A good year. The harvest was long since finished and the root cellar was quite full. He had a good store of fuel, the animals were provided for, and he still had some money left over after his trades with that greedy caravan master Worsh. He suspected the priest Stefano might have had something to do with that, which bothered him a little. People talked behind his back all the time, and he was accustomed to it, but he felt awkward thinking someone would put a good word in while doing so. Also, he didn’t like the thought that he could be in someone’s debt. He puffed out a loud sigh and frowned to himself, blowing steam off of his tea. Stefano had been a friend to Zeff since his arrival four years ago. If he did speak to Worsh on his behalf he deserved gratitude not suspicion.
Zeff stared out of his window while he wrestled with his emotions. It was his only window with a glass pane and he was rather proud of it. The other windows were covered with skins and shuttered for the winter. He surveyed his empty fields and relaxed. It was a cold, barren day. One of his cows mooed. He was perfectly alone.
Being alone was often the best case scenario for a half-orc. He endured prejudices and misconceptions while trying to rein in a dangerously bad temper. The anger he dealt with was both a calling of his blood and a symptom of his treatment by civilized peoples. A few folks like Stefano were decent enough, and most of the other farmers were at least tolerant, but it was simply easier to a avoid people. The less he saw people the better, and his neighbors never seemed bothered by his reclusive lifestyle.
The cow was making noise again, and Zeff thought he heard a curious tone in the sound. He angled his head to see the side yard from his window and immediately saw the problem; hobgoblins. Of all the damned luck, to have a raiding party on a day like today! He snatched his shield and battle axe from near the fireplace and charged out of the door with a yell.
There were five of them, and they were just climbing the fence to get into the barnyard. Zeff roared and charged. These hobgoblins seemed to be neither battle tested nor expecting resistance. Two of them turned and immediately ran away. The other three froze, looked at each other, and then charged with their weapons raised. Damn, but he wished he’d had time to put on his mail shirt.
The clash was nasty and brief. His three remaining enemies were standing shoulder to shoulder to give themselves courage, to a degree that they were practically in each other’s way. Zeff closed the distance and was faster on his swing. His axe bit the one in the middle deeply and it fell, and before they could react he shifted his weight to get in another swing, hitting the left one and sending it sprawling to the ground. The remaining hobgoblin screamed and aimed a clumsy blow with a mace. Zeff deflected it easily with his shield, and his answering horizontal blow struck true; the last of the three crumpled to the ground, falling on top of its own innards.
He drew a breath, ready to declare victory to the gods with another roar when the hobgoblin he’d knocked down took a wide swing with a rusty longsword, catching him by surprise and scoring a shallow wound across his ribs and back. Furious, he turned and struck down the last attacker, killing it with a powerful downward stroke, then hewing it a few more times as he vented his rage.
When the red faded from his vision he found himself alone in the yard standing over his enemies. The rent bodies and exposed offal steamed in the cold air, and the wound on his side stung something fierce. His two cows were on the far side of the yard as far away as possible, and a small voice in his head expressed surprise that they hadn’t pushed through the fence to bolt.
He looked at the fallen. His hunch that they weren’t skilled warriors seemed correct. They were poorly equipped, scraggly, and young. They were most likely deserters, which would explain why they were here at such an odd time of year. Raiders were most common in the spring. Hobgoblins who failed to prove themselves as soldiers were assigned non-combat duties. It was a humiliating fate in their militaristic society, and sometimes small bands would leave Turtsaz in a vain effort to prove their worth. Searching their pockets, he found what he’d hoped not to find. Each had a lock of dark hair, trophies from victims. He thought it looked human but he couldn’t be sure.
He’d have to make some decisions about this, but he needed to look at his wound and get something warm to wear. He started walking back to his cottage, ignoring the cows for now, when he heard a twang, a whoosh near his face, and then a faint tinkling sound. It all happened in less than a heartbeat. He looked up, surprised for at least the third time in as many minutes, and saw the two remaining hobgoblins peeking around the corner of the barn. One was notching a second arrow while the other was rooting him on.
Zeff immediately ran toward the barn, getting out of the line of fire. Shield readied, he reached the opposite corner of his barn and steeled himself. With another war cry he turned the corner, hoping to catch the arrow on his shield. He caught a charging hobgoblin instead. The two collided and the hobgoblin fell to the ground. Zeff, being a foot taller and much heavier, only stumbled back a couple of steps. He bore down on the raider and finished it with a clean blow, then turned a split second before he heard another twang from the bow. This time he felt the impact as his shield caught the arrow.
He locked eyes with the last one and that was enough. It threw its bow to the ground and ran. He was sorely tempted to run it down and finish it but decided to let it go. One unarmed hobgoblin wouldn’t be much of a threat to anyone out here. In fact, it’d be lucky to survive the week.
Zeff frowned as silence fell. He could drag these bodies off and call it a day, go to the Bluff and report it to the militia later on this evening. But the locks of hair bothered him. While he preferred his solitude and was sometimes shunned anyway, he knew there were some good people here. They’d welcomed him to this community, if hesitantly, and some of them could be in trouble. Stefano would want him to check on his neighbors, and it was just slightly possible that he could be indebted to him a little anyway.
Helping was the right thing to do. A little while later the cows were secured in the barn, the bodies were dragged away, and a spare piece of leather covered his arrow pierced window. Seeing the broken glass on the floor really put his temper under strain, but better the window than his head. He’d clean up when he got home. The wound was bandaged as best he could considering the bad angle, and a wool coat covered his mail shirt. He stumped off alone over his empty fields, trying to retrace the hobgoblins’ route and hoping it didn’t lead him anywhere near the other farms.