Warriors would sometime speak of the blessings of the Dread Lord playing into their successes or failures on the battlefield. These often manifested as auspicious natural disasters that negatively affected their enemies. In the Machines Works such happenstances were unheard of and it was expected that anything natural would only hamper a project’s progress. The only blessings that helped along expansion, refurbishing, or repairs came from forms. Properly completed forms: ones that cross-referenced guidance; bore excessive approvals; and were submitted timely were the one thing that saw a project to completion or left to languish.

It seemed life outside the Machines Works or battle was nowhere near as simple. Tad and Glum were left gobsmacked with the realization that a properly completed form was now a hinderance to their advancement into the world of warriors and War Parties. Although, looking at his boss from the corner of his eye, Tad realized Glum seemed less upset about the sudden frustration than he.

Above them, leaning over the edge of a counter meant for an orc, was the stable master. Framed by piled ledgers and stacks of paper held down with horseshoes, he pored over Toran’s requisition form. The papers rattled in his unsteady grip as he tipped them dangerously close to the flame of a dripping candle. While he read, his lips flexed as though he was muttering, but the only noises were phlegm-filled “ah”s of surprise or “oh”s of confusion as he read and re-read the requisition.

“It was completed by Doctor Toran,” Glum said, as though reminding the stable master of something so apparent would address whatever unvoiced concerns he had.

“Yes, I know the elf doctor’s signature,” the manager replied, sharp and agitated. “I’ve seen it many times before! It’s just that I’m used to seeing him present a requisition form in person. Usually he gets a horse.” He paused to clear his throat, patting his chest as he did. “He gets a horse to go to the outlying settlements of the Great Dread Lord Withering Sorrows’ domain. Research or an outbreak or something. But he comes back after a month or so.”

“That’s not the case here,” Glum explained.

“I know that’s not the case here!” The stable manager held one sheet over the edge of the table while jabbing a finger at it. “He wrote that you’ll be taking two animals ‘indefinitely’! Do you know what that means?”

“It means we’re more likely than not to be dead by the time the animals are returned to you,” Tad answered. He’d gleaned the meaning from seeing the word on previous forms. However, Glum’s scowl told him this was not the right answer or at least not in this context.

“So, you do understand!” The managers lips twisted and curled after he finished speaking. Although his boss rolled his eyes in defeat Tad was smiling. “Says here you’ve …” There was another wet coughing fit which the old goblin tried to stifle it by cupping his hand over his mouth. “Says that you’ve been assigned to the War Party of Hohza?” He leaned over the counter and peered down at Tad and Glum with a critical eye. “You two are from the Machines Works, are you not?” He pointed at Glum’s walking stick, which was a large, repurposed screw. “You, sir, seem hardly able to lift yourself, let alone a sword. The pair of you are not warriors.”

“Yes!” Glum said, stiffening his posture as much as his hunched back would allow. “Glum, Senior Director of the Fifth Quadrant Pipes and Gears Works, and this is my assistant, Tad. We are not warriors. At last, somebody can recognize that!”

“I’m a—” Tad began, wanting to be more accurate about his title. He fell silent once both elder goblins gave him disapproving sneers. “Never mind.”

“Well, I’m not sure why two Machines Works goblins have been recruited into an orc’s War Party, but Hohza is just mad enough an orc to do something like that,” the manager commented. He returned to scrutinizing the form by squinting at it as he practically pressed the pages against his face. “It would explain why this requisition came from Toran.”

Tad’s hands balled up into fists as the goblin continued to criticize Hohza’s judgment. How would an orc respond to hearing his War Master so maligned? Should he challenge this codger to a battle? He looked up and realized such a thing would be cruel. This goblin seemed to struggle to sit, let alone fight. He sighed and loosened.

“How about I put down three weeks? By then, either Hohza will have realized his mistake, or you’ll be dead. I’ll have my animals back either way.” The manager chuckled as he pulled a quill from a well. “We’re not in the business of making ‘indefinite’ assignments.”

That anger came roaring back. Tad raised his right arm and pointed at the old goblin above. “Maybe you’d be dead in three weeks, but Glum and I are going to be just fine serving under War Master Hohza! You know, goblins can be warriors, too! They do it all the time up north,” he shouted with spittle flying from his mouth.

Although his lips worked like he was responding to Tad, it took a moment before words came from the stable master. “Those goblins up north are just short orcs,” the manager responded. He jabbed the quill at Glum. Specks of ink flew off its tip and stained his shirt. “You, Senior Director of the Fifth Quadrant Pipes and Gears Works, need to teach your assistant how to behave himself!”

“Oh, yes,” Glum grumbled. “That’s certainly gotten us into trouble before.”

Not recently, Tad thought.

“Very well, if we’re unofficially going to stick to ‘indefinite’ then I am not giving you the pick of the lot. I’ve a couple of experienced beasts I can assign to you. Have either of you spend much time riding?”

“I do, actually,” Glum answered. His tone was swelled with pride. “Served in the Logistic Corps during the war with Dread Lord Elated Hunger.” He’d talked about his time in the Logistic Corps many times before, and whether it was in boast or regret depended on how much he’d drunk.

“And your assistant?”

“I’ve shown him a thing or two.” His lie was punctuated by a sidelong glance at Tad, a warning not to contradict him. Nobody took animals into the Machines Works.

“Well, ‘a thing or two’ is all he’ll need. These animals have been in service so long they practically ride themselves. They’ve even seen their share of combat. The wolf, he was in the Logistic Corps. While the boar came from a farm out east. Mostly just been used to ride around the domain but got caught up in some skirmishes along the northern border based on his record.” He paused and leaned toward Tad. “I can assure you he was not ridden by any warrior goblins up there.”

“I’m sure they’ll serve us admirably,” Glum said. He lifted one hand off his cane and mimicked making a signature in the air. “If you will?”

“Yes, of course.” The stable master scrawled his own name onto the sheets along with initials and dates. Finally, he offered the sheets with streaks of black ink to Tad. He took them, hoping he did so slow enough not to be perceived as “snatching.” The Manager still murmured a tone of disapproval and rolled his eyes towards Glum, who nodded silent agreement with his judgment.

“It was a pleasure to deal with you, Senior Director of the Fifth Quadrant Pipes and Gears Works and his less-than-cordial assistant. Make sure to get a signature on page three, not four, from the Head Hostler. A signature on page two is sufficient, so long as all four of you counter sign on page five,” the stable master yelled as Tad and Glum left his office.

“Stable goblins are an odd lot,” Glum commented to Tad once the door swung closed behind them. A gust blew away the lingering air of the stuffy office. “They’re used to dealing with animals instead of goblins. With animals, it’s all about gnashing teeth and growling loudest or just offering food.”

There was a covered walkway from the office to the stables. On either side of its triangular roof was a peek at the gray blue sky streaked with wispy clouds. The air was laden with the musk of fur and dung mingled with the peat of the Drink Town bog. The goblins’ bare feet slapped against wobbly wooden slats on the ground.

“I wasn’t growling,” Tad said. He sulked by digging his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

“He was being unnecessarily unpleasant.”

“You could have stood up for me!”

“There was no point in making him angry while we still needed him to sign the requisition form! It’s always about politics, Tad.”

The walkway ended at an arch. Once they passed beneath it the breezeway walkway was replaced by the stifling stable. The crowded animals produced a heat and stench that was entirely unlike the clean steam of the Machines Works. The noises were different, too, as instead of a relaxing drone as parts spun and grinded predictably there were snuffles and neighing. As the two goblins strolled past pens which held thick-built horses and bulls meant for orcs the animals would butt against the gates or make a sloppy huff in their direction. While Tad zig zagged to avoid animal’s attention Glum proceeded unconcerned.

Finally, they made it to the goblin end of the stables, with pens filled with wolves, boars, and ponies. All the ponies’ pens had the Logistics Corps logo, a quill beside a gear, burnt on the gates.

A chubby goblin approached the pair. Rubbing his hands on a soiled cloth he seemed to be merely rearranging whatever filth was caked to his fingers rather than removing it. “I’m Munt. How can I help you?” His tone barely hid impatience behind practiced friendliness, which he punctuated with an exaggerated smile.

Glum took the lead. “I’m Glum and that’s Tad. We’re here to collect two animals. The stable master said there were experienced animals you could provide?” He stepped aside so Tad could present the requisition forms.

Munt snatched the forms from Tad and rifled through them. As he did, he smeared them with whatever was on his hands. As though hearing the punchline to a joke he smiled and cast a sidelong glance to a pen in the far corner. In it were two animals: a sleeping wolf with shaggy faded brows and a corpulent boar with milky eyes and crooked tusks.

Turning on his heel, Munt yelled out: “Greybrow! Keg!” The yawned himself awake as he ambled to the pen’s fate. The boar trotted with surprising enthusiasm, although his narrowed eyes made him seem more murderous than friendly. “They’re a little past their prime, but they’ve served well and still have a couple of good years left.” Munt found a page and deliberately swiped his thumb to leave a brown streak on a signature line. He handed the soiled pages back to Tad. “I’ll go get bridles and saddles for them. Says here you’re to take them into battle. Would you like razor attachments for the tusks?”

Tad looked the boar over. He did seem to be sporting impressive tusks, even if they did jut in skewed directions. Tad imagined charging into to battle astride a beast with all manner of blades attached to his tusks to slash elven legs to tatters.

Glum squashed the notion. “We’re just in War Master Hohza’s War Party,” he explained. “But we’re acting as advisors and not warriors. We wouldn’t need to arm these animals; we’ll just be riding them around the domain.”

“Uh-huh,” was Munt’s dismissive response. He walked away to seek saddles and bridles, grumbling about mismanaged inventory as he did.

The boar plopped his rear on the stable floor and sat, his forelegs dangling. He stared at Tad with a scrutinizing squint. The boy felt the swine was assessing whether he was worthy of his momentary fantasy of combat. The two looking between the wooden slats of the fence at one another. Tad leaned closer, but then the boar made a high-pitched roar which made him jerk away.

“I guess you picked your animal,” Glum said. He placed his hand on Tad’s shoulder.

“I don’t think this one likes me.”

“Nonsense, he’s a boar. Perfectly agreeable creatures. It’s the tusks. Makes them feel like we’re kin.” He tapped his cane against the pen wall. The boar rolled to his feet and scurried off to the back of the pen, his wide rear waggling as he did. “Better I take the wolf, anyway. They’re more likely to eat inexperienced riders.”

Proving more agreeable than he initially seemed, although filthier, Munt provided Tad and Glum with cursory instruction on attaching the accoutrements of riding. Working with the animals directly seemed to instill him with more energy than when he was handling paperwork and dealing with fellow goblins. Although Tad was loathe to handle the equipment as Munt handed it to him, as it was always dirtied by his hands, he appreciated being shown how to get the bridle around the head, coax the mouth open to insert the bit, and climb into the saddle.

After a couple of hours Tad and Glum rode out of the stable and Tad enthusiastically waved farewell to Munt. In response, the goblin spit on the ground as he pulled the stable door shut.

Drunk goblins stumbled from bars and gawked at Tad and Glum as they rode through Drink Town that afternoon. Rarely were goblins allowed to ride, and usually only the Logistics Corps and their ponies. Wolves and boars were meant for war, and goblins didn’t ride to war. Tad wished he had a vicious butter knife hanging from his hip so he could fill the role the other goblins insisted Ottis could not.

Once outside of Drink Town, Glum turned to Tad. “We’re going to go back to the dormitories to collect our stuff,” he said. He kicked his heels against the wolf’s sides and the animal dashed down the road, panting.

Tad tried to follow, but when his feet bounced off Keg’s soft sides the animal turned and heading back towards the bars. “No, no that way!” He jerked at the reins again and the pig swung about and squealed in frustration. A group of goblins passing them on the road chuckled at the sight. Tad’s cheeks burned as he hunkered into the saddle. “Keg,” he barked, startling both boar and goblins. He tapped the animal’s forehead and then held his arm out. Keg went cross-eyed as he tracked Tad’s hand above. Slowly, Tad swung his arm to point in the direction of Glum and Greybrow. “This way,” he commanded.

Perhaps these animal’s experience hadn’t been oversold by the stable master. Keg obeyed and trotted where Tad wanted. He gave the mocking goblins a knowing wink as he passed them and caught up with his boss.

“Yes, fine animals we’ve got here.” Glum stroked the top of Greybrow’s head, who responded with a pleased, guttural moan. “Not sure how battle worthy they are. But then, neither are we. Still, they’ll get us where we need to go.” He looked up and leaned forward to peer at a road sign. “Speaking of which, we part ways here.”

Being in upper management, Glum was afforded more luxurious housing from the rank-and-file assistants. Tad had glimpsed it only a few times and was envious of Glum having his own room.

Despite his words, Glum didn’t leave Tad at that point. Instead, astride Greybrow, he circled Tad. As he did he stared at the boy the same way he did when he suspected him of lying to hide a mistake he’d made.

Averting his eyes, Tad whimpered: “I’ll see you at the Dread Lord’s Keep after I collect my things.”

Glum stopped before Tad and he leaned over Greybrow’s head to speak closely. “Tad, we could not go to the Keep,” he said in a soft voice, as though afraid the wind might carry his words.

“There’s a War Council this evening.”

“We’ve been formally dismissed from the Machine Works. We’ve been given these fine steeds.” He patted Greybrow on the head. “We could go elsewhere, Tad. Maybe to one of the outer settlements?”

For most, once you emerged from the cave you were assigned for life. There were tales of servants of the Dread Lord who fled their posts; an orc farmer seeking to be a warrior or perhaps a Machines Works goblin wishing to till the land. Such attempts at changing one’s fate always ended in disaster. Tad knew of a goblin who had come from Terror Fields to service the Machines Works and found himself jellied between the teeth of two gears.

It was already enough of a risk for them to join a War Party. At least they’d been invited to that.

A sly smile crept across Tad’s face. “Is Hohza’s rebelliousness catching, Glum? Or are you going North Country on me?”

The elder goblin slumped in his saddle. As he and Greybrow rode down the road toward the Managers’ Quarters, he called out: “I’ll see you at the Keep.” He sounded as unenthusiastic as when Hohza praised the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows.