Ruler of the Centipede Clan

25 Jun 2025 - Transcribed by Paul Turner

After three days, the rains finally relented in the ridgelands of southern Crimson Rock. The air felt crisp and cool as the sun peeked over the horizon. However, before it had a chance to show in full, Gimlo was awakened by the clanging of pots and packing of rucksacks. The clan was moving out, it seemed.

Gimlo was half goblin, and because of his soft hair, straight spine, and distinct lack of face boils he was viewed as lesser by the rest of the clan. In fact, the only reason he remained alive to this point was due to his height, which at five foot two, towered over the others. They were frequent in reminding him that it was the only thing which kept him alive.

Gimlo had been sold to the clan about a decade before, the exact date he could not be sure. He only ever recalled the last night with his parents, which he played back in his mind often. They shared a meager meal, he went to bed, and awoke in irons. His life was over.

A rock struck Gimlo on the side of his head.

“Oi! You better not be reminiscin’ ‘bout some tragic past over there,” said his segment leader, Oilbody.

Oilbody, being a full goblin, was hateful towards those like Gimlo who he referred to as ‘mutts’. He preferred the pureblood companions in Gilmo’s segment. In fact he believed himself so pure, he often bathed in the rendered fat of the animals they hunted. Nonetheless, being as stout, bald, and knobby as he was, few could argue Oilbody’s claim as the most goblin-y goblin.

“Yes, I’m talkin’ to you, Mutt!”

“Sorry sir.”

Another rock struck Gimlo.

“Oi Mutt! You need another knockin’ to get your ‘ead awake? Ain’t no sirs here!”

A few of the other goblins cackled as Oilbody sneered, emboldened and empowered by his segment lackeys. He stuck out his chest and barked orders at them until everyone was ready to move. Gimlo was attempting to tighten his own rucksack when the chain at his waist became taut. The link ceremony was about to begin.

Gimlo and the rest of the people of the clan answered to their segment leaders. To ensure cohesion, they remained chained to one another by irons that went around every waist. The segment leaders would be allowed to break off for skirmishes or bathroom breaks during battle, but when they traveled they reintegrated into the Great Link. Thus was the code of the Centipede Clan.

In Gimlo’s ten years as an unwitting pawn of the Centipede Clan, he had only met the leader of the head segment once. They were raiding farmlands, presumably for coin from a local lord when a pack of wolves had intervened. Gimlo saw their ferocity in full force as they decimated the goblins who tried to run in opposite directions, ultimately going nowhere. Then it was as though a great wave of green rose through the lines as the leader of the clan snapped the end of his link to bring them in line. Several of the goblins were launched into the air from the force of the chain whipping through them.

When the wave finally reached the end of their numbers, a great crack tore through the sky more terrible than thunder or an old man’s sneeze. The hapless goblin at the very end of the Great Link, a sundry reporter for the Green Gazette, exploded into mist from the whiplash. His blood, bone, and viscera rained over the fields, ensuring nothing would grow for years. The wolves, frightened by the spectacle, ran off into the woods.

Gimlo had been profusely apologizing to a young maiden whose garden he was raiding when he had been lifted into the air. His breath was forced out by the impact of his return to solid ground. In a daze, he looked to the clan leader as he passed.

“Pathetic,” the leader growled.

There he stood. Arog, ruler of Centipede Clan. He was an ogre, battle-scarred, sporting an unkempt mane, and was said to be able to kill a man by mad-dogging them. In his left hand, he held a shield made of human skulls. It was not a very effective shield, hence the scars. However, each skull still held the look of shock from being cut down by the weapon in his right hand. It was a bastard sword, nicked with deep gashes from use. Some claimed it had no edge, and only split his enemies from the sheer force of Arog’s arm. Others claimed, in quiet whispers, it was only in such a sorry state because it was the only thing Arog ever took with him to bed.

Gimlo hoped to never test either theory.

Ready to move, the Great Link was reformed as they had been paid to break up a harvest festival several leagues away. Gimlo’s only satisfaction of the day was watching the disgust in Oilbody’s face as he clamped his segment onto the end of another in front of him.

The Ridgelands, though beautiful, were treacherous to travelers. It was all too easy to happen upon the edge of a chasm or cliffside. Oftentimes, Centipede Clan used their Great Link as an advantage. To this end, they traversed the bridgeless expanses by suspending and pulling themselves across. The sensation of flight often gave Gimlo a fear erection, something he would have reported if it ever lasted for more than four hours.

Today however, when the sun was at its zenith, the Great Link came to a sudden halt. The sun beat down on them and the wind, so offended by their collective smell, refused to budge the air around them. It was nearly dusk before the message reached Gimlo’s ear as Oilbody whispered it in a hurried rasp.

“Arog needs head? Why would we stop for that?” Asked Gimlo.

Oilbody gave him a cross look. “Ain’t our place t’ask ‘is reasons. Pass it on already.”

“Are there even women here?”

Oilbody scoffed in derision. “Doubt any frilly girl could ‘andle what Arog’s own sword can’t,” he replied with a smirk. Then his face dropped to a scowl as he remembered he was conversing with a mutt. “Now pass it on before I send you up there my-”

Oilbody’s abuse was interrupted by a whisper in his ear from the goblin ahead of him. In one motion, he pulled out his dagger and ran it through the goblin’s throat before detaching his end of the chain from the ragged corpse and spitting on it.

“What the hell was that for?” Asked Gimlo.

Oilbody did not answer. Instead he yanked on the chain, forcing the rest of the clan behind him forward. Over the next few minutes, there was a blur of goblin body parts flying across Gimlo’s vision. It was like a horrifying goblin orgy where they ran out of lube and settled on using blood instead. As the screaming and yelling died down, only three segment leaders remained.

There was Lurd, a grossly overweight goblin who clearly kept all of his segments rations for himself as he dragged the twig-like cadre behind him. Gimlo noticed many of them were skinny enough that they could just slip out of their chains with ease. He wondered why they did not. Then there was Bent, an older goblin who had clearly been run over by a cart at some point judging by the hard ninety degree angle his spine took halfway up his back. Because of this, Bent was considered the most optimistic goblin since he always looked at the sky. Behind him, no other goblins were to be found. Last was Oilbody, with Gimlo behind him and however many others in his segment had survived. Oilbody spoke first.

“Time to link up. Line begins ‘hind me!” He barked.

Lurd grunted disapproval, and Bent cocked his head to the side to face the other two.

“There are certain rights to see to first,” Bent said with a sunny disposition.

Lurd grunted again, this time in agreement. Oilbody sighed and relented. The three segment leaders dragged the remaining goblins and Gimlo to the head of the line. There at its apex they found Arog. Arog the Mighty. Arog the Scarred. Arog the Died of Choking on Trail Mix. The last name would not catch on until much later when it was chronicled by the goblitolagist, Joan Badone, who was devoured shortly after finishing her first and only book on goblins.

What happened next is best left out of this tale. Suffice it to say, the goblins refer to the act as “The Sullying,” and it is considered a most sacred gesture to the honored dead. When it was finished, Lurd, Bent, and Oilbody stood over the now burning corpse of their former leader. Gimlo waited with baited breath for the first one to speak.

Lurd grunted.

“Sure, you say that now, but we’ve seen what you do with the spoils,” answered Bent.

“None of this matters anyway,” interjected Oilbody. “I’m the prime goblin. Just look at this!”

With that, Oilbody flexed his muscles. They were knobby and veiny, and caused his skin to pucker. Gimlo’s acid reflux acted up just from witnessing it. It was truly a horror to behold with working eyes.

“He brings up a good point,” said Bent.

Lurd grunted in agreement.

Gimlo’s heart sank. Having Centipede Clan run by Oilbody meant a lifetime of abuse. He would be lucky to be relegated to the end of the line, fit only to eat the scraps of scraps remaining to him. Knowing Oilbody, he would likely be stabbed, have his shins cut off and fashioned into some sort of armor for Oilybody. As he weighed his options of what to do, his eyes fell to the sword at his feet. It was Arog’s bastard sword. He picked it up and held it shakily in his skinny arms.

Lurd grunted. Oilbody turned to see what he was indicating.

“What’s ‘is all ‘bout? Mutt thinks he can swing a sword now? Put it down, Mutt. I don’t need you shakin’ an’ rattlin’ my chains.”

Gimlo stared at Oilbody, trying to sense what he was going to do next. As he met his eyes though, he saw something he did not expect. Fear. He decided to use the moment to his advantage.

“I can’t let you be the new leader!” Yelled Gimlo as his voice cracked.

“Oi Mutt, this is a warnin’. I’m havin’ a good day. Don’t threaten to make it a great one.”

Lurd grunted.

“Butt out Lurd,” said Oilbody. “Who gives a rat’s arse if he’s taller?”

Gimlo shifted closer, bringing the dull blade inches away from Oilbody. He sneered but held his hands up, showing he was unarmed.

“Alright Mutt. Tell you what. You put down the sword, and I’ll tell you what happened when we bought you. You’ll finally get to know why you ended up here. Deal?”

Gimlo felt the air deflate from his chest. Whatever bravado he had summoned before disappeared. With it, the sword lowered, and clanged to the ground. Oilbody kicked it aside and laughed.

“Mutt, when I’m through with you, they won’t even be able to ‘dentify your species.”

Lurd grunted.

“I quite agree,” said Bent. “Oilbody, you did make an agreement with the gentleman.”

Oilbody sneered and spat on the bastard sword. “Fine. A little bedtime story before I gut you. Twas your dad who brought you up ‘ere.”

“My dad?”

“Dear ol’ ‘Dad’ indeed. Said he couldn’t handle it no more. Said he tried to raise you as his own, but just couldn’t do it. Wanted to bring you back to a real man. Bring you back to the man who made you. A prime specimen ‘mong all goblinkind.”

“You?” Gimlo could not believe his ears. Oilbody, his tormentor for this last decade, the one thing Gimlo had learned to hate more than anything else in this word was his father? It was too much. Before he could even think, his body lurched forward and with all of his weight, he shoved Oilbody backwards towards the pyre.

Oilbody caught fire instantly, and no amount of flexing or preening would put it out. He screamed and fell over into a melted pile of leathery, curling flesh as it crackled from the fat and marrow pouring from within. Gimlo could hardly believe what he had done. He had usurped the would-be ruler of Centipede Clan. By rights, the clan was his now. He wondered what to do next. Could he bring them under his control? Did he even want to?

“You know he was kidding about the ‘being your dad’ thing, right?” Bent called out from across the growing flame.

Lurd laughed.

THE END