by Jim C. Hines
“The one who showed up right after my . . . problem,” Braf said, with a quick glance at Veka. “He smashed up a few other guards. He said he was looking for the Dragonslayer. The chief said to go right away.”
Jig covered one of the muck lanterns and scooped up the other by the handle. Green light reflected from the dark red obsidian of the walls as he followed Braf into the tunnels. The clomp of Veka’s staff followed close behind.
“What do you think the ogre wants?” Braf asked.
“I’m more worried about what the chief will do to me for taking so long to answer her.” Ever since Kralk took control of the goblins, she had been looking for a way to get rid of Jig. He frowned, thinking about the rest of Braf’s story. “Why didn’t the other guards come to me for healing?”
“What guards?”
“The ones the ogre injured.”
Braf laughed. “When I left, the older goblins were scrubbing what was left of them off the walls.”
Jig swallowed and began to run.
Two guards stood outside the entrance to the goblin cavern. Fire bowls provided a cheerful yellow-green light. Jig ignored the blue bloodstains on the wall and floor. He flattened his ears as he walked inside. He had been away most of the day, and even the subdued, nervous conversation of five hundred goblins was louder than he was used to.
Smudge shifted restlessly on Jig’s shoulder. The heat from the fire-spider’s body caused drops of sweat to trickle down Jig’s neck. Not that Jig needed the warning.
The ogre was easy to spot. He sat near the back of the cavern, surrounded by armed goblins. Steel blades and long wooden spears trembled as the goblins fought to control their fear. For his part, the ogre didn’t seem to notice.
Why should he? His leathery green skin was strong enough to turn away most attacks, and his hands were as big as Jig’s head. He sat on the floor . . . probably because if he stood, his head would scrape the ceiling. His teeth were smaller than goblin fangs, but still sharp enough to sever a limb. He could cut a swath through the cavern bare-handed. Shadowstar only knew what he could do with the huge, brass-studded club resting across his knees.
“Jig! It’s about time you got your scrawny arse down here,” shouted Kralk. The lanky goblin chief was smiling, which made Jig nervous. She wore a necklace of jagged malachite spikes and an ill-fitting dwarvish breastplate. Metal spikes adorned the shoulders and . . . chest area . . . of her armor. Kralk collected weapons, rarely carrying the same one two days in a row. Today a nasty-looking morningstar hung from her belt, clanking as she walked toward Jig.
Jig hadn’t been around when the last chief died. At the time, he had been around the fifth or sixth stanza of “The Song of Jig,” somewhere between fighting the Necromancer and cowering before the dragon. When Jig came back, many of the goblins had encouraged him to take over as chief, a prospect he found as appealing as dancing naked in front of tunnel cats.
Ultimately, three goblins had emerged as potential candidates, ready to fight for control of the lair. The morning of the fight, only one of those three showed up for breakfast. The other two were found curled up near the garbage pit with most of their blood on the outside of their bodies.
Kralk had been trying to get rid of Jig ever since. She never challenged him openly. No, it was always “Jig, could you slay that rock serpent that snuck into the distillery?” or “We need someone to lead a raiding party to steal food from the ogres,” or “Golaka is experimenting with a new soup, and she wants someone to taste it.”
Naturally, Jig always said no. Each refusal chipped away at his reputation, reinforcing Kralk’s power over the goblins and making his life miserable. Why couldn’t she see that he wasn’t a threat?
The ogre’s voice thundered through the cavern, making Jig jump. “This is the Dragonslayer?”
A path opened between Jig and the ogre. Goblins moved away like blood flowing from a wound. Jig reached up to stroke Smudge’s head. The fire-spider was warm, but not hot enough to burn. They weren’t in any immediate danger.
For an instant Jig considered lying. If he said Braf was Jig Dragonslayer, the ogre wouldn’t know any better. One look at the grin on Kralk’s face shattered that plan.
“I’m Jig,” he said. His voice sounded like a child’s squeak compared to the ogre’s.
“You’re the one who killed the dragon Straum?” The ogre picked up his club and made his way toward Jig, keeping his head and shoulders hunched.
Jig glanced at Kralk, then nodded.
“You put a spear through that monster’s eye?”
He nodded again.
“You? You’re the one they sing that song about, the one—”
“Yes, that’s me!” Jig snapped. His momentary anger ebbed as quickly as it had begun, leaving his legs so weak he thought he was going to collapse. Brilliant, he thought. Shout at the ogre. Why not kick him in the groin next?
The ogre knelt, peering down at Jig, then back at Kralk. “He’s like a little goblin doll!”
Jig’s claws dug into his palms. Better a toy than a threat. “Braf said you wanted to talk to me.”
“That’s right.” The ogre took another step, putting him almost within arm’s reach. Almost within Jig’s reach, at least. The ogre could have grabbed Jig by the head and bounced him off the nearest wall without stretching. His green scalp wrinkled into a frown. “We need . . .” His voice grew quiet, muffling the last word.
“What was that?” Jig asked.
The ogre’s face turned a deeper green, almost exactly the same shade as the mold that grew on the privy walls. “Help. We need help.”
Jig stared, trying to put the pieces together. He understood the words, but his mind struggled with the idea that ogres would come to goblins for help. What next? The Necromancer returning from the dead to start a flower garden?
“What kind of help?” Jig asked.
“A few months ago something showed up in Straum’s cave and started hunting us. At first we thought it was those hobgoblin types, or maybe you goblins, so we came up and slaughtered a few of you.” He gave a sheepish half shrug. “Sorry about that.”
Kralk stepped closer. “You killed far more hobgoblins than goblins. We considered it a favor.”
“Right. So you won’t mind doing us a favor in return.” The ogre stared at Jig. “Whatever they are, they’ve got magic on their side. Many of us have already died. Others have been enslaved. They’re hunting down those who remain, the families who fled into the deeper tunnels.”
Jig had met two wizards in his time. One had been a companion on his quest. The other was the dreaded Necromancer. Both had tried to kill him. To be fair, a number of nonwizards had also tried to kill him, but wizards tended to be much nastier about it.
“We’ve heard of you,” the ogre said. “You’ve got magic of your own, right?”
Jig knew where this was going, and his mouth was too dry to answer. He managed a weak nod.
Kralk’s smile grew. Smudge responded to that smile with enough heat to sear the leather shoulder pad. Tiny threads of smoke rose from beneath his feet. Interesting that the goblin chief frightened him more than the ogre. Jig had always known Smudge was smart.
“What do you say, Jig?” asked Kralk.
Jig took a step back. There had to be a way out of this. He whirled and pointed at Veka. “What about her? She can cast a binding spell, and she wants to be a Hero.”
The closest goblins started to laugh, either at Jig’s cowardice or at the idea of smelly, overweight Veka as a hero. As for Veka herself, she flashed a grin nearly as wicked as Kralk’s own. “Sorry, Jig. If you had taught me magic, I might be powerful enough to help. But I guess you’ll have to do this on your own.”
“But—”
“This is your path, Jig Dragonslayer, not mine.” Veka tapped her staff on the floor, rattling the beads and bones. “A Hero must make her own path. To quote the valiant Duke Hoffman, who transformed himself to rescue the mermaid Liriara, ‘I have chosen my way
, and it is the way of the squid.’ ”
The ogre stared. “What’s she talking about? What’s a squid?”
Say yes. Shadowstar’s voice was calm and firm.
Jig’s was not. “What?” He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the rest of the cavern so he could concentrate on Tymalous Shadowstar. You want me to say yes?
I can’t see everything that’s happening, but I can tell you this much. Something about your ogre friend feels wrong. There’s a residue of some sort, almost a magical shadow. Whatever’s happening down there, it’s dangerous. You have a choice, Jig Dragonslayer. You can go with the ogre and discover what’s happening, or you can wait for the problem to come to you.
Waiting sounds good. Shadowstar didn’t answer. Jig sighed. The god always meant business when he used Jig’s full name. What do you expect me to do? They’re ogres! If they can’t fight this thing, how am I—
You’ve fought dragons and wizards and adventurers, and you survived. Veka is peculiar, even for a goblin, but she’s also correct. A Hero is one who finds a way.
Kralk is trying to get me killed! She—
Or you can refuse. Tell the ogre no, and see how he reacts.
Right. Jig looked at the ogre. “I’ll go,” he muttered.
“Excellent!” The ogre slapped him on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Whoops. Sorry about that. I forget how fragile you bugs are. Nothing broken, I hope?” He grabbed Jig’s arm and hauled him upright.
Jig stepped back, testing his arm. Fortunately, the ogre hadn’t struck the shoulder where Smudge was perched. The fire-spider was crouched into a hot ball, staring at the ogre. Smudge extended his legs. With a burst of speed, Smudge raced down Jig’s chest and burrowed into a pouch on his belt, leaving a trail of smoking dots down Jig’s shirt.
“Take Braf along for protection,” said Kralk, sneering. “Whoever’s hunting the ogres might not have heard ‘The Song of Jig.’ They might mistake you for a stunted coward and rip you apart before you have the chance to tell them of your great deeds.”
Jig glanced at Braf, who was busy picking the scabs on his nose. He couldn’t decide if bringing Braf would improve his chances of survival or make them worse. Braf grimaced and stretched his jaw, using the tip of his fang to scratch inside his freshly healed nostril. Definitely worse.
“Someone else volunteered to accompany you,” Kralk added.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said a goblin from the back of the cave, in a voice so old it creaked.
Kralk grinned again. “Jig will certainly need a nursemaid to look after him.”
Goblins snickered as Grell made her way through the group to join Jig. If there was any goblin who would be of less use than Braf, it was Grell.
The canes she used to support her weight were smooth sticks, dyed dark yellow with hobgoblin blood. Grell was older than any goblin Jig knew, with the possible exception of Golaka the chef. But where Golaka had gotten bigger and meaner with age, Grell had shrunk until she was almost as small as Jig himself. Her face reminded Jig of wrinkled rotten fruit. Grell had worked in the nursery for as long as Jig could remember, and generations of teething goblin babies had covered her hands and forearms in scars. Dark stains covered her sleeveless shirt. Jig tried not to think about the origins of those stains.
“Are you sure?” Jig asked. “It will be dangerous. The ogres—”
“Ogres, ha!” Grell said. One whiff of her breath made the rotten fruit comparison much more apt. One of her yellowed fangs was broken near the gums, and the smell of decay made Jig want to gag. “Spend a week with twenty-three goblin babies and another nine toddlers, then we’ll talk about danger.”
“But—”
Grell jabbed the end of one cane into Jig’s chest. “Listen, boy. If I spend one more day with those monsters, either I’m going to kill them or, more likely, they’re going to kill me. I refuse to die buried in sniveling, crying brats. Kralk agreed to give me a break from nursery duty if I went with you and this green-skinned clod, so I’m going. Understand?”
“What about the nursery?” Jig asked desperately. “Who’s going to take over?”
“Riva’s still in there, but you’re right. Without help, they’ll probably overpower her pretty quickly.” Grell turned toward the kitchens. “Hey, Golaka. Send one of your drudges over to help watch the brats!” To Jig, she added, “That should work. They can always threaten to barbecue the older ones if they get out of line.”
Golaka peered out of the doorway. Sweat made her round face shine. She waved her stirring spoon in the air, spraying droplets of gravy over the nearest goblins. “My helpers are all busy mashing worms for dinner.”
“I only want one. And your worm pudding tastes like week-old vomit anyway,” Grell shouted back.
Jig cringed. He could see other goblins creeping out of the way, as far from Golaka as they could get. On the bright side, maybe he wouldn’t have to take Grell along after all.
Golaka shook her spoon at Grell. “Last one who complained about my cooking got his tongue ripped out. The taste didn’t bother him at all after that.”
“Pah,” said Grell. “Just send over whatever idiot overspiced the snake meat the other night. One day dealing with teething goblin babies, and they’ll work twice as hard once they’re back safe in your kitchen.”
Golaka’s spoon stopped in midshake. The rage on her face slowly melted away, and she began to chuckle. “I like that.” She spun and headed back to the kitchen. “Hey, Pallik. Stop licking the hammer and get over here. I’ve got a new job for you!”
Jig turned to the ogre, who had watched the entire exchange with an increasingly skeptical expression.
“Come on,” said Jig. Before anyone else volunteers to “help.”
The laughter of the other goblins followed them out of the lair, stopping abruptly when the ogre spun around and snarled. The silence drew a faint smile from Jig. His goblin companions might be worse than useless, but he could get used to having an ogre along.
Jig studied the two goblins. “What is that supposed to be?” he asked, staring at the object in Braf’s hand.
“A weapon, I think,” said Braf. “I traded a hobgoblin for it a few days ago.”
The so-called weapon was the length of Jig’s leg. A thick wooden shaft ended in a brass hook, wide enough to catch someone’s neck. The other end was barbed and pointed.
“Do you know how to use it?” Jig asked.
“I wanted to name it first. I was going to call it a hooker.”
Jig cringed.
“But that didn’t sound right,” Braf went on, rotating the weapon and testing the point on his other hand. “I thought about calling it a goblin-stick, because I’m a goblin. But I think I’m going to name it a hook-tooth, because it’s sharp like a tooth, only the other end is hooked, see?”
Standing behind Jig, the ogre snickered. He could probably snap Braf’s hook-tooth with one hand.
“I wish I could remember where I put my shield though,” Braf continued. “I had it at dinner last night because I used it as a plate, and I remember Mellok kept stealing my fried bat wings.”
Grell’s wrinkled face tightened with disgust. Shifting her balance, she raised her cane and slammed it into Braf’s back, making a loud thunk.
Braf hardly budged, but his face lit up. He craned his neck and patted the edge of the shield, still strapped to his back. “Thanks, Grell!”
Jig turned to the ogre. “What’s your name?”
“Walland Wallandson the Fourth.”
“The fourth what?” asked Braf.
“The fourth Walland Wallandson.”
Braf stared. “Couldn’t the other ogres come up with enough names?” He seemed oblivious to the glare Grell shot him, so she slapped the back of his head.
“It’s my father’s name,” said Walland. He flexed his fingers, and his knuckles popped with the sound of cracking bones. “He was Walland Wallandson the Third. His father was the Second, and my great-grandfather
was Walland Wallandson the First. Your name is your legacy. Your family is everything. Anyone who mocks the Wallandson name had best prepare for a long, painful death.” That last was said with a glare at Braf.
“Seems awfully inefficient,” said Grell. “All those ogres taking care of their own offspring. How do you find time for anything else?”
Walland shrugged. “They don’t stay young forever.” He turned to Jig. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are we going?”
Jig had forgotten he was supposed to be in charge of the other goblins. “Right. Sorry.” He raised his lantern, then hesitated. Going first meant leaving two goblins and an ogre at his back. Walland probably wouldn’t do anything, not if he really wanted Jig’s help. But the other two, well, they were goblins. Worse, Kralk must have talked to both of them before Jig even arrived.
“What’s wrong?” Braf asked.
It wasn’t that Jig didn’t trust them. He trusted them to behave like goblins. “I’m wondering which one of you has orders to kill me.”
He hoped his bluntness would startle the guilty one into confessing. Instead, Braf and Grell glanced at one another, then at the floor. Neither one would meet Jig’s eyes.
Jig was in trouble. “Braf?”
Braf scratched his nose. “Kralk said she’d chop me up and toss me in Golaka’s stewpot if you came back alive. She thinks you want to kill her and take her place.”
“Why, so the entire lair can plot my death instead of just you two?” Jig asked, his voice pitched higher than normal. Borderline hysteria had that effect on him. “What about you?” he asked, turning to Grell. “What did she promise you?”
“She said if I killed you, she’d make sure I never have to work in that miserable, foul-smelling nursery again.”
“You can’t do that,” Braf protested, raising his hook-tooth. “Kralk told me to kill him.”
Jig’s hand brushed the handle of his sword. From this angle, he could probably stab Grell in the back, but Braf was out of reach. Besides, Tymalous Shadowstar frowned on stabbing people in the back. Jig had never understood that, but he knew better than to argue the point.
