The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Stump was ushered through the narrow depths of the inner cave and thrown into the bone pit for his final night of rest, where cracked and dry bones mingled with fresh and meaty appendages.
Once the chittering of the tribe receded and he was alone in the dark, Stump curled up on the least pokey pile he could find, using a large femur as a pillow, and fished the badge from his pocket. A soft blue glow bubbled around it.
Garron of Grimsgate, the words said. Garron the knight.
A real knight. And sixteen levels, at that. Some of the elder goblins of his tribe reached such heights at the twilight of their days, after a storied life of raiding and plundering, but it was rare. Sometimes he played a game with the other goblins—when they would let him—to guess which number was bigger, a goblin's age or his level.
And goblins often didn't live older than fifteen.
Scout. Hunter. Forager. Raider. Goblins nearly always fell into one of four classes, and only after they were blessed by the Words From the Sky and usually after they'd received their Ingilish warname for some deed or trait of theirs.
No doubt Thrung was going to get his. Stump pondered for a while what class the burned goblin might be. Certainly not a Knight. Knights were honourable and brave. They were strong.
And they were kind.
Stump slipped the badge back into his pouch and shut his eyes against the world. He let his mind drift to stories of valiant heroes overcoming insurmountable odds and slaying dragons in their lairs, and somewhere in that reverie he wondered if a goblin could ever be a knight.
He slept like the dead.
"Stump…" someone whispered in the dark. "Stump…"
He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and glared up the side of the bone pit, momentarily forgetting where he was until the previous day rushed back into focus.
Yeza was on her hands and knees at the edge of the pit, staring down at him. "Stump, are you awake?" she called, then glanced over her shoulder. "I don't have much time. They'll come for you soon."
He sat up, bones clattering around him. "Yeza, I… what you heard yesterday…"
She shook her head. "I know, of course he was lying. But the matrons believe him. Fire-Spitter, they're calling him."
Fire-Spitter. He remembered the burned goblin's testimony, but more than that he remembered the way Thrung's body hissed, how his throat crackled, as if the fire that killed their tribe spoke through him.
"Did they say how they're going to do it? They wouldn't tell me," said Stump. He thought of all the ways goblins could be executed with the blessing of Grumul. "I hope it's not limb splitting. Or a fire beetle burial… did they tell you, Yeza?"
Her ears drooped. She looked at the ground. "The Wildrun," she whispered.
Stump swallowed hard.
Goblins could never be accused of a lack of creativity when it came to capital punishment, but many of their executions were straightforward. Clear. Painful, sure, but death was certain and at the end of it lay the great expanse of Grumul's domain, an afterlife full of raiding and feasting.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The Wildrun was not that.
"And… the Mark?" he asked, but dreaded the answer.
Her ears fell further. She nodded. "I'm sorry."
He gulped, but found his throat was dry.
Death was as natural to goblins as killing. To die on a raid against the tall men or in battle with another tribe could even be desirable, if your slaying was glorious enough to be passed down through story. And all goblins who died would live again alongside their bloodlord in the afterworld.
All except those with the Mark of Grumul.
They were barred. Cursed. An eternity of endless wandering through a darkness so thick not even goblins could see through. Some of the matrons whispered that very darkness crept along the edges of their world—the Shadowlands.
"It'll be alright," said Stump, straining to sound hopeful. "They have to give me a weapon. That's part of the rules."
"A twig, you mean." Yeza reached behind her and tossed something into the pit. Spiders scattered from the eyes of a cracked skull when the object thudded next to it. "But I can give you one, too. There's nothing in the rules against it."
Stump pushed himself to his feet and swept the item into his hands. The fabric was patchwork, stitched together from the cloaks and sacks stolen on raids long ago. "A sling?" he said, looking up at her.
"Run. Please. Don't try fighting them," Yeza's voice quivered. "You're smart, Ergul, smarter than any of them. Use that to survive. For me."
Ergul. Thrung had invoked his true name at the trial as an insult, to tell the tribe he wasn't worthy of a warname, but the way Yeza said it was different. She knew him, the real him, before the matrons called him Stump, the shortest of goblinkind.
He clutched the sling tightly in his hands and met her pleading gaze. "I will," he whispered, and cracked a smile. "I promise."
 

 
A fleet of bulbous clouds sailed in from the twilight skies ahead. The Shadowlands loomed like a blight on the land, where even the trees appeared to sag under the umbral weight.
Even if I somehow survive the Wildrun I have that to contend with.
Stump stood at the mouth of the cave, cradling the helmet and badge he'd taken from Garron. A red scarf wrapped around his neck, and tugging gently at his back was a dark blue cape. He slipped the badge into a pouch and pulled the sling off his shoulder.
Behind him the goblins chosen to hunt him down vibrated with the tremors of a coming bloodlust. Rat-Squealer bounced from foot to foot, a shabby axe in each hand. Griza and Little-Bear snarled, revealing jagged teeth.
Thrung—Fire-Spitter, as they were now calling him—was quiet. He watched Stump with vengeful intensity, his scarred eye murky and still as pond water. He opted for no weapons. Nothing but the tome.
What's in those pages? Stump wondered as he faced the forest again.
The red matron stood hunched on an overturned stone and announced the rules of the Wildrun. Stump was to be granted a head start of five minutes, after which the others would give chase until the hunt was concluded. The one who returned first with proof of Stump's demise would be rewarded with the favour of Grumul. Simple and straightforward, perfect for the mind of a goblin.
But it was devious, too. There was hope. A sliver of a chance you might outrun the hunters. But that didn't matter, because beyond the safety of the cave no goblin could survive. The gloom of the Shadowlands meant death to any soul unfortunate enough to be swallowed by its darkened canopy, and the world outside that was a feast for creatures possessed of terrible hunger—stonecrawlers and mountain bats, or worse.
But Stump had hope, anyway. He had to. For Yeza. He briefly surveyed the tribe as they perched atop rocks and each other to watch him off, but he peeled his eyes away before he could spot her.
They hate me. They always have. He was a goblin, just like them, but in that moment he realized the tribe was never his home.
The white matron ambled up to him, cupping a small bowl in a shaky hand. She licked her thumb and pressed it deep into the mound of ashes of dead tribesmen.
"May the bloodlord judge you unworthy of his realm, as his matrons have," she said and dragged her ash covered thumb down his forehead, tracing a dark line between his eyes and over his nose.
After the branding Stump gripped his sling tighter and lifted his chin. Just like a knight. He spread his feet, readying to pounce. The bloodlust pounded through his veins. He thought of Garron the knight of Grimsgate, and the Iron Fleece. Just like a knight.
"Run," Yeza had said. "Survive. For me."
I promise.
He barely heard the call before he was off, kicking clouds of dust behind him as he darted into the woods.