The Prince and the Goblin

by Bryan Huff

  “Well, let’s find your book then,” said Hob, in a strange, overly loud voice. He turned to Isobel in desperation. “We’re looking for a book. Do you have it? The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer?”

  Hob realized his mistake as soon as the words escaped his lips.

  Isobel thought for a second, and then shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve never heard of it. And I know every book in here.”

  But Hob wasn’t listening. He turned back to Edric.

  The Prince had a disturbed look on his face. “I don’t think I ever told you what the book was called …” he said, in a quiet, empty tone. “And neither did Stella.”

  Hob had no words. There was nothing for him to say without either blatantly lying, or admitting his guilt—and he couldn’t bring himself to do either.

  “It was you …” Edric whispered, finally.

  “I … uh …” Hob stammered.

  “No! It was you! You said more than once that the other goblins wanted to execute you for stealing books!”

  “Well, you see …”

  Suddenly, Edric lunged forward and grabbed Hob by his furry collar, lifting him up so they were face to face. “Mine was one of them, wasn’t it?” he shouted, giving Hob a shake. “Wasn’t it?”

  Hob could see the anger and pain in Edric’s eyes. It broke his heart. “Yes …” he admitted, hanging his head.

  “You let me believe this was all my fault!” Edric railed at him. “But it’s your fault! Your fault my Kingdom is doomed. Your fault my father is lost for good. You’re a liar and thief, just like every goblin ever!”

  Hob opened his mouth to protest, to beg forgiveness, but no sound came out.

  “I thought you were different,” Edric finished, his voice turning quiet, yet hard as stone. “But you’re not.”

  He lowered Hob, almost gently, and then let him fall the last few feet to the floor. Hob’s legs gave way, and he dropped to his knees. He looked up at Edric, his mouth still opening and closing wordlessly.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room, until Lady Isobel broke it.

  “I thought you said he was a nice goblin?” she said.

  “Stay out of this!” Edric snapped at her. Then he rounded on Hob once more. “Go! Get out of here! I never want to see you again.”

  “No!” Hob pleaded, finally finding his voice. “No, please … It’s okay …” He had an idea. It was bound to make everything right. “I read it! I read the book! I can get you to the Lost City!”

  Edric paused. “What?” he asked, as though he’d misheard. He shook his head. “No! I’m not following you anywhere.”

  “But … but … I …” Hob stammered.

  “I can’t trust you!” Edric drew his sword, and pointed it at Hob. “You’ve been lying to me ever since we met. You’d say anything to trick me into letting you stay. I don’t know what your deal is … You might be a spy, a saboteur, or just a freak. But Monty was right. You’re a threat. You can’t be part of this quest. So leave! And don’t come back!”

  It was over. Hob had told the truth; he could lead Edric to the Lost City. But if Edric didn’t believe him, then it didn’t matter.

  “Go!” Edric finished, with a thrust of his sword.

  They stared at each other for one last moment, Edric’s blade hanging between them. Then Hob could take no more. Fighting back tears, he turned, rushed to the tower window, and climbed outside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Up a Tower Without a Rope

  Hob felt numb, empty, as he lowered himself back down the tower, using the rope hanging from the crossbow bolt in the window frame.

  The soft thuds of yet more falling books and the protests of Lady Isobel emanated from the tower’s top room. And out beyond the castle walls, another blanket of evening cloud had spread over the valley, breaking around the mountain slopes below the city and glowing white under the nearly-full moon in the clear sky above.

  But Hob hardly noticed any of that. All his thoughts were focused on keeping moving, getting out of there. As his feet touched ground, he released the rope, and stood for a moment in the garden at the base of the tower, hidden by tall shrubs and the tower’s dark shadow. He turned and gazed across the moonlit courtyard toward the castle gate.

  Hob didn’t know exactly where to go from there. But he couldn’t stay. There would be no “adventuring along” anymore. And there was no way he could carry on the quest alone. So far, neither Waeward nor King Edgar had made it back from their excursions to the Lost City alive, which meant Hob stood no chance. If by some miracle he managed to escape Valley Top, then he supposed he would head into the wilds, and find somewhere quiet to live out his days, far from both humans and goblins, the way he was clearly meant to be.

  In that instant, Hob felt the weight of it all. He was angry at Edric for not understanding, for not listening. He was angry at himself for lying about the book, for believing he could ever be friends with someone like Edric in the first place. The pain was so much worse than it would’ve been had Hob never joined the adventure at all. It wasn’t a dream he was losing; it was something real.

  Hob shook his head. He’d have plenty of time for regrets later. First, he had to escape. He started toward the gate.

  Then, suddenly, something stirred in the bushes around him, and the darkness itself seemed to leap out at him. An arm wrapped around his neck, preventing his escape, and a hand clamped firmly over his mouth to stop him from screaming—a hand gloved in black.

  Jerked around by his captor, Hob could see more dark figures emerging from the bushes and from behind the base of the tower, crowding the shadowy garden. Hob spotted handsome Lieutenant Buckler, grim Sir Deckard from the forest, five city guards, and a dozen crazed villagers led by the Spring Chicken—no longer wearing his chicken head. It was an ambush!

  Hob tried to call up to Edric in warning, but the hand over his mouth stifled his cries. He writhed against the strong arm restraining him, but it only constricted more tightly around his neck.

  Then a familiar voice whispered in his ear. “’Zat is enough, goblin. Be silent now, or I will silence you myself.”

  Hob’s worst fears were confirmed. He was being held by Captain Fist. He went limp. It was no use fighting her.

  “Gag him,” whispered the Captain.

  The Spring Chicken approached, raising a cloth gag. Without his chicken head, his long, horsey face could be seen fully for the first time. It was clear that his pointy goatee attempted to compensate for his lack of a chin. And a mop of sandy hair lay matted down on his head, greasy after a day spent under a hot costume.

  Fist’s arm tightened briefly around Hob’s neck, choking him so he couldn’t make any noise. She removed her hand from his mouth, allowing the Spring Chicken to gag him.

  Hob couldn’t believe what was happening. The last time he’d seen Fist and the Spring Chicken, they’d been locked in hand-to-hand combat. Now they were working together?

  With the gag in place, the Spring Chicken set about tying Hob’s hands behind his back with a length of rope. Meanwhile, Captain Fist reached around with her free hand, unbuckled Hob’s sword belt, and took it from him with the sword and scabbard still attached, stuffing them under her arm. Hob’s goggles were next to go. Fist slipped them off his head, and tucked them into one of the pouches near the back of her belt, hidden beneath her cloak. Though both the sword and goggles were relatively new to Hob, he already felt naked without them.

  “Looks like you were right,” the Spring Chicken whispered, as he fastened his knot around Hob’s wrists. “They were here.”

  “I told you ’zey would be,” Fist whispered back. “I’ve had ’zis tower watched day and night since we arrived. Sir Deckard saw ’zem enter.” She peered up to the window above. “My Prince never could resist a damsel in distress.”

  It was almost as if part of her admired Edric’s impulsiveness. Or, perhaps, she just admired her own ability to predict it. Either way, Hob
knew she was off the mark. The Captain had simply gotten lucky; Edric was up the tower because of its library, not its Lady.

  The Spring Chicken gave Hob a quick pat down. Fist stopped him, jabbing a finger into his chest feathers.

  “It is time for you to hold up your end of ’ze bargain, Chicken Man,” she hissed. “I deliver ’ze gold and ’ze creature. You allow me to leave with Prince Edric, alive and unharmed.”

  “You have my word,” whispered the Spring Chicken, crossing his heart. “The boy’s all yours.” He looked down at Hob with a maniacal grin. “Now give me what’s mine!”

  “Take him,” Fist replied, thrusting Hob into the clutches of the Spring Chicken.

  Hob fought to escape the Spring Chicken’s grip, hoping he would find it less resilient than Captain Fist’s. But the wiry man inside the chicken suit was surprisingly strong. And with Hob’s hands bound behind his back, he was easily overpowered. Soon, the Spring Chicken had one arm around Hob’s neck just as Fist had, forcing Hob to stop squirming unless he wanted to strangle himself.

  “Now, stay quiet until I’m inside,” Fist ordered the Spring Chicken and his companions, quickly strapping Hob’s sword belt on above her own. “I’ll not have you alerting ’ze Prince.”

  The Spring Chicken nodded obediently.

  And with that, Captain Fist climbed the rope up the tower. Her movements were smooth and powerful, and she reached the top in no time at all. Looking like a great black cat, she slid softly onto the window ledge, and perched there, ready to pounce. Before she did, she drew a knife, and cut the rope right under the crossbow bolt. It slithered down into the garden, preventing any escape through the window.

  The movement must have caught Edric’s eye, because his voice called out from inside. “Hob! I told you never to come back!”

  This was followed by one of Lady Isobel’s screams. “Aaahh!”

  “Captain Fist!” Edric shouted.

  “Are you not pleased to see me, my Prince?” asked the Captain. “I am very pleased to see you.”

  Then she swooped into the tower room. Sounds of struggle echoed from within, crashing, clanging, and yet more books falling to the floor. Moments later, the sounds died out, leaving the crowd at the base of the tower staring up in silent anticipation.

  “Come on,” Hob heard Lieutenant Buckler say to Sir Deckard. “Let’s fetch the horses.”

  “Aye, Lieutenant,” said Sir Deckard.

  Footsteps signaled their departure, but Hob didn’t look. Part of him hoped that if he kept his eyes fixed on the tower window, he might somehow will Edric to appear there, miraculously free, and ready to climb down the vines and save him.

  But it wasn’t to be. Hob’s view of the tower was quickly wrested away, as the Spring Chicken spun him around to face the mob.

  “He’s ours now!” declared the Spring Chicken. “And you know what we do with goblins here in Valley Top?”

  “Burn them!” cried the mob.

  “That’s right. We burn them!” cried the Spring Chicken. “So, get to work!”

  The Spring Chicken forced Hob to watch from the center of the courtyard as his pyre was built. Pitchforks, shovels, hammers, and axes reduced one of the hay carts by the stables to kindling, while strong arms hauled over a beam from the timber pile by the workshops, and planted it upright in the hay and debris. The townsfolk crowded around. Many of them lit torches, chasing away the cool moonlight and tinting the yard almost as red as it had been under the setting sun.

  Finally, the Spring Chicken dragged Hob forward. The crowd parted ahead of them, clearing an aisle to the pyre. A city guard stood at the far end, waiting with a length of rope to bind Hob to his post.

  The crowd chanted as the Spring Chicken marched Hob up the aisle.

  “Villain!”

  “Spy!”

  “Green scum!”

  “burn him!”

  All eyes were on Hob. They seemed almost goblin-like, wild and bloodthirsty. Their excitement grew with every step he was forced to take.

  Then—bang!—just before Hob reached the pyre, the tall oaken doors of the keep’s main hall burst open. The Spring Chicken halted the march, as everyone looked toward the doors.

  Captain Fist strode out of the darkness within, her black cloak billowing. She dragged a struggling Prince Edric in her wake. Like Hob, Edric was gagged, with both arms bound behind his back. Captain Fist kept a tight grip just above his left elbow, twisting whenever she needed to force him on.

  The pair headed directly for the castle gate. As she walked, the Captain wedged forefinger and thumb between her lips and let out a shrill whistle. Seconds later, Lieutenant Buckler and Sir Deckard rode in through the gate on horseback, leading the Captain’s gray charger between them. Both guardsmen held torches to light their way.

  Hob stamped, squirmed, and tried to scream. He wanted to call out to Edric, but the gag in his mouth prevented it.

  “Shut up, goblin!” snapped the Spring Chicken, giving Hob a shake.

  Hob’s exertions proved to be unnecessary; the large crowd was more than enough to draw Edric’s attention. As Fist hauled him past, Edric stared up the aisle at Hob. For a moment, their eyes met, and a strange mixture of emotions flashed across the Prince’s face—fear, anger, and something else. He obviously blamed Hob for their situation, but maybe, just maybe, he also felt sympathy for him.

  Edric began to struggle against Fist’s grasp more determinedly than before.

  “Be still!” snapped Fist, jerking him on.

  As Lieutenant Buckler and Sir Deckard approached with the horses, the Captain looked up at them.

  “Quickly now!” she said. “Our journey leaves us no choice but to spend one night on ’ze road. If we ride tonight, ’zen we can get away from ’zis accursed place, and arrive safely in King’s Rock by sundown tomorrow.”

  She threw Edric up onto the charger’s shoulders, and, with a swish of her cloak, seated herself in the saddle behind him. Then she took the reins from Lieutenant Buckler, and a freshly lit torch from Sir Deckard, and pulled the horse around. She rode for the castle gate, followed by her two guardsmen.

  The Spring Chicken turned back to Hob wearing a nasty grin. Hob knew he should have been panicking, searching for a way out. But with Edric leaving, there simply wasn’t one. Hob went limp—ready to let the Spring Chicken drag him the rest of the way to the pyre.

  Yet, they got no farther. Nor did the three riders and Edric reach the gate. Instead, four more horsemen galloped through into the courtyard—the remainder of the Royal Guards. Attention returned to Captain Fist, as the newcomers rode to a halt in her path.

  “What is ’ze meaning of ’zis?” Fist demanded, stopping her horse. “Why have you abandoned your posts?”

  Sir Reginald, the mustached guard from the forest, was first to answer. “Captain!” he said. “An army of goblins marches up the pass! The lookouts from the city guard say it’s as though it appeared out of nowhere. They say when they were called to the riot in the marketplace, the length of the pass was empty. Yet, when they returned to their towers, the goblins were somehow past the Riven Gate.”

  Fist cursed in her native tongue. “How many?” she asked.

  “Nearly a thousand,” said Sir Reginald. “More than this city can handle, should they decide to attack.”

  “And if ’zey are already past ’ze Riven Gate, ’zere is nothing to stop ’zem,” Fist finished. “How long do we have?”

  “A few hours, at most.”

  She cursed again.

  Several of the nearby townsfolk overheard the exchange, and the news spread quickly. Cries of terror rose up, even as the message grew increasingly distorted.

  “The goblins are here!”

  “The Headless Goblin’s out of beer?”

  “They’re at the gates!”

  “They poured it down the grates?”

  Hob knew this wasn’t going to help his prospects at all. Sure eno
ugh, the crowd soon turned on him, looking more malevolent than before.

  A feathery arm gave Hob another shake. “What do you know about this, goblin?” growled the Spring Chicken.

  “Nff’n!” Hob cried through his gag.

  “All part of your evil plan, no doubt. Well, I’ll make sure you don’t live to see it through … Light ’er up, boys!”

  Suddenly, a dozen torches streaked through the air, thrown by townsfolk onto the pyre. They sizzled and spat as they plunged into the hay. The ruined hay cart burst into flames, which roared and leapt ten feet into the air. And the Spring Chicken dragged Hob toward the blaze.

  This time, Hob resisted. “Moh! Mhon’t!” he screamed, kicking and squirming.

  All around him, eager faces swam in the red light. As the wall of fire neared, Hob could feel its sweltering heat on his skin.

  “This is it, goblin,” said the Spring Chicken, lifting Hob up to heave him into the inferno.

  Then, at the last second, something blotted out the light. A horse galloped in at the end of the aisle, and stopped there, blocking the pyre. Captain Fist and Edric were silhouetted on its back.

  “’Zere has been a change of plans, Chicken Man,” Captain Fist said. “’Ze goblin is needed for questioning.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  At the Gates

  “It was one of the men who lights the beacons in the pass,” Lance Buckler explained, as he climbed the twisting stairwell. “He spotted the goblin army from the last beacon, and ran all the way back to town to give us as much time as he could.”

  “So, ’ze fools weren’t even first to spot it,” Captain Fist growled.

  She trailed Buckler up the stairs, dragging Hob along with her, his furry collar clutched in her gloved hand. Two more Royal Guards followed. One was the big-chinned, bored-eyed guard who’d inspected Stella’s hay cart at the city gate, the other a grizzled guard with a thick beard. They had Edric sandwiched between them. Both Hob and Edric remained gagged, with their hands tied behind their backs.