Anemoi 23 – Anemoi 24, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Hills – The Hollow Hill
The farmstead had a name once. Willow's End. The signpost still stood at the crossroads, though the paint had peeled and the wood had cracked. No one had tended the fields in three days. The sheep were gone. The dogs were silent.
The door of the main house hung open.
He crouched in the tall grass, watching. The dawn was grey, the air thick with the smell of smoke and something else. Something sweet. Something wrong.
He spoke. Quietly. "One."
He counted the tracks. Goblins. At least a dozen. Small feet, bare, dragging. They had come from the east, from the hollow hill where the old barrow sat. He had passed it yesterday. He had meant to check it. He had been too late.
He stood. Checked his gear. Short sword – sharp. Club – heavy. Oil – two flasks. Tinderbox – dry. Shield – small, round, strapped to his arm. He didn't like shields. Shields were for knights. But goblins threw spears. Spears hurt.
He walked toward the house.
The House – The First Room
The door was broken. Not forced – hacked. Goblin work. He stepped inside.
The floor was wet. Dark. Sticky.
He didn't look down.
A body lay near the hearth. A man. Middle‑aged. Hands bound. Throat cut. Not clean – ragged, like they had used a dull blade. The wound gaped, edges torn, white cartilage showing beneath the red.
He said nothing. He did not count the dead human.
He moved deeper.
The bedroom. The bed was empty. The blankets were torn. A woman's dress lay in the corner. Blood. Too much blood. It had soaked into the wooden floorboards, dark and wide.
Still nothing.
He found the child in the loft. A boy, maybe seven. Dead. Eyes open. Stabbed in the chest. The wound was small, but deep. The boy had tried to hide behind a stack of old quilts. Not well enough.
The Goblin Slayer stood still. He did not pray. He did not curse. He just counted the tracks outside.
Then he left the house and walked toward the hollow hill.
The Hollow Hill – The Entrance
The barrow was old. Older than the kingdom. The entrance was a crack in the hillside, barely wide enough for a man. Goblins had widened it. Chisel marks on the stone. Bones scattered at the threshold. Rabbit. Fox. Something larger. A human hand, severed at the wrist, fingers curled.
He lit a torch. Oil, rag, flint. The flame sputtered, then caught. Yellow light pushed back the dark.
He went inside.
The Tunnel – Her Perspective (Iconic Walk)
She heard the footsteps first.
Step.
The sound echoed off the stone walls – slow, deliberate, inevitable. A goblin at the far end of the chamber stopped gnawing on a bone. Its head turned toward the tunnel. Its ears twitched.
Step.
Another goblin looked up from the fire. It hissed something in its guttural tongue. The others went quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the flames and the slow, grinding crunch of boots on stone.
Step.
She was kneeling by the flames, naked, bruised, her hands bound behind her back with rough rope. Her wrists were raw, bleeding. She had stopped crying. There were no tears left. Only fear. Cold, crawling fear that lived in her stomach like a living thing.
Step.
The light appeared. A glow at the tunnel mouth, small at first, then growing. The shadows on the walls began to move – not like a man's shadow, but something larger, something with angles that shouldn't be there. The goblins scrambled. Grabbed weapons. Rusty knives. A spear with a crooked tip. A cleaver caked with dried blood.
Step.
The light grew brighter. Shadows danced. The silhouette emerged – tall, broad, inhuman in the flicker. The helmet was a dark blot, the shoulders wide, the cloak hanging like a shroud. The goblin shaman raised its hands. Green fire coiled between its fingers, hissing.
Step.
He stepped into the chamber.
The goblins shrank back. The shaman's green fire flickered. The hobgoblin stood, but it did not charge. Not yet.
He stopped. The torchlight painted his dented armor in orange and black. His scratched visor reflected the flames. He stood there for a heartbeat – two – letting them see him. Letting them feel the weight of his presence.
Then he spoke. "One."
The Chamber – Her Recognition
She saw him. Dented armor. Scratched helmet. Stained cloak. A torch in one hand, a short sword in the other. He walked like he owned the darkness. Like the darkness was his home.
A goblin charged. Small, green, knife raised. It screamed something high‑pitched.
He didn't slow. His sword moved – a short, brutal arc. The blade caught the goblin under the chin, punched through the soft flesh, and burst out the top of its skull. Black blood sprayed. The goblin's legs kicked once, twice, then went limp. He pulled the sword free with a wet, sucking sound. The body crumpled.
"One," he said again. The first kill. The count began.
Another lunged from the side, a rusted spear aimed at his ribs. He caught the shaft with his shield, twisted, and snapped the wooden haft. The goblin stumbled. He drove his sword into its belly, twisted the blade, and ripped it sideways. Intestines spilled. The goblin shrieked, clutching its stomach, trying to push the pink ropes back in. He stepped past it. It fell.
"Two."
The shaman screamed. Green fire flew – a bolt of witch‑light aimed at his chest.
He wasn't there. He had dropped to a crouch, rolled left, and came up behind a stalagmite. The fire struck the stone, scorching it black. He threw his torch at the shaman. The shaman flinched, raised its hands to shield its face.
He was already moving.
He closed the distance in three strides. Grabbed the shaman's wrist. Squeezed. Bones cracked – a sound like breaking wet wood. The shaman screamed. He broke the other wrist. Green fire sputtered and died.
He picked the shaman up by the throat. Slammed it against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. The back of its skull cracked against the stone. Blood ran down the wall.
"Where are the others?" His voice was flat. Quiet.
The shaman pointed to a side passage. He broke its neck with a sharp twist. The body slid down the wall and folded.
"Three."
The Hobgoblin – Brutal
The hobgoblin stood. It was tall – as tall as a man. Its skin was grey, thick, like old leather. Its arms were thick, its hands black‑nailed. It held a cleaver. Rusted. Notched. It had killed with that cleaver. Many times. The blade was dark with old blood.
It charged. Heavy footsteps. The ground shook.
He didn't retreat. He stepped into its swing. The cleaver passed behind his head – close enough that he felt the wind. He drove his short sword into the hobgoblin's side. The blade hit ribs. He pushed harder. Felt them crack. The sword sank deep.
The hobgoblin roared. It swung again, wild. He pulled the sword free, ducked, rolled. The cleaver struck the ground, throwing up dirt and stone chips. He came up behind it. Stabbed it in the back of the knee. The blade severed tendons. The hobgoblin's leg buckled. It fell to one knee.
He grabbed its head. Hands on either side of its skull. Twisted. There was a loud crack – the spine separating from the base of the skull. The hobgoblin's body went limp. He let it fall.
"Four."
He wiped his sword on its tunic.
The Remaining Goblins – Slaughter
The others tried to flee. He didn't let them.
One ran for the side passage. He threw his club. It struck the back of its head – a wet, hollow sound. The goblin dropped, still twitching. He walked over, picked up his club, and brought it down on the goblin's skull. Again. Again. Until it stopped moving.
"Five."
Two ran together toward the main exit. He intercepted them. Sword through the first one's throat. "Six." The second tried to stab him with a knife. He caught its wrist, broke it, took the knife, and opened its belly from sternum to groin. The goblin looked down at its own insides spilling out. It took two more steps, then collapsed.
"Seven."
One hid behind a stalagmite. He heard its breathing – fast, panicked. He walked around the stone. The goblin looked up at him with wide yellow eyes. It tried to beg. He didn't understand the words. He stabbed it in the eye.
"Eight."
The last one ran for the fire. It grabbed a burning branch and swung it at him like a torch. He caught the branch with his shield, snatched it from the goblin's hand, and drove the burning end into its face. The goblin screamed, clawed at its own skin, fell to the ground. He stepped on its throat. Pressed until the screaming stopped.
"Nine."
The chamber was quiet. The fire crackled. The bodies smoked.
He counted aloud. "Nine."
Then he went to the side passage. More goblins cowered there. He killed them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
"Fourteen."
He returned to the main chamber. The woman stared at him.
The Cages – Her Freedom
He walked to her. Knelt. Cut her bonds with his sword. The rope fell away.
"Can you walk?"
She tried to stand. Her legs shook. Her knees buckled. He caught her arm. Steady.
"The entrance is behind you. Straight tunnel. No turns. Go."
"There are others," she whispered. "I heard them. In the side passage."
"They're dead."
He looked toward the darkness. "All of them."
She heard the weight in his voice. Not satisfaction. Not relief. Just fact.
He helped her up. "Go."
She stumbled toward the tunnel. The other women followed. She looked back once.
He was pouring oil on the bodies. On the cages. On the shaman's altar. He struck his flint. The oil caught. Flames rose – orange, not green. The heat pushed against her face.
He walked toward her. Past her. Into the daylight.
The Hillside – Aftermath
She sat on the grass, shivering. The other women huddled together. The Goblin Slayer sat apart, on a rock, his back to them.
He spoke to himself. "Fourteen."
He sat there for a long time. The smoke rose from the hollow hill. The sun moved.
Then he stood. Walked toward Luminara. He didn't look back.
She watched him go. She didn't know his name. She would never forget his silhouette.
End of Chapter One Hundred Seven