The Keykeeper's Heart

A "Phoenix Rising" Story

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A freshly edited reupload of a novelette that I wrote last summer for an Iron Age Media submission, “The Keykeeper’s Heart” is a spinoff of my webcomic Phoenix Rising, which itself is the first major story I’ve written for my greater setting of Palanor. While it is a spinoff, the story is written to work as a standalone piece that follows Umby Keykeeps, a goblin mechanic who finds himself with an irresistible urge to return to a home he once fled

It had been many years since Umby Keykeeps had last visited his gobtribe. Not since he’d become the chief mechanic of the Blue-Jay, a rather sturdy and sizable and sadly long gone Cirussan merchant airship that had been rather elegant in its brutish simplicity, (elegant by his goblin standards, anyway) had he seen so much as a pointy ear or stringy hair or pale wart of his home tribe. That, of course, was by design. Most gobtribes were seen as a nuisance by the tallsteppers, goblin parlance for the myriad mixes of humans, elves, and even the rare dwarf that made up most of the civilized world. In the steam powered technocracy that was Ciruss that remained no different, and Umby remembered the insults that were thrown at him and his kind very well.

Implings.

Junk monkeys.

Greenskins.

That last one baffled him when he was younger. Couldn’t the tallsteppers see that not all goblins were green? In fact, most of them weren’t! They were yellow! But those were the ignorant thoughts of his youth. Time and experience taught him that most didn’t care about the distinction, and he realized the same was true of himself in reverse. No matter what shade of pink or brown they might be, to Umby and almost every other goblin, a tallstepper was a tallstepper.

However, the truth was that the prejudices of the tall towards the small weren’t the genuine reason why he left. It was an excuse he used, something he cited whenever he was inevitably interrogated as to why he was wandering outside the confines of Junktown; an effective garbage heap that the gobtribes somehow turned into a semblance of a working society through their blend of tinkering, pilfering, and general mischief.

“Umby prove his way better! Umby is clever gobbie who can fixmaking machines! Not stupid dummy dum-dums like bullyboys back in gobtribes!”

None of them ever listened, not until he stowed away on the Blue-Jay and forced a situation where he could prove himself after being caught. But the truth of why he left lay in those words. Umby really did want to prove his way was better, to show that his cleverness and his strong understanding of the steam and coal engines that powered everyday life in the nation’s self-titled capital put him above the thieving and the pilfering and the bullying that the typical baughwams were known for. (The tallsteppers usually called these brutish gobs “bullyboys.”) But ever since his friends started planning to make the journey to the central city a few days ago, the little green thief-turned-mechanic felt a deep rooted urge to return to his old home.

“You are terrible ideahaving, Umby Keykeeps, to have thinkmake of coming home to gobtribe,” he muttered to himself as he picked his way through the high stacked heaps of scrap and garbage that comprised Junktown.

To the untrained or unawares eye these towers of mostly mechanical detritus looked like any old heap of unwanted or obsolete junk. But to a former resident like Umby, they presented both threat and opportunity. Despite their seemingly random and haphazard nature, these myriad piles were actually a clever ruse utilized by the gobtribes, a camouflage that would help keep their doings secret from outside intruders.

Each and every one of these crudely constructed stacks stood anywhere from ten to twenty feet high, and each had a near perfect fifty-fifty chance of either being a legitimate pile of loosely heaped refuse that could easily be toppled over, or a disguised gobtribe lair housing anywhere from a dozen to two hundred of his kind, depending on their size. Goblins would swarm from these structures to ambush their victims, sometimes even choosing to topple them from within in order to trap particularly tough prey beneath the weight of the iron, steel, lead, and wood refuse that was used to build these hive-like constructions. Umby had no desire to end up that way, so he picked his way between the towers as quickly as his little legs would allow. But the deeper he got into Junktown, and the more of his kith he saw poke their heads out to watch him along the way, the more he started to feel like listening to that instinct was a mistake.

The sole solace he took in this solo sojourn was the fact that the tribe he’d been born to was Bollwogg’s, the sole living hobgoblin of the Junktown tribes. Hobgoblins were a rarity amongst the gobtribes. Stronger, smarter, and usually much crueler than even the most malicious goblin mischief makers, hobgoblins stood taller than most of the tallsteppers that didn’t have pointy ears and usually commanded isolated clans of their own. It was rare to find one ruling over its lesser kin without them being serfs to a hobgoblin clan. The fact that’s what Bollwogg did was evidence of his own disgrace amongst his kind, not that many gobs beneath him would ever dare to openly say that. Most of the older generations had seen what happened to those who questioned his authority, and the younger kin who didn’t quickly learned to keep their big yaps shut when they eventually saw the gruesome examples Bollwogg made of dissenters.

Which only made Umby question that instinct all the more. Why in the world would he follow this urge to come back? Had he gone mad? He didn’t think so, but how else could he explain this compulsion to return? It wasn’t as if he felt homesick while he was away, and if he were to feel that about something it would’ve been the Blue-Jay. Yet on he went, his little heart thumping harder and harder in his chest with each bend he rounded and each makeshift alley he slipped through and each trash mound he scaled.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he saw Bollwogg’s fortress, a vicious construct of twenty foot high walls surrounded by an uneven palisade of broken girders and sharpened pipes, almost all of them rusted or stained with blackened goblin blood. The walls themselves were chiefly made from scavenged airship parts, hastily put together with a mix of rusty nails, broken bolts, stolen rivets, and the occasional rail spike. It gave the walls a look reminiscent of a chaotically stitched patchwork quilt that replaced its cloth with splintering wood and dented metal. Canvas banners painted in yellow and black, colors which Umby made sure to wear on his cloak, hung from the crude parapets. A half dozen pikes fashioned from lead pipes jutted out from these, each one pierced through the ribs and rotting clothes of near skeletal goblins.

“Hey lo?! Who bygoings there!” called a guard from the parapet. His voice was gravelly and so wet with phlegm that it sounded like he had slugs in his throat.

Umby’s heart sank into his stomach. He knew this was a horrible idea! Staring almost dumbfounded at the fat and warty yellow face of the guard, who looked right back at him through a pair of cracked brass framed welder’s goggles, he swallowed nervously and answered in a shaky tone.

“Noonebeing!” he said, swiftly turning around to head back where he came.

“Nobeing?” the guard repeated. “But skinnygob is wearhaving Bollwogg’s colors. Who you amsbeing? Is you here for spymake?”

Umby had almost forgotten how stupid some of his kinfolk could be. If the tallsteppers suspected someone of being a spy, they certainly wouldn’t ask them if they were with such nonchalance. But then again, it was just as likely this bully boy thought Umby was one of Bollwogg’s spies coming back to report. It wasn’t uncommon for the skinnier, weaker ones like himself to end up in that role, especially if they were clever. Umby might well have ended up as such if his nimble fingers hadn’t once been put to work picking the locks and pockets of tallsteppers outside of Junktown. He considered denying it and trying to leave again, but something deep inside him to press this new advantage, even though every instinct he had told him he should be getting away.

After a moment, he gave in and listened to that strange urge tugging at the back of his mind. Turning around suddenly, he brought a leather gloved finger to his lips and loudly shushed the guard. “Dummyhead must be quietmaking!” he hissed. “Does stupid baughwam want other gobbies to hearmake secretkeeps?”

The pudgy bully boy tilted his head like a confused dog. Umby smacked both hands against his face in mock frustration, his long and narrow dark green nose peeking out between the thick brown leather of his gloves. “Secretkeeps bringcome with knowings from gobtribes!” he hissed again, this time far more harsh and urgent. “Now openmake so Um-” He dragged on that “em” sound for a couple seconds. He’d almost slipped up, almost given his real name. This gob might not know it, but Bollwogg was sure to. He had a long memory for deserters and escapees.

“So Umblott can secretgive!”

Umblott. A fairly common goblin name. It should be serviceable enough to get him inside, though Umby still felt like he’d gone crazy for even thinking to do this. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how he looked at it - the weight he put in his words sank in with the guard. His bulbous face ducked behind the parapet and a half minute later he’d pushed open the gate and was waving “Umblott” inside. And despite his better judgment, Umby followed him.

The fortress was every bit the reeking pit Umby remembered, though calling it a fortress seemed a lot less apt once he’d gotten back inside. Leaving Junktown and Ciruss as a whole gave the wiry little goblin a clearer perspective on these things. Having traveled much of the continent during his few years as the Blue-Jay’s mechanic before the ship was brought down in the primal jungle Dekhand, far to the southwest, he’d seen considerably more than anyone else in Bollwogg’s tribe ever had, even the old hobgoblin himself. Apart from the outer walls, which looked considerably more menacing than they actually were once one saw just how rickety they were on the inside, the hobgoblin’s hovel hardly qualified when compared to the Oasyrians and their elegant spires and curving walls or the remnant Bayelans with their penchant for placing sturdy and well guarded perimeter defenses around both their lavish open-walled estates and each individual district within their last remaining desert city. Even the Khavosans, viciously imperialist elf folk whose ancestors were rumored to have cavorted with darksome powers, were possessed of a certain brutal efficacy that contributed to their ability to maintain and defend their slowly expanding borders almost as much as the harsh badlands in which most of their would-be empire sat.

Bollwogg’s “keep,” if you could really call it that, sat at the center of his fortifications surrounded by about a dozen smaller gobmounds. It was easily the largest structure in Junktown and to say it wasn’t imposing would’ve been a lie. But though his nerves had been fraying when he first arrived, Umby found that while it still reeked of acrid piss and shit,  it was no longer as frightening as he once found it. He could see through the lie now, and what once looked like seemingly impregnable walls of wood and iron and steel roofed with thick canvas sheets commonly used to make the balloons used by Cirussan dirigibles and ornithopters now appeared as the shoddy shanty it was. None of that meant he was taking his decision lightly, of course. As he followed the goblin guard inside - Krebblatch was his name - he made sure to take note of every possible escape route he could take, his large and sharp eyes spotting gaps in the walls that his bully boy brothers had missed. Umby also had foresight enough to cover most of his face, hiding his eyes behind his old welding goggles and covering his nose and mouth with a large black and yellow scarf.

They entered into a small antechamber, or at least the closest thing to an antechamber they had. The room was oblong and semi-rectangular, though its corners and far edges were bent in odd ways. Thinking on it some, Umby realized it looked kind of like a weird shape that his friends’ resident wizardboy, Ahote, had told him about once. That tallstepper, distinctly marked as Oasyrian by his fair skin and grayish hair that almost looked like spun silver, always seemed to have his face buried in some book or another, scrawling down arcane formulas and making notes on this or that. The worst was when he rambled about it, though, because it was almost impossible to get him to stop and some random thing would always get stuck in Umby’s head to bother him later. Today it was that shape, which he finally remembered was something called a trapezoid. Tallsteppers certainly had some strange words.

“Umblott is to be herewaiting,” Krebblatch said. The pudgy goblin pointed to the mud tracked floor beneath his feet. “Krebblatch will speaksay of Umblott’s coming to boss Bollwogg!”

Krebblatch tilted his head up and stuck out his chest as he said that, looking far too proud for his station. He didn’t stay that way for very long, though, his self aggrandizing grin slowly fading into a look of stupefied realization when it finally dawned on him that he never asked “Umblott” what he’d come to report. Glancing to his left, then his right, the yellow-skinned guard’s shoulders slumped as he leaned forward to half whisper the question Umby knew was coming: “Um, what’s Umblott gonna speaksay to the boss again?”

If Krebblatch had asked that when they were outside, Umby wouldn’t have had a good answer. Fortunately the stupid and gullible bully boy was so taken by Umby’s bluff that his temporary fear of being punished by Bollwogg for letting a Secretkeeps be overheard pushed the notion of asking right out of his mind until this moment. That gave Umby plenty of time to think of a good excuse, though he hoped it would still be a reliable one. He’d been away from Junktown for a few years, and if it turned out his answer didn’t make any sense then he’d have to scramble to get out of here as quick as his little legs could take him.

“Krebblatch is not knowing?” Umby said, feigning surprise. “Umblott Secretkeeps is having secretknowings of Skippwap!”

Now it was Krebblatch’s turn for surprise and to Umby’s relief and joy, the bully boy certainly was. “Skippwap?!” he exclaimed, looking around nervously. Skippwap was the leader of the second largest gobtribe in Junktown, and the only one who’d managed to genuinely interfere with Bollwogg’s doings. A charismatic wismwizz - tallsteppers called them “brain boys,” and Umby was a little proud to say he was counted among that type - Skippwap had managed to fold two smaller tribes into his own in an effort to challenge the hobgoblin, and ended up making himself quite the hated pest in the process. Bollwogg would surely want to-

“Is Umblott speaksaying that Skippwap is alivebeing again?”

Hells! Krebblatch’s words were spoken in a harsh and very nervous whisper. Umby’d been gone so long that he hadn’t even heard that Bollwogg’s chief rival had been killed! He needed an excuse and he needed one fast! What might the wizardboy say?

“Umblott” shifted uneasily, looking right, then left, then right again. Krebblatch was the only other gob in this room with him, he already knew that much, but he had to sell the idea that came to him. Leaning down just like the bully boy was, “Umblott” spoke into his ear with an equally harsh whisper.

“Nobody is sureknowing,” he hissed. “But Umblott rumorhears baughwams and wismwizzers from gobtribes all over speaksay Skippwap not really deadmade!”

Krebblatch snatched Umby by the wrist then, all but dragging the smaller goblin into Bollwogg’s throne room without another word spoken than a curt, “come!”

The thorne room, much like the rest of Bollwogg’s fortress, was much like Umby remembered it. Fortunately he never had to spend a lot of time here, but it was still hard to forget since it was the only part of his fortress that resembled opulence. The walls and canvas roof were just as shabby and crude as the rest of the place, but here that canvas had also been laid out across the floor where it was then buried beneath piles of various treasures. Some of these were legitimate, coin and gems and ingots and other valuables that Bollwogg’s boys managed to steal from the surrounding city or, more likely, the other tribes. Others verged on being junk, such as the scrapped frame of an old autocarriage or the propeller engine that hung suspended over the hobgoblin’s central throne. A dozen guards were posted all around the room, standing at silent attention while Krebblatch tugged Umby along to speak to the hobgoblin.

Folks who knew anything about hobgoblin society could instantly recognize why Bollwogg didn’t command others of his own kind. Hobgoblins were known for their cunning, their ferocity, and their strength, if not before their general ugliness. Bollwogg, though? He’d taken a different path, still of greed, but especially of gluttony. Flanked on either side by nearly nude goblin women holding goblets or chunks of meat, Bollwogg was absolutely massive by comparison. A once vibrantly colorful tunic that must’ve belonged to a wealthy man who traveled too far out of his way one unfortunate night barely managed to hold in the fatty bulk of his ash gray body. The thing was stained with wine and grease and had burst at most of its seams, exposing both his warty corpulence and his pallor. A large, reddish hooked nose curled down above fat lips and beady eyes of a sickly greenish-yellow stared down at the pair of goblins, while a pair of jagged ears stuck out the sides of his head and tapered off into dull points..

“What’s the meaning of this?” Bollwogg demanded, spit and chunks of meat flying from his lips as he spoke, his voice stentorian and low. He held a charred pork rump in his meaty right hand. Rough chunks had been pulled from it by his crooked and wide spaced teeth and the rendered fat glistened in the light of gas lanterns as it dribbled down his chin rolls. “Can’t you see I’m enjoying my meal, you stupid little impling?”

Krebblatch flinched and very clearly wanted to skulk away, but he barely managed to hold his ground. “Krebblatch is sorry, bossgob!” he sputtered, dropping to his hands and knees in supplication. “But he comes with words to speaksay! Words from Umblott Secretkeeps!”

The hobgoblin’s eyes shifted from Krebblatch to the still masked Umby, his lips curled into a horribly unpleasant sneer. “And just what is so important that it requires you to interrupt my lunch?” His voice exploded as he spoke, and in a fit of sudden anger common to the corpulent chief he hurled the hunk of charred meat at Krebblatch’s head. It struck with a dull, wet thump, and when Krebblatch didn’t move Umby realized that the snap he thought he heard was the bully boy’s neck snapping.

Suddenly his fear was returning to him, and he was very thankful for the scarf and goggles. Bollwogg reveled in causing fear among his subordinates and his enemies alike. If he saw how scared Umby really was, he’d spare no effort to draw that out for as long as possible strictly for his own enjoyment.

“Well?” Bollwogg demanded. “You useless implings have already interrupted! You may as well make yourself useful by telling me what you know.”

Umby swallowed his nerves, then dropped to his hands and knees and bowed his head. Oh yes, he still remembered very well how Bollwogg was to be addressed when angry. It was very hard to forget, considering he was almost always angry. “Boss Bollwogg, so mighty and biground,” he began, stroking the ego of the corpulent hobgoblin by showing the so-called respect he so enjoyed, “Umblott Secretkeeps comebrings knowings from gobtribes! They speaksay…”

His words trailed. The nerves were getting to him. Bollwogg just killed one of his guards merely for interrupting his lunch, and here Umby was about to falsely claim that his biggest rival was still alive? He was starting to reconsider whether or not he’d actually gone mad.

“Speak already!” Bollwogg barked.

Umby took a deep breath, then continued. “The gobtribes speaksay that Boss Skippwap is not really deadbeing!”

Silence. Painful, agonizing, terrifying silence. It drew on for at least a minute, though with how fast Umby’s heart was pounding in his chest it felt closer to ten. Finally, when Bollwogg spoke again, his words were unusually measured.

“Impossible,” he said, and Umby peeked up to see he was still being sneered at with utter contempt. “Skippwap hangs from my battlements, along with those idiot subordinates of his.”

Bollwogg’s throne creaked and groaned beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one of his meaty hands sinking into the flesh of his thigh. He regarded Umby with a cold and calculated curiosity, furrowing a hairless brow. “What did you say your name was, again?”

“Umblott Secretkeeps.”

“Umblott Secretkeeps, eh?” Bollwogg said the name as if he were rolling it against his tongue. Yet again his throne creaked and whined as he sat back again, the worn wood and metal straining against his weight. “I don’t recall there being an Umblott Secretkeeps in my tribe.”

The ashy hobgoblin smacked his meaty hands together. The loud clap made the skin on his arms and belly jiggle unpleasantly. “Bring him closer and throw that other one outside!”

Then the four guards closest to Umby moved. He sprung to his feet, looking back and forth between them in a visible panic as they approached him. Behind him, Bollwogg snickered. “What’s the matter? If you’re one of my spies then you have nothing to fear. Isn’t that right, Umblott?”

A pair of the bully boys dashed for Umby and they stumbled to the ground. As they wrestled around the other two dragged Krebblatch’s corpse outside. Umby flailed against the larger bully boys, kicking and elbowing and using his admittedly large head to land at least one good headbutt that bloodied the nose of one guard. He was swiftly overpowered, though, and a solid kick to his ribs knocked the air out of his lungs. All the while, Bollwogg’s snicker grew into cruelly amused guffaws.

When Umby was dragged before him, the hobgoblin demanded the guards remove his face coverings. The goggles and scarf were both yanked free, though his hood was left up. Bollwogg narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue. Umby could see recognition flash in his eyes, but it wasn’t complete. His pallid lips, lined with bright red cracks and still glistening with spit and pork fat, curled down and his nose crinkled. Umby could smell the stink of that charred meat on his already rancid breath. It had the stomach churning qualities of spoiled salt pork and fish guts, so malodorous that even he wanted to retch, and he was a goblin! They were used to handling unpleasant stinks!

Sitting upright again, Bollwogg waved a bulbous hand and his guards stepped away. “I’ve seen your face before,” he said, “but Umblott Secretkeeps is still unfamiliar to me. There is only one recourse!”

Bollwogg turned to one of the servant girls, eyeing her with a disgustingly lecherous intensity before he spoke. “Fetch me the cage!”

Immediately she ran off, returning a few moments later with a small gilded birdcage in both hands. It was dented, the gold flake peeling away, but Umby could see something inside of it. He tilted his head slightly, craning his neck to try and get a better look inside as Bollwogg grabbed it by the ring at the top that it would normally hang from. For a moment, when the hobgoblins gaze was on him again, he was afraid the old bastard might strike at him for trying to peek, but then he realized the other goblins present were trying to do the same.

Bollwogg struck the cage with his free hand. It banged and rattled and the little creature inside loosed a pitiful and squeaky cry. “Up, you wretched little thing! I have need of your eyes.” Then the hobgoblin lowered the cage, holding it directly in front of Umby’s face.

His eyes went wide. It was a pixie! She was small, no larger than a sparrow, and so skinny that she looked emaciated. But she was still remarkably beautiful. She had skin the color of pale jade and her gossamer wings glistened with scintillant rainbows as they twitched and fluttered in the light of the gas lamps. Vine-like patterns of pastel red and violet lined her body, and both her hands and feet were colored the same, gradiating from that jade green at the ankles, to the violet, and finally that red on her fingers and toes. Her hair was black as jet and she looked up at him with large, crestfallen opaline eyes.

“Speak, Umblott. Tell it what you told me, and we'll learn if you’re lying.”

Umby stared at the fae creature for a long moment. Too long for Bollwogg’s liking, who shook the cage and made the little pixie wail in fright. Slowly, nervously, Umby repeated his story, noting the wide grin of satisfaction on the hobgoblin’s face. He’d believed he caught himself a liar, and he had. As Umby spoke the pixie’s eyes glowed faintly, and he felt the strangest sensation that he was being watched on a deeper level than he realized. It wasn’t just that he felt like he was being watched, though. It was far more than that, something profound that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. When he finished retelling his lie, he looked with grim expectation between Bollwogg and the pixie. He still wore that satisfied grin, but she sat with both her hands clutching the bars in desperation, staring up at Umby with a look that said everything words could not in this moment - “Help me!”

Suddenly the cage was yanked away! Bollwogg smacked the side of it with his hand again! The metal rattled and reverberated with the kind of soft clang that only the multiple small bars of a basket or small cage can make. Then he smacked it again, leaving a new dent where the cage started to curve up towards its top. “Tell me, you little beast! Is he truthful or not?”

The pixie looked back at Umby, pleading wordlessly once more. Then, just as Bollwogg was about to strike her cage again, she turned to the hobgoblin and nodded once. “He is,” she said, her voice tiny and soft and honey sweet. “Umblott’s heart speaks true.”

Umby couldn’t believe his luck! After the pixie made her judgment and concealed his lies from Bollwogg, the fat hobgoblin handed her off to one of his servant girls and started to hatch plans around Umby’s claim. He still didn’t believe Skippwap had somehow returned, but he did concede that some fool goblin out there could be trying to use his name to build up his own notoriety. Whether it was true or not, though, Bollwogg wasn’t about to let any of that stand. Rising from his creaking throne, he grabbed up his heavy falchion and moved with heavy, plodding steps outside, demanding that the tribe be gathered. It took no more than two minutes for every goblin under Bollwogg’s rule to appear.

“Listen well to your chief!” he bellowed, demanding the attention of all present. All except for Umby. As Bollwogg gave his speech, inciting the gobtribe into furious rancor over the idea that that Skippwap could still command his own goblins from beyond the grave, Umby snuck back into the throne room and began to search the piles of treasure for the little pixie in her cage. She had to have been there somewhere. Bollwogg had no other chambers where he could hide things like that. Plus the corpulent ass was so arrogant that he would’ve wanted her kept someplace where she could easily be shown off, and that was before taking whatever magic she was being used for into consideration.

Umby had thought that maybe the whole thing was a ruse, that the pixie couldn’t actually see the truth behind people’s words the way Bollwogg believed she could. He wouldn’t put it past the old hobgoblin to convince himself that she could, or that he was lying himself and would use her as a means of keeping his minions in check. The threat of having their lies exposed at any time was certainly one way for him to keep order, but the fear he instilled in his considerably smaller kin was already more than enough. But Umby was sure her power was real. Maybe it wasn’t what Bollwogg thought, but there was no doubt that she did use magic to peer at something within him. Three of his four traveling companions were spellcasters themselves, after all. One didn’t spend the majority of their time surrounded by tallsteppers of that persuasion and not pick up on some of the tells that came with the use of magic. Not unless they were stupid, anyway, and Umby wasn’t stupid.

Neither was Bollwogg, though, much as Umby hated to admit that fact. Yes the hobgoblin would absolutely like to show her off, but valuable as she was for him he wouldn’t just leave her in the open somewhere. He’d keep her hidden and close, tucked away somewhere she couldn’t be easily seen. But it would also have to be someplace he could access with relative ease, even for one of his colossal bulk. So, where? There weren’t any chambers he could hide her in. The closest one was the trapezoidal antechamber at the entrance to his ramshackle keep, and there was no chance he’d keep her in there. No, there was only one reasonable place it would be, the one place where Bollwogg spent the overwhelming majority of his time. Sure enough, when Umby sank to his hands and knees and took a peek underneath the hollow back of Bollwogg’s throne, he saw the cage and the pixie within.

Umby hadn’t expected the response he got when he reached under the throne to roll the cage out. He didn’t really know what response he expected. Fear was probably the most likely, but when the pixie saw him again she stood as upright as she could and tried to help him along. He wasn’t sure if the servant girl just tossed the cage down on its side or if it tipped over on its own after she put it back, but the result was the same either way; the cage sat on its side, and as Umby carefully rolled it out the pixie cooperatively started walking in his direction, helping it along. Once it was close enough for him to pick it up he took it in both hands and began to observe the pixie.

“Why you liemake for Umby?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“I didn’t,” she answered. She was looking at him with that pleading look in her eyes again. “I said your heart speaks true, and it does. I recognized you for what you are as soon as I saw you.”

Umby started looking around, then looking over himself. Recognized him for what he was? He wasn’t really sure what that meant, and his confusion must’ve shown clearly because the pixie explained a moment later.

“A goodly soul,” she said. Then she motioned towards her eyes with those slender red fingers of hers. “I am gifted amongst my kind, born with opal eyes. They let me see things most of my sisters and brothers cannot, like a person’s truest nature.”

“But how you herecoming?” Umby asked. “Umby not ever seeing you when Umby leave first time.”

She shook her head and sunk into a seat at the bottom of the cage with her knees hugged up to her chest. “No, you wouldn’t have. You left well before I came here, I saw it. I could feel your presence as you neared this place, like gentle breezes on my wings.” Said wings fluttered as she spoke, their gossamer scintillating once more. “I can feel all the faefolk around here, every single one of your kind. Most of them radiate with malice and mischief, but not all of them. Some, not many but a few, are warm little candle flames You’re one of those, or you were at least. Yours is much hotter, much stronger.”

Umby wasn’t sure what all of that meant. Talk of magic and mysticism were generally beyond him. He preferred machines and tools and gadgets to magic, solid and tangible things that he could put together, break apart, put together again, and understand. Right and wrong were concepts that he’d come to know, though, and while there had been and still were times that he struggled with knowing which was which, the choice here was obvious. The pixie was a prisoner, scared and starved and held against her will. Getting her out had swiftly become his first priority. But could he do it alone? He could still hear Bollwogg rallying the others, preparing them for the full scale raids they’d make on the remnants of the three tribes that once served Skippwap. They’d go at night, too, when the skulkers would normally be out prowling the surrounding city. Less resistance that way, and it made it easier to ambush the skulkers when they returned.

He could wait until then, try to swipe the pixie from under Bollwogg’s nose - or his arse, in this case. But Bollwogg’s guards weren’t likely to join the raiding party, and Umby knew from experience Bollwogg himself would stay behind, too. The fat hobgoblin would be far more interested in his wines and meats than taking the fight to lesser gobs. Problem was that all but guaranteed Umby would be caught in the act and if he was there was no chance Bollwogg wouldn’t have him killed. He didn’t want to think about that fate. He’d seen Bollwogg’s executions before. Drowning in the latrines, beatings with the carcasses of freshly gnawed livestock, being hung upside down by your toes until your nose bled and you choked, or worse yet, being sat on by Bollwogg himself. Whatever the method, it was sure to be gruesome and disgusting.

No, he’d have to find another way. There were too many outside now, too easy to get spotted trying to sneak away. The yards outside did have plenty of cover, but the problem was it was all goblin stacks. Chances were plenty good that sneaking by one of those would get him spotted by someone else hiding inside. He’d have to wait until night, when the camp was largely cleared. Bollwogg would have his guards with him, but he wouldn’t keep much more than that. He’d let word travel, send out as many as he could in a display of force. News of his raids would spread fast and the other tribes would be too scared to act against him, as if they weren’t already. It was the perfect time to sneak back in, all he needed was a way to deal with the hobgoblin and his guards. As it happened, he knew someone who’d be perfect for that job, assuming he’d agree to it.

Taking one last quick look around to be sure someone wasn’t watching him, Umby set the pixie’s cage back on the canvas floor. “Umby be backcoming,” he said, carefully sliding her underneath the throne again.

She looked dejected, desperate. Back on her feet she gripped the bars and stared up at him with that pleading look again. “Please don’t leave me here,” she begged.

He shook his head and smiled warm as he could with that sharp toothed mouth of his. “Umby no leave you,” he said. “But can’t sneakmake now, too many outside. Night better, but need help for fightmake with baughwams and Bollwogg.”

The chorus from outside had changed. Bollwogg wasn’t speaking anymore. The gobtribe was cheering, chanting. Soon they’d be preparing to raid. Umby peeked over the arm of the throne and stared at the door for a couple seconds. No one was coming. Yet.

Ducking down again, he spoke quickly. “Umby go bring friend. We backcome tonight, Umby promise!”

Then he was back on his feet and hurried outside to slip back into the crowd. From there, getting back out of Bollwogg’s fortress was a simple enough task. With so many milling about to prepare for the raids and Umby’s false identity as Umblott pretty firmly established, he replaced his scarf and goggles and went to the biggest baughwam he could find to tell him he was going out to scout Skippwap’s old tribe before the raid. That almost didn’t go well for him. That particular goblin ended up being an irascible bastard name of Temm, and Temm was far more interested in bossing smaller gobbies around than actually listening to them. If it hadn’t been for one of Bollwogg’s guards knocking some sense into cantankerous Temm, partly with a little explaining that Umblott earned the right to come and go as he pleases today and mostly with a lot of clubbing over his broad, bald head, Umby’s plan might’ve been foiled then and there.

Once outside it only took a short while for Umby to reach the inn where his friends were staying. Dubbed the Open Arms, it was a small spot on the outskirts of the city, where people were more willing to look askance to strange travelers and local threats. Umby knew of the place by reputation. His work as a pilferer for the gobtribe meant that occasionally he’d have encounters with the local thieves’ guild. For those in the know, the Open Arms was something of a haven, a place to lie low when a job went sideways or a hot item needed to cool quickly. The fact that the place also worked as a legitimate inn helped to avoid any undue scrutiny, and the fact they tended to ask very few questions made it a hell of a lot easier for Umby and his companions to snatch up a couple rooms. After all, a traveling band that consisted of two Oasyrians, a Khavosan, a red-haired sorceress, and a goblin tended to draw a bit of attention, especially given how widely known the centuries worth of ongoing disputes between Oasyris and Khavos were.

It was specifically the Khavosan’s aid which Umby sought, though he worried about selling Caleb on the idea. Neither one of them particularly cared for the other. At best, they usually tolerated one another’s presence. At worst, they fought and argued. A lot. But there was no doubt that Caleb was the best fighter in their group. As a former gladiator who fought for his life in Khavos’ brutal arenas, he understood a great deal about the realities of what survival and freedom sometimes required. Doubly so considering he wasn’t there by choice. Though he was Khavosan, Caleb was of mixed blood, and his people had few qualms about enslaving their own if they were deemed impure.

“No,” came his answer. Umby found him in his room, carefully sharpening and oiling his pair of long, thin scimitars. The stark white light of the gas lanterns in his room made his normally bronze skin and blue-black hair look a little pale and ashy, kind of like Bollwogg.

“We didn’t come here to go sneaking off into goblin fortresses,” he continued as he set both swords on the small, round table before him. “And if I’d known that’s what you were doing earlier, I’d have tied you to the bedpost so you couldn’t.”

Umby’s green brow furrowed and he huffed loudly out of his long, narrow nose. “Umby knew asking dummyhead demonboy was bad idea,” he scoffed.

“Watch it,” Caleb snapped through grit teeth. He despised that insult of Umby’s, “demonboy.” Most people already had a sour view of Khavosans because of the belief that they cavorted with dark powers.

“We need to be helpmaking her!” Umby insisted. He’d already tried convincing Caleb this way, and it failed, but he couldn’t think of anything else that he could say.

“I’m not interested in rescuing your little greenskin lover,” Caleb retorted as he resumed polishing his blades.

“She not gobbie!” Umby barked. “She prisoner pixie! Bollwogg making her slave!”

Caleb stopped. His long pointed ears twitched at that last word. Slowly, the bronze-skinned elf turned to face his diminutive companion. “A pixie slave?” he asked curtly.

“Yes! Boss Bollwogg is keephaving her in bitty bitty birdie cage!” Umby held his hands very close together to punctuate this point. “He beat up cage and scaremaking her and no give num-nums for eating and make her use magic to tell if gobbies liemaking!”

Caleb was facing the table again, leaning against it with both hands. His fingers rapped against it over and over and his face was contorted into an irate scowl. “Damn it!” he finally said, then he snatched his navy tunic and his sword belt and started getting fully dressed. “You’d better not be lying to me about this, or you’ll have a hell of a lot worse than this Bollwogg to worry about!”

“Umby no liemake,” the little goblin replied, standing as tall and proud as he could at the height of Caleb’s thigh. “Umby’s heart speaksay true!”

Just as he’d planned, Umby returned to Bollwogg’s fortress in the dead of night with Caleb in tow. Junkyard was almost entirely dark at this point, save the occasional working lamppost or lit torch. That was fine for his kind, goblins were naturally versed to dark environs. And, as he’d guessed, the approach to the fortress was mostly quiet. A general din lingered in the air in the distance, undoubtedly the trio of raids were underway, but the fortress itself almost seemed dead. But that didn’t mean it was time to abandon all caution.  Umby drew his old spyglass from his pack and searched the battlements. They were largely empty, like he’d hoped, but he did spot three guards who were still patrolling.

“How do we get in?” Caleb asked. He was standing behind Umby, hidden in the shadows of a nearby junk heap. A dark navy cloak draped his tall form, helping him to blend into the darkness. Umby wore a similar cloak, which he kept shut tight against his chest.

“We going in front,” the goblin said.

“Of course we are,” Caleb groaned. “Should’ve known better than to think you had a real plan.”

“Umby do have real plan!” he hissed. “Bollwogg is trusting Umby because pixie tell him Umby is truesaying!”

“And how does that help us exactly?”

With a huff, Umby spun on his heels and booted Caleb in his shin.

“Hey!” the elf snapped.

“Dummyhead,” Umby snapped back. “Plan is simple! We going to front and Umby speaksays you a tallstepper keykeeps!”

“A what?”

Umby balled up his gloved hands into tight fists and his cheeks puffed out as he resisted the urge to scream. “Just let Umby do speaksaying!” he blurted. Then he turned on his heels and started marching for the gate.

Just like before he was spotted by the guard above and managed to convince her that he had something important to tell Bollwogg. This time he was believed a little more easily, the guard opening the gate with far fewer questions than what Krebblatch laid on him. Once inside, Umblott and his tallstepper keykeeps were both escorted through the almost empty cesspit that made up the fortress yard, then the entrance to the keep, and finally were brought before Bollwogg.

“What are you doing back here, Umblott? I was given to understand you were scouting the camps,” Bollwogg said, his beady eyes narrowed in a cold stare.

Umby fell to all fours, bowing his head low. “Umblott did go to be scoutseeing, but was found by tallstepper keykeeps,” he said, motioning to the still cloaked and hooded Caleb. “He say he come from thiefy guild, say he have thing to speaksay only to strongest gob!”

Bollwogg regarded the dark robed man with wary curiosity. His fat lips curled into a sneer as he looked Caleb up and down. “You ‘tallsteppers,’ to use the crude term of my lessers, are never very impressive to look at, are you?” He laughed mockingly as he spoke. “Very well, then. If the thieves’ guild would have business with me, then let’s hear it. If it’s worth my time, I might actually consider it!”

Bollwogg and Umby and the guards all waited for a response. When none came, the fat hobgoblin frowned and smacked his palm against the arm of his throne. “This is the part where you’re supposed to be grateful, thief!” he belted.

Caleb remained silent, and from his prone position Umby watched Bollwogg the whole while. The hobgoblin glowered at the enrobed elf, his jowls starting to jiggle as he began to tremble with swiftly growing anger. His gaze fell on Umby again and he started to demand an explanation, but his words were cut off before the inevitable threat came by Caleb slowly lowering to a single knee and bowing his head.

“Well, that’s certainly better,” Bollwogg said, a glimmer of a smile coming to those ashy, red-cracked lips of his. “But you still haven’t told me what you’re after. Is this one a mute, Umblott? Or is he just stupid?”

Umby looked over his shoulder at Caleb, then shrugged as he turned back to Bollwogg. “Umblott is not knowing,” he said.

“Then ask him and find out, impling,” Bollwogg replied. “My patience is thin!”

Umby nodded and stood up. Then he turned to Caleb, whispering into his ear. The Khavosan nodded to him, remaining knelt. When Umby at last turned around he bowed his head to Bollwogg and said, “Tallstepper is saying he herecome for something.”

“So it’s stupidity, then,” Bollwogg growled. His anger was rising quickly. “If you’ve come to parley for something of value, you will do so by speaking to me and none other, thief!”

“Tallstepper was also saying he can only speaksay to Umblott,” Umby said.

“Unacceptable! Either he speaks to the master of this tribe or-”

“Tallstepper is asking Umblott to tell Bollwogg what is wanted!”

Bollwogg’s face had gone red. His meaty fists were closed tight, the color in the knuckles going from gray ash to bone white. “You will not interrupt me, impling! You and that wiry shadow will learn your place or I’ll have both your hides turned into banners at my gates!”

Normally, Bollwogg’s threat would’ve terrified Umby. Normally, he’d have fled. But this was no normal encounter. Instead, Umby stood tall again, as tall as he could, and threw back his hood so Bollwogg could see his face! Then, as Bollwogg bellowed for his guards to seize them, Umby spoke.

“Tallstepper is wanting Bollwogg to be knowing that Umblott is no Umblott! Umblott Secretkeeps is Umby Keykeeps, and Umby will takehave what Bollwogg hides below throne!”

There, at last, came the full recognition. Bollwogg had a long memory, especially for insurrectionists and deserters. Today, Umby’d proven himself both. With a baying howl the corpulent hobgoblin stamped out of his throne, snatching his heavy falchion up from where it rested at his right. At the same time the guards were swiftly closing in, forcing Umby to take a step back. But as he did he ducked low to the floor, and Caleb finally moved. With a fluid motion and a flash of blue steel, Caleb’s twin blades swung from beneath his cloak in swift paired arcs. Their razor edges bit deep into goblin flesh and the heads of the two nearest guards tumbled to the ground, their neck stumps spurting thick, black blood.

Bollwogg’s eyes widened and he grit his crooked teeth. “Khavosan!” he roared. “So the little deserter makes pacts with demons! I’d say that I was impressed if this place wasn’t going to be your grave!”

Umby was upright again, his own cloak thrown aside to reveal the brown welding overalls and white shirt he often wore. His small pack was slung on his right shoulder, but he let it fall to the floor, too. He’d already drawn what he needed from it. Gripped in both hands like a club, Umby hoisted a heavy bolt wrench, the very same one he once used when he’d tighten the fastenings on the Blue-Jay. The skinny goblin stepped forward, his jaw set and brow furrowed as he watched Bollwogg and his ten remaining guards. The goblins were approaching slowly, hoping to use their numbers to overwhelm, but he was ready for them! Hoisting his wrench up high, he was about to charge in when Caleb lowered his sword across Umby’s chest.

“This part isn’t your job,” he said. “Go save the girl, hero. I’ll handle the dirty work.”

Bollwogg’s derisive guffaws echoed in his mostly empty keep. “Ha! You plan to fight us all alone? Very well! Come, Khavosan! Your skull will make a fine goblet!”

Unfortunately for the old, corpulent hobgoblin, he would soon come to regret those words. Umby kept as far out of the way as he could while the others closed on Caleb, slipping back into the trapezoidal antechamber at the earliest possibility. Bollwogg’s confidence came from his numbers. Despite having just seen Caleb swiftly decapitate two of his dozen guards, the cruel bastard was certain they’d be able to overwhelm the bronze skinned elven swordsman.

That proved to be a grievous error. The goblins were the largest and strongest of their kind in the tribe, and usually the meanest, too. But Caleb was tall, agile, and well muscled. He was easily thrice Umby’s size, and very nearly that against the larger goblins. His physical prowess alone put him far above the usual foes they’d face, which most often involved other, smaller goblins. Bollwogg was bigger than all of them by far, but Bollwogg’s bulk was the result of his gluttony, where Caleb’s powerful physique came from many years of training, practice, and hardship.

Yet for as valuable as all of this was, a man like Caleb could still easily be overwhelmed by such a mob. Two things stood firmly in his favor, however. The first was the reputation of his people, that fear and aversion to his race which existed even among the more brutish and boorish creatures, like these goblins. The second, and by far the most important, was that while each and every one of the foes facing him was indeed strong for goblinkind, not one of them was a trained fighter. While these little brutes could certainly hit hard and cause serious injury, the fact was they were clumsy and stupid. They charged as a group with clubs and hatchets and poignards raised high, all of them crude and all of them damaged.

Caleb wasted no time. With a long step to his right he began his gruesome work, lopping off the third’s head with one sword while the other was thrust through the neck of the fourth. This scene was repeated in some fashion with nearly every step he took, and with each goblin slain Bollwogg’s rage and terror grew all the more. Finally, with only four remaining, the lumbering hobgoblin joined the fray as quickly as his heavy legs could carry him, which wasn’t very quickly at all. Screaming his fury, he swung wide with his falchion but Caleb deftly weaved away from the swing, splitting the belly of the ninth goblin as he moved. Then the remaining three gave into their fear. Far more afraid of the elf than their master, they broke and made screaming for the door.

Bollwogg fumed! With a guttural roar he slammed his heavy sword down on one of his fleeing guards, damn near splitting him in twain! “Useless cowards!” he screamed, his beady eyes locked with the amber yellow of Caleb’s. “You’re tougher than I gave you credit for, I’ll grant, but I won’t let either of you leave this place alive!”

He swung down again, and once more Caleb weaved, dodging to his left. Bollwogg swung a wide arc, but Caleb bobbed beneath it. Thus did the scene repeat time and time again, the corpulent Bollwogg clumsily attacking with his falchion whilst Caleb ducked and weaved around every single strike. Bollwogg grew winded very soon after. Thick beads of greasy sweat dribbled down his body and he heaved with each breath.

It was in this moment that Bollwogg finally began to understand the truth of his being. For years, decades, he believed himself to be powerful. The ruler of Junktown, chief of the mightiest gobtribe in all of Ciruss! He had size. He had smarts! He commanded influence and wielded his power as he wished! What treasures he saw, he claimed! What foods he could feast on, he would feast on! What drink he could quaff, he would quaff! His old tribe were fools for casting him out, and the station he’d made for himself was proof of that!

Or, so he once believed. But now he faced an opponent he couldn’t best, one brought to him by an ambitious little spectre of his past. A genuine warrior, one who understood the art of reading an enemies and whose movements proffered little wasted motion, if any at all. That’s when the realization hit him. For the first time in his long, cruel, decadent life, Bollwogg was afraid. He couldn’t beat this man, this disgusting Khavosan filth. He couldn’t so much as lay a finger on him unless the elf allowed it.

Caleb stepped forward.

Bollwogg scurried back. “Stay away!” he said, and he was shocked to hear himself say it.

As Caleb took that step, Umby hurried out from his hiding place in the antechamber. He rushed behind and around Caleb, hurrying for the throne! Bollwogg eyed him with darkest malice. Him and Caleb both! He was going to die this day, he knew that much. He could see the intent in the Khavosan’s eyes. Where or how Umby had found him, or why they’d chosen to come, he didn’t know, nor did it matter. He was going to die, but gods willing he would take that little green impling with him when he did!

Howling in wild desperation, Bollwogg wheeled and hurled his falchion! Caleb rushed in to try and stop him, but the hobgoblin released just before both his sword points drove into the beast’s belly and pierced up into his heart. The hurled sword whirled end over end, crashing into the back of the throne just after Umby ducked behind it and left Caleb’s sight! The elf cried out, rushing to the pile of rubble that formed after the throne collapsed in on itself, steel rods and iron plates clanging and clattering as they fell. He threw the broken scrap aside, digging through the small pile as quickly as he could. After a short moment, he saw movement.

Umby pushed out through what remained of the rubble. His head throbbed and he could feel blood trickling from where some of the rubble had hit him, namely the top of his head, his left shoulder, and a couple spots on his back. “Umby okay!” he said as he rose, smiling despite his injuries. Then he stood, and Caleb saw the birdcage he clutched to his chest and the emaciated little pixie inside.

“We need get her out,” Umby said as he picked his way out from what remained of the throne.

Caleb nodded. “We will, but later. No telling when the rest of your tribe’ll come back.”

Umby held up the cage and looked inside at the pixie. He looked regretful, as if he felt like he was breaking some promise. “That okaybeing?” he asked her.

The little pixie smiled up at him, placing her tiny hand against his gloved palm. “It is. Thank you, Umby.”

Umby smiled back at her, then looked to Caleb confidently and they started for the door.

“What’s her name? Don’t think you ever told me,” Caleb said as they made their way across the fortress yard.

But Umby didn’t answer. He just blinked and hummed dumbly, realizing that he never actually thought to ask! Caleb groaned and rolled his eyes. “You idiot. Any hero worth a damn at least knows the name of the girl he’s saving,” he said.

His face scrunched up in a look of very serious seriousness, Umby nodded and turned to the little pixie. Then, with a smile and a giggle far warmer than one might expect after all the suffering she endured, she took Umby’s hand in both of hers and said, “Zinnia.”