The helmet

Scrum, Potang, and Mira were biting and bruising outside the shaman's tent. They were bleeding like pigs in the slaughterhouse but persisted in fighting, without giving up, for the sole purpose of getting hold of the newcomer's earrings.

The small crowd that had gathered paid no attention to them, huddled in order to peek inside the most important tent in the city. The shaman's one was also the only tent: everyone's houses had solid walls. But Lorque preferred the better ventilation of the fabric walls. With the number of ointments, fires, fumes, and body fluids he was forced to pour around all the time, he couldn't ask for more.

Morik came alone from the shaman Lorque. Deprived of the escort, he managed to mix with the common people while wearing iron shoulder straps and an arsenal of knives carried to the bandolier. Sooner or later, inevitably, his hands began to itch.

An irritated murmur rose from the crowd as Morik passed, dispensing kicks to those who didn't move in time.

- Where is? - His shrill voice made Lorque and two assistants turn around as Morik entered the shelter.

In turmoil around a table, the shaman and team greeted the best warrior in the village with a nod.

- Almost everything here! - Lorque answered. He let out a sadistic chuckle as, with a welder in hand, he literally sparked.

Morik dangled closer.

- Blah. -

On the table, what had previously been a mountain goblin named Raki, was now just a patterned plank of flesh.

- The left arm was unrecoverable - Lorque said. With a tribal mask pulled down over his face, he protected himself from the flying splinters of the iron helmet that he was welding directly on the head of the unconscious goblin.

- Why are you saving him? -

- The spirits say so. -

Morik, getting too close, felt the tip of his nose burn and drew back.

- Is this another experiment right? -

The giggle from the shaman's assistants was sufficiently explanatory. Both were busy suturing the stump at the shoulder of the fallen man.

- What was he worth? - Morik asked.

- Junk. -

- Shinings? -

- Of little value. They're fighting for them outside. -

Morik twisted his snout. - What are you doing to him? -

- I save his life. -

- You play at dissecting him, in my opinion. -

- Also. -

The din outside the tent was getting unnerving. Morik stalked out to meet the crowd, raised his gauntlet, and slapped the first victim. Scrum and Mira, now finding themselves two contenders, decided to step aside, while Potang sank into the mud, unconscious.

- Get out of the arkà balls! - The best way to make himself understood was strength, Morik knew. And the best way to address the goblins was with their ancestral, primitive language. Arkà, in fact, simply stood for "all of them".

- Did Sorgiva let you loose, Morik? - Lorque continued his mechanical work without looking away. But his sagacity was often even sharper than the blade.

- It's none of your business what Sorgiva commands. -

- The priestess's commands are ridiculously my business, on any occasion. -

Morik growled in annoyance. He was in command of the most influential goblin in the north-western lands, but he had his earned reputation, worn as a ruddy and filthy cloak more than enough to be respected.

- I didn't come for the idiot who got crushed. We are waiting for Lorque's auspices, auspices. -

- I almost finished. -

- Then try to finish them. The sky is getting blacker every day. -

- Calm. - The shaman extinguished the flame and threw the regulator to the first assistant who, grabbing it, was burned. He let out a loud scream, dropped the equipment, then immediately looked for what he should do to keep the tent from catching fire.

Lorque lifted the mask from his face, revealing skin as woody as the shamanic ornament.

- Knock knock, is anyone there? - He clapped his hand on Raki's head, still unconscious on the operating table.

Morik approached again, intrigued by the metallic sound of the knock.

- But what have you done? -

- I saved him! His head was broken, so I fixed it. -

- But that's a southern helmet. - It was obvious: Lorque had a war helmet welded to Raki's living skull. He had encased his face inside the still-hot metal, fusing face and iron together into a kind of disgusting-smelling prosthesis.

- He's got a southern sword, I thought it fit. -

- But this guy doesn't come from the plains, he has fair skin. It looks like cave moss! -

Lorque looked at Raki as a whole. - Patience, it's done now. - He kept knocking on Raki's iron forehead, hoping to wake him up.

Morik snorted. With a shove, he pushed the shaman aside and, with the charge of an ox, slapped Raki twice with the gauntlet. Perhaps it wasn't the pain, but the rumbling of the bell that made the helmet wake him.

- Finally, you are among us! - Lorque rejoiced. He had done a great job.

- Another asshole to feed. -

Raki hesitated. His sight could hardly return, he felt numb and without strength.

- Don't even try to get up, you won't be able to do it for now. You've got a little bit of everything broken. But thanks to me you will get back in shape. -

With difficulty Raki moved his head, noting the lack of his left arm. But the precious ones? Where were they?

- Oh, that's gone - Lorque assured him cynically, opening his hands in view of the stump. - But it doesn't matter, you can do without them. When I will let you go. -

The shaman's laugh made his guts twist. Raki tried small movements again. He felt in danger, terrified at the idea of ​​remaining in the claws of that sadistic goblin.

As he gestured, a violent punch in the face knocked his head against the operating table.

Everything went dark again.

Lastly, Morik's voice greeted him properly.

- Welcome to Camp Furnace, you bastard. -