by Jim C. Hines
“Have the pixies attacked already?” Jig asked.
That earned him another jab, this one in the thigh. From then on, Jig kept his guesses to himself.
When they reached the hobgoblin lair, Jig saw that the number of guards had doubled. Four hobgoblins stood in a rough square at the junction of the tunnels. Lanterns hung from both ears of the glass statue. Several of the guards growled softly as they saw the goblins approaching.
Braf puffed his chest and opened his mouth. Jig smacked him with his sheathed sword. Whatever Braf had intended to say came out a startled, “Hey!”
“No weapons,” said one of the hobgoblins, catching Jig’s wrist. Jig’s arm was so numb he could barely feel the fingers digging into his skin. The hobgoblin grabbed the crossguard and gave a quick yank that nearly dislocated Jig’s shoulder.
“Try cutting it off,” suggested the hobgoblin who had yanked Braf’s hook-tooth away.
“I already did,” said Jig. “The leather is enchanted. Cursed, really. It’s too strong to cut.”
The hobgoblin grinned. “I didn’t mean the cord.” He drew a short, flat-tipped sword from his belt. The blade was only sharp on one side, an obvious chopping weapon.
“Go on, cut it off,” Grell said, leaning against the wall. “Course, then you’ll have to explain why your guest bled to death before he could talk to your chief.”
The hobgoblin’s smile melted away. The thought crossed Jig’s mind that nobody had actually specified whether they wanted Jig alive or dead. Though if they wanted him dead, they probably would have killed him by now.
The hobgoblin shoved Jig’s arm away. “Draw steel, and you’ll wish I’d killed you, goblin.” He pushed Jig for good measure, knocking him to the ground next to the glass statue. Blue light reflected from the chipped glass. The hobgoblin warrior stood so tall his head nearly touched the top of the tunnel. Aside from a helmet, he wore only a loincloth, no doubt to emphasize the muscles covering his body.
Lying on the floor, Jig wondered if anyone else had ever bothered to examine the statue from this angle. He also wondered why the sculptor had made the hobgoblin anatomically correct.
“Get up.” Strong hands hauled Jig to his feet, then dragged him through the open archway. They pushed Slash after him, saying, “Make sure he doesn’t step in anything.” Grell and Braf followed, probably assuming they were safer with Jig than out here with cranky hobgoblin guards.
One of the tunnel cats stayed behind. A guard tied the leash around the legs of the statue. The statue would keep the cat from running off, but all the guard had to do to loose the cat on an enemy was cut the leash. Whatever had happened, the hobgoblins were taking no chances.
A few paces into the tunnel, the hobgoblins pressed themselves to the walls as they walked.
“Pit trap,” said Slash, shoving Jig against a wall hard enough to bang his head. Grell did the same to Braf who, despite Slash’s warning, had almost walked right into the trap. “Fall in there, and the goblins will have to find someone else to play chief.”
“What’s down there?” Jig asked, keeping his body as close to the wall as he could.
“Used to be a pair of giant carrion-worms.” Slash shook his head glumly. “A group of adventurers fell into the pit and slaughtered them. Do you have any idea how long it takes to breed and raise giant worms? The chief decided rusty spikes at the bottom would be faster and easier. Not as much fun though.”
“Oh. I see.” Jig fought to keep his face neutral, though he couldn’t quite stop a shiver at the memory of those worms.
A few paces later, Slash pushed him again. “See that stain on the ground?”
Jig stared. The ground was dusty rock, the same as the rest of the tunnels. Squinting, he could just make out a faint discoloration in the dirt where Slash was pointing.
“We spread a mix of blood, rock serpent venom, and diluted honey there. The venom keeps the blood from clotting, and the honey makes it stick to whoever steps in it.” Slash licked his lips. “Tunnel cats love the stuff. Step inside the lair wearing that scent, and they’ll be on you before you can draw your sword.” Indeed, even as Slash explained, the tunnel cat tugged its leash, trying to reach the dried stain. The hobgoblin kicked the cat in the side, earning a loud hiss, but the cat didn’t attack. That was a well-trained animal. Jig wondered if the hobgoblins would be willing to train the goblin guards.
Before Jig could say anything, Slash hauled him to one side. This time it was a scattering of tiny metal spikes resting on the ground.
“They’re so small,” Braf said.
“And they’re coated in lizard-fish toxin,” Slash said.
Oh. Jig stared at the hobgoblins with newfound respect. If he tried to set such traps to protect the goblin lair, half the goblins would be dead within a week.
“Watch your step,” said Slash.
Jig stopped, fully expecting to be shot, poisoned, crushed, or maybe all three at the same time. “What is it now?”
Slash pointed to a pile of brown, slimy goo in the center of the tunnel. “Hairball.”
Eventually the tunnel opened into a broad cavern, similar in size to the goblins’ lair. But the hobgoblins had carved out a very different home for themselves. For one thing, instead of using muck pits in the floor, the hobgoblins hung wide metal muck bowls from large tripods, so the light came from overhead. Every time Jig took a step, three shadows followed him along the floor. As if he wasn’t jumpy enough already!
Even stranger, there were hobgoblin children running about. Jig stared at a girl whose head barely came past his waist. She had a knife tucked through her belt, and was swinging a club at a larger, similarly armed hobgoblin boy. As Jig watched, the boy knocked her club away, then kicked her in the stomach. The girl crawled away to retrieve the club. To Jig’s amazement, the boy stood there, waiting as she attacked again.
“What’s she doing?” Jig asked.
Slash glanced over. “Practicing.”
Jig could see other children working throughout the cavern. A few near the entrance scraped lichen from the walls by one of the lanterns, while a boy farther in helped butcher a pile of lizard-fish. Jig even saw a baby hobgoblin slung to the back of a female. He grimaced. The baby had wrinkly yellow skin, green toothless gums, and a misshapen skull.
“Hobgoblin babies are ugly,” said Braf.
Grell snorted. “You weren’t exactly pleasant to look at yourself.”
The female with the baby noticed them staring and bared her teeth in a scowl before ducking behind a large, painted screen mounted on a wooden frame.
Similar screens were set throughout the cavern, partitioning the space into smaller chambers. Crude paintings decorated most of the screens. They seemed to tell stories of hobgoblin triumphs, whether it was a single hobgoblin leading a troll into an ambush, or a group tossing goblins into a pit full of tunnel cats.
The guards led Jig and the others toward the rear of the cave. Several hobgoblins spat as Jig passed. He heard two others making a wager over how Jig would be killed. He held his sword close to his leg, trying to appear unthreatening. So many hobgoblins. Men and women, young and old, armed and . . . well, they were all armed. And they all looked angry.
“What happened?” Jig asked.
One of the guards shoved him forward. “That’s for the chief to explain.”
“No,” said another. “That’s for him to explain to the chief.”
The chief was an older hobgoblin, sitting on a much-abused cushion near the back of the cavern. A half-eaten skewer of lizard-fish meat sat on the ground beside him. Screens to either side created a smaller artificial cave. Another frame stood in front, but the screen had been rolled up and tied overhead, opening the small chamber to the rest of the cavern.
The hobgoblin chief rose, ducking past the wooden frame to stand in front of Jig and the others. He slipped a bit of greasy lizard-fish to the tunnel cat, then wiped his hands on his quilted, brass-studded jacket. A long wavy sword hung on his hip. Th
e cast bronze head of a hobgoblin warrior capped the hilt, and the crosspiece was a pair of long barbed spikes. Jig had seen the sword once before, when he and the chief had negotiated the truce between goblins and hobgoblins. According to hobgoblin law, whoever held that sword commanded all hobgoblins.
“Hello, Jig,” said the chief. His thinning hair was bound into a dirty white braid. He glared at the other hobgoblins. “I said I wanted to speak to the goblin chief too.”
“That’s me,” Jig said.
“I see.” He studied Jig, his expression never changing. His cool appraisal was far more worrisome than the gruff threats of the other hobgoblins. At least with them, Jig knew what to expect. Not so with this hobgoblin. He might offer Jig a bit of lizard-fish or cut the head from his body with that huge sword, and he would do both with the same stone expression. Finally he grunted and said, “About time someone killed that overbearing coward Kralk.”
He turned to Slash. “Ah, Charak. The others tell me you let a goblin outwit you. A fat female, one who claimed to be a wizard of some sort. They say she humiliated you and led you away, slinking like a cat who’s been beaten once too often.”
Jig took a small step away from Slash. Charak. Whoever.
“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Slash said. “The stupid rat-eater went and got herself enchanted by pixies.”
“Pixies?” the chief asked. “What are you talking about?”
As fast as he could, Jig stepped forward to explain about the pixies and their conquest of the ogres. He told the chief how they had fled to the Necromancer’s pit and how the steel of his blade seemed to have broken the spell on Slash. “Ask them,” he added, pointing to Braf and Grell. “They’ve all seen the pixies and what they can do.”
The chief was shaking his head. “So, Charak. Not only does a mere goblin get the best of you, but then you let yourself fall prey to a fairy spell? I should probably kill you now and save us all the trouble.”
The threat was uttered in an easy, casual tone, but Jig saw several hobgoblins reach for their weapons.
“Falling in battle against an invading army I could forgive,” the chief continued. “But letting a goblin get the better of you?”
Slash mumbled something incomprehensible.
“And now she returns,” said the chief.
Jig’s ears perked up. “You have Veka?”
“Not exactly.” The chief took another bite of lizard-fish as he studied Jig. Pale strings of meat protruded from between his teeth. “Your goblin wizard killed nine of my men. She refuses to let anyone get to the lake. If we can’t get down to hunt in the caverns below, we’ll be reduced to scavenging for bugs and rats. Living like goblins, in other words.”
He stepped closer, until Jig could smell the meat on his breath. “She tells me she’ll let us through if we present her with Jig Dragonslayer.”
For once, Jig wasn’t afraid. He raised his chin and said, “You can’t. She’ll turn me over to the pixies, and they’ll kill me.”
The chief shrugged and spat a few bones onto the floor. Jig could hear the guards moving closer, and Smudge crouched down at the junction of Jig’s neck and shoulder to hide.
“If I die,” Jig went on, “the truce between goblins and hobgoblins ends today. The truce, and everything that came with it. The same goes if you kill my companions. Even him,” he added, nodding toward Slash. He tried to fold his arms defiantly, but he had forgotten about the sword. The sheath whacked him in the leg, to the amusement of the hobgoblins.
The chief stared at Jig for a long time. His wrinkled face gave no clue what was running through his mind. He was a crafty one, even for a hobgoblin, and Jig began to wonder if he had miscalculated.
“Veka told us she wanted Jig Dragonslayer,” the chief finally said. “She never specified how she wanted him delivered . . .”
The hobgoblins guarding the entrance to the lair appeared quite surprised to see Jig and the others alive.
“Give me that,” Braf said, reclaiming his weapon.
One of the guards stared at Slash. “What happened?”
“We’re going to kill Veka,” Slash said, grinning.
“I don’t suppose any of you mighty warriors know how we’re going to accomplish that?” Grell asked.
Nobody answered. Personally, Jig had been giving serious thought to running away and hiding back in the goblin lair. If Veka had slaughtered nine hobgoblin warriors, Jig and his companions weren’t going to last very long.
But retreating would only lead to other problems. Problems like angry hobgoblins butchering their way through the goblin lair, demanding Jig’s head.
Slash grabbed one of the muck lanterns, but Jig shook his head. “No light. We don’t want her to see us coming.”
Jig studied his companions as they left the hobgoblin lair. Grell’s canes made too much noise. They might be better off leaving her behind altogether, but she seemed to do a good job of keeping Braf in line. As for Braf, he was barely bright enough to know which end of a sword to grab, but Jig needed all the help he could get. Without the two goblins, his only backup would be a hobgoblin who fainted at the sight of blood.
“Wait,” Jig said, struggling to draw his sword. After the incident with Kralk, he had used a bit of cord to knot the sheath in place. Those knots had tightened, and he had to bite through them to free the blade. His shoulder burned with newly awakened pain as he used the sword to cut off the tails of his vest. “Grell, give me one of your canes.”
He wrapped the material around the end, then used a broken piece of twine to tie it into place. He did the same with the other cane. Hopefully that would muffle the noise a bit.
He shoved the sword back into the sheath and rested the whole thing over his shoulder. Smudge scurried to the top of Jig’s head for safety.
As the light dimmed toward blackness, Slash stepped closer. “Why didn’t he kill you?”
“Who?” Jig asked.
“The chief. You defied him, and he let you live.”
“A good thing, too,” said Braf. “You hobgoblins need to treat us with a bit more respect, or else—”
The thump of Grell smacking Braf was quieter than usual. The cloth Jig had tied around the ends of her canes appeared to be working.
“Because of the truce,” Jig said. That earned a disbelieving snort. “No, it’s true. He’s afraid that if I die, he’ll lose what he got out of the deal.”
“I’ve always wondered about that,” said Slash. “A lot of us have. What possible reason could you give us to leave you rat-eaters alone?”
Jig brushed the fingers of his free hand along the wall for guidance as blackness swallowed the last of the lantern light. “He was sitting on his cushion when we arrived, right?” Jig asked. “Before the truce, when was the last time you saw him sit?”
“He didn’t,” Slash said. “He was always up and moving. Training the warriors, inspecting traps, overseeing the cats’ handlers. He’s chief. He doesn’t have time to—”
“No, he couldn’t sit. He had . . . an injury. I healed it.” He grimaced at the memory. “Not an experience I’d choose to repeat.”
“What?” From the sound of things, Braf was barely holding back his laughter. “You mean this whole truce was nothing but a reward for you healing a hobgoblin’s ugly behind?”
Jig stopped. “What did you think, Braf? That I threatened them? That I stomped through the hobgoblin lair and told their chief I’d bring the full wrath of the goblins to bear if they didn’t stop killing us?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
Jig shook his head. How in the world had Braf survived to adulthood?
The smell of water told Jig they were close, as did the sudden flare of warmth from Smudge. Faint light shone from the beach ahead. Pixies? Jig hoped not. The hobgoblin chief hadn’t known about the pixies, which suggested Veka was alone.
“Hello, Jig.” Veka’s voice was as cheerful and grating as ever. “I know you’re there. You and your three companions. Why don’t y
ou come out and meet my new friends?”
So much for Veka being alone. How could she know they were coming? Jig wrapped his free hand around his sword handle. With the muscles of his sword arm bound and numb, this was the only way he’d be able to use it.
Veka couldn’t know, not unless one of his group was possessed.
No, none of you have the taint of pixie magic.
Then how? They had been as quiet as tunnel cats stalking their prey. Veka couldn’t have heard them. Jig backed away.
He had only gone a few steps when Smudge grew warmer. Had Smudge only now recognized the danger? Jig was moving away from Veka. That should be safer!
Jig ripped a handful of frayed threads from the bottom of his vest. Putting the threads in his mouth, he reached up to move Smudge to his shoulder. Much hotter, and Smudge would burn the rest of Jig’s hair . . . which would give him the light he wanted, but Jig preferred to keep what little hair remained. Once the fire-spider was crouched on his leather pad, Jig twisted the ends of the threads together and reached up to poke Smudge from behind.
The threads burst into flame. “Eight eyes, and I can still scare you,” Jig whispered. In the faint, dimming light, he could see Grell, Braf, and Slash standing behind him, weapons drawn.
“No light,” Slash said, mimicking Jig’s voice. “We don’t want her to see us coming.”
“Here,” said Grell, holding out a rag. She touched one corner to the dying flame, and the tunnel brightened.
“What is that?” Braf asked.
“Another diaper. Useful things, really.” She knotted the burning diaper around the end of Jig’s sword. “Don’t worry, it should be clean.”
Normally the odor would have bothered Jig, but the ogres’ torches seemed to have overloaded his sense of smell. And the diaper burned quite well, he had to admit.
