by Jim C. Hines
The door slammed shut behind him. Jig spun, nearly cutting Slash’s ankle with his sword. Slash stepped to one side, and his hand clapped Jig’s shoulder. The nails dug through Jig’s shirt. “I’ve killed one goblin chief today,” he said. “Do I need to kill a second?”
Jig shook his head. Slash was too close for him to stab with the sword, even if his arm hadn’t been useless after the fight with Kralk. “They would have killed you,” Jig said.
Slash stared at him for a long time. “Pah. You rat-eaters are too cowardly to take on a hobgoblin warrior.” But he made no further move against Jig. He picked up a peculiar-looking knife with two thin spikes angling out from the main blade. “They’re going to eat you alive, you know. You’re no chief.”
“I know.” Jig stepped away, rubbing his shoulder. Out in the lair, Jig could still hear the chant of “Feast, feast!” from the goblins, and then Golaka shouting, “If you don’t shut up, there’ll be more than one goblin on the cookfires!” The lair was much quieter after that.
Jig’s new quarters were relatively small, and the abundance of weapons made the place feel even more cramped. A mattress made from the skin of a giant bat sat against the far wall. Jig could smell the dried moss stuffed within the skin. His eyelids drooped at the mere thought of such luxury. He stepped toward the mattress, but Slash grabbed his ear and yanked him back. Jig yelped, then covered his mouth and hoped nobody outside had heard.
Slash pointed to the floor, where a thin string stretched through a metal loop, up to a tripod of battle axes beside the door. The base of the nearest ax was secured to a wooden rod. From the look of it, the ax would swing down to split the skull of anyone who snuck in uninvited.
“A three-year-old hobgoblin could do better,” Slash muttered, kneeling by the string. “The line’s too high. Not only does it catch the light of the muck fires, but it leaves a clear shadow. If nothing else, you ought to blacken the line.” He studied the ax briefly. Holding the handle in place, he broke the string with his other hand.
Jig examined the room with new respect, not to mention fear. What other surprises had Kralk left behind? Several vials and clay jars sat in a rack by the far wall, padded with dried leaves. Her collection of poisons? A wooden box with rusting hinges sat open on the other side of the room, revealing rumpled clothes in bright blues and reds and oranges. Near the head of the bed sat a jar of candied toadstools. Jig’s mouth watered, but he stopped himself after a single step. Knowing Kralk they were probably poisoned.
Slash squeezed past him to examine the mattress. Strange that Jig felt safer in here, alone with a hobgoblin, than he would have with another goblin.
Slash poked the leather in a few spots, then grabbed the edge and lifted the mattress to reveal a thin metal spike affixed to a broad wooden base. Moss flaked out of the hole in the bottom of the mattress where the spike had been. Jig tried not to think what would happen to anyone who snuck in to catch a quick nap.
“Some of these are hobgoblin tricks,” Slash said. “Poorly done, but I’m guessing your chief had help setting this place up. Another benefit of your precious truce.” He sat by the door and dipped his fingers in the empty muck pit. Humming to himself, he began to smear the ashen film along the string. “The first thing we need to do is run the line from the top of the door, where nobody will see it,” he muttered. “Those axes are too obvious. Though if I could mount one to the ceiling, it might work. That’s the first rule of traps: nobody ever looks up.”
Jig sat gingerly on the corner of the mattress, half expecting it to stab him in the backside or trigger an avalanche of sharp rocks. Smudge started to crawl down to explore, but Jig snatched him and shoved him into his pouch. Until he knew everything Kralk had done to this place, he wasn’t about to let Smudge wander about. The fire-spider probably wasn’t heavy enough to trigger most traps, but paranoia had kept Jig alive so far.
Now that he was chief, paranoia might not be enough. Why did you do this to me? he asked.
What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything. Despite his vast powers, Tymalous Shadowstar was a piss-poor liar.
When my sword came unsheathed. You did that. I could feel the magic. Jig was too exhausted to be angry.
She was going to kill you one way or another.
Jig shook his head. You’ve been pushing me ever since Walland showed up. Why?
You would have preferred to go back to your little temple? To hide all alone while the world goes on without you?
That was unfair. Better than another adventure. I hate this.
I know. But I also know your people would never survive against the pixies. I’m trying to keep you all alive.
No, said Jig. You didn’t know about the pixies. You didn’t know anything except that Walland ‘felt wrong.’ Oh, you also knew Kralk wanted me killed, and that she would probably use this as a way to get rid of me.
But you’re still alive, and Kralk is getting basted as we speak.
I’m chief, Jig said. Do you know how long most goblin chiefs survive?
Jig, it doesn’t—
Less than one day. Usually we go through at least seven or eight goblins before one survives long enough to really seize control. Kralk had been an anomaly, killing her foes with a ruthless efficiency that had gone a long way toward cowing the other goblins into submission. Jig, on the other hand, had nearly died. He would have died, if not for the help of an old woman and a hobgoblin. No doubt half the lair was already plotting his death.
Jig stiffened as he realized what Shadowstar had done. “You set me up,” he whispered.
“What?” asked Slash, glancing up from a half-assembled crossbow.
You didn’t want me to save Walland. You wanted to pit me against Kralk. You wanted me to be chief.
I wanted both. I wanted to know what was happening, and I wanted to help you change things for the goblins. You can lead them, Jig. You can help them be something more. You’ve already begun to change the goblins who are closest to you. Grell saved your life when Kralk was about to kill you. Doesn’t that seem like an odd thing for a goblin to do? Why do you think she did that?
Jig hesitated.
Grell saw you go off to fight those pixies. She saw something few have ever seen: goblin courage.
Lots of goblins run into battles against more powerful enemies.
Goblin stupidity is as common as lice, but you’re not stupid. Grell saw that. So did your hobgoblin friend. You saved his life. Look at him, sitting there and not killing you. When you defeated those pixies, you inspired them. You showed them they could be something more, something greater.
Jig’s stomach was starting to hurt again. Hunger and anxiety worked together to twist his guts into a knot. He wondered if he would be able to keep anything down at his own chief’s feast. He grabbed his numb arm by the wrist, setting the sword across his legs to examine the broken steel.
It’s rude to ignore your deity, snapped Shadowstar. No goblin could sound half as petulant as a cranky god. Forget the pixies, think about your people, living and dying in the dark, trapped in a cramped, smelly cave as they kill one another off. Would you rather live like you did before you faced Straum, scurrying about on muck duty and hoping the bigger goblins didn’t try to unclog the privy with your head?
Jig didn’t answer. To tell the truth, he rarely thought ahead. Most of the time he was content simply to make it through the day without getting killed.
Horrible as that adventure a year ago had been, his life was better now. It had been free of privy-related incidents, at least. We happen to like caves, he said. As protests went, it was weak and he knew it.
What do you want, Jig? You’re chief now. You’re responsible for what happens to the goblins.
That was even more frightening than an imminent pixie invasion.
What do you want? Shadowstar’s voice was louder, more insistent, prompting Jig to blurt the first thing that came to mind.
“Stuffed snakeskins and klak beer.”
&n
bsp; “What?” asked Slash. He held several crossbow quarrels between the fingers of his right hand, and a length of copper wire in his left. A steel tool like a tiny flat-tipped dagger protruded from his mouth.
“That’s what I want,” Jig said, ignoring a sigh of divine exasperation. He wanted one brief respite where he didn’t have to worry about pixies or ogres or goblins trying to kill him. Or hobgoblin traps misfiring, he added as a crossbow quarrel shot into the ceiling and ricocheted into the mattress beside him. “And now that I’m chief, I should be able to get it.”
He headed for the door. Golaka’s stuffed snakeskins were legendary. She stuffed shredded meat, saute’ed mushrooms, and boiled tubers into snakeskin, fried the whole thing, then sliced them into bite-size chunks. Best of all, snakeskins and klak beer would help wash away the sour aftertaste of pixie meat.
You can’t run away from this, Jig. You have a responsibility to your people.
Can’t you see I’m busy? Jig asked. Besides, if I order them to do anything before they’ve had their feast, they’ll throw me onto the fire alongside Kralk.
As he thought about the pixies, wondering how he could possibly lead the goblins against them, he couldn’t help wondering if maybe Kralk had been the lucky one.
CHAPTER 11
“You have to understand, this truce doesn’t mean we can’t kill goblins. It only means we can’t get caught.”
—One-eyed Tosk, Hobgoblin Weaponsmith
Jig stood in the main cavern, burping up snake and watching the satiated goblins. As a rule, goblins with full stomachs were slightly less dangerous than hungry goblins. He had no doubt they would still kill him if he dropped his guard, probably even if he didn’t, but maybe now they wouldn’t be quite so brutal about it.
He remembered how foolish Veka had looked with her cloak and staff, trying to be a wizard. Jig’s pretense at being chief was even more absurd. One look and anyone would know Jig was no chief.
His sheath once again covered his sword, but with the blade broken, the end of the sheath flopped limply along the ground. He had already stepped on the end twice, nearly tripping himself as he walked.
His clothes had been so saturated with blood and filth there was nothing to do but burn them. Even his favorite boots were scuffed and scratched. The pixies would pay for that.
Unfortunately, most of Kralk’s clothes were ridiculously large on Jig’s scrawny frame. Given the choice of raiding Kralk’s wardrobe or facing the lair naked, Jig had chosen the ridiculous.
His belt cinched garish yellow trousers that ballooned over his thighs. He had also picked out a red vest with silver tassels. On Kralk those tassels would have hung just below her waist. On Jig they tickled the tops of his knees when he walked.
“Well?”
Jig jumped. He hadn’t noticed Grell sidling up to his right. Braf followed close behind her, groaning and rubbing his stomach.
Why now, when he was in more danger of being killed, was Jig having such a hard time staying focused?
“They’re waiting for you to tell them what to do,” Grell said. “They know things aren’t right. They may not have seen the pixies, but they know the air is colder, and they see how restless the snakes and bugs have been. One of the guards says a rock serpent attacked his muck lantern, and Topam swears he saw a giant bat flapping around over the lake a few days ago. There have been more carrion-worms crawling around the tunnels, too.”
Which you would have known, if you didn’t spend all of your time in your temple, Shadowstar whispered.
“The tunnel cats have been pretty restless lately, come to think of it,” said Slash as he stepped out of Kralk’s—out of Jig’s quarters. “By the way, don’t push your door open more than forty-five degrees, and you should probably let someone else light that muck pit from now on.”
Jig wondered if he would ever have the courage to set foot in that room again. This was probably for the best, really. If not for Slash’s traps, Jig would be too tempted to retreat back to his quarters and lock the door behind him.
Shadowstar was right. They had to do something about the pixies. The longer they waited, the more time the pixies would have to adapt to this world. The next time Jig faced pixies, they would be far more dangerous than Pynne and Farnax.
He stepped away from the wall to address the goblins, and his throat went dry. It looked as though every single goblin in the whole mountain was here, joking and smirking and waiting for him to speak. So many goblins, all staring at him.
Wait . . . all the goblins? “Who’s on guard duty?” Jig asked.
A pair of well-fed, belching goblins near the back raised their hands, and Jig groaned. “I told you the pixies were going to try to kill us. Don’t you think someone should guard the lair?”
The guards nodded, but made no movement to return to their posts. “Someone should, yeah,” said one. The other laughed.
“Don’t ask them,” Grell whispered. “Tell them. You’re the chief!”
Jig cleared his throat. Both guards waited, silently daring him to utter an order. How was he supposed to make them obey? His sword arm was so numb he could barely move it, even if the sword hadn’t been broken. Jig looked at those guards, and all he could see was himself as a child, fleeing the older, bigger goblins who wanted to put a carrion-worm down his pants.
“Fine,” Jig said, anger helping his voice carry throughout the cavern. “Leave the lair unguarded.” He glanced at Grell, hoping she had been right about the goblins’ mood. “I’m sure the pixies will appreciate it, when they send their ogre slaves to slaughter us.” He raised his voice and pointed at the guards. “When the ogres start tearing you apart, and the pixies are disemboweling you with their magic, remember it was those two goblins who let them stroll right into the lair.”
Finally the attention of the goblins shifted away from Jig. Angry muttering spread through the crowd.
“We’re going, we’re going,” said one of the guards, shooting a hateful look in Jig’s direction.
They didn’t make it out of the lair. A loud snarl announced the arrival of a group of armed hobgoblins. Two tunnel cats strained to break free of braided leather harnesses, nearly pulling their hobgoblin keeper off his feet. “Where is Jig Dragonslayer?” shouted the largest of the hobgoblins.
And that brought the attention right back to Jig. He didn’t get the chance to speak before the hobgoblins were making their way toward him, tunnel cats snapping at anyone who failed to get out of the way.
“Our chief wants a word with you, goblin.”
Another of the hobgoblins stared. “Hey, Charak. What are you doing with these rat-eaters?”
Charak? They were looking at Slash. From the look of things, he had been trying to disappear into the shadows.
“Chief’s going to want to see you, too,” said the hobgoblin holding the tunnel cats. “He’s going to be real happy when he finds out you’re still alive. Now where’s Kralk? He told us to bring back the goblin chief, too.”
Maybe I should have just stayed in the garbage pit. Jig raised his hand. “I’m the chief.” The words sounded strange, like someone else had spoken.
A tunnel cat swatted a goblin who had gotten too close, sending her to the ground with four gouges bleeding down her arm. “Makes our job easier, I guess,” said a hobgoblin. “Come with us, rat-eater.”
“You can’t come in here and give Jig orders,” Braf shouted. “He’s the chief. You’re lucky he doesn’t slay every last one of you hobgoblins.”
“Braf?” Jig asked.
“What?”
“I’m chief now, right?”
Braf nodded.
“So you have to do what I say?”
Braf nodded again.
“Good. Shut up.” Jig studied the hobgoblins. Two tunnel cats and five warriors to escort a few goblins. The hobgoblin chief was serious. Still, if the whole lair attacked together, they would overwhelm the hobgoblins. Judging from the nasty smiles beginning to spread through the crowd, the gobl
ins had figured that out too.
What they hadn’t figured out was what the rest of the hobgoblins would do in reprisal. The last thing Jig needed was to have hobgoblins screaming through the layer on a vengeance raid when he was trying to worry about pixies. He could only manage one war at a time.
Actually, he doubted he could manage even one.
“Braf and Grell, I want you to come with us to the hobgoblin lair,” Jig said loudly. “The rest of you, keep the muck pits filled and burning, and could somebody please make sure we get a guard at the entrance?”
“Why us?” asked Grell.
Because Grell and Braf had both been under orders to kill him, and neither one had done so. Jig hoped that trend of not killing him would continue. “Because I’m chief and I said so.”
Jig tried to look on the bright side as he followed his escort out of the lair. If the hobgoblins killed him, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the pixies.
The lead hobgoblin took one of the tunnel cats, who sniffed the air and the ground as they walked. Another cat followed behind, straining at its leash. That one actually drooled as it watched Jig, barely even blinking.
Hobgoblin lanterns painted the tunnel the color of goblin blood. Jig glanced at Slash, trying to guess whether he was a captor or a prisoner. The other hobgoblins hadn’t given him a weapon, but they weren’t jabbing him in the back of the legs with their spears either. Lucky hobgoblin.
Jig jumped and walked faster, trying to avoid another poke as he studied his escort. A large, ugly bruise covered one side of the lead hobgoblin’s face. Recent, from the looks of it. They didn’t say much, but they didn’t have to. Three lanterns were overkill for such a small group. They kept peering into the shadows and letting the tunnel cat peek around bends and turns. They were afraid.
