by Dorian Hart
No ordinary person would have recovered from being hurled into a solid stone wall, but Vawlk rolled over onto his stomach, tried to get to his hands and knees, failed, tried again. Kibi seemed to realize that a window of opportunity was closing. He jogged over to where Vawlk struggled to rise and grabbed the goblin by the ankle with both hands. The crowd made a sound that might have drowned out even the noise of a giant turtle knocking over a city. Ernie couldn’t tell now whom they cheered for.
Kibi spun again and flung Vawlk like a sack of flour, the goblin landing some distance away and rolling several times before coming to a stop. This time Vawlk regained his feet more quickly, but now he looked the woozier of the two. Kibi hurried over to press his advantage. Vawlk threw a wild punch that Kibi blocked with his left arm, and Kibi’s return punch landed squarely on Vawlk’s cheek. The goblin shook his head and threw another errant punch. Kibi did some fancy wrestling move, grabbing the goblin’s arm and using it to lever and flip Vawlk onto his back.
“Kibi, wooooooo!” Tor screamed at the top of his lungs. Ernie had been keeping silent, not wishing to earn the enmity of the goblins around them, lest he find himself involved in a brawl. He glanced around nervously, but none of the goblins paid the humans any mind. In fact, one of the goblins to their left shouted, “Finish him, Kibilhathur!” quite distinctly.
Vawlk tried to roll away, but Kibi reached down and once more grabbed the goblin by the ankle. Kibi went into his twirl, Vawlk flailing his arms helplessly as he was spun around the stonecutter. This time Kibi allowed each revolution to take him closer to the nearest wall of the arena. When he finally let go, the angle sent the goblin over the seven-foot-high wall and into a mass of spectators.
The horn that had signaled the start of the fight sounded again. A chant rang clearly around the arena in a disjointed rhythm.
“Kibil-hathur! Kibil-hathur!”
The goblins were cheering for Kibi!
“Rare thing!” Irligg shouted to Ernie. “Yarakt end if one fighter leaves arena! No one ever thrown over wall before!”
Not all the goblins in the crowd were pleased with the outcome; some wagged their jaws and were silent. But most bellowed their appreciation for Kibi’s unorthodox but highly entertaining victory, and none of them sprayed water toward him.
Ernie released a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
* * *
The house of the goblin healer, Persk, was appallingly unhygienic. Bloodstains were everywhere—the walls, the floor, the table legs—which lent the place a kind of slaughterhouse atmosphere. The smell was a nauseating mix of goblin sweat, torch smoke, organic rot, and unguessable herbs.
Persk herself was a lumbering goblin woman who hummed constantly and tunelessly, a low growling noise that rose and fell as she moved about the place, mixing liquids in bottles and crushing up leaves. Dranko, Tor, and Kibi were her only patients; Ernie and the rest of the company stood nearby.
Kibi sat in a chair holding a slab of raw meat against his face. That was the entirety of Persk’s course of treatment for him. “Not dying,” she had said. “What more you need? Baby’s milk?”
She moved over to Tor and lifted his shirt. “You be fine, too.” She grabbed a bottle of something green and oily from a shelf and smeared it over the stitched claw marks on Tor’s chest. The muscles on Tor’s neck bulged a bit, and his eyes opened wide.
“Yes, stings, strong warriors always make faces, forget to say thank you.”
“Thank you,” gasped Tor.
Dranko lay on a dirty cot with a blanket covering his lower half. Something moved disquietingly beneath the blanket, as if it covered a pot of simmering water instead of Dranko’s leg.
“Don’t look,” said Dranko, noticing Ernie’s glance. “Better not to think about it at all, unless you want to puke.”
“Why?” asked Tor. “What’s under there?”
“Ull,” said Dranko. “That’s what she calls them. Insects, but they serve the same purpose as leeches. They’re eating the infection out of my wounds.”
Dranko had been right. Ernie felt himself pale, and it took a heroic effort of will not to throw up. He looked deliberately away from Dranko, who chuckled.
“Persk jabbed me with a thorn before she let them loose,” Dranko continued. “Numbed the leg so I can’t feel anything. All for the best.”
Dranko was remarkably cheerful for someone being gnawed on by bugs, and it was good to see him not on the brink of death.
“When can you travel?” asked Grey Wolf.
Ernie looked up sharply. Those were the first words Grey Wolf had spoken since the Yarakt. He had done nothing but stare vacantly ahead on their walk from the arena to Persk’s house, even as throngs of goblins surged around them, congratulating Kibi and trying to slap him on the back. Not all of them approved; one had jumped in front of their procession and sprayed water all over them. But four others had immediately gang-tackled him, and Horn’s Company had been obliged to divert their path around the subsequent scrum.
“Tomorrow, I hope,” said Dranko.
Persk nodded. “Yes. Tomorrow. Ull finished soon. Leg will be weak many days, but you will still have it. Pain no worse than before and get better.”
Grey Wolf turned to stare at Ernie. “How do we know they’ll just let us go? For all we know they’re going to make Kibi fight in arena matches every day. Or maybe, now that we’ve entertained these—” He glanced at Persk. “Entertained the goblins, they’re going to kill us after all.”
“Why we kill you?” asked Persk. “You save Worsk and his boy. You win Yarakt against Vawlk. Humans, yes, but not like humans we hear about. If Irligg says you go, you go. Might want to avoid Vawlk. Probably very angry.” She laughed, her tusks shaking. “You throw Vawlk into crowd! Best Yarakt in years!”
The door opened without a knock, and the shaman Irligg entered, flanked by two of his guards. Each of those carried a large ceramic pot.
“Kibilhathur!” bellowed the shaman. “Mighty warrior! Champion of Yarakt! Humans may be weak, soft, but not you!”
Ernie hoped the rest were as inclined to ignore the insult as he was. He bowed, after which his friends did also, all except for Grey Wolf.
“Sit,” said Irligg. “Decide what to do with you. Sit.”
Grey Wolf looked pointedly at Ernie as they sat.
“Irligg,” Ernie said, “we were hoping you would let us go. We’re on a very important quest, and if we fail, even the goblins will be in danger.”
“Sit. Malgub will guide. Bones will tell.”
They sat, arranging themselves between Dranko’s cot and Kibi’s chair. Irligg sat opposite and unwound a piece of cloth from his shoulder, which he laid flat on the stone floor between them. One of the guards handed him his pot.
“Be still. Do not touch.”
Irligg upended the pot, out of which tumbled about fifteen bones of varying shapes and sizes. One looked a lot like a human finger bone. The shaman pulled a feather from his headdress and waved it in slow circles over the bones, his eyes closed. He murmured strange words that Ernie’s ear-cuff did not translate.
This went on for several minutes. The guards had not sat; they looked down impassively, hands on the handles of their axes. Persk sat on a stool off to the side, watching raptly. A quiet rustling noise came from beneath Dranko’s blanket, a noise that Ernie tried very hard not to think about.
One of the bones on the cloth shifted, sliding on the fabric as though moved by invisible fingers. A few seconds later a second—the finger bone—rolled a few inches and then spun slowly around its middle. A year ago, Ernie would have been convinced the movement of the bones was a parlor trick, something achieved with strings or maybe an accomplice hidden beneath a false floor. But his months with Horn’s Company had shown him indisputable and abundant magic in the world. Perhaps Irligg served as a conduit for his goblin deity Malgub, or maybe he manipulated magic stuff in the air like Aravia. Either way, Ernie didn’t doubt the authenti
city of what he witnessed.
Six or seven of the bones reoriented themselves before Irligg opened his eyes again. He carefully replaced the feather and stared down at the tableau his magic had created.
“Can you—” said Tor, but Irligg held up a hand to quiet him. The shaman passed his hands over the bones as though feeling the air currents that eddied above them. His face scrunched up into something that looked like a frown.
“Bones troubling,” he said. “Mostly vague, always like that, but these…” Again he waved his fingers above the bones, then leaned down and sniffed them. “Cannot be right, but Malgub not make mistakes. Very strange.”
“What’s strange?” Ernie couldn’t stop himself from asking.
Irligg sat up straighter and made a strange sound in the back of his throat. “Bones have many things to say, but not all can be true.”
He pointed to Morningstar. “You will remember.”
“Remember what?” she asked.
“Don’t know. That all bones say for you.” He turned to Aravia. “You will unlock.”
“And I imagine you can be no more specific with me?”
“Good imagination. No, nothing more.”
To Grey Wolf the shaman said, “You will be the center.”
“This is stupid,” said Grey Wolf. “Why tell us these things if you can’t give them any meaning?”
Irligg ignored him and continued, this time looking at Certain Step. “You will illuminate.”
Step smiled and went pale, as though he guessed what that meant, but only nodded his head in response.
“Tall man, you will protect.”
“Of course I will,” said Tor, as if that was beyond obvious. He looked over at Aravia.
“Champion of Yarakt.” Irligg looked at Kibi. “You will return.”
“I ain’t even gonna ask,” Kibi muttered.
“Soft-skin, Dranko, you must not become.”
“Wait,” said Dranko from his cot. “Everyone else gets to hear something they will be, or will do. How come I get a warning instead? And not become what?”
Irligg shrugged. “Who knows? Bones only say you must not become. Suggest you heed them.”
Dranko snorted. Irligg closed his eyes and spent a silent half-minute leaning over the bones, rocking gently forward and backward. Was he finished?
“And what about me?” asked Ernie. “Do your bones say what I will do?”
Irligg opened his eyes again and stared intently at Ernie. “Yes, Ernest. For you, bones say you complete the circle, and then you return to us, to slay or be slain.”
“Do you mean in the Yarakt?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s all great,” said Dranko, “but since the bones seem short on any kind of meaningful details, how do you know they can’t all be true?”
“Bones say two more things,” said Irligg.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Bones say you all will have great victory, save the world.”
“I knew it!” said Tor.
Irligg shook his jaw and buzzed softly. “Bones also say you will fail. World will end.”
“Those do seem to be contradictory,” said Aravia.
“Maybe Malgub isn’t used to auguring for humans,” said Dranko. “He’s still figuring out how we work. And anyway, how can you tell all that from so few bones?”
Irligg gestured grandly to the mat. “Fifteen bones mean over hundred pairs of bones. Over four hundred triples of bones. Thousand sets of four, easy. More orderings of position than I could count in lifetime. Malgub might tell me all knowledge of world in fifteen bones, but I am only goblin. Cannot see all knowledge. Better that way.”
The shaman looked directly at Ernie and his jaw quivered. “Ernest Roundhill, last thing for you.” He motioned to one of his guards, who produced a sword in its sheath. It was Pyknite!
“You carried evil sword. Terrible enchantment, old, deadly. Sad that you brought it here.”
Ernie bowed his head. “I’m…I’m sorry, Irligg. You see…”
How to explain? Should he try? Dranko would make up some crazy tale about it.
“You see, where I come from, goblins attack human settlements. They raid and steal and kill us. My own village was attacked before I was born. So an enchanter made a sword to protect us from the goblins, though I didn’t even know that much when I was given it. I would never have used it here except for self-defense.”
“Protect.” Irligg rumbled the word, sounding dubious. He picked up the sheath and turned it in his gnarled, green hands. “Maybe. Some humans bad, some good. Bad ones drive us into mountains.” He pointed the sheath at Ernie. “Good ones rescue fish catcher, risk own lives to fight lizard. So, maybe goblins too. Bad ones kill you without cause, good ones let you fight Yarakt and cure soft-skin. World too big to describe in small ways.”
He tossed Pyknite down onto the ground between them, and his face brightened. “No matter. I fixed it.”
“Er…you what?”
“Fixed sword. Also am enchanter. Removed evil from it. Now has Malgub’s blessing upon it. Still turns courage into smiting, but not goblins. Now for smiting lizards. Was fitting.”
Ernie looked Irligg in the eye. “Thank you. It’s an honor.”
“Yes! Big honor! Now, before you go, all will receive traditional blessing of Malgub.”
The second guard set down his pot; Irligg pried off the lid.
“Right hand goes in pot,” said the Shaman.
“What’s in it?” asked Tor.
“Some secrets not for humans. Right hand, not left.”
“Let me go first,” said Tor. “Just in case.”
He leaned forward and put his right hand into the urn. When he pulled it out, it dripped with red liquid, thick and oozy like blood. One by one Horn’s Company followed suit, even Grey Wolf, until all of their right hands were red, droplets spattering Irligg’s mat.
“Hold hands out. Wait.”
Ernie could feel the skin tightening and prickling on his hand beneath the red film of whatever it was. Inside of a minute it faded, the dark red turning to light red, then pink, then vanishing altogether.
Except for one spot on the back of his hand. On an area no bigger than a silver coin, a dark-red fist remained. Ernie looked at the hands of his friends, but none of them were left with any sort of mark. The prickly feeling had subsided and it didn’t itch, but it disturbed him mightily, as if the goblin deity Malgub retained some hold upon him.
Irligg gripped Ernie’s wrist and held up the hand. “Bones not lie about you, Ernest Roundhill. Slay or be slain. Malgub gives you mark of Slayer.”
“What am I going to slay?”
“Still don’t know,” said Irligg. “But Malgub will summon you. Return quickly.”
Ernie was accumulating obligations to foreign gods at a distressing rate. With luck, they wouldn’t call in their favors until after Naradawk had been thwarted.
Irligg carefully dropped the bones back into their vessel. “Persk, how is soft-skin?”
Persk walked to Dranko’s cot and looked under the blanket. “Several more hours with ull, should be fine. Keep leg.”
“Good. When ready, we return your packs and weapons, take you to tunnels going east. Edge of mountains not far, less than two days. Hope you good climbers. All passages come out of mountains high up.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Tor. “We have a—”
“We’ll figure something out,” Dranko interrupted. “We’ll be in your debt if you can get us to the far side of the mountains.”
“You save our fish-catcher,” said Irligg solemnly. “Save his son. We grant safe passage. Fair trade, yes?”
“Fair trade,” said Ernie.
Irligg rolled up his mat, stood, and exited Persk’s home, his guards on his heels. Persk scowled down at them; at least, it looked like a scowl. “Suppose you wait here until soft-skin is healed.” She pointed to her shelves of pots and vials. “Don’t touch. Just sit.” Sh
e stomped to the far side of the room and began to mix powders on a high wooden bench.
“It looks like things have worked out just fine,” said Tor. “Dranko’s healed, we didn’t get killed by goblins, and soon we’ll be out of the mountains. See, Grey Wolf? Goblins aren’t so bad.”
Grey Wolf said nothing, didn’t even look at Tor.
Ernie was desperate to change the subject. “Kibi, that fight was amazing! I admit I thought that goblin warrior was going to kill you. I’ve never been more glad to be wrong!”
“Thought the same thing,” said Kibi, setting down his slab of meat. “Remembered some wrastlin’ moves there at the end, but the goblin should a’ won by rights. Just got lucky stoppin’ that punch.”
“And then you threw him across the arena!” said Ernie. “The vaunted goblin champion, and you tossed him like a doll. Like a sack of potatoes. Like a—”
The door to the healer’s house banged open. A huge goblin stepped in, ducking beneath the doorframe.
Vawlk looked over the company sitting on the floor. He pointed at Kibi. “You!”
Pyknite lay in its sheath on the floor in front of him, the only weapon they had among the eight of them. Should I—
“Little strong man!” Vawlk bellowed.
Kibi hastened to his feet and moved to put himself between Vawlk and the rest of them. “Vawlk, you come back for another beatin’? Figured you’d wait at least a day.”
Ernie blinked. Had Kibi just said that? Was he trying to incite this fighting machine to anger?
Vawlk lunged forward and wrapped his huge arms around Kibi before anyone had a chance to react. Kibi’s arms were pinned to his side, his body lifted off the ground; he had no leverage, no way to save himself. Ernie reached for Pyknite, and his hands were closing around its grip, when Vawlk opened his mouth wide and laughed.
“Little strong man!” he repeated. “Heard you leaving soon. Came with gift.”
