Chương 6: Hostile Negotiations

THE TRUTH ABOUT DARK-ELVES AND WHY YOU SHOULD BE SCARED! The Grave Report: An Exclusive Investigation Five years ago, they signed the peace treaty with one hand, but what were they hiding in the other? Neighbor, look past your garden fence tonight, because the dark elves living among us ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM! While you tuck your fairy children into their beds and bolt your human doors, these silver-eyed strangers walk our shared streets, smiling, trading, whispering in a tongue YOU were never meant to understand!

Why do their eyes look like ours? Why do deliveries arrive to their bakeries under cover of darkness? And why, ask yourself, WHY have they never once apologized for the war that claimed your sons and your daughters? A Grave Report investigation can reveal that "former" dark-elf soldiers have been spotted gathering at ALL HOURS in our markets, our taverns, and even our SCHOOLS, and officials call this "normal reintegration"! WAKE UP, citizens of the free species!

The war may have ended five years ago, but ask any widow: do you truly believe they changed? Or are they simply waiting? Sleep with one eye open, because The Grave Report certainly will watch what you can't! This newspaper is not responsible for incidents arising from reader vigilance. The guild clerk of the remote village, Dunkelhollow, read the article, shaking his head.

"Only got the one left out here," he said, annoyed. But he was working on that matter already. Those damned goblins stole her crop again. The summer sun bashed down over her with its usual power, the wide brim of her rough hat being the only thing giving her shade out in the open. Although the long tips of her ears stretched past it.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, the farmer, Sarais, knelt at the edge of the root field and pressed her fingers into the churned soil where a neat row of tubers had been the day before. Sweat wicked down the muscled contours of her dark-gray skin. ENVIRONMENT Sarais' Farmstead A small personal farmstead located on the far outskirts of Dunkelhollow region. It is the only supply of tubers, grains, and fruits in the region. Goblins had come through in the night, working quickly.

They had taken twenty pounds of produce and trampled another ten on their way out. She set her jaw quietly and counted the missing rows, her sharply angled, purple eyes scanning the field. Three rows stripped clean, a fourth partially picked over. The goblins had gotten more efficient, and that bothered her more than the theft. They didn't steal from the outside of the field this time.

They had entered into it in the night, hiding within the tall stalks, and then stole from the center of it, where they weren't as easy to see. She pulled the crossbow from her back and checked the wire, the bolt in the channel, the second in her belt loop, and the third in her boot sheath. Three bolts were all she carried to the field, because three was what she could fire before anything reached her anyway. The last time, she'd needed two. One missed. One hit.

She posted the extermination quest that same afternoon. The guild handled pests, in theory. She paid them a monthly fee for that; that wasn't theory. That had been a month ago, and the goblins were still coming.

"What're those idiots doing?" she muttered to herself in disdain. The quest should have been fulfilled by now. She'd expected the matter to be closed within days. When she checked at the guild days ago, the clerk told her the quest was still active and the party hadn't reported back. The one-month grace period for follow-up was about to expire. Unless she paid for a second expedited team to take over the matter, which cost more than the original posting fee, she would just have to wait a few more days until then.

Sarais was used to getting unsatisfying results from the guild, though. Even if the war had ended years ago, there was still resentment harbored against dark elves, even this far out in the countryside. But they needed her here, and so they kept their mouths shut. And she wanted this farm, so she kept her mouth shut. Everyone was unhappy. Her farm was one of the only ones in the area and it was productive. Her crops were very popular in town, as long as she wasn't seen with them.

The exhausted woman rubbed her face, exasperated as she stood tall and scanned the area. Worse, she owed the guild money from the season she'd bought seed stock on credit through their financing office. Combined with the debt on the land, the interest compounded at a rate that meant she'd finish paying it off in three years if nothing went wrong and five if it did. Right now, things were going wrong. She was a dark elf in a human-majority frontier town, alone on a failing farm, and something was eating her crop.

Her family line had been mages and diplomats in the old cities before the war made everyone a fighter. But she escaped all of that. Life was dangerous out here alone for her already between the risk of wild animals and thieves, and now she had to deal with goblins acting up. And there must be animals around too. The goblin she had killed and left there as a warning was gone. Something must've dragged it off. Sarais loaded the crossbow and began walking the perimeter, mapping the tracks like planting rows.

The tracks led west, toward the hillside warren she'd always known was there. The guild survey had flagged it as a low-threat den. The land had been cheap because of it. But maybe it had been a deal too good to be true. Quietly, the dark elf chewed on nothing and stared out into the forest, her finger tapping against the crossbow. She was stuck out here now. She'd put everything she had in to get this farm. Hiding in the underbrush, Nicole looked at Rick. Rick looked at Nicole.

Neither moved until the dark elf woman had gone over the low rise, and then Nicole turned and ran for the warren at a pace Rick's shoulder couldn't match, hunter-species or not. The bolt in his shoulder must've pained him greatly, so it threw him off balance. But he kept biting his tongue and going on with a rather strange gait. She found Matthew in the core chamber, studying the map on the wall.

She'd built a vocabulary of her own for talking to him, a private grammar of pointing and stomping and mimed shapes that had grown, gesture by gesture, into something close to a language over the past month. When she talked to the others, her hands and her voice moved fast and loose, a pidgin language of goblin chatter he still couldn't follow. When she talked to him, she slowed down. She planted her feet, raised both forearms into the shape of a crossbow, and squinted down an invisible sightline.

Then she pointed east, toward the field, and stomped twice, heel against stone.

"The farmer. Again." Matthew had learned to read her.

"Nicole. I explicitly told you to stay away from there," he reprimanded sternly.

"We already have enough trouble." Nicole shook her head, unbothered by his lectures as always. She held up one hand, fingers spread, then folded three down. Two fingers left. She pointed at herself, then made an extension from her shoulder with her other hand, mimicking something sticking out of her body.

"Two of you saw someone? You and Rick." A nod. Then she raised the mimed 'crossbow' and held it, both eyes open, locked on an invisible target. Matthew held her gaze a moment before answering.

"I mean, yeah. We know that the farmer killed John," said Matthew.

"Nicole. You have to listen to me. Don't risk your life for some potatoes," he said.

"We'll make do." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Nicole grunted with a snarl. She pointed at her belly, then at the newborns that were cradled by the tree in a row of cots he had made for them. It was a primitive nursery of sorts. She was right. They needed food. The tribe was growing and the smoked meat wasn't enough. The rabbit farm was productive, but not fast enough for their needs. Matthew sighed.

"I know, I know," he said, as if they were having an actual conversation.

"You're right," he relented, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"We need that farm." Nicole's ears lifted. He thought about it for a moment and came to an idea. This place ran on violence and blood, and that system had failed it for generations. They needed a new business strategy.

"I'm going to go have a conversation with the farmer. See if we can't make a deal," said Matthew, thinking about it as he said it out loud. It was dangerous. Her ears went flat. She spread her arms wide and shook her head hard.

"Alone. Yes," he translated, seeing the empty space she was holding. Something in her face went past being alarmed. She grabbed his wrist with both hands, the same grip she'd used the day she bit him over the fish, and leaned her whole weight back against his arm, like she thought she could physically anchor seven feet of goblin king to the floor. She opened her mouth. What came out wasn't a normal goblin sound.

"... No," said Nicole, her face and tongue straining with effort to make the noise. Nobody had handed her this word. She'd built it herself, out of a month of listening to him mutter at them. [SYSTEM NOTICE] Goblin (Nicole) has produced an original word in Common. Species precedent: None found. It felt like it deserved more than a floating box.

"No," Nicole said again and pointed at the tunnel, then herself, then Rick's approaching silhouette.

'Not alone' was the last of the sentence she didn't have the words for yet. Rick, panting, grabbed hold of the stone and caught his breath. Matthew looked at her for a long moment.

"I'm going alone. Too many of you will spook them." Matthew went off by himself, Nicole watching him go in frustration. She let out an angry, prolonged groan and quickly ran after him. She snarled at Rick, who, exhausted, started running after her back the way they just came. The farmer's field came into view by mid-morning. Matthew saw her. An elf, like the one in his dungeon. But this one was different. Her skin was ashen, her eyes purple and set at a different angle.

Her frame was harder, denser, and more muscular compared to how soft the elf they captured was. She was tall and lean, her dark skin catching the light with a faint blue sheen. Her hair was white and cut short to be practical. She was to an elf what a hunter goblin was to the goblins. The dark elf woman was working the field, some kind of large animal at her side. It looked like a massive bird, a head taller than her with a long, craned, thick neck that ended in a rounded beak. It had a colorful plumage.

Attached to it was a harness and plow. Well. Here went nothing. He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me," called Matthew, well aware that his putting on polite manners might perhaps be even more terrifying than if he had charged in, screaming and frothing at the mouth. He stepped into the open, staying at the far edge by the forest, away from the field.

"What? The hell do you wan-" she started, turning. She was on her feet and the crossbow was up in one motion, bolt seated, string taut, the weapon aimed at his chest before he'd taken two more steps. He stopped.

"Don't shoot!" he said.

"Seriously. Don't." He could see her muttering a single question to herself from afar. Then, he heard it repeated.

"The hell are you?"

"Goblin King. Hi, Matthew," he said, slowly holding a hand against his chest.

"Nice to meet you." He held out his other hand for her to come and shake. She didn't take the offer. His voice came out lower and rougher than he intended, the goblin throat not built for Common. She didn't seem impressed but also not as fearful as he had expected. The adventurers were more shocked by him. Whoever this woman was, she was tough.

"I'm not here to take your crop," Matthew said.

"I'm very sorry about that. Can we chat? I feel like we need to touch base." The crossbow didn't move.

"Why are you here?" A demand, flat and cold.

"We got off on the wrong foot," he said. He moved. The crossbow adjusted. Matthew stopped, slowly kneeling with one hand raised. He dropped the sack he was carrying, opening it. Inside was a heap of rabbit furs.

"I don't have money. But here's something to cover your losses," he said, and gently nudged the sack toward the base of a tree.

"Compensation." Matthew rose again. Never changing stance, her eyes glanced at the sack and then back at him. Silence. She wasn't a big talker. Or maybe it was just a tense negotiation. That was fair.

"My people need food. Your field is the closest source of carbohydrates for half a mile. Maybe we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement?" he suggested. He kept it short. He didn't know how much she'd process before the situation reverted to its default state, an elf with a crossbow and a goblin, large or not, in her field. The farmer stared. The crossbow didn't move, but her eyes did, tracking his size, his scars, the empty hands, and the way he stood.

"You're talking," she said, identifying the oddity. This appeared to be a point of concern that he would never escape in this world.

"Yes. As you can see, I am… different," he replied. The crossbow dipped half an inch. Adjusted. Her thinking was interfering with aiming, and Matthew recognized the expression. It was the look of someone whose prepared notes had stopped matching the room.

"What arrangement?"

"Meat for tubers. We bring you smoked rabbit and deer from the forest. Hides. You trade us crops. Volume's negotiable." He wasn't sure if she was thinking about his offer or if she was just trying to process the situation. Either way, nothing around them happened for a minute. Matthew was very sensitive to things bodies did. Usually, with humans and such, he could smell the sweat of fear and read their postures like a predator. This woman had nothing.

Either because being a farmer in a world full of monsters was a brutal way to make a living or because she had undergone worse days than this already.

"I reckon you killed the guild party?" she asked, sounding more curious than emotional. Matthew winced. He clapped his hands together once, making an awkwardly pained face with one of his eyes closed and inhaling sharply through his teeth.

"Y eaaah…" He shook his head.

"We defended ourselves. They're all dead," he said quickly, without inflection, ripping that particular bandage off fast. That was mostly true. He's dealt with people like this before. They didn't appreciate nonsense or dishonesty. The surest way to blow this trade deal up was to try and doll up the situation. Despite his claim of them having murdered four people, the crossbow dipped another inch. Sure enough, he was right about her. Her mouth thinned.

He could see her weighing it, the absurdity of an unusually large and eloquent goblin making a business proposal against the fact that the goblin was, in fact, making a business proposal.

"You think I'm going to trade with the thing that's been stealing my crop?"

"My people have been reprimanded. Disciplinary actions have been undertaken," he said.

"It won't happen again." She thought about it. Then, she made a choice. The farmer spit in the dirt and looked down the re-readied crossbow. She was just going to shoot him. He could see it. She was ice cold and her finger had already made contact with the release trigger. He needed to match that.

"I'm also the thing standing in front of you unarmed, talking, instead of sending an entire tribe of goblins to take you and the field while you sleep." That landed. He saw it in the tightening of her jaw, the shift of weight onto her back foot. Matthew could tell she'd thought about that already: what happened if they came in numbers while she was alone with a few bolts and a door that didn't lock properly?

She was one person on a frontier farm running the same math Matthew had been running since he woke up in this body: insufficient resources against an environment that didn't care who lived and who didn't. But the crossbow came down to her hip, not surrender or agreement. Matthew took his chance.

"What I'm offering is an arrangement that benefits both parties instead of a zero-sum game. You get peace, fur, and meat. We get crops." She looked at him a long time.

"You killing me will do you no good. Matthew, was it?" she asked, chewing with an empty mouth.

"You don't know the first thing about running a farm, I reckon. Without me, this land is useless," she said, not even shaken by his threat. What she said was true.

"So keep your vermin out of here," said the farmer, evenly.

"If I see another goblin in this field, I'll burn it. I'll burn the whole damn crop to ash. I'll salt the soil. You'll get nothing, ya hear me? I'll take the loss before I let you take one more thing from me." She stared him down, unafraid.

"This is my land, my home. I'll rip it with me to the grave before I let anyone decide how I run it." She spit again.

"That counts for you and the guild." It was a firm position. He respected that. She had conviction, a backbone. If this were his old world, she would have been a shark in an executive's suit.

"Understood," Matthew said, in a chipper tone.

"I propose that we continue this conversation at a later date. I'll give you time to think it over. Ah… what was your name?" The crossbow rose again. He stepped back, turned, and walked for the treeline at the same measured pace. Baffled at the encounter, Sarais watched the figure go. She exhaled, shaking her head. Something rustled. She looked up, seeing another goblin. Small.

It was sitting up in a tree, a crossbow of its own having been aimed her way from above this entire time by a little bodyguard that had been hiding during their conversation. She and the goblin made eye contact and held it. Gesturing that she was unafraid, Sarais lifted her arms to her side, facing toward it.

"Take the shot or get on out of here! Go on! Get!" she snapped.

"Scram!" Hissing at her from above, the goblin climbed down, vanishing into the underbrush after its master. Sarais stared, shaking her head.

"... What is this world coming to?" she muttered to herself.