The sword

- Die! Die! -

A sharp crash and the rock shattered his skull.

- Finally we eat. -

A small mountain dog, a poor and insufficient meal to get by for another day, had come too close, perhaps seeking shelter.

Worse for him. It had become the side dish for Raki's dinner.

Less than an hour earlier, like a good arkà hunter, he had waited in the shadows for the passage of a succulent target. Together with Furrin, companion in misfortune, he had attacked a wild boar. Unfortunately for Furrin, aiming had never been one of his best qualities.

"Hot, too hot."

The sulfur springs could not offer shelter for enough time from the beasts of the valley and, in addition to stinking terribly, they were able to transform even the rock into a gushing fountain of sweat.

Raki wiped the inside of his green ears with a flap of his tattered shirt. He instinctively sniffed the moisture that came out, then pulled two convulsive slaps to dispel the smell. Better to move away from the springs for good: his nose wouldn't hold up for much longer. Especially now that Furrin's body, after the wrong jump, had blocked the mouth of one of the geysers. The vapors were melting the flesh and the stench of death was nauseating.

- Goodbye Furrin. Melt well. -

The two had spent a day and a night protected by the powerful sulfur fumes which, despite the annoyance, had kept them safe from the giant centipedes that roamed around the caves. The craving stings of those animals would have stabbed him by the next sunrise if he stayed, Raki was sure. He had to move.

- Fuckin Scratchers. -

The worst Arkà clan ever. They were angry with Raki, only because he got what he was entitled to. He would gouge out everyone's eyes someday. He would come back and take them in his sleep. One after another, they would pay.

He didn't care about being in exile. Leaving the hole in the land where his father's clan lived was a liberation. They had no idea that there was a world above their heads. They did not even know that the common races lived comfortably among the riches of the lands, while still pointing to them with contempt as goblins. They probably didn't even know the meaning of that word, but they didn't care. They used only arkà to indicate brothers and menè for all the others.

But even Raki didn't care about the words. He had only the problem of looking for a new meal and shelter for the night, without anyone trying to steal his shinies. Precious and shiny, Raki had found them, they were his alone.

Leaping from rock to rock he left the tough ground behind. He screamed as he stomped his knee against a protruding boulder and cursed every single deity he could remember. Once more he cursed them, cursed them for their injustice.

He made his way down the western slope of the Ippancha, which was commonly called the Conflagrea mountain range. An agglomeration of split stones on the edge of the plains, dotted with suppurating caves of goblins and kobolds. Even the Scratchers multiplied in the bowels of that forgotten land. As well as dozens of other clans, more or less numerous, lost in the darkness.

Seeing the sun, after all, Raki didn't mind. Beyond the caves, luminous plains stood out, interspersed from time to time by verdant groves. When the sun became annoying, in the hours closest to the zenith, Raki sought shelter in the shade of a boulder or on top of a young acacia. He was doing great: he felt capable of squeezing the world with his bony hands.

- I'll find new ones. And I'll get mine back! -

The obsession with theft had not faded in the least. Thrown by force into an external reality of which he knew nothing, the only thought in the past was directed to his possessions.

Gorgeous, precious jewels. The only thing worth defending in his old home.

The village was more of a poorly constructed camp, a jumble of tattered granite-colored poles and tents. The constant clatter of teeth crunching was the meager soundtrack of a life of hardship. Whatever the exile had gone, worse than his clan he could never have found.

By nightfall, he had crossed a huge island of weeds, open and unsafe, among grasses as tall as he was. The spurs he wore at his feet, useful for the rocky paths, were filling with mud and dust. He found a pool of water, a small pond, where he could stop and rest. Isolated and sheltered by tall trees it was the perfect place to meet.

A perfect place for an ambush.

But Raki wasn't thinking about it.

It was a sudden and furious cry that alerted him. He had the quick reflexes necessary to dodge the rusted blade headed for his throat. A different breath of the wind and the world would turn off the lights.

A dribbling, dark-skinned goblin with a broken sword as a weapon had emerged from the grass behind him, intent on taking him out.

Raki rolled onto the shoreline, firmly grasping one of the spurs he was pulling off. He didn't wonder who the other goblin was or what he wanted from him. The blood pumped violently through his veins and in a second he saw everything red.

With the sword raised, his opponent threw himself against him. With a convulsive series of blows it sank and sank again, mouth open and sharp teeth in sight like a wild beast.

First blow, and Raki pulled back with his whole body.

Second blow, hit on the shoulder pad. Scratched metal, scratched rust, no wounds.

On the third swing, after crouching on all fours, Raki unloaded the sodden spur straight into his attacker's face, with the full power of his outstretched arm.

Splashes of blood covered his face, thick as molasses. The stricken goblin fell on his side, his face in the mud. He moaned like a dying calf.

Raki took a deep breath. The other one had lost his sword in the fall and seemed to have made a great friendship with the ground. He couldn't miss the chance, he was too greedy. He insulted his gods: once again he had defeated them.

He picked up the serrated sword, placed his bare foot on the assailant's back, and thrust the oxidized tip of the weapon straight between the vertebrae of his new friend's neck. Raki pressed until he heard the snap of the bones separating, then moved.

An idiot attack, Raki concluded. That goblin had much darker skin than his, a sign that he must have come from the grasslands. Not that Raki was able to draw useful deductions from it, or that he intended to.

Raki searched the corpse meticulously, taking possession of everything that was not inside the body. He actually went even further, snatching a pair of dull earrings from the corpse's long floppy ears. A rabbit skin saddlebag, a small knife, a leather mail. What he was doing near the pond was not known. What he would do in the future was just a funny little picture for Raki. Somehow it now looked a lot like the image that former friend Furrin had left of himself.

Lastly, he took a look at the sword. He wasn't sure, but maybe it wasn't a broken piece, deliberately forged into the shape of lightning. It was caked with fluids and the thread was just a memory, but it felt light and solid. Great buy.

After complimenting himself, Raki also removed the other spur, dipped himself in the brackish water, and relieved the skin still covered with sulfur dust. Then he got there: no Arkà tribe counts individuals who love the solitary life. If that rotten worm food had caught him at the pond, then his camp must be nearby.