Chapter 15 - Part 8

“I said I would be willing to pay,” Pellhomno repeated, churning at the dirt with his hooves.

“And I said to go peel off,” snorted the goblin chief, brandishing a wooden disk with a poor painting of some blood-spattered tools laid out in a octogram pattern that mocked the Sovereign Host. To either side of the centaur several goblins stood, little spears ready to throw, but they were nervous. The centaur seemed unconcerned by them, and earlier several of their arrows had bounced off of some invisible, magical shield on the horse-man. “I have three dozen warriors here that can easily kill you!”

“You have eleven followers left after the Wardens of the Wood wiped out most of your band to stop your depredations of travelers,” Pellhomno informed him. “And they’re still looking for you. They don’t know about the little cave behind the green oak.” The centaur paused for effect. “Yet.”

The goblin chief scowled and put away his little symbol. “It were maybe four weeks ago. Maybe three. Bugbear on a horse. We’s tried to rob it, and it got to us fast. Then it got preachy, told us to abandon sin. Headed to the Icehorn Mountains by way of dried creek.” The chief stuck his lip out. “Now you pay gold?”

Pellhomno tossed the chief a bag of coins and sped off, nearly trampling two goblins in the process. Meschashmal needed to be told, for all the good it would do. The bugbear would already be across the mountains if it had found the hidden pass – and its path up the dried creek led straight to said pass.

A light snow began to fall as Pallhomno galloped. This far north, at the very beginnings of the mountains, mid-autumn might as well be deep winter, a far cry from the deserts that Meschashmal enjoyed.