Caiside dropped down into one of the flower beds.
“This is motherswort,” she said. “Snake balm over here. Ramps. Mountain mint. This patch is not as neglected as it first looks.”
The adult kobolds had left us, but a curious small mob of their young surrounded us. They ranged in age from what I would call young adolescent to very tiny pups, who walked on just two legs like all the others but would occasionally topple over and catch themselves with their hands.
“I’m glad to be out of any rain,” Freydis said, “but these stone floors are going to be hard.”
“We could gather leaves, and maybe fallen pine branches,” I said. “I don’t know if that would offend them.”
And then, although I thought I had been speaking quietly, most of the young kobolds ran off the porch. We were left nearly alone, but they soon started returning with armfuls of leaves, and indeed some pine boughs. They dropped them near us, making three piles, and then ran off the porch for more. After a lot of squeals and scurrying we had respectable padding for our bedrolls. We thanked them.
“I wish I had something to give them.” I said. “I didn’t think we’d be wanting to hand out sweets if we came across a colony of kobolds like this.”
And then it did indeed start to rain. Even more young kobolds came up to the porch, then, as well as some adults.
It was soon quite a scene under the overhang. Dozens of kobolds, young and old, crammed the space as if it were a festival. They were social creatures, clearly. The adult kobolds ignored us, and the young ones started playing: chasing each other around, snapping at each other, wrestling. Many would dash here to there in a blur and were constantly running into each other and falling; but that seemed to be expected, and no one paid them any mind.
A group of relatively older ones came to a sliver of open area near us and produced a jump rope. They started jumping in pairs, with two others holding either end of the rope, and they all sang:
For terrible Dwarves, Dwarves, Dwarves
we tended fires, fires, fires
and they would brand, brand, brand,
all of our sires, sires, sires.
“Oh my word,” Freydis said. “That’s their jump rope rhyme?”
The young kobolds continued:
For lazy men, men, men
we’d weed their fields, fields, fields
they would not share, share, share
their bumfer yields, yields, yields.
The cru-el dun-, dun-, dunters,
chased us far, far, far
From flots we’d flant, flant, flant
So we wouldn’t starve, starve, starve.
The giant firbolgs, -bolgs, -bolgs
Don’t have a rhyme, rhyme, rhyme
And so that’s how, how, how
They sfend their time, time, time.
The jumps and rhythm changed, then:
Eunice in the Drearwold
fioneering kobold
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commandeers a castle we can
all come to.
If anybody finds us
and they want to bind us
in indentured servitude, we’ll
spear them through.
Kobolds all are howling
AN - cestors are growling
warriors are frowling to
frotect our land.
Anyone who thinks that
we are gonna slink back –
doing all their chores for them –
can go found sand.
The jumpers, ropers, and watchers switched back to their first rhythm:
There was a kor-, kor-, korred
Who by here tread, tread, tread
Seeking his tribe, tribe, tribe
Who’d marched ahead, head, head.
We told him where, where, where
That tribe had gone, gone, gone
He scurried off, off, off
And walked till dawn, dawn, dawn.
Down through some trees, trees, trees,
Flew an alkonost, nost, nost
She was confused, fused, fused
And seeming lost, lost, lost.
We would have solved, solved, her
incertitude, tude, tude
But we bit our tongues, tongues, tongues
‘Cause she was rude, rude, rude.
We jolted at that, of course.
“What did they just say?!” Freydis exclaimed. She turned toward the kobolds.
“Pardon me, my friends,” she said. They stopped jumping.
“Freydis,” I said.
“Can you tell me,” she forged ahead, “about that alkonost you just mentioned? She is someone you saw around here?”
“Yes.” The oldest one of the group, a female with the fur atop her head combed up into a sort of sail, which was apparently fashionable for the young ones, answered. She seemed very respectful to Freydis, and spoke quietly.
“And when you say alkonost, you mean a creature with the body of – ”
“A giant bird. But the head of a human.”
“And one came here?”
“Yes, one did.”
“How long ago?”
“It has been more than a year. Maybe two. The little ones won’t remember.” She nodded to some of the smaller kobolds behind her. “But I saw her. And my friends.”
“And the alkonost seemed – lost?”
“Yes. And we asked to help her, to find out where she was going. But – ”
The young kobold considered her words.
“She made an angry face.”
“Not angry, more like arrogant,” one behind her offered.
“Not arrogant, more like sour,” a third said.
“Like we were vinegar,” a fourth confirmed.
“And did she eventually fly away again?”
“She walked, first. Through the woods a little. But then she did fly up again. Through the trees.”
“Did you see her again?”
“No. We think she learned her way.”
“Or,” her friend behind her added, “she went home and never came back.”
*
The young kobolds jumped some more, well after dark, but eventually they did lose interest and wandered off. The three of us sat on our bedrolls on our piles of leaves.
I reached into my knapsack, pulled an item toward the front, and then lifted the flap to show it to Freydis and Caiside.
“Do you think they would fancy a tune on this?” I asked. I revealed the tin whistle I had brought along. I wasn’t going to carry the slide trumpet around, of course, but I didn’t want to be without an instrument entirely.
“I’m sure you’d draw a crowd,” Freydis said, “but they might not want the attention. Something out there listening might be accustomed to the kobolds’ hubbub but still take an interest in anything else. An interest the kobolds might not want.”
“True,” I said. I lowered back the flap.
Baron Hill Temple by Paul Brooker, CC BY-SA 2.0