When Chik wobbled out of the sheep pen on his black goat, Zaggur was squatting by the palisade, teasing the wild chickens inside with small stones.
The wild chickens clucked and flapped their wings, trying to fly out of the palisade, making Zaggur chuckle and hum an off-key greenskin tune—if you could call it a tune, it was more like a jumble of shouts such as "Beat the dwarves" and "Steal the Mushrooms."
"Stop teasing the chickens! It's time to feed the goats!" Chik slapped the goat's back, and the black goat bleated, trotting forward a couple of steps.
He was swinging a grass rope, the end of which slapped the ground with a "pat-pat" sound, making him look like a beastman boss inspecting his territory.
Zaggur slowly stood up and patted the dust off his backside. "What's the rush? The goblins are cutting grass; they won't starve." He glanced at the nearby shed and indeed saw a dozen goblins squatting on the ground, cutting alfalfa with stone knives. The cut grass was piled to the side, looking fresh and green.
Ever since Kurzadh assigned them the task of raising poultry, their lives had been like soaking in mushroom soup—moist and comfortable!
With a dozen goblins serving them, cutting grass, feeding chickens, and cleaning the sheep pen were all the goblins' jobs. The two of them were only responsible for riding their goats around the tribe, occasionally shouting, "Don't be lazy," and spending the rest of their time either teasing chickens or chatting, a hundred times more comfortable than their previous life in the Broken Claw tribe.
Chik jumped off the goat's back, sat on the ground, and casually pulled a blade of grass to chew on. "Honestly, riding this black goat feels pretty good."
He patted the goat's neck beside him. This goat was specially chosen by Kurzadh; it was sturdier than the other goats, with gray-black fur that looked spirited. "It just doesn't run fast. It would be great if we had a war pig."
"A war pig? Why don't you wish for a two-headed dragon?" Zaggur scoffed, also sitting down next to him. "Given the current state of our tribe, having a goat to ride is good enough."
He was right.
Greenskin tribes always had a variety of mounts—beastman bosses loved to ride two-headed dragons, which could fly for half a day with a flap of their wings and tear a dwarf in half with a single claw; hobgoblin riders preferred dire wolves or jungle spiders, dire wolves were fast, spiders could climb trees, both were very agile; there were also some sinister tribes that could tame Squigs as mounts, those things had no eyes and charged blindly by scent, capable of biting off a person's leg, very fierce.
But none of these had anything to do with the Blackrock Clan.
Let alone two-headed dragons and war pigs, they couldn't even catch a decent dire wolf. Only these thirty-odd goats were relatively obedient and could be ridden.
But Chik and Zaggur didn't mind.
They straddled their black goats and slowly ambled through the tribe, looking down on everyone. In the Broken Claw tribe, they were not even as good as hobgoblins who rode dire wolves. Now, at least they were "goat riders," with goblins to run errands for them, which was quite glorious.
"Hey, look at those laborers," Zaggur suddenly pointed with his chin to a spot not far away, where several recently upgraded goblins were squatting on the ground repairing a palisade, moving much more efficiently than ordinary goblins. "The boss is truly amazing; he can actually make goblins so clever."
Chik glanced over, said nothing, just pursed his lips, still chewing on the blade of grass.
He still found it incredible—that they would actually worship a goblin as their boss.
In previous tribes, goblins were punching bags; beastmen would kick them a couple of times when in a bad mood, and hobgoblins would tease them for fun. Besides picking up trash and moving stones, they were useless.
But Kurzadh was different. This runt not only fought and built houses, but he could also make statues glow and make himself grow bigger. Now he could even teach goblins to be like hobgoblins, which was just uncanny.
"Speaking of which, we really have to thank the boss for the life we're living now." Zaggur sighed, a hint of emotion in his voice. "Two years ago, who would have dared to imagine this?"
As soon as he spoke, both hobgoblins fell silent.
The events of two years ago were like mushrooms buried in the dirt; usually not thought about much, but when dug up, they were all bitter.
At that time, they had just crawled out of the ground not long ago, still two half-grown hobgoblins, belonging to the lowest rank in the Broken Claw tribe.
The Broken Claw tribe was a large tribe, with several hundred greenskins , and dozens of beastmen alone, all burly and strong, capable of knocking a hobgoblin out for three days with one punch.
They didn't have the strong physique of their beastman relatives, nor had they learned the cunning and treachery of the old hobgoblins—the old hobgoblins would secretly sprinkle sand in beastmen's food and steal weapons when no one was looking. They, however, only knew how to shout blindly with a burst of stubbornness, and as a result, they were beaten often.
Once, Chik tried to snatch a leftover lamb leg from a beastman and was kicked in the stomach by that beastman, lying on the ground for a long time unable to catch his breath; Zaggur was even worse off, having his arm broken by someone for fighting over a mushroom patch with other hobgoblins, screaming in pain, and no one cared.
At that time, they huddled in the corner of their shed every day, afraid of being targeted by beastmen. Their lives were like those of rats scurrying across the street; even goblins occasionally dared to throw small stones at them.
Then the pointy-ears came.
It was those fair-skinned, incredibly accurate archer elves who suddenly broke into the forest and fought with the Broken Claw tribe.
The elves' arrows were more powerful than the greenskins ' stone spears; one arrow could pierce a beastman's neck. The boss of the Broken Claw tribe didn't last two days before being shot dead, and the tribe dispersed.
They were terrified at the time, running into the forest with a few other hobgoblins. They got separated along the way and were almost starved to death when Kurzadh's people caught them.
They thought they were going to be beaten to death, but to their surprise, Kurzadh not only didn't beat them but also put them to work. Later, he gave them the task of raising poultry, and their lives suddenly brightened.
"Isn't that the truth," Chik spat out the blade of grass, his voice a little muffled. "Before, in the Broken Claw tribe, how could we even dream of riding a goat? It was good enough if we could eat mushrooms every day."
And now? They had mushroom soup to drink every day, roast lamb every now and then, and occasionally two wild chicken eggs to taste.
They also had goblins serving them, so they could bully whoever they wanted—just now, when passing through the shed area, he had deliberately made his goat bump a small runt who was squatting on the ground twisting rope, sending the runt tumbling onto his backside. The little runt quickly scrambled up and bowed, not even daring to fart, which felt great!
"Speaking of which, the boss beat Wreelx again yesterday." Zaggur suddenly chuckled. "Just because Wreelx pooped everywhere, the boss chased him and beat him halfway across the tribe. Wreelx's pathetic look made my stomach ache from laughing."
"Serves him right!" Chik also laughed. "The boss said you have to be clean to grow big, but he wouldn't listen. He deserved the beating."
They now firmly believed in "Being clean"—Kurzadh had already proven with "miracles" that being clean could earn the favor of Gork and Mork, and make them bigger and stronger.
Who wouldn't want that? Now, they went to the dry toilets Kurzadh built every day, and they would wash their faces by the river when passing by. They were much cleaner than before, and even their body odor had faded a bit.
As they were chatting, a commotion came from afar. It was Kurzadh returning from the lumber mill with Dragu and the others. Several people were carrying thick logs, their steps quick.
Chik and Zaggur quickly stood up, patting the dust off their backsides—they had to appear diligent in front of the boss.
"Boss!" they shouted in unison, purposefully straightening their backs.
Kurzadh glanced at them, then at the goats in the pen. "Have the goats been fed? Don't let them starve."
"Fed, fed!" Zaggur quickly nodded, pointing to the grass pile nearby. "The goblins just cut the grass, it's fresh!"
Kurzadh grunted in response, asked no more questions, and led his people towards the quarry.
Only when Kurzadh had walked far away did Chik let out a breath of relief and remount his black goat. "Come on, let's go check the chicken coop and see if there are any eggs."
Zaggur also mounted his goat, and the two hobgoblins slowly ambled towards the palisade at the corner of the valley. The sun warmed their bodies, and the goat's hooves made a pleasant "clip-clop" sound on the ground, feeling very comfortable.
"Honestly, even though the boss is a goblin, he's truly awesome," Zaggur suddenly blurted out.
Chik didn't retort, just patted the goat's neck hard, making it run faster. "Of course! Our boss was chosen by Gork and Mork; how could he not be awesome?"
They now respected Kurzadh from the bottom of their hearts.
Greenskins live for nothing but satisfaction, right? To have fights, to eat meat, to bully others, and to grow bigger and stronger—Kurzadh gave them all of these. Wasn't he the herald sent by Gork and Mork?
As for the suffering they endured in the Broken Claw tribe, they considered it like a mushroom that grew in the wrong place, just pull it out and be done with it.
This is what life truly was now—ambling around on goats, teasing wild chickens, bullying little goblins, and occasionally chatting with Zaggur, comfortable!
The two hobgoblins rode their black goats, slowly circling the tribe, humming off-key tunes. The sun stretched their shadows long, just like the days in this Blackrock Clan, looking full of promise.