The fields west of Celondim gleamed in the moonlight, tall grass waving hypnotically in the gentle breeze. On the far side, hills rose into mountains, and at their foot, Lathron could see the entrance to a small valley nestled in a hollow. He could also see several giant insects hovering over the grass.

The creatures were huge, at least as long as his forearm, with long, segmented bodies that curved under them into vicious stingers. The sound of their wings filled the night with a furious, insistent drone. He might have thought they were some sort of dragonfly, had they not been so huge. He had left his horse back at the road, for at the first sight of the insects she had snorted and shied, refusing to go any closer.

His path, however, led through the meadow to the valley on the other side, and he knew that this quest was too important to fail because of a swarm of overgrown flies. Nevertheless, he crouched low, knife drawn, ready to lash out at anything that got too close.

The grass obscured his vision, but it also obscured him from the flies, he assumed, and besides, he could hear where they were by the furious rattling buzz that emanated from them. He wound his way around them, tensing whenever he saw the blur of wings over the tops of the grass stalks.

He was so focused on the air above him that he didn't notice where he was putting his feet until he trod on something soft with a wet, crunching sound. He glanced down and recoiled in disgust from the huge, writhing crawler that was now spread mostly across the earth and the sole of his boot.

After that, he noticed far more; it was a miracle he hadn't trodden on any before. The maggot-like creatures squirmed across the ground, leaving trails of slime. Most were smaller than the ones he had encountered further north, and hadn't yet developed their thick carapaces. They clung to the blades of grass like gobbets of glistening fat, gnawing away voraciously. That didn't mean they posed no danger though; whenever Lathron drew too close to one, it would cease its attack on the leaves and turn its blind white head to face him, rasping mouthparts pulsing as it dough his scent. At one point, Lathron came across the remains of a rat, apparently eaten from the inside out and covered in slime. He was quite glad of his concealing clothing after seeing that.

As well as the crawlers, there were clusters of milky white eggs stuck to the grass. Some of them were hatching, tiny young crawlers writhing out blindly, and immediately setting about eating anything they could find – the grass, their eggshells, their brothers and sisters… For the first time, Lathron realised that they must be the flies' larvae. He wondered if those he'd found at Thorin's Hall had developed into their adult forms, and fervently hoped they hadn't – the Dwarves had enough to worry about without an infestation. He wanted to destroy every last one of the eggs, before any more disgusting flies could be spawned and bring a plague down on the Elves, but he knew that short of setting the whole field alight, the task would be impossible, and that was something he wasn't about to do in a thousand years.

Finally, he emerged from the long grass and stood at the head of the valley, scanning the ground for signs. There were plenty - a large group had come trampling through, first into and then out of Nen Hilith. Their footprints had been stamped viciously into the ground as though they'd deliberately tried to crush as much as possible. The marks were of booted feet, small but heavy, twisted in ways that suggested bow legs and rocking gaits - Goblins.

He entered the valley, which sloped down into a bowl, which was lined with birches and filled in the centre by a still pool that reflected the stars and the mountains. He could see why Avorthal might have liked coming here.

On the far side of the lake, a pair of dark shapes lay on the floor. He circled round to them. The smaller was a satchel of soft leather, skilfully worked with neat stitches and swirling leaf patterns - Avorthal's. The other was the body of a Goblin. One hand still clutched the strap of the satchel, and a short bronze scimitar lay near the other where it had been dropped. Its head was missing, and blood had soaked from its neck and numerous stab wounds into the grass. A thin Elven shortsword lay nearby too, broken in two, but still stained black. At least Avorthal had put up a fight, but had it been in vain? Lathron cast about for more clues.

The scout had been right about there being signs of more wounded - blood spattered the grass in numerous places, although in the dark it all looked black to Lathron. There were marks of Goblins being dragged or limping away. Finally, he found what he was looking for - the prints of lighter, softer boots, stumbling unevenly across the ground, but walking nevertheless. So Avorthal had been alive, and assumedly still was. That was a relief. He made to leave and follow the tracks.

There was a clatter of rocks behind him, and he turned back. With a thrill of horror, he saw low, dark forms slinking down from the crags on either side of the valley. They converged on the pool and the body on its bank, sniffing at the blood-soaked grass. He drew his swords, and as one the wolves - seven in all - raised their heads, eyes glowing amber in the darkness.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Then, one by one, most of the pack returned their attentions to the goblin. Two, however, began to stalk forward, circling the lake to cut him off, moonlight glinting off bared fangs. He swept his swords to point from one to the other, and each time they flinched, but did not turn back.

A fierce hatred awoke in Lathron that he had almost forgotten he held. These were wolves, and they were threatening him, and he was damned if he was going to let them reach him. He switched to his bow and the wolves, seemingly seeing the wood as less of a threat than the steel, picked up the pace, bounding over the turf.

They underestimated at their peril. One fell with an arrow clean through its throat, and the other with an arrow through the weak spot behind its leg as it tried to flee. Lathron left the valley quickly after that, glancing back warily every now and again to check he wasn't being followed. The rest of the pack weren't interested in him, though; they had two new bodies to devour.

Was it normal for wolves to come this close to Elven lands? Lathron didn't think so. They must have followed the Goblins, and there was only one thing such creatures could want: blood. The flies, too, would have followed the Goblins; followed the rot and disease left by the monsters. Lathron had long since learnt to listen to the creatures of the wild. They never lied, and right now, they were telling him one thing: war was coming.

There was a sudden, furious buzzing from behind him, and he cursed; in thinking about the flies, he'd forgotten them! One had crawled up the grass right next to him, and was flexing its wings, ready to launch itself into the air. It swivelled its head, scrutinising him with huge, beaded eyes, and clicked its mandibles menacingly. Lathron didn't wait - he flicked out his knife and beheaded it. The insect gave a metallic screech as it died, even as its head dropped to the floor.

From across the field, answering screeches sounded, accompanied by a cacophony of buzzing wings, and as one, a swarm of the creatures burst into the air all over the field. Lathron resisted the urge to run; he had enough experience of bees to know that was a terrible idea. Instead he turned north calmly as he had meant to, skirting the field and following the mess of Goblin tracks.

Behind him, the insects converged, forming a dense, throbbing ball of wings and carapaces.

Lathron whistled, and to his relief, the bloodbay whinnied in response and began to canter round towards him. 'Not fast enough,' he thought.

The buzzing of the flies grew, if possible, angrier still. They began to move, drifting across the field as one, heading in his direction.

Lathron quickened his pace, but the mare slowed, eyeing the swarm fearfully. He whistled again, more urgently, and she sped up into a canter again.

The swarm was definitely heading for him now. They had stretched out into a line, those at the head staring at him with deadly purpose in their beaded black eyes. Their stingers arched under them, gleaming cruelly, dripping with venom.

Lathron broke into run. The horse broke into a gallop, and the swarm of flies shot towards them. He could feel the beat of their wings in his hair, hear their mandibles and legs clicking, feel a tug on his cloak. Then he was level with his horse, and vaulted onto its back. The swarm was left behind them in an instant, and he whooped in relief. "Too close," he commented to the mare, patting her flank. She nickered in reply, seeming to agree with him.

"You might just have saved my life there," Lathron continued. "I'm going to have to give you a name now, aren't I?"

The mare whinnied enthusiastically. Lathron had the strong suspicion she could understand every word he said. "Very well," he mused. "How about Limdal?"

The mare snorted in disgust.

"Telcontar?"

Another snort. Lathron smirked; it had been a long shot, and besides, the name was taken, he knew. "Alright, what about Pídagnir?"

This time, the mare skidded to a halt, and he nearly flew over her withers. "Alright, alright!" he laughed, "I'd be offended by that one too." He thought for a moment, and considered the mare's bloodbay coat. "How about Caranfîn?" he offered. "It's a bit obvious, though."

To his surprise, the Mare neighed delightedly and tossed her head. "Alright, Caranfîn it is." He flicked the reins again, "come on then Caranfîn, let's go find us some Goblins."

Caranfîn reared excitedly and galloped off north.

The tracks weren't hard to follow, even on horseback. The Goblins' iron-shod, nail studded boots had crushed plants into the ground and turned small pools and streams into swathes of churned mud. Their blades had hacked at every bush, tree and blade of tall grass they had passed in what seemed an urgent need to destroy. Every now and then, Lathron saw an Elven boot print among the Goblins' and knew he was on the right path.

At one point, he drew level with Duillond. The lanterns of the town winking cheerfully in the distance made him wistful, and all too aware that he hadn't slept in a proper bed for weeks, but he pressed on; the Elves of the Ered Luin had more urgent needs.

A little further on, the Goblin tracks converged with the road to cross a small, arching bridge that he remembered from his journey south. Then, the stone had been white and stainless, but now it was scuffed and scratched, with mud gouged into the brickwork. He shook his head wearily; Goblins really did only know how to destroy.

Not far after the bridge, the tracks turned aside, heading for the very valley the river he had just crossed flowed from. A small tower of Elven make had been erected where a path ran up along the side of the valley, above the river. Its doors had been wrenched off their hinges, and the contents of the tower strewn across the grass all around: countless broken bottles that had been emptied of whatever they contained, then flung to smash on the ground. Lathron slid down from Caranfîn and lowered his scarf briefly to sniff the remains. He caught the sweet tang of wine. This had to be Limael's Vineyard: Brethilwen's home, which had been overrun by Goblins. Had they taken Avorthal here?

He told Caranfîn in no uncertain terms to stay and made his way up the path. It was obvious many Goblins had been passing in out out by this route for a while now, and he guessed quite a number had taken up residence.

The path rose up to hug the side of the hill, then down again into the valley, which held a flat plateau of land nestled in a bend of the river. On that plateau, rows and rows of trellises had been arranged, and upon them swathes of grapes grew and hung full and ripe. Or rather, had grown, and had hung. Now, the trellises had been torn down, and their rich crop had been trampled into the dirt. Instead, a number of stakes had been driven into the ground, each hung with an assortment of items that Lathron assumed were tribal tokens - Goblins staking their claim to the land.

At the head of the valley, where the river entered from a tall waterfall, a large house, a mansion even, stood. Brethilwen's residence might once have been one of the finest in Falathlorn, but now it was overrun. The garden had been filled with campfires, around which clustered numbers upon numbers of Goblins, sitting, dancing, laughing, arguing and fighting. Though their voices were indistinct, Lathron could tell that they were all blind drunk. He wasn't surprised: with so many crushed grapes and smashed wine bottles, the air was heavy enough with alcohol fumes to make even him feel woozy, and then there were the stores of wine that he was certain they would have emptied by now. He supposed it was too much to hope, though, that they might all die of alcohol poisoning. No, he would have to sneak in.

People said that patience was a virtue, and in the case of a hunter, they were certainly right. Before every hunt, no matter the quarry, Lathron made time to plan and prepare. What were the prey's weaknesses? What were its strengths? Where would it be at which time of day? How should Lathron approach it? Then, during the hunt, patience was even more vital. Lathron might wait days for his quarry to appear, or spend days tracking it and chasing it. Yes, patience was a virtue Lathron had in plenty, and one he would have to utilise now.

For the best part of the next half-hour, he scanned the vineyard. He was glad he had. At first glance, it might seem that all the Goblins were concentrated around the fires and the house, but closer scrutiny revealed a large number patrolling randomly through the trampled vine fields. They were almost invisible in the dark, but for the glint of fire- and moonlight off their spears. Apart from them, though, Lathron judged there to be little threat. Over the course of the half-hour, the Goblins at the fires had only got drunker and drunker, starting fights among themselves and falling asleep. Soon the sounds of laughter and fighting grew fainter, and the sound of snores louder. Lathron judged it was time to move.

He crept through the vineyard like a shadow, keeping low to the ground so that his cloak and body shadowed anything that might catch the light - sword hilts, belt buckles and the like. Flies might be fooled by long grass, and crawlers could be crushed underfoot, but Goblins were somewhat smarter, and a lot harder to kill.

He had spent a while analysing the guards' patrol patterns, and finally come to the conclusion that there were none, so he was constantly on the alert for any unseen Goblins that might decide to cross his path. Only once did he come close to being discovered - a Goblin who had been crouched in a thick tangle of vines and broken trellis suddenly stood up not three metres in front of him. The creature had been relieving himself and mercifully, for more reasons than one, he was facing away. Lathron waited with bated breath as he rearranged his breeches and stumbled off, muttering darkly to himself.

A number of palisades of hacked and broken logs had been erected around the house and campfires, with a sentry standing in each gap. They seemed distracted though, constantly sneaking jealous glances back at their sleeping comrades. Lathron waited; kill one, and the rest would come crashing down on him, but it was only a matter of time before one gave in to temptation.

In fact it was less than three minutes before one of the sentries snuck away into the throng of sleepers and snatched up a bottle, kicking its owner viciously once he had had a swig. The other Goblin didn't even stir. By this time, Lathron had swept in through the gap and crouched behind the palisade, positioning himself with the fire between him and the sentry.

"Oy! You! Whachoo fink yer doin'?"

He whirled towards the source of the noise, but the sentry who had shouted was looking at his skiving fellow. He breathed a sigh of relief as the sentry scuttled back to his place. "Nuffink, Rogbog."

Rogbog didn't seem impressed. "Iss nuffink when I say iss nuffink, an' I don' say iss nuffink, so whachoo doin'?"

"Mind yer own business," the first Goblin spat, walking back to his post. "I'm here now. I ain't been stealin' no grog nor kickin' folks nor nuffink."

"Well thass a'ight then," Rogbog said, turning back to his post.

Lathron wasted no time in slipping across the camp, darting from fire to fire in an attempt to hide from view of the house behind the flames. It was risky - it left him in full view of the sentries - but he trusted them to stick to their job more than he trusted the dark mansion with its watchful windows.

There was another pair of sentries by the door, both fast asleep, and Lathron lightly stepped over them into the house. No lights shone, except for a faint flicker of firelight from under a door, which dimly showed that the whole building had been gutted - furniture smashed, drawers rifled, and crude drawings gouged into the wood panelled walls. Lathron dreaded to think how long it would take Brethilwen to get her family home back to normal, or how many treasured heirlooms had been destroyed.

Cautiously, he opened the door from which the light was shining, and found himself at the head of a flight of stone stairs. The firelight shone from the room at the bottom, and he headed down, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow.

He found himself in a long, low, vaulted cellar, which must once have been lined with wine racks and barrels, but was now filled with smashed kindling. A fire had been lit at the far end, and as Lathron watched, a Goblin walked in front of it, casting a long shadow across the floor.

"...Boys're 'avin' too much fun," the Goblin was saying. He was very short and grossly corpulent, his rolls of fat barely contained within a series of straps and belts. "We oughta go up there an' give 'em a few good lickin's, to show 'em 'oo's boss. Keep 'em in good shape. Can't 'ave 'em sleepin' on the job."

"Quit yer grumblin'," a second voice said, the speaker hidden behind the fire. His voice was high and nasal, and slurred slightly. "They deserve some fun, we all do. I 'ain't 'ad grog like this since..." he paused for a moment in thought. "I 'ain't never 'ad grog like this," he declared, "an' I mean to enjoy it."

"But Pampraush,"

"'Oo's in charge 'ere?" the second speaker hissed dangerously.

"Why you, o' course... boss," the first grumbled, clearly unhappy about this fact, "but we oughta be on guard. There's Elves round 'ere. They might want this place back. The whole place stinks of 'em."

"I can only smell grog," Pampraush said, and Lathron heard the scent of gulping, then a loud belch. "Right good stuff," the Goblin declared. Lathron was glad of the scarf over his nose as he crept closer still, hiding behind the piles of wood.

Suddenly, the fat Goblin turned around, sniffing. "Ye know, I really can smell Elf. Ye sure there aren't any still 'ere?"

"There was only the she-Elf, and we chased 'er off good an' proper," declared the chief. "An' there was the other one, I s'pose, but we got rid of 'im too. Come on, 'ave some of this grog while the night lasts. Ye know we gotta get goin' in the mornin'."

"The crawlers take yer grog," the fat Goblin spat, shuffling out towards Lathron and reaching for a whip at his side. Lathron aimed through the tangle of wood and shot the Goblin through the throat. He choked, glancing down in puzzlement, before thudding to the floor.

Lathron heard the chief spray out his mouthful of wine in alarm. "'Oo's there?" he called.

Lathron stepped out from behind the wood pile, sheathing his bow again. "You know, maybe you should listen to your advisors more often. He had the right idea."

Now that he was standing, Lathron had a better view of Pampraush. He was a direct contrast to his lieutenant: thin and unusually tall for a Goblin. He'd made a sort of throne for himself out of wine barrels, and was lounging across it, staring wide-eyed at Lathron. "You... You're..." he stammered.

"An Elf? Well done you." Lathron gave a slow clap, stepping around the fire towards Pampraush. The Goblin made an attempt to jump down from his seat, and in a flash, Lathron whipped out his knife and held it to the creature's throat. "Where is Avorthal? What have you done with him?"

"Who?" the Goblin choked.

"The Elf prince. I know you took him. Where is he?"

To his surprise, the Goblin managed a grin, showing sharp, broken teeth. "'E's not 'ere," he chuckled. "Yer too late. The Dwarves came and took 'im."

"Is that so?" Lathron pressed the knife harder. "Which Dwarves? And where?"

"Alright, alright, I'll tell ye!" Pampraush cried. "No need te stick me! The Dour'ands! Dunno what they wanted 'im for. Took 'im north."

"You're sure?" Lathron prompted. "Anything else?"

"Might'a been somefink. Can't quite remember..."

"If you think you're getting anything out of me, you're mistaken." Lathron nicked the Goblin's throat slightly, letting a trickle of black blood drip down his neck.

"Ok," Pampraush shrieked. "There was a golden one. Eyepatch. Can't remember 'is name. Dunno what 'e wanted. See, you don't 'aff to stick me now! Lemme go!"

"Stop lying to me and tell me his plan, and maybe I will," Lathron growled. "I know you know. Why else would you be here if he hadn't told you what he wanted? What did he promise you?"

Pampraush set his jaw. "I'm not tellin'."

"Well you certainly aren't now," Lathron sighed. "Sticking it is."

He left the Goblin's body slumped on his throne of barrels and crept outside. It was around midnight, and the sentries had finally given up and gone to sleep too it seemed. Lathron strode out of the camp without being challenged, making sure to grab a bottle of wine that had not been opened. Brethilwen deserved this at least, after what had been done to her home.

He hoped that the death of their leader might at least send the Goblins into disarray, but he knew them well enough to know that they wouldn't be put off for long. A few skirmishes to assert dominance and they'd have a new leader within a day. He just hoped he could find Avorthal before then.

Glossary

Limdal: Fleetfoot

Telcontar: Strider (Please note, this is in Quenya. It was the only language I could find it in, and also meant that people would recognise the name more easily. Let's just say this is one of the few words in Quenya Lathron knows.)

Pídagnir: Flybane (Pí, meaning fly (the insect) is also Quenya. It was the only version of fly/insect/bug etc. I could find. I'm gonna imagine the word was so short the Elves couldn't be bothered to change it and so it's the same in Sindarin. That's the problem with made up, half-finished languages. Love you really Tolkien.)

Caranfîn: Redhair (Yeah. Really. You wait 'til the next one. It gets better.)

A/N: Why hello again! Hope you're all well! It certainly took me a long time to churn that one out (it feels) but here it is. I hope it's worth the wait. I've been wanting to write Goblins for ages, and it was certainly fun, but they're so uncouth. I hope it wasn't too hard to understand, particularly for all you non-English readers. I know how hard it can be to read in a foreign language at the best of times, without Goblins coming in and not talkin' proper like. I'm still not going to make them talk properly though. I tried teaching them proper manners, but they just farted at me and went back to drinking grog. I had words with my agent, but it was no use. Can't get the staff these days. Do you think Panpraush deserved to live or die? Just interested to think how much of a heartless b***ard I've made Lathron. Too little and it's unrealistic, considering what he's been through. Too much and he just becomes unlikeable, and I do want to make sure my protagonists are likeable. Swishy cloaks notwithstanding.

Like, comment, subscribe, all the good stuff, and I'll see you soon hopefully.

Simon

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema, Warner Brothers or Turbine, or any other affiliate I may have missed, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. It's your job to work out which. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.

Seriously though, don't sue me.