cause.
Of course, none of them knew a word of goblin.
Booth sheathed his sword, and turned to walk out the door. "Take my share. I'm having no part of this."
Wolter and Scones made no move to stop him. From behind, Chambard's only response to Booth was a battle cry and the clumping of his boots on the floor of the great hall.
Booth climbed the stairs back to the parapet, alone in his thoughts.
He needed the gold. They all did. But he felt he would sacrifice something important to his soul to earn it. Goblins or no, they were virtually defenseless. Slaughtering them would be akin to slaughtering dumb animals for the sake of killing.
Over the wall, a storm front massed across the valley. Rain was visible over the Lothian camp, and sweeping toward the miserable tents of the refugees.
He’d be too proud to ask them for money after refusing this payment. He’d be fortunate if they even wanted him to stay in the group. If, for some reason, the goblin warrior had managed to get a lucky shot in on Chambard, they’d never forgive him.
Well, he could sell things. Not his sword, of course; a swordsman who parts with his weapon takes the first step of a long, downward spiral into starvation. But he did have his throwing knives. One well-crafted knife in the right town would get you a week's worth of food.
His boots clomped on the old, weathered rampart walkway as he went to retrieve the knife he'd buried into the back of the adolescent goblin. It was facedown, a crumpled heap of flesh and rags, its hand outstretched as if asking for something.
He knelt, and pulled the knife out.
The blood on it was red.
He didn't wipe the knife off, but instead stared at it as he held it lightly between two fingers. He'd killed goblins before, and knew that their blood was an unnatural greenish-brown. Confusion reeled through his thoughts.
Still staring at the knife, he straightened up and leaned on the parapet wall, his free hand kneading his chin.
What if you were a Lothian commander, with seven thousand men, instrument of a nation that had forced a hundred thousand innocents from their homes?
What if there were some among those people who didn't stay in the refugee camp? What if they moved into a nearby abandoned keep?
What if this act of defiance was causing other refugees to have thoughts of joining them, of getting organized?
Why, you'd want to make an example of them.
But if you used your own soldiers to do so, the word would get out. Other nations would hear of the atrocity, and see it as the pretext they'd been waiting for to band together in opposition to you. And if your nation occupied some strategically important land...all the better.
But you could hire mercenaries to do your dirty work, to make it look like the work of bandits. Happened all the time. All you'd need to do is to find a group depraved enough...
Or the right potion, mixed with some tasty wine.
Booth closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing. He slapped himself in the face, hard, a second and third time, trying to clear his head.
He wasn't sure what image he hoped his eyes would give when he opened them.
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About the Author:
In addition to the Fantasy novel Stunted and action/suspense novel Traffic Control, Greg M. Hall has a couple dozen stories published online and in print. For more of his work, visit his website at gregmhall.com, his podcast at killbox.mevio.com, or his blog at sf.gregmhall.com. He lives in eastern Nebraska with his wife, a bunch of kids, and pet tortoise.
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