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Harold Bonesworth did not want to fight a Goblin King.
He did not want to fight a goblin toddler. He did not want to fight a goblin janitor. Truth be told, Harold did not want to fight anything, ever. His idea of a violent encounter was tripping over Greg's discarded shinbone on the way to the outhouse. And yet here he was, trudging down the muddy northern road with a "Chosen Hero" who glittered like a jewelry shop at noon and a skeleton who thought every passing crow was his long-lost cousin.
The morning sun burned bright. Too bright, Harold thought. His cloak stuck to his back with sweat. His boots squelched miserably in the muck. Arion Dawnblade rode ahead, mounted on his gleaming white stallion. The horse sparkled, and not metaphorically. Its mane had been brushed with golden powder, and every time it snorted, a puff of glitter came out like divine smoke. The worst part? Neither Arion nor the horse seemed to get dirty. The mud recoiled from them. Harold had mud in his socks, in his hair, possibly in his soul, and the Hero ahead looked like he'd walked out of a portrait hall.
Behind Harold clattered Greg, his flip-flops slapping with every step, his pink flamingo Hawaiian shirt flapping in the warm breeze. Greg hummed a jaunty tune that might have been We Will Rock You if We Will Rock You had been written by an insane skeleton with no sense of rhythm.
"Boss," Greg said suddenly. "You're walking like you're on your way to your own funeral."
"I am," Harold muttered.
Greg tilted his skull. "Cheer up. It might be Arion's funeral. Think positive."
Arion looked back over his shoulder, teeth glinting as though polished hourly. "Heroes do not perish in the face of goblins! Sidekicks, perhaps, but heroes? Never!"
Harold stopped in the middle of the road. "Wait. Sidekicks, perhaps? Did you just—"
"Onward!" Arion declared, cutting him off. He raised his sword to the sky, and light refracted dramatically off the blade, blinding three sparrows and nearly giving Harold sunstroke.
Greg clapped. "Man, I love this guy's energy. He's like a motivational poster that learned how to walk."
"I hate both of you," Harold grumbled.
The road twisted through low hills, then flattened out as they approached a jagged ridge on the horizon. Black rock jutted like broken teeth, and faint smoke curled from the largest cave mouth. It was the kind of landscape where any sane person would turn around and head home. Unfortunately, Harold was bound by a contract that literally threatened him with smiting if he tried to run.
By noon, they were close enough to smell the place. The air was damp, earthy, tinged with smoke and something else: garlic? Harold blinked. Garlic was not the scent he expected from an evil lair.
Arion's cape flared as he reined in his horse. "Behold! The Black Caves, den of wickedness! Within lurks the Goblin King, tyrant of the lowlands, scourge of civilization! Today, we bring him to justice!"
Harold peered at the ridge. "Looks more like a condemned mine."
Greg shaded his sockets with one hand, squinting. "Destiny definitely smells like roast chicken."
"You don't even have a nose," Harold snapped.
Greg beamed. "Doesn't matter. I can feel the flavor."
"Quiet," Arion said sharply. He pointed ahead with his sword. "Look! Sentries!"
Sure enough, two goblins lounged at the cave mouth. They were short, green, and bored out of their warty minds. One leaned on a spear while picking his nose with a level of concentration Harold found deeply disturbing. The other was trying to balance a rock on his head.
Arion spurred his steed forward, raising his sword high. The blade blazed with radiant light. His voice boomed across the valley: "I am Arion Dawnblade! Chosen Hero of the Radiant Order! Slayer of Ten Thousand Shadows! Handsome Beyond Reason!"
The goblins stopped. The rock tumbled off one's head. They exchanged a look, then looked back at Arion.
The nose-picker said, "You here for the party?"
Arion blinked. "…The what?"
"The party," the goblin said. He gestured with his spear toward the cave. "Big feast. Goblin King's orders. Everyone's invited."
Greg gasped, bones rattling. "Feast? Bro, we're in luck!"
"We are not in luck," Harold said firmly. "This is a trap."
The second goblin shrugged. "Suit yourself. More turkey legs for us." He turned and shuffled into the cave. The other followed, still picking his nose.
Greg slapped Harold on the back, sending dust puffing out of his ribs. "Boss! Turkey legs!"
Harold glared at him. "Greg, it's obviously bait. Classic 'lure the adventurers with free food' trick. Every handbook says so."
"Yeah," Greg said, "but did those handbooks say anything about free beer?"
Arion's horse reared, showering them with glitter. "Villainous deception shall not stay our blades! Sidekick! Skeleton! Follow me into darkness, for by my radiant light we shall emerge victorious!"
Harold groaned. "Or we'll die horribly."
The golden contract scrolled into view above his head, glowing menacingly.
Penalty for breach: Immediate smiting.
Harold sagged. "Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you both."
Greg grinned. "Sweet. I'll finally have a roommate."
Arion raised his sword to the sky again. "Onward!"
The horse galloped into the cave mouth, cape flaring, armor gleaming. Harold stumbled after him, tripping in the mud. Greg lost a flip-flop, hopped after it, and then marched proudly into the dark.
Thus, the world's least inspiring adventuring party entered the lair of the Goblin King.
---
The interior was not what Harold expected. No bloodstains. No bones littering the floor. No ominous torches flickering red. Instead, warm yellow lanterns lined the walls. A carpet — an actual carpet — stretched down the tunnel. The air smelled of roasting meat, spiced wine, and… was that cinnamon?
Greg sniffed loudly, though again, he had no nose. "Boss. This is the coziest evil lair I've ever seen."
"It's not cozy. It's sinister," Harold whispered.
"Sinister smells delicious."
They followed the tunnel deeper, and the sound of music grew louder — drums, flutes, the raucous cheer of many goblins in merry spirits. The passage opened into a massive cavern lit by chandeliers of glowing mushrooms. Long wooden tables stretched across the hall, groaning with food: roasted boars, chickens, baskets of bread, platters of vegetables, mugs of ale. Goblins of all shapes and sizes sat at the tables, laughing, eating, clinking mugs. A goblin band tootled away on mismatched instruments at the far end.
At the head of the feast sat the Goblin King.
He was larger than the others, with a crown made of twisted silver and a cloak that looked like it had been stolen from a particularly flamboyant opera singer. He raised a goblet high, wine sloshing.
"Welcome!" he bellowed, voice echoing. "All who enter my hall are guests tonight! Feast! Drink! Be merry!"
Arion stopped in the doorway, sword blazing, eyes wide with confusion. "What devilry is this?"
Greg pointed. "It's a buffet."
Harold pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're going to die, aren't we?"
Greg patted his shoulder. "Yeah, but at least we'll die full."
---
The cavern buzzed with noise. Goblins clinked mugs, tore into turkey legs, and shouted drunken toasts in a language that was mostly swearing. The smell of roasted meat, garlic, and spiced wine filled the air so heavily Harold's stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
Greg elbowed him. "See? Even your body knows this is a good idea."
"It's a trap," Harold whispered, clutching his chipped staff. "A classic honey-pot scenario. They lull us with food, then—bam!—ambush."
A goblin in a chef's hat waddled up and shoved a heaping plate into Harold's hands. Roast turkey, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, bread rolls still warm from the oven.
"Eat!" the chef commanded cheerfully. "King says all guests must eat!"
Harold stared at the plate like it was a live grenade.
Greg was already dual-wielding drumsticks, one in each hand. "If it's poison, it's the best-tasting poison I've ever had!" Grease dripped down his jawbone as he munched. "Mmm. Tastes like destiny."
"You don't even have a stomach," Harold hissed.
Greg waved a drumstick. "Don't need one. Flavor is a state of mind, boss."
Before Harold could argue, a goblin butler — yes, an actual goblin butler, complete with bow tie and monocle — appeared beside Arion, holding a silver tray with a goblet of wine.
Arion sniffed it, frowned, and declared, "This is clearly enchanted!"
The butler bowed. "Indeed, great Hero. Enchanted to be the finest vintage of mushroom wine this kingdom has ever produced. Aged three weeks in a barrel that also contained a family of angry bees. Very complex bouquet."
Arion hesitated. The wine glowed faintly. So did his teeth as he smiled, deciding that drinking it in front of an audience would only make him look braver. He raised the goblet high. "Then I shall drink, and prove my courage to all!"
The goblins roared with approval.
He downed it in one gulp.
A beat of silence. Then Arion's face flushed bright pink. His eyes watered. He coughed, clutching his throat. "By the Light—this—this is—"
The hall waited with bated breath.
"—the most exquisite wine I have ever tasted!" Arion announced, slamming the goblet down. The goblins cheered wildly, banging mugs on the tables.
Greg leaned toward Harold, bones rattling. "Bro. I think I'm in love with goblin culture."
"Of course you are," Harold muttered. He still hadn't touched his plate.
At the head of the table, the Goblin King stood, raising his goblet. "Welcome, honored guests!" he bellowed. "Tonight, we feast not as enemies, but as friends!"
The goblins roared again. A group in the corner broke into song.
Arion, apparently deciding he was in a diplomatic mood, marched boldly forward and sat at the King's right hand. "Very well, Goblin King. We shall partake in your feast. But know this—your villainy shall not go unchallenged!"
The King chuckled, wine sloshing over his crown. "Villainy? My boy, I am a host. Tonight, there is no battle. Only food, drink, and… perhaps a contest or two."
Greg perked up. "Contest? Like a pie-eating contest? Please tell me it's pie."
"Not pie," the King said with a wicked grin. "Drinking."
The hall erupted with cheers. Goblins pounded the tables, mugs already being refilled.
Arion slammed a fist on the table. "Then I, Arion Dawnblade, shall champion humanity in this noble contest!"
Harold dropped his plate with a clatter. "You're what?"
Greg slapped the table. "He's in, boss. We can't back out now."
"Why we?" Harold hissed. "I'm not—"
But a dozen goblins had already surrounded their table, chanting, "Drink! Drink! Drink!"
A barrel the size of Harold's shack was rolled into the center of the hall. Mugs were filled. The air grew thick with anticipation.
The Goblin King grinned at Arion. "Let us see if your kind can keep up."
Arion puffed his chest. "I shall not falter!"
The mugs were slammed onto the table. The contest began.
---
It went badly.
Arion, to his credit, held strong for three mugs. By the fourth, his speeches began to slur. By the fifth, he was proclaiming that he could "see the Light inside mushrooms."
Greg, meanwhile, was on his twelfth mug, rattling with glee. "Boss! This is amazing! I don't even have a liver to destroy!" He slammed another mug down. "Immortal champion, baby!"
The goblins roared, lifting him onto their shoulders.
Harold sat with his untouched plate, watching the chaos spiral. "I hate my life."
The King leaned toward him, crown slipping sideways. "Not drinking, necromancer?"
"I'm on the clock," Harold muttered.
The King laughed. "Suit yourself. But beware—those who refuse hospitality insult their host." His smile showed far too many teeth.
Harold sighed, picked up his mug, and took the tiniest sip possible. It tasted like mushrooms, honey, and regret.
---
Hours passed. The hall dissolved into a sea of drunk goblins, a barely-conscious Hero, and one skeleton crowd-surfing across the room while shouting, "FREEBIRD!"
Harold's head ached. He had never been so sober yet so exhausted in his life.
Then the music stopped.
The Goblin King stood, swaying slightly but still imposing in his silver crown. He raised his goblet high. "My friends! Tonight has been glorious! But now… now we reach the true entertainment!"
The goblins quieted. A ripple of anticipation swept through the hall.
Harold's stomach sank.
The King's grin widened. "Release… the champion!"
A side door burst open. Chains rattled. Out strode a massive goblin twice the size of the King, muscles bulging, tusks gleaming. He wore spiked armor and carried a club the size of Harold's shack door.
The hall erupted in cheers.
The King pointed his goblet toward Arion. "Hero! Prove yourself in combat! Defeat my champion, and I shall grant you safe passage!"
Arion, half-slumped in his chair, blinked blearily. "Combat? At a feast?" He tried to stand, wobbled, and leaned heavily on his sword. "Very… well… I shall…" His head thunked against the table. He began to snore.
The hall went silent.
Dozens of goblin eyes turned toward Harold.
The King's grin stretched wider. "Then perhaps… the sidekick shall fight in his stead."
Harold froze. "Me?"
Greg, still being carried by goblins, raised a mug and shouted, "YEAH, BOSS! KICK HIS GREEN BUTT!"
The goblins roared with laughter.
Harold gripped his staff, sweat beading his forehead. The giant goblin champion cracked his knuckles, stepping forward.
The King's voice boomed. "Fight! Or insult my hospitality!"
Harold groaned. "…I really hate my life."
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