Bault Bloodspit and his tribe of goblins set out for some slashin', and Old Steelfist is the best slasher around, so naturally they've got to have him along...but have his gobliness and his vegetable garden made him soft?
 

    Grizal had gotten himself a nice little farm since the last time we went slashing: A whole field covered with onions and barley, a pen of juicy looking pigs, a milk cow which looked big enough to feed a tribe, and a nice little house, built from logs.  Looked too tidy, though.  Grizal had always been a goblin to keep things neat.

    Bault leaned over to my ear and spoke in a whisper that a worm ten feet below could’ve heard.  “Ya don’t think ol’ Steelfist’s gone soft, eh?”

    I shook my head and spat.  “Nah.  ‘Member Blackwoods?  Killed a Durnwold basher with his naked hands.”

    Bault showed all his rotten teeth in a grin.  “Aye, I ‘member.  That un thrashed like a dead fish afore Steelfist cracked his spine.”

    “Aye, an’ Tworiver?  Was just him an’ Zat an’ one or two other lads.  Slashed a dozen Leggy throats, at least.  Left th’ buzzies a nice feast.”

    “Right, Klor.  Shouldn’t be doubtin’ him.  Been a long time since he’s tasted blood, though.”

    “About time, I say, an’ I think he’ll be agreein’.”

    Together, Bault and I and five other lads trudged through Grizal’s fields.  We all had our stickers–Bault with his big axe, notched fourteen times on its shaft, me with a good cutter I took off a Leggy and couple nice knives, and the rest with spears and hatchets.  All of us were painted up for killing.  I had my lucky skulls on my neck, and Bault was wearing a helmet made from a Leggy skull clapped over with iron.  It looked mighty fancy, and Bault had made sure no other goblin got one by slashing the smith.