So the Redfang warriors held their position, staring down at Esthelm. Grunter ordered two Goblins – Leftstep and Rabbiteater – to watch for anyone trying to climb up and take them by surprise. Meanwhile, the other Goblins pointed down, their keen eyes catching individual Humans roaming the streets. And the Goblins exclaimed, their voices full of surprise.
The ten Goblins ran on, not pausing as they left their friend behind. Leftstep was next to fall. An arrow caught him in the eye and he dropped soundlessly, still snarling.
Death. That was what they had left behind. The Redfang warriors stared at the fire. They’d lost so many. Their leader, the taciturn Grunter, Rocksoup always complaining of indigestion, Leftstep, who’d once dueled a Gold-rank [Fencer] with a stick and a shield made of bark. Bitefly, who ate flies. Orangepoo, whose name spoke for himself. Patchhelm, obsessed with armor, and Justrust, whose swords were as deadly for tetanus as they were for their ability to cut.
He had lost Grunter. Lost Bugear and Orangepoo and Leftstep and all the others. Sometimes it hurt too much to bear. Sometimes the hurt became fury. In moments like those, Headscratcher raged and it was all the other four Hobgoblins could do to keep him from going insane. In battle, Headscratcher was the first to charge in. He’d lost the discipline that Garen Redfang had beaten into him. His heart became fire and he raged. He was a [Warrior], but he felt like a monster at moments like those. That was fine. Better a monster than a weakling. He had lost enough friends.
They had the closest bonds and fought like brothers. Or like sisters. Like a family. The Hob told them stories of his family, the fallen. Bugear, Grunter, Leftstep…and he trained them as hard as he’d been trained. Harder. So they would never stand alone.
No one knew that story here. No one had heard it told. But they had to hear it. Someone—anyone had to listen. Numbtongue recounted it, the deaths, the names. Grunter, Bitefly, Leftstep…
