Teag arrives back at the tavern after a few hours, a grave look on his face.
“We’re too late,” he says. “Tak and the elves are already gone. I’ve sent a messenger after Tak, warning him to keep the sword out of sight and not use it, but the elven twins were part of an adventuring group who went after the Goblin King.”
“Goblin King?” Geoffrey asks. “I didn’t think they were that organised?”
“They’re not,” Halgo explains, “but there’s a tribe out there full of berserkers, and they tend to brow-beat the other tribes in line. Their leader has been terrorising these parts for years, his wolf-riders running down travellers. Heiron’s come face to face with him twice and not managed to kill him, and Heiron Ulgar is probably the best warrior around these parts. All he’s gotten for the effort is a scar the length of a sword-blade across his stomach.”
“People started calling him the Goblin King cause he doesn’t die,” Teag finishes. “Lords it over the other tribes like he’s a king, even if he doesn’t wield any real power over the masses of them. What I don’t understand is why a group of adventurers was willing to go out after them.”
“The tribes been robbing graves lately,” Halgo says. “Hitting the cairns just outside town. Picked through the corpses of some fairly important people, including Ulgar’s father, and taken a fair amount of weapons and armour. People have gotten a little more nervous about the Goblin King and his tribe than they used to be.”
“So we’re heading for a graveyard?” Geoffrey asks.
“If your serious about tracking those elves,” Halgo says. “Unless you can pick them up with your Symbol.”
“It doesn’t have the range, and I haven’t ever seen the targets. I guess we should all get some rest while we can, it looks like we’ll be spending most of tonight awake.”
The graveyard for the steading is set in the heart of a shallow valley, the snow-covered ground littered with stone cairns that tower almost as high as a man. The Copperheads move among the stone piles as the sun sets, searching for any signs that goblin raiders have come in recent evenings. There are several tumbled cairns, the stones scattered across the valley floor, but no real signs of goblin tracks.
“This probably works to our advantage,” Geoffrey says, surveying the area. “It means they’re more likely to hit the place soon. It’ll be a cold couple of nights out here if we have to wait.”
“Not easy to see,” Geoffrey mutters, looking through the maze of stones. “Why they not burry bodies like normal people.”
“To cold,” Brind explains. “It’ll take to long to dig a grave while the grounds frozen, so they pile stones on top of it instead.”
“Makes it easy for them to sneak up on us,” Amarin says.
“Or for us to ambush them,” Geoffrey says. “We can hide among the stones and take them when they get close. From what we heard at the Steading, they’re likely to have archers and ranged combat is not our forte. This works to our advantage.”
“Assuming they don’t see us hiding,” Amarin mutters.
“I think I can fix that,” Halgo says. “Minor Image can make it look like this entire place is uninhabited, even if we’re standing in the centre of it. Wont hold up under close inspection, and we’ll have to be quiet, but it’ll work until they get close. All we have to do is stay close to me…”
Everyone considers that for a few minutes, and since no-one has a better plan they go with it.
It’s a long wait into the Bor evening, the rapidly shortening days getting colder as darkness falls. Everyone takes a position among the stone graves, huddling under winter cloaks and doing their best to keep their teeth from chattering. Yip lets out the occasional whine of self-pity, his scaled body suffering in the cold no matter how many layers of clothing he wears, but everyone else bears the chilly conditions with grim determination.
A few hours after sunset their patience is rewarded, Blarth, Yip and Halgo all spotting a crude rope sliding down the side of the valley with a lean goblin warrior coming after it. Halgo nudges Geoffrey and Amarin, letting them know that there are enemies coming in through the dark, and Geoffrey tenses with the words to a light spell on his lips.
“Give it time,” Halgo whispers, his voice little louder than an insect's buzz. “Only one. Wait for the signal.”
Three more goblins join the first on the floor of the valley, while two more of the creatures take covering positions with bows. Halgo puts his hand on Geoffrey’s arm, just below the shoulder plate so it can still be felt, and waits until the last warrior is halfway down the rope before removing it with a cry of “Now.”
Geoffrey’s light spell springs into existence, casting a blue-tinged illumination over the graveyard. The rest of the Copperheads are already moving, Yip and Brind running to engage the goblins on the valley floor while Halgo uses a colour spray to blind the archers. Amarin’s brow is furrowed in concentration, a construct appearing in front of him, but it hardly seems necessary. One of the archers stumbles and falls over the edge of the cliff, two of the warriors fall to the combined assault of Yip and Blarth, and the final archer is so frightened by the spell that his shot flies far wide of the combatants below.
“We need a prisoner,” Geoffrey orders, noting the speed with which the goblins are falling. Yip immediately complies, hammering his paw just below the ribs of a goblin, then quickly snapping a blow onto an artery that sends it into unconsciousness. Brind wraps one hand around the goblin rope and uses it to hoist himself up the steep incline of the valley wall. It’s a short climb, and he’s cut down the second archer within moments of reaching the top.
The fight takes less than ten seconds, and all the goblins are dead save one. Amarin looks at the three foot construct he’s manifested, shrugs when he realises it’s unlikely to be of use, and orders it to sit on the prisoners chest while the others ready rope.
“So what do you actually do when the fighting starts?” Brind asks, slightly sarcastically. “Stand around and look constipated?”
Amarin refuses to answer.
“Don’t bother with the rope,” Geoffrey suggests. “I’ve got a better idea.”
He reaches for his holy symbol and uses one of its greater powers, shackling the goblins spirit to his own.
“That should do it,” Geoffrey says. “Wake him up.”
Some of Yip’s whisky is splashed on the goblins face, jolting it back to consciousness. Its catlike eyes dart wildly as it surveys the group that has it surrounded, a hiss seeping through its lips. Everyone watches as it hands grope for weapons that are no longer there, the darting eyes searching for weak spots or points of escape.
No-one reacts when it spots one, darting to its feet and sprinting as fast as it can. It makes it ten paces before it collides with an invisible barrier, bouncing backwards and skidding across the stone. A trail of blood drips from the creatures nose, attesting to the force with which it’s collided with the limits of its movement.
“I’m betting that hurt,” Brind suggests blandly. No-one argues with him. “Does anyone actually speak goblin?”
“Yip does,” Geoffrey says.
“Great,” Brind grins. “This could have been embarrassing otherwise.”
‘Shut up,” Geoffrey says. He turns to the goblin. “Tell it it can’t escape.”
Yip does, and the goblin stops struggling against the invisible barrier long enough to turn and glare at the cleric.
“Tell it it can’t lie either,” Geoffrey orders. Yip does so.
“Now ask it where we can find its lair.”
The creatures face contorts, the lie caught in its throat by the magic of Geoffrey’s holy symbol. It chokes on the words, its hand trembling when it tries to point in the wrong direction, and eventually it gives Yip directions in a broken, guttural version of the goblin tongue.
“Those the directions?” Geoffrey asks. “All of them?”
Yip nods.
“Excellent.”
His morning star flashes out, breaking the shackling spell that keeps the goblin close. The goblin has a half-second to revel in the fact it can move further than a few paces from the cleric before a sharp metal spike shatters its skull.
Not that I'm blaming him, or complaining. 
