Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them, and some get that way by eating some funky mushrooms.

~ Kobold Proverb

No matter how far he stuck his finger in, Klag couldn’t get the cheese wedge out of his nose. It might seem odd to you humans why Klag was knuckle-deep in nose juice, but cheese plugs were quite common in the Kobold community. You’d use cheese plugs, too, if you lived so close to a lava field. 

To be frank, Klag preferred a mild block of cheddar but had opted for the more pungent Stilton this morning because he had to traverse the putrid Froegunn Pass. Unfortunately, not only did this route cut through the lava fields, but it also took travellers dangerously close to what the humans called the “Landing of the Twins.” Klag, however, preferred its more colourful Kobold name, “Stink Pan,” because the place smelled like month-old goat excrement.

He wiggled his finger again, but to no avail. The cheese was pretty jammed in there, so he withdrew his middle digit, sighed, and looked back toward the direction he’d come. 

Far below Klag was his home: a comfortable, dank little cave, likely filled at this hour with the yelps of his seventeen dear pups frantically wrestling for seats near the dinner table. He imagined his love, Buksug, barking her favourite melody as she filled the children’s bowls with her famous beetle sludge stew. He swore he could hear her piercing howls even from his place two days' journey up the mountain. 

He turned and scanned upward. The Red Rim Mountains were known to all Kobold-kind as a place to avoid. Terrible creatures roamed the pass and the volcanic heat exhausted even the most energetic traveller. 

Klag sighed again, drew a skeletal fish head from his sack and did what he always did in these situations—conversed with Fishy. “Fishy, we are sure in a mess. Remember Guzhok and Zurga? They made the best Beetle Mead. They were the last two that went this way, and they never came back.”

If Fishy did remember Guzhok and Zurga, it didn’t say. Its eye holes stared back blankly; perhaps the memory was too painful.

“You’re right, I’m being paranoid. I shouldn’t think that way. Maybe there are juicier beetles out East and they decided to stay? They’re probably living like chieftains somewhere. If anyone could make it, those two could.”

Fishy seemed sceptical.

“Don’t give me that, you know I don’t have a choice,” Klag snapped. “As a champion of the Gelatinous Slime Cook-Off, I’ve been granted the ‘honour’ of representing our clan at the Great Kobold Cooking Challenge this spring. I don’t think it’s an accident that the path to the challenge always just happens to take us through literally the most dangerous place in the entire country, but what can you do? No wonder Broopslug is undefeated ten years running.”

Fishy’s vacant stare enraged Klag.

“Fine, you’re right! I could have thrown the competition. You try to just abandon your dreams! I am a great baker, and you know it!” bellowed Klag as he pointed critically at Fishy then slammed his fist down.

Fuming, Klag marched to the other side of the rock outcropping and unbundled his pack to fetch his sleeping bag and the mushrooms he’d foraged on the way up the mountain. He was pretty sure they were Sillweed mushrooms and not the psychedelic Dragonfangs, but he was too enraged to care at this point. He popped them into his mouth and unfolded the sack; not only was he hungry, but he also had a migraine from his argument with Fishy and the mass of cheese blocking his right nostril. 

He went to sleep.

It is common knowledge that kobolds hate daylight—well, they hate a lot of things, but daylight is in the top 10% of all hated things. Most believe it’s because their vision is better at night, but this is a lie they tell outsiders. 

The truth is that most kobolds are narcissistic and will do just about anything to keep their skin looking young and pale. You can imagine, then, how moody Klag was after rolling down the mountain for the tenth time due to his unfortunate choice of a sleeping location. Unable to sleep, he reluctantly rose, gathered his belongings—including Fishy, though they were not yet back on speaking terms—and continued toward the pass.

Some hours later, just as the sun was beginning to set, Klag began to daydream. He thought back to the time he’d made a magnificent spider egg shortbread for the wedding of the Goblin Warlord, Stone Tooth the Wretched. Those buttery biscuits had been so delightful and so filling that Stone Tooth called off the human sacrifices for over a week. The shortbread had been the talk of the entire town. 

A sudden and loud “crunch” snapped Klag out of his dream. He looked down and saw that he’d stepped into the brittle ribcage of a decapitated humanoid creature. Panicked, Klag tried to dislodge himself from the creature’s chest cavity but instead, he tripped and fell forward into a pile of disembowelled human flesh. Quickly, Klag scrambled from the heap and frantically began wiping the unidentified human goop from his body. 

As he tried to clean the juices off, he started to look around.

Klag hadn’t realized that the mountain path had started to level out. The sweet memory of that delicious shortbread had distracted him just enough that he’d failed to realize he now stood in the Landing of the Twins. The landscape was violent and stark. Lava pools bubbled in the distance and jagged igneous columns peppered the terrain. Gruesome carnage was juxtaposed starkly against the greys of the mountain and human body parts were indiscriminately strewn about—there was an arm here, a leg there, and so on.

“Gross,” exclaimed Klag as he covered Fishy’s eyes. He swiftly covered his mouth, too. Whatever had torn these humans apart must still be close by. He needed to stay quiet.

He spotted a carriage that was still intact and tiptoed his way across the battlefield to get a better look. Maybe whatever devil slaughtered these humans has moved on, thought Klag. 

No beast could stand the smell of humans for long . . . and they tasted awful.

The carriage seemed to be well-built and used a non-standard design. There were intricate markings on its sides and the wheels were sturdy and custom-made. Klag couldn’t exactly tell, but the scatterings of horse bits indicated that these hadn’t just been working horses, no. They’d been noble stallions. 

Curious, Klag peered into the carriage. Nestled among padded seats and fine leathers were several boxes and what looked like a breadbasket. He couldn’t resist; he was, after all, a sucker for royal breads and pastries. 

I bet it is a sourdough, thought Klag as he licked his lips and pulled the basket out. It was heavy, but he dared not look yet. With all the human guts everywhere, his meal would be spoiled, so he’d take the basket with him and enjoy it later when there was a little less death. He took the basket under his arm and tiptoed back the way he came.

He had nearly made it away from the landing when he spotted an unusual human carcass. This one still had its metal skin on, and a giant hammer lay beside it. Klag had never seen such fancy equipment before and his curiosity once again got the better of him. He approached.

The human was certainly dead, but the corpse was a little less ravaged than the others. Maybe whatever beast had killed them hadn’t been able to get through this human’s thick plates. 

Klag flipped open its full helm and immediately frowned. “How ugly! No wonder the monster didn’t eat this one.” 

Most of the equipment was too large for Klag but this warrior wore a silver-looking ring and an amulet that would be easy to carry. 

He won’t need these things, thought Klag. He pried both jewellery pieces from the corpse. The ring fit well enough on Klag’s thumb. He stared at it momentarily and for a second, he thought he saw it shimmer with a supernatural light.

“Did you see that, Fishy?” whispered Klag. “These human things are so peculiar.” He shrugged and got up, accidentally kicking the breadbasket.

The basket started to scream, quietly at first and then louder.

“Fishy, I’m not so sure that is a breadbasket,” Klag breathed, irritated. “Shh, little breadbasket. Let’s not make too much noise. Shh!” 

Klag opened the lid, and instead of the bewitching aroma of fresh sourdough, he was affronted with the noxious whiff of sour human. It was a human baby, one whose cries were turning into shrieks.

On cue, a significantly louder screech pierced the evening sky. In the distance, a beast stirred and the ground quaked as it began lumbering toward Klag’s position.

Klag squeaked, spared a quick look at the baby and then high-tailed it. He located an outcropping of rocks a short distance away and dove behind it just as the beast rounded a chasm.. It stood over ten meters tall and was covered in coarse black and red hair. Four massive legs propelled it forward, counterbalancing its two upper limbs, both armed with razor-sharp talons. A squat neck propped up a colossal, bear-like head. 

There were signs of combat evident on the beast, as well. At least a dozen arrows protruded from the behemoth’s back, a broadsword lay partly buried in its upper shoulder and a variety of gashes were interspersed across its chest. The monster didn’t seem bothered by any of this and continued its way toward the child.

As it drew near, Klag realized the beast was distracted and that he now had an opportunity to make a break for it. Kobolds simply were not built for conflict; they were crafty, not brave, which meant it was best to leave the battling to the stouter species. 

But although every fibre in Klag’s being screamed, “run,” he waited. He felt something strange, like a knot in his belly or as if he’d suddenly fallen flush from a fever. It might have been those mushrooms, but still, he stood frozen in place, watching as the beast neared the child. 

[An Important Aside:

It is important that the reader understands how odd Klag’s behaviour is at this point in the story; the oddity will make itself known once you hear the following tale from Klag’s childhood.

When Klag was just a wee kobold pup, he was charged with feeding the village chickens. Normally, he didn’t mind this task as it required almost no effort, but he always dreaded feeding the roosters. In particular, he feared a large rooster named Brzug. Well, Brzug was sort of a jerk and would peck anyone who got too close. 

One day, after delivering the grain to the rest of the hens (and less frightening roosters), Klag forgot to close the coop gate. Old Brzug got loose and terrorized the community, pecking the other kobolds frantically. No one in the village dared intercept the wild beast lest they lose an eyeball. 

Fortunately—likely from all that terrorizing—the rooster eventually grew sleepy and passed out in its pen. Klag’s three-year-old sister, Moogzug, was finally the one who locked Brzug back into the coop. 

Klag’s mother found Klag two days later, hiding in a barrel down by the river. This was Klag’s modus operandi his whole life—hide and wait for the trouble to blow over. That was how he’d always lived his life . . . right up until this moment on the mountain.]

Back to Our Story:

Klag was meters away from a murder beast, contemplating something truly insane. Almost as if his body was acting on its own, he suddenly sprang toward the giant and launched a rock at its face. 

The monster blinked, wrinkled its nose, and began to rise to its full height. The creature roared so deeply it threw Klag backward as its bladed hammer fists struck the ground where he’d been. The sharp claws impaled the earth and severed the rocky wall he’d previous hid behind. 

Luckily, the dust was providing some makeshift temporary cover and Klag raced toward the human with the heavy, silver garb. He began searching for a weapon but couldn’t find anything his size. The titanic hammer was the only equipment he could find, so he grabbed the end of it, closed his eyes and lifted with all his might.

To his utter surprise, Klag raised the hammer as if it weighed the same as a small pot on his kitchen stove. 

I am obviously still drugged from the mushrooms, Klag thought, accepting that this all was likely some strange hallucination. Cheered by the realization that hallucinations couldn’t hurt him, he charged the beast.

The razor talon was still stuck in the rock outcropping, distracting the monster enough that it didn’t see tiny Klag charging toward it. 

Klag tripped and the hammer flung out of his grasp, miraculously toward the monster. It struck the side of the beast’s skull and caused it to topple over the rock wall and onto its back. Klag picked himself up and, seeing the monster dazed, grabbed the hammer again and leapt upon the beast. 

He struck again and again and again upon the monster’s belly until the creature ceased its movements. After several minutes of pummelling, Klag finally let go of the hammer. He slumped to the ground, now covered not only in human goop, but monster goop as well.

For ten minutes, Klag sat on the ground, his back against the pulverized monster, trying to understand what had just happened. He looked down at his bloodied hands and noticed again that faint light emanating from the ring. 

So odd, he thought as he began to inspect it. But before he could examine it too closely, the baby started to faintly cry again.

“I guess that thing survived somehow,” Klag exclaimed. He put the ring in his pocket and staggered toward the cries. 

The child was still in the basket. He peeked in and saw the creature’s grotesque dainty nose, putrid emerald eyes, and unsightly dimples. 

Disgusting, Klag thought . . . but for some reason, he couldn’t just leave it. 

He took Fishy back out of his sack. “What do you think?” he asked.

Fishy stared knowingly at Klag.

“You think we should keep it?” queried the exasperated Klag. “Humans are the absolute worst. They smell, they’re ugly, their squishy skin gives me the heebie jeebies . . . ”

Fishy again gave Klag The Look.

“I guess we can eat it in a pinch?” He took the child out of the basket and held it in front of him. 

The baby’s cries softened into shallow whimpering, and it closed its eyes. 

“We are definitely eating this thing,” Klag said with a disgusted shudder. But talking about eating things made Klag hungry and he thought back to a delicious rye bread he’d made just before the journey. “We’ll call it ‘Rye’ for now, just in case. This way, there’ll be less confusion if we do decide to eat it.” He put the child back in the basket.

We must get out of here, thought Klag. That thing probably wasn’t the only fiend in this area. 

Klag scoured the battlefield and eventually cobbled together a makeshift wagon. He figured the big silver human’s equipment was likely worth something, so he unbuckled the mesh belt, stripped its silver skin, grabbed the full helm, snatched the chain boots, and threw the leather gloves on for good measure. 

He started to push the cart up the mountain path when he realized he’d forgotten Rye. He went back, scooped up the basket and peeked in. Rye was asleep and, without all the crying, it didn’t seem quite so disgusting. 

Klag smiled and lightly set the baby onto the cart.

This is the weirdest mushroom trip I’ve ever had, Klag thought. He took Fishy back out of his pocket. “Remind me to tell you about my dream when I come to,” stated Klag.

Fishy didn’t want to alarm Klag so it remained silent. 

The best kind of heroes don’t know they are heroes at all.

END

Notes:

*Originally published through the Genesis Scrolls Writing Competition within the Loot Discord. There are many great short stories there so please have a look: https://loot-talk.com/ (check back to 2022).

**Edited for English (UK) audience.