by Jim C. Hines
Walland snorted and stepped past Jig, giving Braf a light shove that sent him bouncing off the wall. Braf landed on his backside, nearly impaling himself on his own weapon. “Trustworthy lot, you goblins,” said Walland.
Jig didn’t answer. Despite common belief, the goblin language did include a word for trust. It was derived from the word for trustworthy, which in the goblin tongue, was the same as the word for dead.
Jig stared at the ogre’s leathery face, hoping he wasn’t about to make a mistake. “Walland came to us for help,” he said. “He asked for me. For Jig Dragonslayer.” He narrowed his eyes and tried to look menacing as he turned to the other goblins. “I imagine he’d be very unhappy if something happened to me before we could help him.”
Braf stood up, rubbing his behind. “I’m not afraid of some ogre,” he said, lowering Jig’s estimate of his intelligence even further. But he tucked his hook-tooth through the shield on his back and made no move to attack.
“Grell?” Jig asked.
Grell shrugged. “The way I figure it, there’s a good chance you’ll get yourself killed down there and save me the trouble.”
“Fine.” Knowing she was probably right gave Jig a sick feeling in his gut, as though he had eaten something that wasn’t quite dead yet. His only consolation, as he raised the lantern and set off down the tunnel, was that whatever killed him would no doubt kill the other goblins as well.
CHAPTER 2
“The path to glory begins with a single step. Of course, so does the path to the headsman’s block.”
—Jasper the Godhunter From The Path of the Hero (Wizard’s ed.)
Veka’s books bounced against her sides as she hurried out of the goblin lair. She pulled her cloak tighter to minimize the jostling. She should have sewn more padding into the pockets.
She mumbled to herself, practicing the grand speech she had worked up to explain her departure to the guards. She would start by saying she had heard the call of destiny and had decided to set out on her own to fight the invasion of their mountain home. The path promised great danger and mighty trials which only the greatest of Heroes might survive.
She stopped when she reached the guards, who were in the middle of a game of Roaches. Both guards stomped their feet, each trying to scare the three roaches toward the other side of the tunnel. The goal was to get them to flee past your opponent without touching either the roaches or the other goblin. The game usually ended with crushed bugs and broken toes.
Veka tapped her staff on the ground. Nothing happened. “Aren’t you going to challenge me?”
They kept stomping. “Move, you stupid bug!” shouted one.
Veka cleared her throat. “I said—”
“I heard,” said the guard. “Who do you think I was talking to?”
His partner laughed, and the first guard took the opportunity to jump in front of the closest roach, sending it racing back.
Veka hunched her shoulders and hurried past. She tried to comfort herself with the fact that many Heroes endured the mockery of their peers. Look at how the warriors used to treat Jig Dragonslayer, back before he had the luck to get himself captured by adventurers and dragged along to fight wizards and dragons and such.
Well, it was her turn now. She imagined returning with the power to cast a spell that would transpose the guards and the roaches, letting the goblins scurry about until they were crushed beneath giant roach feet. She had set out on the Hero’s Path, and when she returned, she would have the power to punish all the goblins who had laughed and jeered over the years.
The first chapter of The Path of the Hero talked about The Refusal, when the Hero first sees the Path and turns away. Veka wasn’t sure why the Hero did this, especially since they all ended up on the Path anyway, but Josca was adamant. All true Heroes began by turning their backs on the Path, just as Jig had done when he tried to get Veka to go with the ogre instead of him.
Fortunately, Jig had given her the perfect opportunity to announce her own refusal, and she got to make Jig look like a fool at the same time. Served him right for hoarding all that magic for himself. Veka had worked so hard to set Braf up, all so she could watch Jig perform his healing magic. Yet for all of her planning and spying, she had seen nothing new. Jig never used a spellbook. He never cast a binding charm. He didn’t use a wand or a staff or any of the traditional wizarding tools. He grabbed the wounded goblins, and magic simply happened. “How am I supposed to learn anything from that?” Veka muttered.
The last trace of light disappeared behind her as the tunnel curved to the left. Veka moved to one side, brushing her fingers along the grime-covered wall as she walked. She had brought a small muck lantern from the distillery, but any light would make her far too visible.
The smell of the air changed as she walked, taking on the musty scent of animal droppings and hobgoblin cooking, both of which smelled equally foul to Veka’s nose. She had come this way only twice in her life, both times sneaking through with other goblins to raid Straum’s lair below. That was where she had found her spellbook, along with her copy of The Path of the Hero.
The harsh sound of hobgoblin laughter interrupted her thoughts. She hurried through the tunnel until she caught a glimpse of Jig arguing with the hobgoblin guards. Jig had left his companions behind, facing the guards alone, as a true Hero should. The twisting of the tunnel meant she couldn’t see the hobgoblins, but she heard at least two different voices aside from Jig’s own.
The other goblins and the ogre all waited before the bend as Jig said, “We need to get to the lower tunnels.”
“Is that so? What did you bring for the nice tunnel guards?” said one of the hobgoblins.
“Fresh-cooked meat?” asked the other. “Maybe some of that spicy lizard tail your chef makes with fire-spider eggs.”
“If you haven’t got that, we could always settle for a few strips of your flesh.” Both hobgoblins laughed.
Veka leaned forward, straining to hear how Jig would respond. Would he draw his sword and slay both guards, or would he use magic? She hoped for the latter.
Jig did neither. “We haven’t got any food to spare, so you’re going to have to settle for strips of flesh.” Veka crept closer, hoping the other goblins wouldn’t look back. Jig waved his hand at the ogre, who lumbered into the light. “Why don’t you start with his?”
A disappointed sigh hissed through Veka’s teeth. That was so typical of Jig, always finding ways to sneak out of anything heroic. It made her wonder again about “The Song of Jig.” Had Jig really slain the Necromancer and the dragon? More likely he had skulked in the shadows while the adventurers did the real fighting, then stabbed them all from behind when they weren’t expecting it. Though that was still pretty heroic for a goblin.
By now the hobgoblins were stammering and cutting each other off in their eagerness to let Jig pass. Veka waited for them to leave, moving only when she could no longer hear the tapping of Grell’s cane.
Now it was her turn to face the hobgoblins. She had no ogre to protect her if the hobgoblins decided to punish her for their humiliation, which they almost certainly would. Veka had endured enough humiliation in her life to know what it was like.
So be it. This would be the First Obstacle. Just as the dwarven Hero Yilenti Beardburner had to overpower the nine-armed guardian of the black river, so would she, Veka the goblin, face these two hobgoblin guards.
Yilenti’s First Obstacle sounded much more impressive.
She braced herself for the encounter. Aside from her books and staff, she had brought very little. Her muck lantern, currently hanging from her rope belt. Her wizard’s staff. A skewer from last night’s dinner, which she had swiped to use as a weapon. Bits of blackened rat meat still stuck to its length. At first she had tried to carry it up her sleeve, but after twice stabbing herself in the armpit, she settled for tucking it through her belt and hoping it didn’t fall out.
Veka straightened, throwing her shoulders back and attempting to walk with the
proper confidence and poise of a Hero. The hobgoblins watched from the junction of the tunnel. Both stood at least a head taller than Veka herself. One leaned his weight on a thick spear. A curved sword hung from the belt of the other, who was sipping what smelled like beer from a bloated skin.
A statue of a hobgoblin warrior stood beside the guards. Made of black glass, the statue marked the border of hobgoblin territory. A similar statue used to stand by the goblin lair, until one of the guards tried to climb it a few months back. Jig hadn’t been able to save that one.
The statue towered over the guards, the spikes on its helmet nearly touching the ceiling. One ear had broken off, and the double-headed ax in its hands was heavily chipped. A burning lantern hung from the left fang, gleaming off the statue’s angry scowl.
Structurally, hobgoblins resembled larger, uglier goblins. Their skin was yellower and their muscles stronger, but they had the same sharp fangs protruding from their lower jaws, and large, goblinesque ears topped the broad heads.
Between the guards and the statue, Veka felt like a child. For Veka, used to being the largest one in any group, it was an unpleasant feeling.
The one with the spear scratched a long scar cutting down the side of his face. He wore a hardened leather breastplate, and his pants were white tunnel cat fur. A small animal skull served as a belt buckle. His black hair was greased back in the style of a hobgoblin warrior. After a cautious glance down the tunnel, probably to make sure Jig and the ogre were really gone, he sneered and said, “Another rat-eater.”
His companion punched him on the arm and said, “Forget rats. This one looks like she’s eaten a whole tunnel cat.”
Veka’s nervousness disappeared. Bad enough her fellow goblins called her “Vast Veka” behind her back, and worse things to her face. She didn’t have to take that kind of disdain from a couple of hobgoblins.
She slammed the end of her staff against the ground hard enough to make both hobgoblins jump. “I am Veka,” she said. “I go to join the others in their quest.”
She liked that, especially the quest part. It sounded very haughty and heroic.
“Is that so?” asked the one with the scar. Veka mentally dubbed him Slash. The scar nicked the outer edge of his eye, and that eye tended to look off in random directions. He glanced at the other guard. “Well if that’s the case, go right ahead. If you hurry, you should be able to catch them before they reach the lake.”
“Thank you,” Veka said graciously as she passed. She saw a nasty grin spread across Slash’s face, but before she could react, he yanked back with his free hand. In the dim light, she could barely see the line looped around his wrist, running to a small hook on the wall, then to the ceiling.
A wooden panel fastened to the roof gave way, showering her with sharp rocks. She stumbled forward, cursing and clutching her head.
“I told you,” said the other hobgoblin. “Rocks don’t do enough damage. We need to mount crossbows to the ceiling.”
“You can’t leave a cocked crossbow on the ceiling,” Slash snapped. “They’ll lose tension, and the strings will rot, especially with all the moisture from the lake.”
“Look at the rat-eater. All your little rock shower did was make her cry.”
“We need bigger rocks, that’s all,” said Slash.
Veka sniffed. One of the rocks had caught her on the nose. She reached for the skewer tucked through her belt.
Instantly both hobgoblins raised their own weapons. “Don’t be foolish, little goblin.”
Slash snickered. “Not so little, really.”
Veka’s hand shook, she was so angry. But there were two of them, both better armed than her. And no matter how badly they had humiliated her, they had allowed her to pass.
She straightened her robes, brushing away the dirt and pebbles. A true Hero shouldn’t just scurry off into the darkness. A true Hero would make a disdainful remark about their personal hygiene, slay them both, and stuff their broken bodies into their own trap. She couldn’t even think up a suitably scathing comment.
This was only the first step on the path, she reminded herself. Every Hero suffered setbacks and failures in the beginning. That’s why the first part of Josca’s book was subtitled “Stumbling Along the Path.”
She rubbed a lump on her forehead as she hurried down the tunnel. Why did the stumbling have to sting so badly?
Veka moved fast enough to catch a glimpse of Jig and his companions as they reached the underground lake, the passage to the lower tunnels. A stone archway stood at the edge of the lake, a long tunnel stretching down beneath the water. A long swath of black sand covered the open stretch before the lake. No matter how quietly one moved, the scrape of that sand was more than enough to summon the guardians of the lake, the poisonous lizard-fish.
Jig and the other goblins used their weapons to knock swarming lizard-fish back into the water as they crossed the sand. The ogre didn’t bother. His bare feet stomped lizard-fish into pale pink goo.
The lizard-fish kept coming. The white-skinned creatures were as long as Veka’s arm, with clawed front feet to drag their bodies through the sand. Their bulging eyes swiveled independently, giving them addled expressions. Long white antennae flattened against their necks as they attacked. As she watched, another lizard-fish scurried up to the ogre and whipped its tail about, jabbing the needle-sharp spines of its tail into the ogre’s leg.
The ogre kicked it across the cavern to slam against the wall.
Veka stared. Lizard-fish spines had enough poison to kill a full-grown goblin in the time it took to scream. The ogre had barely noticed.
And they needed help from Jig Dragonslayer?
“Come on, Walland,” Jig shouted.
With one last stomp, the ogre followed them into the tunnel. From the look of it, he had been enjoying himself.
Veka untied her robe and grabbed an old grooved fire stone from the pocket of her apron. Setting her muck lantern on the ground, she felt the end of her staff until she found the metal striker dangling by its cord. She drew the striker through the groove in the rock, shooting sparks into the lantern. The muck whooshed to life, spreading green light through the cave.
Black sand covered the ground in front of her. The water was still, smooth as black glass, save for the occasional ripple or bubble where lizard-fish and other creatures surfaced in search of insects. Toward the back, water dripped from the rock overhead, too far away to see.
Bits of broken green malachite studded the roof of the cavern, sparkling in the light of her lantern. The truly impressive formations were farther out, beyond the reach of greedy hobgoblin hands.
Veka could still hear the faint tapping of Grell’s cane as they moved through the tunnel. Years ago the only way down had been through an enchanted whirlpool at the center of the lake, but generations of adventurers had left their marks throughout the mountain, blowing up bridges, smashing doors, triggering rockslides that blocked various tunnels, and generally making a mess of the place. At least the tunnel through the lake was a useful alteration. Veka grabbed her lantern and stepped onto the sand.
Instantly the lizard-fish returned, swarming from the water and spraying sand as they dragged their bodies toward her. Veka leaped back into the tunnel, and the lizard-fish slowed. Their claws couldn’t find enough traction on the bare obsidian, so lizard-fish rarely left the sand of the beach. Unfortunately, the sand covered every bit of stone between Veka and the lake tunnel.
This wasn’t fair. Jig hadn’t done anything heroic to get past the lizard-fish. His ogre had done most of the work. All the goblins had to do was knock away the few lizard-fish the ogre didn’t smush.
“I want an ogre of my own,” Veka muttered. She tried again, moving as softly as she could, but it was no good. The instant the sand scraped beneath her feet, the lizard-fish returned. Veka’s throat began to tighten.
“There has to be a way past,” she said. There was always a way. She couldn’t fail now, only a few steps into her journey. She
sat down in the mouth of the tunnel and drew her spellbook from her cloak. The spellbook was in even worse shape than her copy of The Path of the Hero. At one time it must have been magnificent. Charred red leather covered engraved copper plates that formed the cover. The metal itself had survived the flames, but the pages within hadn’t been so fortunate. Those few that weren’t burned beyond legibility were incomplete and blackened around the edges. That was to be expected when you grabbed your spellbook from a dragon’s lair, she supposed.
How many weeks had it taken her to decipher even the basic binding charm she had tried to show to Jig? The next page was a levitation charm, but no matter how many times she tried, she had yet to levitate even the hairs she plucked from her head for practice. All her long nights of concentrating had gotten her nothing more than aching eyes and a sore scalp.
The mocking laughter of the hobgoblins echoed in her memory. She started thinking about Jig, and how he had cowed the hobgoblins into submission. By the time she managed to follow him into the tunnel, Jig probably would have found whatever was hunting the ogres and destroyed it.
“This should be my quest. My path!” She brought the lantern over the spellbook and squinted. Her other hand clenched into a fist for the binding spell. Josca wrote that the true Hero would find new strength and power when her need was great. This time, the spell had to work. It had to!
Slowly she spread her fingers, imagining lines of power spreading from each fingertip to a point in the center of her palm. She moved her hand over her staff, forcing the magical star outward until it intersected the wood. According to her spellbook, her staff would help her control the magic. A wave of the staff would send her soaring gracefully into the air, and she would be able to slip past the lizard-fish unnoticed. She didn’t need much power, only enough that her boots didn’t touch the sand. Surely she could summon that much magic. She concentrated on the binding spell, staring so hard she almost believed she could see the silver lines wrapped around the end of the staff. Her hands trembled from her effort. If she could only—
