In Bagrash Runtchucka’s mob you didn’t have to be fast – just faster than the other git.

   
The snaggle-toothed goblin they called Gutslitta didn’t look like he
could stand upright in the howling wind coming down off the mountains
around Black Crag, much less run. But run the goblin did, his flat feet
flapping on the stone goat-path and his long ears bent back against his
knobby green head as he raced up the steep slope past Runtchucka’s
lumbering boyz. Beady-eyed, yellow-tusked heads turned at the sound of
the goblin’s approach, and clawed hands the size of platters swung idly
at Gutslitta as he dashed by, but the runt ducked and dodged his way
past each crushing blow. His breath misted in the frosty air, wheezing
past his jagged fangs like a broken whistle.





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