Finally, I reached an empty patch of blue grass, a few dozen feet away from the tents. Slowly, I began practicing the hand-to-hand techniques the Mothers had taught me and the rest of us when we were children.
I started with a series of punches and then transitioned into some low kicks. After about half an hour, I rested my hands on my knees, breathing deeply and gasping for air. I had practiced for years, but my endurance still hadn't improved much compared to the others. They could keep their breath steady for over an hour of training and still run for a few more afterward.
I wouldn't complain; no one would care to listen, much less help me personally—well, maybe just a little. But I knew I needed to get stronger if I wanted any hope of joining the hunters someday.
They were among the most respected in any path, excluding the Mothers. And I was a man, so I couldn't join the Mothers anyway. The shaman, Pril, held the most prestigious position of all; even the chief and the First Mother paid homage to him. But to become his apprentice, one needed the blessing of the moon of magic.
The last time I checked, no one else in the tribe could summon fire. All I had left was to train harder. I forced my arms and legs through the fighting movements once more. After another forty minutes, I had to take a break. The sunlight now shone through the blood-red leaves, and breakfast would begin any minute. I dragged my tired muscles back to the village.
As I approached, I saw the chief stepping out of his tent, followed by two of his goblin wives. When the leader looked at me, I made sure to bow deeply. The chief was the highest position I could ever aspire to.
But even he had once been a hunter. Not that I thought I'd be strong enough to become a chief; I probably wouldn't even manage to join the hunters. Still, I had to try, and tonight would be a good opportunity to show everyone why I could be a great hunter.
As I moved away, I noticed the chief looking in my direction.
"Ah, it's that odd dark-skinned boy. What's his name again?" One of his wives yawned, casting a disdainful glance at me.
"Ertil. He's not that small, just an inch or two shorter than you," the chief replied.
"Yeah, but he's a guy. He should be, like, four feet tall," she laughed, "not five feet."
The chief sighed. "That boy trains harder than anyone in this tribe. He has the heart of a true goblin."
"Too bad he doesn't have the body of one. Not much of a fighter, is he?" the other wife remarked.
The chief shook his head and continued walking. "Tonight, he becomes an adult. We'll see how well he can fight then."
The women followed without saying anything more.
I went about my usual routine during the day. I washed the tribe's clothes and cleaned the hunters' tools, as was expected of us children. In my free time, I trained until I struggled to breathe. After that, I watched the few hunters who stayed in the village, hoping to learn something from their training exercises.
As the sun began to set, I was summoned by the Second Mother. I took a deep breath as she led me to a tent. Inside, several Mothers were waiting, each holding a small bowl of ceremonial paint.
The First Mother, leader of the others, stepped forward. She was considered a great beauty within the tribe. Her small, round face, with a button nose—unlike the hooked noses most women had—was framed by black hair streaked with a few strands of gray.
Coincidentally, I was the only person in the tribe with gray hair since birth, yet another sign of my strangeness. The First Mother, on the other hand, had earned hers over time. She was the oldest goblin in the tribe, at 38 years old. Many goblins never lived past their twenties, as the dangers of the forest often proved fatal.
By the time they reached thirty, they began to slow down and grow weaker. At that point, the tribe deemed them useless and cast them out, leaving them as food for wolves and dire bears. The Mothers were the only exception, as their role was to raise the children, so it was acceptable for their physical abilities to decline. But the First Mother still seemed as capable as she had been twenty years ago.
"Take off your shirt," she said in a stern voice.
I nodded obediently and began to remove it.
"Since the day you were born, we've cared for you, Ertil. You've always been different from the others."
"Strange," the Sixth Mother coughed. At 24 years old, she was one of the youngest Mothers. She had once been considered the most beautiful goblin of her generation and was honored with the role of Mother early on. The status had only made her more arrogant. She loved to mock me, the odd one, whenever she had the chance.
The First Mother turned her head, her yellow eyes narrowed, her pupils reduced to small slits. "Anything else you'd like to say? Or should I punish her now?"
"No, please, forgive this fool," the Sixth Mother blushed, bowing in reverence, her shoulders trembling.
I struggled to keep my face passive, but I felt a rare moment of satisfaction at seeing her embarrassed.
After a long pause, the First Mother slowly turned. "You're lucky today is Ertil's birthday." She dipped her finger into a small pot of red paint before continuing, "As I was saying, we've watched you grow over the years. Despite your struggles, which have been many, you never gave up on seeking strength. In a way, you are the smallest of this generation."
I wasn't sure whether I should be happy or sad about those words.
"That's why I'm proud of you, child. Many goblins in your place would have already given up." She spread the paint on my forehead and cheeks.
I couldn't help but smile slightly. This kind of praise was rare for me, especially coming from the leader of the Mothers.
The First Mother furrowed her brow. "That's why you must not fail. I know you're smaller and weaker than the others, but you've worked hard. Don't let your countless hours of training be wasted in your first night challenge. The Blood Teeth tribe does not need weak goblins."
A cold shiver ran down my spine. The threat was real, and I worried about what she would do if I failed. No, I couldn't think that way, I couldn't afford to think that way. I swallowed hard. "I won't fail you, First Mother."
She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "You better not fail. I won't allow one of my children to embarrass me."
I didn't consider myself one of her children. She had made that clear many times throughout my life. But I didn't think it wise to correct her words.
The First Mother took a step back and turned. "Well, what are you waiting for? Prepare him."
"Yes, First Mother!" the other women responded in unison. Each one began applying paint of different colors to me, drawing ceremonial symbols on my skin.
"You, no." The First Mother pulled the Sixth Mother's hair back firmly.
The Sixth Mother screamed in pain, dropping her bowl. "I'm sorry, First Mother!"
"Not yet, you aren't," she hissed in the Sixth Mother's ear. "Did you think I would just let this slide?"
Another woman quietly picked up the fallen bowl. Meanwhile, the Mothers continued painting the symbols on my body, indifferent to the humiliation of their sister. I remained silent, watching the scene unfold.
"You keep misbehaving. I should have punished you a long time ago." The First Mother kicked the Sixth Mother's knees, forcing her to kneel. She then slapped her face with all her strength, her claws scratching the delicate skin. The Sixth Mother screamed in pain, the sound echoing in the tent.
"You're so pathetic, and you still dare to interrupt me!? If you weren't a Mother, I would've already thrown you out as food for the wolves!" the First Mother yelled, her voice filled with contempt.
"It won't happen again! I promise!" the Sixth Mother shouted, nearly pleading.
"Trust me, I'll make sure it doesn't happen," the First Mother laughed and punched her, making the Sixth Mother choke and fall to the floor. The First Mother smiled, revealing her small, sharp fangs.
"Say that you're weak. Say it!" commanded the First Mother, her voice sharp as a blade.
The Sixth Mother could only groan in pain, unable to speak. I watched everything, surprised. I knew the Mothers shared a close relationship, so it was strange to see the First Mother treat the Sixth with such cruelty. On the other hand, the First Mother had always been cruel, no matter who she was dealing with.
"It's done," murmured the Second Mother, breaking the silence.
The Mothers stepped back from me, revealing the symbols painted all over my body: spears, bows, and fangs covered my chest, back, and face.
Meanwhile, the First Mother stepped away from the slaps and looked down, where the Sixth Mother was now licking her feet fervently, in a humiliating submission. With sadistic resonance, the First Mother spoke, "If you don't do a better job, I'll cut you up and eat you myself."
She then stomped on the Sixth Mother's head, reinforcing her position of absolute authority. I remained silent, trying not to draw any attention.
...
1618 Words