Would any of the fishing goblins see the human hauling Malagach around the pond? If they did, would they do anything to help? Probably not. Most likely, his people would hide. That was the goblin way of staying alive on a mountain full of bigger, stronger predators.
“Now where?” the cook asked.
“That way.”
Malagach hoped his brother would do something soon. The human would not wander around the lake for long before growing suspicious.
That’s when the explosion came.
A tremendous boom reverberated through the mountains. Dust and rock shot up and out from the limestone spur. Stone sheered away and crashed into the water. Dozens of startled voices cried out, and goblins scampered into the forest.
The cook stared. Even Malagach felt awed. How had his brother done that?
Apparently concerned about his belongings inside the grotto, the cook dragged Malagach back to the tunnel. A landslide of boulders blocked the entrance.
An inkling of fear curled through Malagach’s belly. What if his brother were trapped inside? Or crushed? Or had been swimming out when all that rock sloughed down the cliff?
Dust still clogged the air, invading nose and throat. The human started coughing. Malagach tried to use the distraction to slip away, but the cook’s grip tightened.
“You’re not going anywhere, gobber.”
“Why not?” Malagach asked. “Your fish are gone. You’ve got nothing to poison people with.”
The cook jabbed a finger in Malagach’s face. “This is your fault, I know it. Somehow…”
“How could a goblin possibly be responsible for that?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve got a soup recipe that calls for gobber, and I’ll skin you and—”
“Yo, troll-kissing human!”
Gortok’s voice was unnaturally loud, and Malagach frowned when he spotted his brother.
Swaying on his feet, Gortok did not look good. His pupils were too large, and soot stained his skin. Water dripped from his hair, which appeared even wilder than ever. Despite his uncertain state, Gortok held aloft a familiar book—the tome the cook had been reading from.
“You want this?” Gortok shouted. “Let my brother go.”
“What did you do?” the human growled. “You blew up everything, all my work, all—”
“Yup, that’s right, now drop my brother.”
“No, I’m going to—”
Malagach twisted and bit the cook’s pudgy hand. Gortok hurled the book into the bushes to further distract the man. Eyes bulging, he clambered after it.
“Wait, you can’t—” Malagach started, but his brother grabbed him and hauled him into the ferns. “You can’t give him that evil book back,” Malagach cried even as he let himself be yanked along behind. “He’ll just make more fish and—”
“Don’t worry,” Gortok said. “Run faster.”
“What did you to do my pages?” The cook’s roar echoed through the trees.
“Ah.” Malagach followed after his brother as fast as he could with his arms still tied behind his back. He worked to free his hands, even as he dodged through the trees. “What did you do to his pages?”
“They got a little singed, that’s all.”
“As in totally illegible?”
“Maybe.” Gortok tossed a wink over his shoulder before hopping a toadstool-covered stump.
When the cook’s bellowing faded out of hearing, they slowed to a trot and angled toward the beach where they had left their clothes. Malagach finally got his hands free and flexed his fingers in appreciation.
“How did you make the mountain shake and the tunnel collapse?” he asked.
“Some of the cook’s poison-fish-making ingredients have explosive uses.” Gortok winked again, enjoying himself far too much. “Brimstone, salt peter, and charcoal make black powder.”
“Remind me to make sure those ingredients never get stored in our tree hut,” Malagach muttered.
Once they reached the beach, he shimmied into his buckskins. He peered about, hoping some of their kin remained, but every single goblin had abandoned the fishing hole.
“We saved a hundred lives, and no one is ever going to know.” Malagach punted a pebble into the pond. “I guess the deed should be reward enough. That’s what Ma says. Of course, she’s usually talking about chores when she says that, so I’m a little suspicious of her motives. At least we—Gortok, what are you doing?”
Still nude, Gortok had waded into the shallows. He unhooked his fish trap and held it aloft. The crimson scales of dozens of five-finned finger fish glinted in the late afternoon sunlight.
“We may not be heroes,” Gortok said, “but look at all our fish!”
Malagach grimaced. “Unnaturally-made mutant fish designed by vengeful feuding humans as a way to kill people.”
“Yup, and they’re right fine tasting too.”
“There’s something wrong with you, Gor.”
“Maybe so.” Gortok tossed a fish in his mouth. “But it’s not an empty belly.”
The Goblin Brothers and the River Lobster’s Riddle
Malagach paddled the kayak along the sheer cliff. He paused by a woven-grass rope dangling from the rock and reached for the hundredth river lobster trap he had checked. Actually it was the tenth, but it seemed like the hundredth. He sighed. Someday he would be a great hero with a life full of exciting adventures, not boring chores.
A green figure popped up beside the kayak. Malagach nearly pitched overboard in surprise. The craft jerked, and water spilled in, drenching his buckskin trousers.
“Gortok!” he barked at his brother.
“What?” Gortok asked, voice muffled by the mop of white hair smothering his face. His green fingers parted the dripping locks to reveal yellow eyes, a snub nose, and a toothy grin. “I came to help.”
“You scared me. Weren’t you just on the bank? How’d you get over here so quickly?”
Gortok rolled over, exposing bare goblin buns to the sun, and thrust his legs into the air. The leathery fins on his feet reminded Malagach of bat wings.
“What crazy contraption have you invented now?” Malagach asked when his brother’s head broke water again.
“Flippers! Like humans use for sea diving.” Gortok flapped his feet and zipped around the kayak. “You can swim extra fast.”
“I see.” Malagach eyed the long stretch of cliff. “And can you check lobster traps extra fast, too?”
“Of course!” Gortok pulled up the nearby trap.
Silver glinted inside the wood-and-twine ball. Surprised, Malagach peered through the slats. River lobsters were dull brown, not silver.
“Is that…?” He took the trap from his brother. “A silver lobster! I thought they were only legend.”
“Lemme see.” Gortok grabbed the kayak and hauled himself onto the back.
The craft rocked and, again, Malagach nearly lost his balance and capsized.
“You’re determined to douse me, aren’t you?” He glowered.
“It would make my morning sparkle.” Somehow, Gortok had snagged the trap. He stuck his finger inside and traded jabs with the lobster’s snapping pinchers. “How do you reckon this feller tastes?”
Malagach snatched the trap back. “Have some respect. Legend says a silver lobster is a gift from the gods. When Olgakrt the Fisher found one, it granted him a wish. He asked for a better boat, and the gods gave him the best skiff in the mountains.” Malagach gazed through the slats. The lobster gleamed beneath the sun rays. “Though if I had a wish with no boundaries, I’d request something much more worthwhile.”
“You? I’m the one who pulled up the trap.”
“Because I told you to,” Malagach said. “Besides you’d just wish for a wrench or ratchet or some silly tool.”
“Would not.”
Malagach arched an eyebrow.
“A toolbox maybe,” Gortok said. “Anyhow, that legend is probably made up. It’d take some powerful godsified magic to poof wishes int
o your kayak.”
Malagach removed the lobster from the trap, picking it up from behind to avoid the pinchers. The ridged carapace felt smooth and cool, like an empty bean can left at a human campsite. Something was engraved on the belly.
“Hunh. Writing.”
“What’s it say?” Gortok asked.
“I flutter lightly from branch to branch,
Pollinate by day, sleep by night,
I start as an egg, then larva, then pupa,
Then grow into an adult, colorful in flight.
What am I?”
“Oh, I know,” Gortok said. “It’s a—”
Malagach slapped a hand over his brother’s mouth, almost dropping the lobster in his haste. “Don’t say it. I know, too, but what if whoever says it gets the wish? We should make sure to ask for something we both want.”
Gortok glared and pointed a finger at Malagach’s nose. “No books.”
Malagach glared back. “Fine, no tools.”
“Fine.”
They glared at each other a while longer until Gortok said, “Then what?”
“Gold?” Malagach asked. “A whole pile. Then we could buy tools and books and pay someone to do our chores.”
Gortok snickered. “I’m right fond of that last part, but us with a pile of gold? Some dragon would hear about it, turn us into Rack o’ Goblin Ribs, and steal our coins.”
“Hm, that does seem likely. Maybe we could…” Malagach snapped his fingers. “We could wish to be heroes. Great heroes respected by the whole village, even the bullies.”
Gortok’s pointed ears perked. “That does sound swell.”
“Then it’s settled.” Malagach lifted the silver lobster above his head and prepared to answer the riddle loudly enough that the gods would hear.
Before he could speak, Gortok tugged on his arm.
“What?” Malagach asked.
“I was thinking… That riddle answer we’re knowing but not saying, it’s majestic and great, but it doesn’t start out that way, does it? It’s just a larva squishing along a branch, eating and working to grow bigger, and then it has to hole up in its cocoon and work some more, and then after all that, that’s when it comes out great.”
Malagach lowered the lobster. “True.”
“You and me,” Gortok said, “we’re like the larva.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“If we just became great without any work, it wouldn’t mean much.”
“I understand.”
“But if we worked really hard, then one day, we’d become great because we’d earned it.”
Malagach cleared his throat. “Yes, I see, Gor. You don’t have to draw me a schematic.”
Gortok shrugged amiably.
Malagach considered the lobster. It had stopped squirming and snapping and seemed to be waiting. “Thank you for the opportunity, my friend, but we’ll do it ourselves.” He slid the lobster into the water.
Gortok squawked. “Mal!”
“What? I thought—”
“Just ‘cause I don’t want a shortcut to being a great hero doesn’t mean I don’t need a new screwdriver set!”
Gortok hurtled himself overboard, flippers splashing as he zipped about, trying to find the lobster again.
“I guess you’ll have to work for those screwdrivers,” Malagach murmured, “just as caterpillars have to work to become butterflies.”
A flapping fin sprayed water into his eyes.
From the Author
Malagach, Gortok, and their biographer (Lindsay) thank you for purchasing this e-book and taking a chance on a new author. If you enjoyed the stories, please post a review at the store where you purchased the e-book. This is a tremendous help to an author!
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Goblin Brothers Adventures Vol Page 10
