Warlord Hrushkaghal was pleased with the performance of his warband. The elite warriors of his raiding army had driven the rest of rabble through the night, and they had caught the humans holed up in the horrible stone stronghold. He grinned as he thought of the human’s expressions when they saw his mighty army arrive, the largest force of The People gathered in over a generation, poised to sweep through human villages, pillaging and burning while culling the weaklings from the Five Tribes and blooding the strong.

He was less pleased by his third and sixth scouting groups. While he was of the general opinion that the weak and stupid among The People should die on the blades of their enemies, he had also previously been of the opinion that his scout groups did not fall into the ‘weak and stupid’ category. The fact that one hand of his best scouts had been completely wiped out, along with half of another had made him angry enough to finish the process of wiping them out, mobilize his forces for a lovely night run, and break his favorite war club. Granted, the last of these was related to the first, but for Hrushkaghal that was a distinction without a difference.

Still, he felt a certain satisfaction as he watched his foot soldiers collapse from exhaustion at the foot of the walls after the long run. He hoped to get a sense of the enemy’s archers by offering his weakest for targets, but if there were any archers on the walls above, they were being coy.

He had received mixed reports from the surviving scouts. One had insisted that the fort teemed with stealthy enemy fighters who had lured them into an ambush. Another had relayed that the enemy group was small in number and had simply used the walls to good advantage. The third had vomited blood and died, primarily due to the presence of Hrushkaghal’s dagger in his gut. Hrushkaghal had a little regret that he had killed the potential tiebreaker, but he had wanted to get the conversation with the other two off to a good start.

That led him to the need to elicit a reaction from the forces in the keep. Since they refused to take his first offering, he decided a small force of thirty expendables could be sent to the main gate to bang on the portcullis and otherwise make a nuisance of themselves. His remaining scouts were ranging the area, but he had a small force of twenty archers who were either too weak or stupid to be scouts, and those he sent to watch the process and pick off any enemy who showed themselves. He figured that if the enemy did not react, the portcullis might be weakened enough to break by sunset, which was his preferred time to launch a large-scale assault anyway.

If the enemy did react, he would would finally have some valid information and make a better plan. All in all, this was a lovely chance to train some large-scale formation movements and to work on the cohesion of his forces. He gave the order to make camp, found a nice rock, and sat down to watch the events of the day unfold.

After several hours of banging on the portcullis had elicited no response, he was beginning to get bored. He considered organizing some fights between groups of foot soldiers for entertainment, but just as he was about to give the order to his favorite lieutenant, a small figure showed itself atop the gatehouse wall.

“Hello goblins!” it yelled down in an irritating high-pitched voice. “How are you today?”

A small flight of weakly launched arrows greeted this question, most spattering on the battlement or the wall below it. Hrushkaghal winced at his archer’s ineffectiveness. Looking over at them, he saw that many were just getting to their feet, some were tangled in their bows, and the handful who had managed to get off a shot were now standing there hanging their heads at their weak shooting.

Instantly, Hrushkaghal was filled with anger. He grabbed his second favorite war club and marched over to the errant group. Noticing one archer who had managed to stay asleep through the excitement, he ensured that any future waking was off the table. Thankfully, his latest war club came through with flying colors. Red mostly.

“Hello big goblin!” shouted the voice. “Thanks for killing the sleeping guy. He looked pretty dangerous!”

Hrushkaghal took a moment to process that. Dangerous to who?

“Would you mind killing a few more?” came the voice. “You seem very good at it. Perhaps they will lie down for you if you ask nicely?”

“Shoot it!” he barked at the slack jawed archers. A second, much more respectable volley of arrows flew, but since the figure had ducked down, their effect was no better than the first.

“Thanks for the arrows!” came the voice from behind the battlement. “I was running a little low. This will really help out!”

“Cease fire!” Hrushkaghal took a moment to calm himself. What exactly was going on here? Why was this person calling down to him from the wall in such a way? Did she (he thought it was probably a she) want him to waste arrows? Or not to waste arrows? Why would she want him not to waste arrows?

“I’m glad you guys showed up! I was getting a little bored in here.” There was a long pause, which Hrushkaghal decided not to fill. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my friends wandering around out there? I’m guessing you haven’t; they’re pretty sneaky. Anyway, if you do see them could you tell them ‘hi’ from me?” There was another pause, and Hrushkaghal couldn’t help himself.

“Who the hell are you?” he bellowed. He became aware that all sounds from the camp and the portcullis had ceased. Every goblin within earshot was listening with great interest to the conversation between their Warlord and this stranger. Before he could order them back to work, she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been very thoughtless. My name is Doolie. Doolie the Duelist.

***

Up on the wall, Lilijoy winced at her unfortunate name choice. Where on earth had that come from? But since it was out there, she decided she might as well run with it. The goblin chief guy down there looked nonplussed, which was the main thing. He wasn’t answering her, so she continued.

“I come from a long line of Duelists, and I have never been defeated.”

The goblin guy answered with a bored tone. “And I suppose you think I am going to duel with you? Allow you to go free if you win? Nice try human.”

“Oh no, chief goblin guy. I’m not nearly sleepy enough to duel with you!”

There was some scattered laughter in the ranks, though well concealed. Lilijoy could see the blood under the head goblin’s face flow hot. But he hadn’t gotten to his position by being easily manipulated.

“Good one, human. I’m now very angry with you. So angry that I want to fight you. Come down here right now and engage in single combat.” There were some scattered cheers, from both those who respected his control, and those who thought he was actually going to fight.

Lilijoy consulted her internal clock. Just a few more minutes. “Okay. But before I come down there, we need to exchange the sacred vows of my people.”

“That’s fine” said the chief, clearly feeling in control of the situation, as Lilijoy added,

“In dance.”

***

Hrushkaghal blinked. He was proud of his dancing abilities as a warrior of The People. He had won many mates by daring jumps over the fire, spinning, leaping and squatting with the other young warriors. Those were his years as a simple warrior, before he became a chief, and then a warlord. These days, it was beneath his dignity to engage in such celebrations, and he certainly had no need to impress females. Before he could respond, the figure on the battlement had leapt up upon the crenellation and begun an odd movement, shaking and twisting one arm in and out from her body.

“Join me!” she called down.

He gazed up in astonishment. She was no taller than his smallest warriors. This was no human. He was so taken aback, he even forgot to order his archers to fire. He didn’t notice the rest of his army slowly slipping around the corners of the fort to see the spectacle of the Warlord’s duel of words, and possibly dance, with the human girl.

The movements she was making were simple, foolish even. She was trying to make him look foolish in front of his army, he was sure of it now. The spell of inaction that had fallen over him shattered, and he barked, “Archers fire!”

There was a long pause, during which the figure hopped down behind the sheltering wall, before a single arrow spiraled up into the air. He didn’t even bother to look over at the archers, and instead yelled over to the group that was supposed to be banging on the portcullis.

“Get back to work and get that gate opened!”

As he was saying that, smoke began to pour through the bars of the portcullis. The weak warriors clustered at the gate pulled back, coughing and choking from the fumes. Hrushkaghal was infuriated.

“Warband to me!” he cried, as he ran into the smoke, clubbing the wretched foot soldiers out of the way.

Through the smoke and bars of the gate, he could see a pile of wood was on fire. The pile blocked the hall, and the acrid, stinging smoke was escaping through the gate opening. He could see a bundle of arrows at the front, flaming merrily. The smoke smelled like...

“Poison!” he choked out, just as forty-five pounds of weight landed on his shoulders and a wavy, evil knife penetrated his skull.

At the back wall of the keep, three figures slid down hastily dropped ropes and scattered, running as fast as they could.

***

Lilijoy flew through the air, using her expanded senses to keep track of the goblin chief below her. The chance to take him out had been too good to miss, and she hoped that there was not another strong leader poised to take his place and finish the job at the fort. And after all, what was the worst that could happen to her?

She had sent Andrew, Logan and Toad, who, each for his own reason, had decided that hiding was not an option. She hoped they would draw off the scouts, and more importantly that the scouts would report the escape, successful or not. Every step of her plan was designed to make the goblins think that the other humans had already left the keep, leaving behind a small caretaker force. As she landed on the goblin, somehow maintaining her spatial awareness and balance throughout the fall, she plunged the knife into his head (the blade sent warm snugly feelings to her), rode his body down to absorb the fall, and was up and on her feet before the warlord’s death was even noticed.

That went way better than it should have.

Holding her breath, she brought an arm up to her face and mimed coughing, while covering her face with ash and char she had prepared in her pocket. She had watched the goblins for some time before the conversation with the chief and had altered her tunic as best she could to resemble the rags most of the small soldiers were wearing. She was wearing a bone necklace and several other ornaments pilfered from the scouts. She could only hope they didn’t signify anything in particular that would cause her trouble. She couldn’t do much about her ears or skin color, and the goblins didn’t wear hats. Hopefully the soot would conceal her in the chaos.

A large group of sizable armored goblins was pushing their way to the gate, as all the others were fleeing, due to the warlord’s last word. She allowed herself to be shoved to the ground away from the gate, and slowly crawled toward the bushes on the side of the road. She wasn’t the only one either, there was a goblin just next to her crawling away as well.

A shout went up behind her; the warlord’s body had been discovered. There was bellowing and shouting and all manner of chaos while she continued her crawl through the first tall grasses and into the thorny bushes. Ignoring the punctures and itching scratches on her flesh, she forced herself deeper into the thicket, until the midday light was dim and the air felt cooler. The ground beneath her was dirt, as no other plants could find sun or nutrients among the thick canes of the thorn bushes. The tumult of the goblin camp faded as she directed her attention away from sound, focusing instead on seeing the heat of living bodies through the vegetation. She strained to pick out the outlines of the goblins running to and fro, but the leaves kept the infrared out almost as well as visible light. “Maybe that’s why it’s cooler in here,” she thought.

She closed her eyes and turned her attention back to her hearing, focusing on building a map of the movements around her. She was soon able to find rabbits, goblins, birds and other creatures just by listening to certain wavelengths of sound and could keep track of the activity in a good sized region centered on her. All the attention was focused on the body of the chief, which had been dragged out of the smoke. She used her map to target specific conversations, and tuned into the words of the larger warrior goblins.

“This is shit,” said one voice. “All the other chiefs are back home.”

“I came here for loot and blood. Lets go kill some humans at a village,” said another.

“Who gives the orders now?” asked a third.

“I do,” said yet another. “We will stay here and loot this place. Then we will go to next village.”

At this point Lilijoy gave up on keeping track of which voice was which. She just hoped this last one wouldn’t get his way. She filed him away as the bossy one.

“Is it empty?”

“We’ll know soon. The fire will burn out”

“Let’s not wait for the fire. Let’s send the scouts climbing”

“Don’t use the scouts. Use the weaklings”

“Can they climb?”

“As long as one can, it doesn’t matter how many fall.” There were grunts of agreement.

“What about throwing ropes over?”

There was a smacking sound. “Dumbass, what holds the ropes?”

There was more discussion along those lines. Then the bossy one began issuing orders.

“Everyone listen!” he roared. “Everyone without bow, climb the walls somehow. Everyone with a bow, shoot anyone not climbing. Except warband. And each other. Go do it!”

There was the sound of many feet running, bow strings twanging, goblins shrieking as they fell. Amazingly to Lilijoy, it only took about thirty minutes before someone reached the top. She felt frustrated, forced to cower in the bushes unable to see what was happening. She could tell from the raised voices that ropes were thrown and eventually secured. She heard the report given to the warband elite.

“One dead human, good weapon. Bunch of rusty crap weapons. Lots of crap in empty buildings. No one lived here for a long time. All the good stuff gone.”

Bossy guy wasn’t having it. “Keep looking. Find some good metals. We stay here tonight.”

Damn it! Lilijoy swore to herself. This guy needs to shut up and go away.

Unfortunately, Bossy didn’t seem inclined to do either. She was plotting his demise a few minutes later when a scout approached to report. After the surprised scout learned of the Warlord’s death, he gave his report.

“Some humans ran out the back a few hours ago. We killed one, are tracking two more.”

Oh crap. Who? thought Lilijoy. Big slow Andrew, brave, squeamish Logan or the little fisher, Toad; one of them was dead in the forest. A tear ran down her cheek. The others could be dead already. It was only a matter of time before one of the hiding children was found. Her whole plan, that had come so close, was unraveling while she sat helpless in a thorn bush. She forced herself to think. What did she have? Evil dagger. Goblin disguise. Thorn bushes. What could she do? Sense things. Stab things. Charm very small lizards. Hide. Cultivate. Breathe. Cry.

Die.

But not yet.

She had something to do first.

Thorns surrounded her. What did they want? Why does a thorn grow?

What did she want?

It was the same.

Protect.

She went deep into herself. Not to the mind space, but the other place. Inaction. Potential. Identity. What gives a cup its identity? What gives a thorn its shape?

Emptiness. Everything that was not her, defined her. And her shape defined all of space and time reciprocally. What did she want? Only what the thorn wanted. They shared the same space, and everything else defined them.

She reached within. That was where the thorn was.

And she invited the rest of universe to experience all that it was not.

***

From the sprawling thicket came a cry. Not of anguish or sorrow. It was a cry of jubilant purpose. Even if a listener couldn’t tell the difference.

“What the hell was that?”

“Go check it out.”

“I’m not getting scratched up just to find some rabbit got caught up in there!”

“Fine. Send the scout.”

“You! Yeah you, scouty boy. Go find out what that noise was. Hop to it.”

There was a rustle. There was a crackle, and the scout’s head vanished into the tall bramble. There was a sound, like a storm blowing in, just before the rain. Then a squeak, a groaning creak. And ultimately a gentle patter, like the first drops of rain falling.

The other goblins looked at each other.

“Hey scouty boy! Bunny got your tongue?” called one.

They looked at each other again in the silence. One whispered, “Never did find who killed old Hrushkaghal.”

They pulled out their weapons, clubs and short jagged blades of bone and metal. The biggest one took the lead, swiping at the foliage with his spiked club as he went.

“Ha!” he yelled, hoping to startle anyone hiding just out of sight. He mostly startled his companions.

“Screw it,” he said, and leapt past the edge into the thick of the brush. His club made contact and he beat down over and over, the thorns dragging scratches across his tough skin with every rise of the club. It took a minute to see that he was beating the entangled body of the scout, whose body had been lacerated, cut to the bone in a dozen places, as if sharpened wires had dragged and squeezed across his flesh.

He turned back to the watching crew, and watched as their faces began to change, expressions of alarm, and surprise, but not yet horror emerging across their features. Then he was swallowed by a hundred bands of sharp thorns that tore into his armor, lifting him off his feet in every direction, rotating his body as if slipping on ice into the air, half-spinning him and squeezing, moving across his face and tearing, and he made no sound, because his throat had no air or anyplace to get air.

The pattering sound, like rain was the last sound he heard, and the horror that had finally caught up to his companion’s expressions was the last sight.

His companions saw, sitting cross legged on the ground behind the hanging dripping body of their would-be leader, a small soot blackened girl with eyes closed and a blissful expression. One hand was upright in her lap, cradling the other fist in its palm. Held in that fist, extending up to her chin, was a foot-long wavy black dagger that radiated waves of envy.

Her eyes opened, and she looked upon them with hunger.

“Feed my roots,” she said in a gentle voice.

They turned as one and ran, and in some persistent corner of the Inside, Fort Groveship was forever after known in goblin lore as the home of the Dark Lady of the Thorns.