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Oktha Ogreson trotted down the well-worn dirt path, pulling a small cart filled with pumpkins from his mama’s little farm on the outskirts of the village. His pit bull terrier Blue kept pace next to him, pausing only occasionally to sniff something or the other. The harvest festival was set to begin at sunrise the next day, and these pumpkins were destined for the communal table. The village celebrated the first of the harvest every year with a feast on the central green. The largest hog would be roasted over the pit, along with several fat chickens, ducks, and turkeys. They would partake of the finest fruits, nuts, and vegetables that the fields and orchards had to offer. Oktha loved the harvest festival. It was one of the few times during the year that he could eat as much as he wanted, which for him was quite a lot.

The food wasn’t the only thing he looked forward to, of course. There were many activities planned for the day. There would be archery competitions, log-rolling contest, and various other games of skill and athletic ability, as well as music, singing, and dancing. He couldn’t wait to meet the other village boys in their annual wrestling match. Each festival the other boys would challenge Oktha, seeing how many of them it took to pin him to the ground. Last year they only needed four. This year he was determined to double that number.

Oktha was different from all the other children in the village. It wasn’t just his physical appearance or his maturity. While the jutting canines, bestial features and coarse body hair were plain as day, what really set him apart from the other children was his size and strength. He was already as big as a human boy twice his age, and nearly as strong as a full-grown man. The grown-ups say this is because his father is an ogre. Oktha didn’t know what an ogre was. He asked his mama once, but she just turned her head away from him and cried, so he never asked again. From what the adults said, Oktha guessed that an ogre was just a big goblin.

Oktha turned onto the main road. To his left was the corn fields, to his right was the wheat. Both fields were full of villagers of all ages, working diligently to bring in the harvest before the first frost of winter hit. Oktha shouted out to the workers, exchanging quick pleasantries as he continued down the road. Soon the mill and the granary came into view. They were solid buildings constructed of heavy timber and stone, hardened against sever weather and the occasional goblin raid. The Little Scale River, a tiny tributary to the much larger Dragonsblood River, ran through the village, turning the mill’s big red wheel. Beyond the mill was the village proper. The village wasn’t a large community, but it did sport a tavern that catered to travelers coming to and from the city of Manhome to the south.

“Morning, Mr. Wheatstone!” Oktha called out as he stopped in front of the mill to deliver his pumpkins.

“Ah, Oktha Ogreson,” Oscar Wheatstone, the town miller, replied with a smile. “That’s a fine load of pumpkins you got there.”

“I grew them myself,” Oktha said proudly. “Mama said they’re perfect for the table. She’s got the pumpkin bread in the oven, and four big chickens ready for the spit. I have a cart full of melons, too. I’ll bring them over next. Do they have the hog picked out yet?”

“They sure do and he’s a beauty. Burgomaster Coldfoot’s seeing to the roasting pit right now. You did an outstanding job with these pumpkins, Oktha. I’m sure you’ll be a good farmer someday.”

“I’m not so sure I want to be a farmer,” Oktha admitted.

“No?” Oscar crossed his arms and looked thoughtfully at the half-ogre boy. “What do you want to be, young man?”

“I don’t know,” Oktha shrugged. “It’s just that, well, I kind of feel like I’m not meant for the fields. I need to be somebody special, to make Pangea a better world somehow. I need to prove that I have a right to exist, that I am not my father’s son. Prove that I’m not a monster.”

“Oktha Ogreson,” Oscar scolded firmly, “you have your father’s strength, but you have your mother’s heart. That’s one hell of a combination. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone in this village.”

“In the village, no. But what about the rest of Pangea? I’ve seen the looks of mistrust on those adventurers’ faces when they see me. Some have even put their hands on their weapons like I’m going to attack them or something.”

Oscar was about to respond when there was a commotion on the edge of the wheat field. A large flock of ravens suddenly took flight, cawing loudly in a blind panic. Something spooked the birds. Blue began to growl, pinning his ears back like he was preparing to fight. Oktha turned his head up and sniffed the air; his nose wasn’t as good as Blue’s, but it was better than any human’s. The scent he caught made his nose curdle and caused his hair to stand on end. He knew what panicked the birds, and what was making Blue tense.

“Mr. Wheatstone!” Oktha screamed. “The goblins are coming!”

“GOBLINS!” Oscar yelled a warning. “Mara, get my sword! Oktha, get back to your mother’s!”

A large band of goblins broke from the trees, screaming a battle cry in their strange, gibbering language as they spread out to form a skirmish line. The little monsters were no more than three feet high, with sickly green skin covered with random patches of matted black hair. Their bestial faces were twisted and deformed, with crooked, rotted teeth and eerie red eyes. They were armed with a variety of weapons suitable for their small frame, mostly short swords, spears, hand axes, daggers, and clubs. All the weapons were poorly cared-for and most likely stolen to boot. Worse, the creatures smelled like rotting garbage.

The temple bell rung wildly as the workers in the field retreated. The villager’s priority was to get the children and the elderly to places of safety. There were several strong points in the village, including the mill, the granary, the stables, the inn, the temple, and the burgomaster’s house. These building were well constructed, resistant to flame, and either had walls surrounding them or could be sealed against attack. The villagers would fall back to these points, and then arm themselves with whatever was available. Most of these weapons would be simple tools pressed into service, such as sledgehammers, wood axes, scythes, and knives, but there were a few villagers who had proper weapons such as swords, battle axes, and bows. They also had an alchemist and a hedge wizard who undoubtedly had a few patterns prepared for just such an event. Once the village was fully rallied, the goblins stood no chance.

The goblins were very much aware of this fact. Goblins were notoriously lazy and short-sighted creatures, and much preferred to steal the work of others rather than plant and harvest for themselves. The creatures plan was for each of the little monsters to seize whatever foodstuffs or animals they could before the village was able mount a defense. If a goblin found itself in the position to snatch something valuable, such as gold or maybe an infant, they certainly would, but that was not their intention. This was a raiding party, not a war band, so they would not be attacking the strong points, nor engaging the villagers in a lengthy battle.

The outlaying homesteads were another matter entirely. Like his mother’s little farm.

Oktha ran back along the dirt path as fast as he could, with Blue right behind him. He was a healthy young man, fit from constant labor, and his ogre blood gave him stamina far beyond any possessed by even an adult human. Before long he could see the farm, situated between the road and a small, unnamed creek. Most of the land was taken by a melon patch, filled with pumpkins, gourds, watermelons, cantaloupes, and honeydew. A small barn offered shelter for a small herd of goats and the family’s only milk cow. A large chicken coup housed dozens of chickens and a single rooster, producing the eggs that provided them with their main source of coin. Beside the house was a small vegetable garden where his Mama and sister grew various vegetables for the family’s own use. His mother and sister were in the garden, picking tomatoes for the evening’s soup.

“Mama! Mama!” Oktha jumped the fence and dashed across the melon patch. “Goblins are attacking the village!”

“Katie, get the cow inside!” his mama ordered his sister, grabbing her basket as she stood up. “Oktha, round up the goats. Quickly now children! Those vermin won’t be very far behind!”

Oktha snatched up the herding stick and gave a swift whack to the rear of the nearest goat. The animal bleated in protest, but nonetheless began slowly plodding toward house. Oktha gave a few more whacks with the stick to elicit more speed, shouting at the herd to get them all moving. Soon all eight of the goats, along with about a half dozen kids, were moving as one. Blue ran back and forth, from one side of the herd to the other, barking and nipping at stragglers and wanderers to keep them all together. Oktha counted them as they passed through the door into the house, making sure they were all accounted for. Katie came in right behind them, pulling on the cow’s lead while his mother smacked the cow’s rump. Oktha noticed a look of mortal terror in the cow’s eyes. Was the animal just responding the fear she sensed in her owners, or had she caught wind of something else?

“Katie, bar the doors and lock the shutters!” His Mama ran to the fireplace and pulled the flue shut. Goblins have been known to enter buildings through the chimney.

“Mama!” Katie shouted, pointing toward the coup. “What about the chickens!”

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” his Mama replied.

Oktha sniffed the air, recoiling at the rancid stench of goblins. Rushing to the front door, he saw a small band of twelve of the filthy monsters. The goblins were cavorting gleefully down the dirt road, waving crude spears and rusted short swords. Seeing the isolated and apparently vulnerable farmhouse, the goblins gave what he assumed was a battle-cry and charged. Oktha slammed the front door shut and lifted the heavy oak bar into place.

“Mama, they’re coming!” he warned.

The three of them waited in silence as the goblins descended on the farm. Oktha could hear the panicked chickens clucking wildly as the goblins tore down the wire and started chasing them around the yard. He tried to do some simple math in his head. It would take three goblins to make off with the melon cart, and at least four would steal the tools and sacks of feed from the barn. Presuming the rest went after the chickens, that means they would lose ten chickens. If the vermin don’t snatch the rooster or trample the melon patch and the garden, the farm will recover.

Suddenly there was a fierce pounding on the front door, followed closely by a pounding on the back door and the shuttered windows. The goblins were trying to take the house! After a time, the pounding stopped. They dared hope that the goblins had given up, but the random pounding was soon replaced by a steady, repeated thumping against the front door. Oktha peeked out through a crack in the door and saw that the goblins were using the melon cart as a battering ram. He jumped back as the cart struck again, causing the door to heave inward. The bar held for now, but Oktha realized that if the vermin gained entry, it wouldn’t just be the animals they took. They would most likely kill his mama and try to drag him and his sister away to sell them to the orc’s or worse.

Katie screamed in fear and clung to their mama. His mama seized the iron poker from the fireplace, holding it in one trembling hand like a miniature pike. Oktha knew that the little iron bar would virtually worthless against the goblins; at best his mama might be able to skewer one and make it angry before the other goblins brought her down. The flimsy herding stick he still held in his hand was even more useless. He bit his lip and looked down at Blue, who was staring up at him intently. In that moment, an understanding passed between the boy and his dog. Those vermin were NOT going to get their disgusting hands on his mama or sister, or any more of their animals.

“It’s up to us now, Blue,” Oktha said as the wooden bar began to crack.

The dog just turned his attention back to the door, a threatening growl emanating from his throat. Blue took up a fighting stance, baring his teeth and folding back his ears. Oktha scanned the room for a suitable weapon. He though of the axe, but it was still out by the woodpile. He ran to the kitchen area and began to rifle through his mother’s utensils, taking stock of the blades. All the knives there were of flimsy construction, having never been intended for combat. The cleavers were even worse, being too badly unbalanced and nowhere near sharp enough to penetrate the goblins’ leather armor. Oktha feared he might have to make do with a bread knife.

Then he saw it, his mother’s iron skillet. The perfect weapon. It was wieldy, strong, and heavy enough to shatter a goblin’s skull. Taking the skillet down from its hook on the wall, he gripped the handle in both hands and gave it a few trial swings.

Then Oktha heard splintering wood. “They’re in!” Katie screamed.

The bar remained intact, but one of the planks of the door itself had snapped, leaving a hole in the lower part of the door just big enough for one goblin. A goblin poked its head inside, ignoring Oktha and taunting the females.

Bad mistake.

Oktha yelled and charged the door, putting all his strength and momentum behind his swing. The iron skillet connected with the goblin’s face, forcing its head upward violently and instantly breaking its neck. This apparently shocked the other goblins, who were not expecting a real fight. It was several seconds before the goblin’s corpse was dragged out of the hole in the door.

Another goblin forced its way in, this time not pausing for effect. It was closely followed by a second. Oktha swung as hard as he could at the first, striking it in the side of the head and causing it to stagger. The second goblin raised its axe to attack Oktha, but Blue was on it in a flash. Hitting the goblin full in the chest and knocking it to the floor, the pit bull began to savagely maul the goblins face and neck. Oktha raised the skillet again and struck the first goblin on the back of its head as it tried to regain its feet. The creature went down and did not try to rise again. Oktha bashed another goblin that was trying to get in, and then kicked the axe over to his mother. As crude and pitted as it was, the axe still made a better weapon than the poker.

With four of their number now dead, the goblins changed their strategy. Realizing that attempting to file one at a time through the narrow opening was suicidal, they resumed bashing the door. If the goblins managed to get the front door fully opened, they could swarm into the house in an overwhelming rush of numbers. Thinking quickly, Oktha pushed the table up to the door and overturned it. If the goblins did finally succeed in breaking down the door, the table would act as an additional barrier and limit how many Oktha would have to face at once.

There was a loud crack as the bar finally failed. The front door swung open . . .

**************************************************************************************

Captain Randel Redman, captain of the Manhome city watch, sat astride his warhorse and scanned the fields to each side of the dirt road for any signs of goblin activity. A native of Port Savage, on the eastern coast of Dillon, his dark skin contrasted sharply with his fellows. The captain was an imposing man, wearing enchanted splint mail armor that he single-handedly recovered from the lair of a catoblepas. Captain Redman was the type of leader that inspired awe and respect from those around him. He took his position as protector of the city of Manhome seriously, and he maintained a humble demeanor that earned him the admiration of the citizenry.

His troops finally caught up with the goblin raiders just outside a small village north of the city. As the goblins attacked the village, he ordered his men to circle around and cut off the vermin’s retreat. He knew the goblins would retreat in small groups, even individuals, as soon as they got their arms full of plunder. Although a few of the goblins managed to slip past, most were caught unawares and cut down with little ado. Ironically his success here would make the goblins stronger, since their reduced numbers would allow those that remained to survive the winter. That’s the way it is with vermin.

Randel was leading a small detachment of soldiers, along with a few of the village militia, to check on the outlaying farmsteads. Oscar the miller told him of small farm on the edge of the village, where a young widow lived alone with her two small children. Oscar was greatly concerned for the family’s well-being.

Cresting a small rise, he could see the farm ahead. It was clear that the goblins had been here, the overpowering stench bore witness to that, but he could see no sign of the raiders. The chicken coup was in ruins, with a few surviving chickens and a rooster wandering aimlessly around yard, and the little garden showed signs of plants being uprooted. Perhaps the goblins simply grabbed some chickens and a few tomato plants and then withdrew. If the widow and her children were able to barricade themselves inside the house . . .

The captain froze when he saw the house. The first thing that drew his attention was the battered-open door, and he began to fear the worse; goblins would sell human children into slavery without a second thought. Then he noticed, with no small surprise, the pile of goblin corpses lying just outside the door. Dismounting, he walked over to the house and examined the dead goblins. It was clear that every one of them had been killed by a blow to the head with a blunt weapon of some kind, though a few of them sported wounds that suggested a dog’s teeth were also involved in their deaths.

Glancing back up, he felt a sense of relief to see the widow, her two children and the family dog huddled in the broken doorway. Beyond the door Randel could see the rest of the family’s animals, including a cow and several goats. The woman had tangled blond hair and might have been exceedingly beautiful once, before the rigors of single motherhood and farm work began to take their toll. The girl looked to be about nine years old and well on her way to becoming a heartbreaker herself. She held on to her mother, still shaking form the morning’s events. The poor child will likely have nightmares about goblins for years to come.

What Randel found most surprising was the boy. The child was a half-ogre, something the miller failed to mention, and was easily bigger than most goblins despite his youthful age. His clothes were torn and bloodied, stained with both goblin blood and his own, and he held in his hands a large cast-iron skillet. The backside of the skillet was smeared in goblin blood, and tuffs of goblin hair still clung to it. This, he surmised, was the blunt weapon that killed the goblins. To think that it was wielded by a simple farm boy with no martial training! Never in his life had anyone impressed Captain Redman more than this half-ogre child.

“Jessica, Katie, Oktha,” Oscar cried, “thank the god’s you’re safe!”

“Thanks to Oktha,” the widow beamed. “He saved us all. He bashed those vermin good!”

She bent down and hugged the boy, and then kissed him on the cheek. “Aw, mama,” the boy complained, apparently embarrassed by his mother’s affections.

“You did this?” one of the guardsmen asked in shock. “You, a mere boy, killed all these goblins with THAT?”

“Blue helped,” the boy offered, pointing to the dog.

“I’m sure he did,” Captain Redman laughed, crouching down to look the boy in the eye. “Tell us what happened, child,” he coaxed.

Randel listened as the boy told him of the goblin attack. He was impressed that boy seemed to downplay his own actions and praised the courage of his mother and the loyalty of his dog instead. Here was a young man who was not braggadocios, even when he had the right to be so. He had seen so many young men come to him seeking entry into the Manhome watch that were so full of themselves that it made him want to vomit. Yet here before him now was a half-ogre with a warrior’s heart, who clearly, even instinctively, understood the concepts of honor, humility, and service to others that so many humans seemed to lack. This was a boy that Randel would be privileged to have as a squire, and to pass all his years of experience on to. He just had to convince his mother to let him go.

“Your son will make an outstanding warrior,” Randel said to woman. “With your consent, and his agreement, I would like to take him on as my personal squire and apprentice.”

“I . . . I’m honored, sir,” Jessica stammered, “but I need him for the farm . . .”

“I can get you and your daughter a place to live in Manhome,” Randel assured her. “I happen to know of a tailor that is in need of a seamstress, and he pays well. He may even have enough work for your daughter too. I’ll come back for him after the harvest is in. You can sell your land and animals by then and make ready to relocate.”

“A home behind the walls . . . that would be wonderful,” Jessica replied. “What say you, Oktha? Do you want to become a warrior like Captain Redman?”

“Me, a warrior, protecting people from monsters like these,” the boy answered, excitement showing in his eyes. “That would be great!”

“What is your name, boy?” Randel asked.

“Oktha, sir,” the boy replied proudly. “Oktha Ogreson is my name.”

“Ogreson?” Randel repeated. “I see no son of an ogre here. I think you have proven this day that you are not your father’s son, Oktha; therefore, the name ‘Ogreson’ is no longer valid. I think you deserve a new name. I think a name like . . .”

Randel paused as he considered his next words carefully. Changing a birth-name was not a task to be taken lightly. He played the battle over again in his mind, searching for the one thing that set the child’s actions apart. Then his eyes fell upon the blood-encrusted iron skillet Oktha still held in his hands, the crude weapon that had seen Oktha to victory over the vile goblins. He smiled broadly as a new name came into focus.

“Oktha Ironskillet!” Captain Redman announced, to the approval of everyone around him.

Description
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Oktha Ogreson trotted down the well-worn dirt path, pulling a small cart filled with pumpkins from his mama’s little farm on the outskirts of the village. His pit bull terrier Blue kept pace next to him, pausing only occasionally to sniff something or the other. The harvest festival was set to begin at sunrise the next day, and these pumpkins were destined for the communal table. The village celebrated the first of the harvest every year with a feast on the central green. The largest hog would be roasted over the pit, along with several fat chickens, ducks, and turkeys. They would partake of the finest fruits, nuts, and vegetables that the fields and orchards had to offer. Oktha loved the harvest festival. It was one of the few times during the year that he could eat as much as he wanted, which for him was quite a lot.

The food wasn’t the only thing he looked forward to, of course. There were many activities planned for the day. There would be archery competitions, log-rolling contest, and various other games of skill and athletic ability, as well as music, singing, and dancing. He couldn’t wait to meet the other village boys in their annual wrestling match. Each festival the other boys would challenge Oktha, seeing how many of them it took to pin him to the ground. Last year they only needed four. This year he was determined to double that number.

Oktha was different from all the other children in the village. It wasn’t just his physical appearance or his maturity. While the jutting canines, bestial features and coarse body hair were plain as day, what really set him apart from the other children was his size and strength. He was already as big as a human boy twice his age, and nearly as strong as a full-grown man. The grown-ups say this is because his father is an ogre. Oktha didn’t know what an ogre was. He asked his mama once, but she just turned her head away from him and cried, so he never asked again. From what the adults said, Oktha guessed that an ogre was just a big goblin.

Oktha turned onto the main road. To his left was the corn fields, to his right was the wheat. Both fields were full of villagers of all ages, working diligently to bring in the harvest before the first frost of winter hit. Oktha shouted out to the workers, exchanging quick pleasantries as he continued down the road. Soon the mill and the granary came into view. They were solid buildings constructed of heavy timber and stone, hardened against sever weather and the occasional goblin raid. The Little Scale River, a tiny tributary to the much larger Dragonsblood River, ran through the village, turning the mill’s big red wheel. Beyond the mill was the village proper. The village wasn’t a large community, but it did sport a tavern that catered to travelers coming to and from the city of Manhome to the south.

“Morning, Mr. Wheatstone!” Oktha called out as he stopped in front of the mill to deliver his pumpkins.

“Ah, Oktha Ogreson,” Oscar Wheatstone, the town miller, replied with a smile. “That’s a fine load of pumpkins you got there.”

“I grew them myself,” Oktha said proudly. “Mama said they’re perfect for the table. She’s got the pumpkin bread in the oven, and four big chickens ready for the spit. I have a cart full of melons, too. I’ll bring them over next. Do they have the hog picked out yet?”

“They sure do and he’s a beauty. Burgomaster Coldfoot’s seeing to the roasting pit right now. You did an outstanding job with these pumpkins, Oktha. I’m sure you’ll be a good farmer someday.”

“I’m not so sure I want to be a farmer,” Oktha admitted.

“No?” Oscar crossed his arms and looked thoughtfully at the half-ogre boy. “What do you want to be, young man?”

“I don’t know,” Oktha shrugged. “It’s just that, well, I kind of feel like I’m not meant for the fields. I need to be somebody special, to make Pangea a better world somehow. I need to prove that I have a right to exist, that I am not my father’s son. Prove that I’m not a monster.”

“Oktha Ogreson,” Oscar scolded firmly, “you have your father’s strength, but you have your mother’s heart. That’s one hell of a combination. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone in this village.”

“In the village, no. But what about the rest of Pangea? I’ve seen the looks of mistrust on those adventurers’ faces when they see me. Some have even put their hands on their weapons like I’m going to attack them or something.”

Oscar was about to respond when there was a commotion on the edge of the wheat field. A large flock of ravens suddenly took flight, cawing loudly in a blind panic. Something spooked the birds. Blue began to growl, pinning his ears back like he was preparing to fight. Oktha turned his head up and sniffed the air; his nose wasn’t as good as Blue’s, but it was better than any human’s. The scent he caught made his nose curdle and caused his hair to stand on end. He knew what panicked the birds, and what was making Blue tense.

“Mr. Wheatstone!” Oktha screamed. “The goblins are coming!”

“GOBLINS!” Oscar yelled a warning. “Mara, get my sword! Oktha, get back to your mother’s!”

A large band of goblins broke from the trees, screaming a battle cry in their strange, gibbering language as they spread out to form a skirmish line. The little monsters were no more than three feet high, with sickly green skin covered with random patches of matted black hair. Their bestial faces were twisted and deformed, with crooked, rotted teeth and eerie red eyes. They were armed with a variety of weapons suitable for their small frame, mostly short swords, spears, hand axes, daggers, and clubs. All the weapons were poorly cared-for and most likely stolen to boot. Worse, the creatures smelled like rotting garbage.

The temple bell rung wildly as the workers in the field retreated. The villager’s priority was to get the children and the elderly to places of safety. There were several strong points in the village, including the mill, the granary, the stables, the inn, the temple, and the burgomaster’s house. These building were well constructed, resistant to flame, and either had walls surrounding them or could be sealed against attack. The villagers would fall back to these points, and then arm themselves with whatever was available. Most of these weapons would be simple tools pressed into service, such as sledgehammers, wood axes, scythes, and knives, but there were a few villagers who had proper weapons such as swords, battle axes, and bows. They also had an alchemist and a hedge wizard who undoubtedly had a few patterns prepared for just such an event. Once the village was fully rallied, the goblins stood no chance.

The goblins were very much aware of this fact. Goblins were notoriously lazy and short-sighted creatures, and much preferred to steal the work of others rather than plant and harvest for themselves. The creatures plan was for each of the little monsters to seize whatever foodstuffs or animals they could before the village was able mount a defense. If a goblin found itself in the position to snatch something valuable, such as gold or maybe an infant, they certainly would, but that was not their intention. This was a raiding party, not a war band, so they would not be attacking the strong points, nor engaging the villagers in a lengthy battle.

The outlaying homesteads were another matter entirely. Like his mother’s little farm.

Oktha ran back along the dirt path as fast as he could, with Blue right behind him. He was a healthy young man, fit from constant labor, and his ogre blood gave him stamina far beyond any possessed by even an adult human. Before long he could see the farm, situated between the road and a small, unnamed creek. Most of the land was taken by a melon patch, filled with pumpkins, gourds, watermelons, cantaloupes, and honeydew. A small barn offered shelter for a small herd of goats and the family’s only milk cow. A large chicken coup housed dozens of chickens and a single rooster, producing the eggs that provided them with their main source of coin. Beside the house was a small vegetable garden where his Mama and sister grew various vegetables for the family’s own use. His mother and sister were in the garden, picking tomatoes for the evening’s soup.

“Mama! Mama!” Oktha jumped the fence and dashed across the melon patch. “Goblins are attacking the village!”

“Katie, get the cow inside!” his mama ordered his sister, grabbing her basket as she stood up. “Oktha, round up the goats. Quickly now children! Those vermin won’t be very far behind!”

Oktha snatched up the herding stick and gave a swift whack to the rear of the nearest goat. The animal bleated in protest, but nonetheless began slowly plodding toward house. Oktha gave a few more whacks with the stick to elicit more speed, shouting at the herd to get them all moving. Soon all eight of the goats, along with about a half dozen kids, were moving as one. Blue ran back and forth, from one side of the herd to the other, barking and nipping at stragglers and wanderers to keep them all together. Oktha counted them as they passed through the door into the house, making sure they were all accounted for. Katie came in right behind them, pulling on the cow’s lead while his mother smacked the cow’s rump. Oktha noticed a look of mortal terror in the cow’s eyes. Was the animal just responding the fear she sensed in her owners, or had she caught wind of something else?

“Katie, bar the doors and lock the shutters!” His Mama ran to the fireplace and pulled the flue shut. Goblins have been known to enter buildings through the chimney.

“Mama!” Katie shouted, pointing toward the coup. “What about the chickens!”

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” his Mama replied.

Oktha sniffed the air, recoiling at the rancid stench of goblins. Rushing to the front door, he saw a small band of twelve of the filthy monsters. The goblins were cavorting gleefully down the dirt road, waving crude spears and rusted short swords. Seeing the isolated and apparently vulnerable farmhouse, the goblins gave what he assumed was a battle-cry and charged. Oktha slammed the front door shut and lifted the heavy oak bar into place.

“Mama, they’re coming!” he warned.

The three of them waited in silence as the goblins descended on the farm. Oktha could hear the panicked chickens clucking wildly as the goblins tore down the wire and started chasing them around the yard. He tried to do some simple math in his head. It would take three goblins to make off with the melon cart, and at least four would steal the tools and sacks of feed from the barn. Presuming the rest went after the chickens, that means they would lose ten chickens. If the vermin don’t snatch the rooster or trample the melon patch and the garden, the farm will recover.

Suddenly there was a fierce pounding on the front door, followed closely by a pounding on the back door and the shuttered windows. The goblins were trying to take the house! After a time, the pounding stopped. They dared hope that the goblins had given up, but the random pounding was soon replaced by a steady, repeated thumping against the front door. Oktha peeked out through a crack in the door and saw that the goblins were using the melon cart as a battering ram. He jumped back as the cart struck again, causing the door to heave inward. The bar held for now, but Oktha realized that if the vermin gained entry, it wouldn’t just be the animals they took. They would most likely kill his mama and try to drag him and his sister away to sell them to the orc’s or worse.

Katie screamed in fear and clung to their mama. His mama seized the iron poker from the fireplace, holding it in one trembling hand like a miniature pike. Oktha knew that the little iron bar would virtually worthless against the goblins; at best his mama might be able to skewer one and make it angry before the other goblins brought her down. The flimsy herding stick he still held in his hand was even more useless. He bit his lip and looked down at Blue, who was staring up at him intently. In that moment, an understanding passed between the boy and his dog. Those vermin were NOT going to get their disgusting hands on his mama or sister, or any more of their animals.

“It’s up to us now, Blue,” Oktha said as the wooden bar began to crack.

The dog just turned his attention back to the door, a threatening growl emanating from his throat. Blue took up a fighting stance, baring his teeth and folding back his ears. Oktha scanned the room for a suitable weapon. He though of the axe, but it was still out by the woodpile. He ran to the kitchen area and began to rifle through his mother’s utensils, taking stock of the blades. All the knives there were of flimsy construction, having never been intended for combat. The cleavers were even worse, being too badly unbalanced and nowhere near sharp enough to penetrate the goblins’ leather armor. Oktha feared he might have to make do with a bread knife.

Then he saw it, his mother’s iron skillet. The perfect weapon. It was wieldy, strong, and heavy enough to shatter a goblin’s skull. Taking the skillet down from its hook on the wall, he gripped the handle in both hands and gave it a few trial swings.

Then Oktha heard splintering wood. “They’re in!” Katie screamed.

The bar remained intact, but one of the planks of the door itself had snapped, leaving a hole in the lower part of the door just big enough for one goblin. A goblin poked its head inside, ignoring Oktha and taunting the females.

Bad mistake.

Oktha yelled and charged the door, putting all his strength and momentum behind his swing. The iron skillet connected with the goblin’s face, forcing its head upward violently and instantly breaking its neck. This apparently shocked the other goblins, who were not expecting a real fight. It was several seconds before the goblin’s corpse was dragged out of the hole in the door.

Another goblin forced its way in, this time not pausing for effect. It was closely followed by a second. Oktha swung as hard as he could at the first, striking it in the side of the head and causing it to stagger. The second goblin raised its axe to attack Oktha, but Blue was on it in a flash. Hitting the goblin full in the chest and knocking it to the floor, the pit bull began to savagely maul the goblins face and neck. Oktha raised the skillet again and struck the first goblin on the back of its head as it tried to regain its feet. The creature went down and did not try to rise again. Oktha bashed another goblin that was trying to get in, and then kicked the axe over to his mother. As crude and pitted as it was, the axe still made a better weapon than the poker.

With four of their number now dead, the goblins changed their strategy. Realizing that attempting to file one at a time through the narrow opening was suicidal, they resumed bashing the door. If the goblins managed to get the front door fully opened, they could swarm into the house in an overwhelming rush of numbers. Thinking quickly, Oktha pushed the table up to the door and overturned it. If the goblins did finally succeed in breaking down the door, the table would act as an additional barrier and limit how many Oktha would have to face at once.

There was a loud crack as the bar finally failed. The front door swung open . . .

**************************************************************************************

Captain Randel Redman, captain of the Manhome city watch, sat astride his warhorse and scanned the fields to each side of the dirt road for any signs of goblin activity. A native of Port Savage, on the eastern coast of Dillon, his dark skin contrasted sharply with his fellows. The captain was an imposing man, wearing enchanted splint mail armor that he single-handedly recovered from the lair of a catoblepas. Captain Redman was the type of leader that inspired awe and respect from those around him. He took his position as protector of the city of Manhome seriously, and he maintained a humble demeanor that earned him the admiration of the citizenry.

His troops finally caught up with the goblin raiders just outside a small village north of the city. As the goblins attacked the village, he ordered his men to circle around and cut off the vermin’s retreat. He knew the goblins would retreat in small groups, even individuals, as soon as they got their arms full of plunder. Although a few of the goblins managed to slip past, most were caught unawares and cut down with little ado. Ironically his success here would make the goblins stronger, since their reduced numbers would allow those that remained to survive the winter. That’s the way it is with vermin.

Randel was leading a small detachment of soldiers, along with a few of the village militia, to check on the outlaying farmsteads. Oscar the miller told him of small farm on the edge of the village, where a young widow lived alone with her two small children. Oscar was greatly concerned for the family’s well-being.

Cresting a small rise, he could see the farm ahead. It was clear that the goblins had been here, the overpowering stench bore witness to that, but he could see no sign of the raiders. The chicken coup was in ruins, with a few surviving chickens and a rooster wandering aimlessly around yard, and the little garden showed signs of plants being uprooted. Perhaps the goblins simply grabbed some chickens and a few tomato plants and then withdrew. If the widow and her children were able to barricade themselves inside the house . . .

The captain froze when he saw the house. The first thing that drew his attention was the battered-open door, and he began to fear the worse; goblins would sell human children into slavery without a second thought. Then he noticed, with no small surprise, the pile of goblin corpses lying just outside the door. Dismounting, he walked over to the house and examined the dead goblins. It was clear that every one of them had been killed by a blow to the head with a blunt weapon of some kind, though a few of them sported wounds that suggested a dog’s teeth were also involved in their deaths.

Glancing back up, he felt a sense of relief to see the widow, her two children and the family dog huddled in the broken doorway. Beyond the door Randel could see the rest of the family’s animals, including a cow and several goats. The woman had tangled blond hair and might have been exceedingly beautiful once, before the rigors of single motherhood and farm work began to take their toll. The girl looked to be about nine years old and well on her way to becoming a heartbreaker herself. She held on to her mother, still shaking form the morning’s events. The poor child will likely have nightmares about goblins for years to come.

What Randel found most surprising was the boy. The child was a half-ogre, something the miller failed to mention, and was easily bigger than most goblins despite his youthful age. His clothes were torn and bloodied, stained with both goblin blood and his own, and he held in his hands a large cast-iron skillet. The backside of the skillet was smeared in goblin blood, and tuffs of goblin hair still clung to it. This, he surmised, was the blunt weapon that killed the goblins. To think that it was wielded by a simple farm boy with no martial training! Never in his life had anyone impressed Captain Redman more than this half-ogre child.

“Jessica, Katie, Oktha,” Oscar cried, “thank the god’s you’re safe!”

“Thanks to Oktha,” the widow beamed. “He saved us all. He bashed those vermin good!”

She bent down and hugged the boy, and then kissed him on the cheek. “Aw, mama,” the boy complained, apparently embarrassed by his mother’s affections.

“You did this?” one of the guardsmen asked in shock. “You, a mere boy, killed all these goblins with THAT?”

“Blue helped,” the boy offered, pointing to the dog.

“I’m sure he did,” Captain Redman laughed, crouching down to look the boy in the eye. “Tell us what happened, child,” he coaxed.

Randel listened as the boy told him of the goblin attack. He was impressed that boy seemed to downplay his own actions and praised the courage of his mother and the loyalty of his dog instead. Here was a young man who was not braggadocios, even when he had the right to be so. He had seen so many young men come to him seeking entry into the Manhome watch that were so full of themselves that it made him want to vomit. Yet here before him now was a half-ogre with a warrior’s heart, who clearly, even instinctively, understood the concepts of honor, humility, and service to others that so many humans seemed to lack. This was a boy that Randel would be privileged to have as a squire, and to pass all his years of experience on to. He just had to convince his mother to let him go.

“Your son will make an outstanding warrior,” Randel said to woman. “With your consent, and his agreement, I would like to take him on as my personal squire and apprentice.”

“I . . . I’m honored, sir,” Jessica stammered, “but I need him for the farm . . .”

“I can get you and your daughter a place to live in Manhome,” Randel assured her. “I happen to know of a tailor that is in need of a seamstress, and he pays well. He may even have enough work for your daughter too. I’ll come back for him after the harvest is in. You can sell your land and animals by then and make ready to relocate.”

“A home behind the walls . . . that would be wonderful,” Jessica replied. “What say you, Oktha? Do you want to become a warrior like Captain Redman?”

“Me, a warrior, protecting people from monsters like these,” the boy answered, excitement showing in his eyes. “That would be great!”

“What is your name, boy?” Randel asked.

“Oktha, sir,” the boy replied proudly. “Oktha Ogreson is my name.”

“Ogreson?” Randel repeated. “I see no son of an ogre here. I think you have proven this day that you are not your father’s son, Oktha; therefore, the name ‘Ogreson’ is no longer valid. I think you deserve a new name. I think a name like . . .”

Randel paused as he considered his next words carefully. Changing a birth-name was not a task to be taken lightly. He played the battle over again in his mind, searching for the one thing that set the child’s actions apart. Then his eyes fell upon the blood-encrusted iron skillet Oktha still held in his hands, the crude weapon that had seen Oktha to victory over the vile goblins. He smiled broadly as a new name came into focus.

“Oktha Ironskillet!” Captain Redman announced, to the approval of everyone around him.