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When a party of goblin warriors find themselves trapped behind enemy lines, it'll take more than whining (and a bemused Elven veterinarian) to get them home again.
Nine Goblins is a novella of low...very low...fantasy.
Nessilka wouldn’t have put them against anything bigger. “I’m not suggesting we try to pillage the town, Sarge. I had more in mind hitting a henhouse, and maybe somebody’s laundry. Have you seen Thumper’s loincloth?” “Thank you, I’ve been trying not to look.” “There’s a coupla isolated farmhouses on the outskirts. I think a small group could raid one.” “I’ve got no stomach for killing farmers, Murray, and if we do, we’re going to have hunters after us before you can say “glarguk.” “Great
knocked him out cold, anyway.” Sings-to-Trees gave her a worried look. “What did you do with him?” It was embarrassing, but she suddenly found herself afraid that she might disappoint the elf, which made her feel defensive. “There wasn’t much we could do,” she snapped. “We couldn’t very well take him with us, and when a bunch of goblins show up at a human town with a human body, people tend to shoot first and not bother with the question bit at all!” He was silent. Nessilka sighed. She had to
But he’d never really warmed to unicorns. Possibly it was because they didn’t need him. Regular elves loved unicorns, as they loved all beautiful creatures, and a unicorn with so much as a stubbed hoof could turn up at the door of any elf in the world and be assured of royal treatment. Sings-to-Trees hardly ever had to deal with them, and he preferred it that way. But when somebody needed to actually reach a hand in there and turn a foal around, suddenly the unicorn lovers of the world melted
that was crazy—bad, bugshit crazy, deep-down crazy. People like that had a crazed animal in their head and you could see it gnawing at the back of their eyes when they talked. And they were very, very dangerous because there was absolutely no telling what they would do next. She didn’t look back at Murray. Her eyes would have to adjust again if she did. And she couldn’t sign what she was seeing—goblin hand-sign did not include things like “crazy psychopath making pancakes.” She gritted her
exercise in bafflement for everyone involved. And every morning, she crowed. As far as he could tell, she seemed happy, so he’d resigned himself to getting up at hen’s-crow most mornings. He hadn’t wanted a rooster, anyway. His farm was located on the edge of what were nominally the Elvenlands. A small human settlement lay less than an hour’s walk away, where woods gave way to farmland. The humans viewed him as falling somewhere between the priest and the village idiot, and thus required feeding