The holler was still blanketed in snow when Ma tacked up the war scroll in the barn. Christmas was barely past, and though the decorations still shimmered with leftover cheer, the air had shifted. It was time.
The goblins had been on nearly a month-long war break – Pa’s idea – after the last Territory Wars nearly did Ma in with its halfhearted participation and missed attacks. “They need a break,” he’d said. “Or we’ll start swinging belts instead of spells.”
“Already been swinging the belt,” Ma muttered.
So they focused on base upgrades, clan games, and holiday mischief. There’d been sledding, ice skating, hot cocoa laced with goblin nip, and enough snowball fights to leave bruises, but no one dared target Pa again after the last time. Not after he buried JT deep in a mound of snow.
Then Ma, satisfied the goblins had rested enough, slapped the fresh war scroll on the wall. Twenty names appeared in ink before sundown. Including Pa’s.
The next morning, as he poured his coffee, Pa glanced over his shoulder. “I see you rushed your base.”
Ma whipped her head around. “I did not. Just a few walls, and fuck walls. I am not waitin’ six more months over some damn walls.”
He grinned. “Cheater.”
“You’re just mad my base stronger than yours now,” she mumbled, sipping her tea. “Step it up.”
They drew a match quickly. Pa handed strategy duty to Goodfella, a former Nestling Ma had once been unsure about.
“New guy in the Nest,” she’d said to Pa back when he first showed up. “Bit bossy. Might have to kick him.”
“Send him to me,” Pa said, deadpan. “I’ll throw him out.”
“Not yet. Might be leadership material. Or just arrogant.”
“I’m ready with the boot either way.”
Turns out, he was leadership material. By the end of December, Ma had told the Nestlings to all come up to the holler for clan games, and when it was over, she let them stay. More babies would come again soon enough, despite Pa insisting they needed no more babies.
Goodfella set the lineup. He finished his plan with a classic: “Don’t wanna see any ‘oops.’”
But Smashbrown didn’t care. He’d been bumped from the lineup, being one of the bottom bases. He hit anyway, took the target meant for Devil Anse.
Ma, still recovering from an illness and not in the mood, simply muttered, “Nope,” and passed the situation to Pa and Goodfella.
“Explain it,” she said. “Cuz if I do, I’m gonna be very mean.”
So it was explained. Again. For the hundredth time. That war was team play, not solo conquest. That some get bumped to make the plan work. That bumpeds usually get a scout hit on a higher base, sometimes even snatch a star that way.
“So who do I hit then?” Smashbrown asked, still sour.
Devil Anse, meanwhile, politely asked what to do, since his assigned base was gone. Goodfella offered to help him figure out a new target. Devil Anse was one of the smallest goblins in the holler, barely big enough to carry his siege log, but he listened, tried hard, and learned.
Later that day, as Goodfella helped Devil Anse draw up a plan for hitting way up the map, Smashbrown scoffed, “This is a waste of time. Just tell him to hit something lower.”
Nickie, passing through the war barn to grab her healing spells, snorted. “There’s such a thing as teaching, you know.”
“Still a waste,” he grumbled.
Not long after, a new target was marked for Devil Anse. But Smashbrown struck first, again. Took the base. Took the stars. Took the last straw.
“He needs kicked,” Ma said flatly.
“Agreed,” Goodfella replied, eyes hard.
Without another word, Goodfella stomped into camp, grabbed Smashbrown by the back of the neck, and tossed him clean over the gate.
“Maybe he misunderstood?” one of the Nestlings, Dowski, asked.
“No,” Ma said. “This ain’t isolated. He did it in the Nest, too.”
“Taking someone else’s target isn’t a mistake,” Goodfella added. “It’s selfish. And it hurts the whole clan.”
“I keep a list,” Ma added, glancing up. “Of who’s doing what. Mistakes are forgiven. Repeated rogue behavior is not.”
The goblins in the barn froze.
“Am I on your list?” Dowski asked quietly.
Ma shrugged. “Maybe.”
Pa passed through not long after. He noticed the absence but said nothing, just raised a brow and kept walking.
Devil Anse did his best on the higher base. He overplanned, as little goblins do, and didn’t realize how much faster everything moved at that level. But he gave it a solid try.
“We’ll keep teachin’ ya,” Goodfella said, clapping his back. “It was a good hit.”
“Higher levels are nuts,” Dowski muttered. “I couldn’t do it. Too fast.”
“You’ll be able to once you get there,” Ma encouraged. “It happens gradually.”
That night, as the firepit crackled and the war clock ticked down, Ma and Pa sat with mugs in hand, watching the snow still glimmer on the trees. Territory Wars were looming. The cousins had started whispering about it again.
Ma sighed. “I hate Territory Wars.”
Pa just sipped his drink. “Still gotta do it.”
“Krypto’s refusing,” she said, not hiding her envy. “Won’t even sign up.”
“He’s got the right idea,” Pa admitted. “But someone’s gotta run the damn thing.”
Ma groaned. “And that someone is gonna be me again.”
Pa smiled, patted her hand. “You can take my place out in the fields?”
Ma rolled her eyes.
From across the camp, Nickie’s voice rang out, entirely too chipper for the hour. “Hey Ma!! Almost time for Territory Wars again!”
Ma didn’t even look up. “That’s it. I’m fakin’ my own death.”
Out in the dark, Looty could be heard hollering something about marshmallows. Somewhere, a spell jar fizzled. And the holler, once more, was bracing for battle.
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