The Prince and the Goblin

by Bryan Huff

  “Here we are,” Brute announced, at last. “Find a hidey-hole, and wait for my signal.”

  The ambush party rattled to a stop in a cavern just below the earth’s surface. Five short tunnels branched up from there, all leading to hidey-holes, tight chambers topped with trapdoors made to blend in with their surroundings above ground.

  Hob followed Grunt up the nearest tunnel. They climbed slippery stone steps to the top, trailed by three of Grunt’s friends: Ick, who was tall and lanky with a chimp-like grin; Uck, who was short and stocky with a bullfrog’s jaw; and Skulldug, who was small and shifty with a wolfish snout.

  The hidey-hole Grunt led them to was concealed by an old stump with a top that lifted up on a hinge. A steady trickle of water seeped in around the seam.

  Once the group had squeezed in below the trapdoor, Grunt lifted it up a crack so they could peek outside. The night was dark and stormy. But the goblins’ keen eyes could see in low light, so only the rain hampered their vision.

  They found themselves perched on one of several hillsides surrounding a small hollow. The steep hills were strewn with rocks, bushes, and dead trees, a few of which were sure to be concealing the other four hidey-holes.

  Minutes passed in cramped silence. Then two travelers, cloaked and hooded, wandered into the hollow. The goblins had created many trick paths in those hills, and the travelers were following one. It was a dead end—a trap—but they couldn’t see it, lost in the darkness and the storm.

  Hob looked down at them, picking out as much detail as he could. He was always eager to see humans in real life. Though, he liked it much better when they weren’t about to be ambushed.

  One of the travelers was a tall boy, the other a short, little man. They had come to the spot where the path ended, and the boy seemed to be searching for a way forward. The man just stood there with his arms crossed, looking frustrated.

  It occurred to Hob that the man might have been a dwarf! Hob had read about dwarves before, and this fellow fit the description perfectly. He was no more than five feet tall, built like a pot-bellied brick, and even had a bushy white beard sticking out from under his dark-brown hood.

  Hob could hear both travelers arguing over the wind.

  “Why did I ever let you talk me into this?” asked the boy. “You said this was a shortcut.”

  “It looked like a shortcut,” replied the dwarf.

  “It looked dangerous!”

  “That’s what shortcuts look like. They look dangerous!”

  Hob turned to Grunt and the others. “Awfully loud for interlopers, aren’t they?” he whispered, trying to make friendly conversation.

  “Loud for whats?” asked Grunt.

  “Interlopers,” said Hob. “People who’re somewhere they’re not supposed to be.”

  “Why didn’t ya say that then?” asked Ick.

  “It feels different,” said Hob. “And it takes longer.”

  “Longer than this?” said Ick.

  “Yeah, ya talk funny,” said Skulldug.

  Uck, who never talked much at all, simply nodded.

  “Ya do talk kinda funny, Hob,” said Grunt, with a shrug.

  “I guess so,” Hob sighed. “Still, I wonder what they’re doing here …”

  He returned his attention to the interlopers.

  “You know whose fault this really is?” the dwarf was saying. “That dotty old wizard’s, that’s whose. If he’d met us when he was supposed to, we wouldn’t be in this mess. He always does this.”

  They know a wizard! Hob marveled. He was becoming more curious about them by the second.

  “I wish he were here too,” muttered the boy. “But we’re on this quest now, with or without him.”

  They’re going on a quest! Hob marveled again. He was suddenly transfixed. He’d never seen real adventurers before! Unfortunately, his opportunity didn’t last long.

  “Attack!” cried Brute, from the far side of the hollow.

  And with that, Grunt and the others exploded from the trapdoor with such force that Hob—who was smaller and positioned in front—got ejected ahead of them. This sent him careening down the hill, leading the charge, until he slipped on a patch of loose stones and went tumbling head over heels the rest of the way.

  Seconds later, as the other goblins came charging out of the darkness from every angle to surround the travelers, Hob landed face-first at the bottom of the hollow.

  By the time he lifted his head out of the mud, the ambush was underway all around him. The boy rushed past, chased by a swarm of goblins. The dwarf rushed past, chased by another swarm of goblins. And a bunch of stray goblins just rushed about all over the place.

  stomp! stomp! stomp! Hob tossed and turned to avoid getting trampled by their feet. Then, his hand fell on something unexpected. A book.

  Worried it was The Big Book of Derring-Do, Hob instinctively clutched his satchel. He felt his book still inside. The one on the ground was new! Although its cover was wet and mud-spattered, it might have been the finest book he’d ever seen.

  Without pausing to wonder where it had come from, Hob checked to make sure no one was watching, and stuffed the new book into his satchel. The next instant, a foot slammed down right where it had been. Sensing a second one about to slam down on his head, Hob threw himself aside. thump! It was a narrow miss—one which put him in the path of another charging goblin. thump-thump! Two feet caught Hob in the chest and sent him rolling across the ground.

  Everything was a blur. Then he was free. He’d rolled right out of the fray, onto an empty patch of grass at the bottom of a hill.

  Hob pulled himself a short way up the slope to catch his breath. A few bruises were all he had to show for his struggle—and a new book! He squeezed his satchel to make sure it was safe inside with the first.

  Then he returned his attention to the ambush. If only through sheer numbers, the goblins had already captured the boy and dwarf. The pair didn’t appear afraid, as Hob would have been in their place. They were defiant, kicking and squirming even as the goblins fought to tie them up.

  For a split second, Hob felt an unexpected urge to help them—to try to escape with them on their adventure! But it passed as quickly as it came. The next thing Hob knew, the captives had been bound and gagged for their trip underground.

  “Take ’em to the dungeon. And take their loot to the pile!” shouted Brute. “Then get yourselves to the Great Cave for a feast!”

  Chapter Three

  Adventure Calls

  The Great Cave resembled a strange underground stadium. It was a vast space, with a high domed ceiling and a floor split into levels, rising up around a central, bottom ring. Giant, pointy stalactites hung from the ceiling, and matching stalagmites shot up from the floor. And, opposite the towering main entranceway, a tall balcony had been worked into the rocks—the platform of the goblin Chieftain.

  The platform was empty, but the rest of the cave was bustling. On every level, goblins sat gathered around roaring bonfires, eating and drinking from wooden bowls and jugs. The fires filled the place with smoke and warm light, and cast dancing shadows upon the walls.

  Hob and Grunt sat on rocks by one of the fires in the bottom ring. The goblins from the ambush were all there, eagerly telling stories of their victory, sometimes in turns, sometimes loudly over top of one another, and always to the delight of their listeners.

  Brute was telling his own, much embellished, tale to a large crowd. It was a version in which he did most of the ambushing himself, while the others just stood by and watched.

  “Yer awesome, Brute!” exclaimed one of his admirers.

  “The best!” added another.

  “I know,” said Brute.

  Hob wasn’t listening to any of them, however. He was thinking. That night’s ambush had been as frightening and senseless as any, but Hob felt lucky he’d been forced to go along. He’d come back not only with his life, but with a new book to read, and, better ye
t, a new story of his own to tell. It was almost as if he’d gone on one of the adventures from his books, braving a terrible battle, and returning with a hard-won treasure. Not to mention, he’d seen the boy and dwarf—real-life adventurers! It was like something out of one of his dreams.

  Finally, a loud voice brought him back to reality.

  “A burp!” shouted a jolly, fat goblin, hammering his jug with a spoon. “A burp to the ambushers!”

  A “burp” was the goblin version of a “toast,” and all the goblins in the cave took long drinks from their jugs, and joined in.

  “O, gobble yer grub, an’ guzzle yer beer,

  ’Cause it’s like music to the ear,

  When we fill with gas, an’ let it pass,

  Loud and proud for all to hear!

  BRRRUUUUURRRRRP!”

  Hob drank too. Like everyone else’s, his jug was full of gobble-beer, a frothy green liquid that smelled and tasted like tree roots. He swallowed hard, and let out the best burp he could muster, though it wasn’t much. “Brruup!”

  “You’ve hardly touched yer food,” Grunt said, when the burping was done.

  Hob looked down at the bowl in his hand. It was full of gray-green paste that looked like cat puke and smelled much worse. He stared at it with a wrinkled-up nose, trying to figure out how to get rid of it without offending Grunt.

  “What’s the matter with it?” asked Grunt.

  “I’m never sure it’s sanitary,” Hob explained.

  “No, it’s ‘gru-el,’” Grunt corrected him.

  “I know it’s gruel …” said Hob. Gruel was the goblins’ staple dish. The recipe was simple: anything you could find, plus dirt, thrown into a pot, and boiled until thick and gloopy. “It’s just … I meant … I dunno …” He paused and let out a frustrated sigh. “Don’t you ever wish there was more to life than this?”

  “Like more gruel?” asked Grunt, turning over his bowl to lick out the last of its contents.

  “Not exactly,” said Hob. “I’m not even hungry for what I’ve got.”

  “I’m a’ways hung’y,” said Grunt, still licking out his bowl.

  “Have mine, then,” said Hob, holding out his bowl for his brother.

  Grunt took it, and continued feasting. He found something long and slimy and sucked it up like a noodle. “Mmm! I th’nk I g’d a worm in this ’un!” he said, cheeks full. “Or’a rat’s tail!” Crunch. “Nope. Defin’ly a worm.”

  Hob pressed on. “I meant, more like, getting out of here. Going on an adventure. Like those humans we ambushed. Don’t you wonder where they were going? What it might be like to go with them?”

  Grunt spat out his latest mouthful of gruel. “No,” he whispered. “And don’t let anyone hear ya talk like that. Those man-captives ain’t goin’ nowhere. And even if they was, ya could never go with them. They’re humans. They’re our enemies.” He paused. “This is where we belong, Hob.”

  “I know,” Hob muttered. “Just, sometimes I wonder is all …”

  Before long, Hob was hurrying back up through the tunnels of the Gobble Downs. He’d excused himself from the feast by telling Grunt he was tired. But he had no intention of going to bed. Hob might not have been any closer to going on an adventure himself—but at least he had a new one to read about.

  Soon, he reached the destination he’d set out for hours earlier—his secret spot. At the end of a far-flung tunnel, he came to a small underground waterfall, where fresh, cool water spilled out of a crack in the bedrock to fill a shallow pool.

  Many goblins had been to that place before, but only Hob knew its secret. Hidden behind the waterfall was an opening to a long-forgotten passage to the surface.

  He stopped at the pool to take a drink and wash his hands and face. The Gobble Downs was an exceptionally dirty place, and Hob always felt the need to wash. Then, with a quick glance around to make sure nobody else was there, he edged over to the waterfall and slipped in behind it.

  He found himself at the bottom of a tight shaft, big enough for only one medium-sized goblin to pass at a time—or maybe one man. But Hob was much less than medium-sized, and he climbed easily up the steep steps and rock falls, never once bumping his head on the low ceiling.

  Soon, the air began to stir, and the foul odors of the goblin caves gave way to the fresh scent of spring. Hoisting himself out of a hole at the top of the tunnel, Hob emerged at the back of an open-faced cave.

  The cave sat beneath a rocky outcropping on the northernmost hillside of the Gobble Downs, overlooking the lands beyond. As he often did, Hob moved to the edge of the cave to take in the view. The rain had passed, and the sky was turning purple over the fields, forests, and distant mountains. For a moment, he imagined being in those places, far away.

  Then he returned to the back of the cave, and sat down. In the shadow of the rock, it would remain dark until well after dawn, and he would be able to read for a while without the sunlight bothering him.

  Hob opened his satchel, drew out his new book, and wiped the mud and water from its cover. Thankfully, not much damage had been done. It mustn’t have been out in the storm for very long. And otherwise, it seemed in excellent condition. If anything, it was more beautiful than he’d first thought. It was thick and heavy, bound with rich leather, and embossed with gold. Its title read: The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer.

  Hob opened it to the first page. Though it was damp, the book made the soft cracking sound that books make when they’ve gone too long unopened. It brought a smile to his face.

  At once, he began to read.

  The tale turned out to be a history, passed down to its author by Waeward’s squire and traveling companion. As Hob read the first few chapters, a marvelous story unfolded. Hundreds of years earlier, Waeward traveled from a distant land to South Gate, one of the small early kingdoms that had once divided the valley of Yore. There, Waeward met the beautiful Princess Parabelle, and they fell deeply in love. He won a grand tournament for the right to ask her hand in marriage. But on the eve of their wedding, Parabelle fell sick and passed into a deep, feverish sleep from which it appeared she might never wake, forcing Waeward to set out on a quest to find a cure.

  Hob paused, and stared wistfully into the distance. He knew he was supposed to hate humans, but he just couldn’t! They went on heroic quests, built great kingdoms, and made wonderful things. He often felt like if he belonged anywhere, it was with them.

  That may have been why he loved their adventure stories so much. They didn’t just give him a temporary escape from the Gobble Downs; they gave him hope. On an adventure, anything was possible! Hob often fantasized about traveling with a daring band of humans, doing great deeds, and being accepted as not just a goblin, but as one of the heroes, worthy of an honorary place in the human world. Though, in reality, this had never seemed like the remotest possibility, until that night.

  And it still wasn’t, he reminded himself. Grunt was right. The travelers were captives now. And goblins were villains, not heroes. They didn’t have adventures. Hob was imagining things that could never be. Would never be. No great adventure would ever come calling a goblin like him.

  “caw! caw! caw!”

  The morning quiet was broken.

  Hob spotted a small black speck in the northern sky. A crow. He closed his book, and crept to the edge of his cave. The bird was huge, with bristling feathers and powerful wings—a mountain crow from the north. Seconds later, it swooped into the hills of the Gobble Downs and out of sight.

  “News on the wing!” Hob told himself.

  The goblins of Yore had been training crows to act as messengers for an age, a trick they’d picked up from the evil old sorcerer who’d once been their master. And, as much as Hob wanted to keep reading, if there was news, he had to hear it. He returned The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer to his satchel, hurried over to his secret tunnel, and lowered himself back inside.

  Soon, Hob found himself back in the Great Cave. The
goblin Chieftain had called the whole horde there to hear the crow’s message, and the cave was even more packed than before.

  Trying to avoid the boisterous crowd in the middle, Hob climbed a large stalagmite along the outer wall. He found a good ridge on the stalagmite to perch on, with a clear view of the Chief’s platform, and he waited there for the show to begin.

  After a few minutes, a spindly old goblin emerged from an entrance at the back of the platform. It was the horde’s shaman, Toothless Cooty. He shambled to the front. “Open your eyes, and unclog your ears,” he warbled, at the top of his shriveled lungs, “for Grand Chief Gobblestomp the Gargantuan!”

  The Chief strode out onto the platform next, with the great black crow perched on his shoulder. This was clearly a proud moment for the Chief, as, for once, he actually had something “chiefly” to do. Though, he did look rather ridiculous doing it, like a giant pig-nosed toad, wearing a skull headdress, and pretending to be a bird-stand.

  “Okay, you lot,” Chief Gobblestomp bellowed, bumping Toothless Cooty out of the way to take center stage. “Listen to what this here crow fella has to say. If ya hate humans half as much as I do, then yer gonna love it!”

  Excited hoots and hollers rose from the crowd.

  The crow gave the Chief’s shoulder a hard peck.

  “Ouch!” groaned the Chief. “Go on, then. I won’t spoil the surprise.”

  The crow promptly shook out its feathers, and climbed right on top of the Chief’s head. The Chief seemed a bit put out by this, but allowed it, nonetheless.

  “caw!” croaked the crow. “I bring news from the north. The Sorcerer of old has returned to his fortress of Shadowguard. And he calls on you to help him make war on the humans. squawk! And so he shall speak.”