowly filling his heart. Another lantern blazed to life.

“He’s right here!” A voice called back from the darkness.

Malcolm spun around, sword raised high. “If you hurt him, I swear I will…”

“Do what?” Armedious mocked, emerging from behind a wagon. In his arms, Sven twisted and squirmed, viciously chomping at his gag. The Prince laughed, making his well-oiled black and gold armor clank. The thin lines of gold inset into around Armedious’s armor almost disappeared in the dim light. A long sword hung from his hip, the tip of the scabbard almost brushing the ground.

Malcolm could feel his heart drop. “How did you find us?” He managed to call through the tightness in his throat.

Armedious tossed back his long blonde hair. “After your failed assault yesterday, I figured you two might try something. The fires in camp only proved my suspicions correct,” he glanced at Sven and gave him a little shake. “I hear this little imp made those plans! What a great success! My sister must certainly be pleased! How is she? The speech she gave at my uncle’s funeral was exceptionally touching.”

“You were there?” Malcolm muttered.

“Perhaps,” Armedious shrugged. “It is always important to attend family events.” Holding Sven tight in his right hand, he used his left to pull a long dagger from his left boot. With a flick, he moved it to Sven’s throat. The Goblin stopped his flailing, his eyes glued to the blade. “Now,” Armedious began. “I propose a deal! You take your little green imp, and I take my kingdom.” He pressed the knife tighter, almost nicking Sven’s green neck.

“Put him down…” Malcolm warned, shifted his sword from hand to hand. Had it suddenly gotten heavier?

“Or what?” Armedious taunted. He sheathed the knife and grasped Sven by the shoulders. He held the Goblin out like a child, looking over his face. Sven sneered through the gag. “How charming!” Armedious joked. He spat at Sven, hitting the Goblin squarely in the eye. In a blur of motion, Sven rammed his head forward, slamming it into the Prince’s nose. He kicked off Armedious’s chest, hitting the ground on his back.

“How dare you!” Sven screeched, ripping off the gag. Tearing his dagger from his sheath, he rushed Armedious, pummeling the Prince’s armored legs. Armedious staggered back, clutching his broken nose. Line of bloods coated his jaw, running down into his chest plate.

The Prince gurgled, spitting out a mess of red spray. “You little fiend!” He bellowed, drawing his sword. He dove at Sven, narrowly missing the Goblin. His sword hit the ground, coating itself in thick oil. Sven danced away, leering at the Prince.

Malcolm lunged, catching Armedious in the shoulder. His blade glanced off the armor, leaving a deep dent. Armedious roared, using his free hand to clobber Malcolm in the gut.

He felt his ribs crack.

Black spots swarmed Malcolm’s vision, swirling around the room. Were the lanterns swinging? Why is that cart moving…? He shook himself back to focus. Every breath hurt. He checked his stomach. His side didn’t look right. His arms dripped with oil where he had fallen. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back, soaked through.

In the corner of his eye, Sven darted around Armedious. “Don’t you dare be hurtin’ my human!” He screamed, jabbing his blade in between the plates of armor. He backed the Prince up to the line of barrels. The putrid smell of oil filled the tent. Nauseating, burning, sticking to everything. Malcolm could feel his lungs screaming as they filled with the foul air.

Armedious struck at Sven. The tip of his sword grazed a lantern, making the flame sputter. Flame. Malcolm realized, stumbling to his feet. His left side throbbed, sending waves of agony through his body.

The lantern, he thought, keeping it in focus. He could see his hand reach out, feel the warm metal in his fingers.

“Sven…!” Malcolm called, coughing up a glob of spit. The Goblin raced over, skidding on the muddy floor. He grasped Malcolm’s right side, taking some of the weight.

Armedious heaved, clutching his dented shoulder. Sven’s dagger protruded from his right knee. His broken nose hung to the left, twisted almost flat.

Malcolm pulled his arm back, aiming for the pile of barrels. He lurched forward, letting the lantern fly. It hit the barrels.

Malcolm could feel the heat hit his face, roasting a layer of skin. His shoulders popped as he hit the ground. Sven pulled at his shirt, dragging him along the ground. A blast of fresh air hit Malcolm’s face, shocking him back.

He stumbled to his feet, blinking a few times. A hundred feet away, the entire tent was ablaze, lighting up the night. The fire surged as it hit new barrels, shooting plumes of flame into the sky. Waves of heat poured out, along with a blanket of thick black smog.

“Armedious?” Malcolm groaned, clutching his side.

Sven grinned. “I think he be roastin’! A fittin’ end for the nasty boy!” He spat at the flames. All of sudden, his face dropped as he grasped his empty sheath. “My knife!” he groaned. “It be in the fiery flamin’ tent!” He inspected the blaze. “Do you be thinkin’ I could be goin’ back in? It be a shame to be leavin’ it.”

Malcolm chuckled. “I can get you a new knife.”

Sven wrinkled his nose. “Human blades be nasty.”

“Come on.” Malcolm groaned, tucking at Sven’s shirt. “We should get out of here.” He remembered the Tribes. Where were they? He glanced out at the camp. The flaming pillars had died down, along with most of the small fires. Men picked through the remains of the burned tents, poking with long spears. Their shining helmets glinted in the fire light.

The Tribes don’t wear metal armor. Malcolm realized. He tried to focus again, squinting through the dark. A banner fluttered above the camp, its golden tree snapping in the wind.

“What do they be doin’ here?!” Sven shouted, setting Malcolm down. He stared at the army in a mixture of delight and disgust. “We were takin’ care of the bad men!”

“Sven,” Malcolm gasped. He pointed to his side. “Can you get a medic?”

Sven nodded, then darted away into the camp, his little feet beating against the ground.

Malcolm stared at the sky. The last of the stars had begun to fade behind the layer of thick smoke. They twinkled faintly before disappearing, leaving only a black and grey mass. An orange glow rose from the flames, giving the illusion of a sunrise. Then Sven’s face filled his view, along with a familiar mustache.

Gentle hands grasped Malcolm’s left side, gently massaging the ribs. “Not too serious,” Oswald commented, brushing bits of ash from his mustache. He grabbed Malcolm’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “Give it a few days rest. Not much I can accomplish right now.” He smiled kindly, giving Malcolm a pat on the back.

“How are you here?” Malcolm muttered.

Oswald chuckled. “A night guard noticed the letter you left, and notified the Queen. Then we saw the smoke, and rallied as many as we could,” he gestured out at the decimated camp. “You made quite a show. Last I heard, we got most of the Tribesmen. Tomorrow we will search the rest of the area,” he paused taking a long look at the carnage. “No sign of Armedious.”

Beside him, Sven chuckled. “We were takin’ care of him,” he pointed to the flaming tent. “The nasty prince won’t be botherin’ you anymore!”

Oswald puckered his lips. “I fear he may have deserved that.”