by Jim C. Hines
A group of hobgoblins stood near their statue, guarding the entrance. One raised a copper mug. “Who goes there?”
“Filthy beasts, aren’t they?” asked another of the guards.
Jig glanced down at himself. Perhaps he should have changed clothes after coming through the waste pit.
“Looks like a bunch of carrion-worms masquerading as goblins.” That earned a laugh from the other hobgoblins.
“This is Jig Dragonslayer,” snapped Grell. “The goblin who singlehandedly killed the pixie queen.”
Jig flushed as the hobgoblins peered closer. A horrible thought entered his mind. Would they start calling him Jig Pixieslayer now?
“Jig Dragonslayer, eh?” The guard was clearly skeptical that the goblin chief would be wandering about in such a state. He glanced at his companions and shrugged.
“Put that thing away,” said the largest of the guards, pointing at Jig’s knife. Two others ducked into the hobgoblin lair. “They already carved the meat.”
Already carved the meat? Jig stared at the knife in his hand. It wouldn’t do much good against the hobgoblins anyway. The blade fit loosely into the empty sheath on his belt. “I don’t understand. What—”
The other hobgoblins returned carrying large, wooden buckets. Before Jig could react, they tossed the contents over him and the other goblins. Jig barely had time to shield Smudge before the frigid water knocked him back.
“That’s better,” said the closest guard, swishing the half-empty bucket. “Folks are trying to eat and drink back there. If we don’t rinse you down, you’re going to ruin their appetites.”
Jig was too confused to do anything but nod and turn around. They had a point, he supposed. He did smell pretty rank. Smudge was even worse, since fire-spiders cleansed themselves by burning whatever dirt clung to their bodies.
Still, there was no reason the water had to be so cold.
Eventually they were deemed suitable for hobgoblin society, whatever that meant, and led into the larger cavern. The dead goblin they passed along the way did nothing to calm Jig’s fear. The hobgoblins stepped around the body. One of them muttered, “Makkar was supposed to clean up the traps. Looks like she missed one.”
“This is weird,” whispered Noroka.
Jig only nodded. Most of the partitions that had divided the hobgoblin lair were gone, torn down and piled to the sides. Hobgoblins and goblins crowded around an enormous bonfire, and as far as Jig could see, nobody was killing anyone else. He spotted a few fights, but they were weaponless spats. A hobgoblin bludgeoning a goblin here, a gang of four goblins piling on a hobgoblin there, nothing out of the ordinary. And those few fights were the exception to the overall sense of . . . of celebration.
Jig made his way toward the fire, where two hobgoblins were turning an enormous spit. Both hobgoblins cast nervous looks at Golaka, who rapped her ever-present wooden spoon against her palm as she supervised.
She supervised one hobgoblin on the back of the head, hard enough to knock him away from the spit. “Don’t turn it so fast,” she shouted. “Give the ogre time to cook. Give the sauce time to work through the meat. Otherwise you might as well eat him raw!”
Braf tapped Jig on the shoulder and pointed to the bonfire. “Isn’t that Arnor?”
Jig squinted. Golaka’s garnishes hid some of the features, but he thought Braf was right. Apparently some of the ogre refugees hadn’t managed to escape from the pixies.
Grell sniffed the air. “Smells like Golaka broke out the elven wine sauce.”
A loud, harsh voice cut through the noise. “Jig Dragonslayer!” From the far side of the cavern, the hobgoblin chief waved his sword. “Someone drag that scrawny excuse for a leader to me.”
Jig waded through the crowd, doing his best to avoid the larger goblins. Cheerful as things appeared, he was still the goblin chief, and there were a lot of ambitious goblins crammed in here. Nowhere near as many as there had been before, thanks to the fighting, but more than enough for Jig’s comfort. Not to mention the hobgoblins, one of whom left claw marks in Jig’s arm as he tried to hurry Jig along.
The chief sat on one of the rolled-up partitions, basically a log of heavy red cloth. One of his tunnel cats sat with its paws tucked beneath its chin as it worked the marrow from an ogre bone. Veka and Slash stood to one side, drinking klak beer. Veka had lost her robe and staff. Both she and the hobgoblin looked bruised and battered, and it was strange to see Veka in her ragged muckworking clothes. They made her look smaller somehow. Younger.
The hobgoblin chief pointed his sword at Jig. “A beer for the goblin chief!”
Veka rolled her eyes, then gestured. Across the room a cup jumped from a hobgoblin’s hand and floated toward Jig. Veka bit her lip. From the looks of it, she was concentrating much harder than she had before. That thought cheered Jig immensely.
“You’re using your magic to serve drinks now?” Jig asked. Veka scowled, and the cup wobbled just enough to spill beer onto Jig’s arm. He grinned and snatched the cup. The smell of klak beer would help mask the odors still coming from poor Smudge.
“What a battle,” the chief said. “They’ll be singing songs about this one long after you and I are gone. Those blasted ogres drove us all the way through the tunnels to the entrance of our lair.” He pointed. “That’s where we hit them with our first ambush. I had your goblins come at them from the tunnel. Pathetic as you rat-eaters are in a real fight, it was enough to confuse the ogres. They’re tough to kill, I’ll tell you that much. No matter how many times we drove them back, they kept coming. Eventually they broke into the lair. We led them into the tunnel cat kennels near the back. Your little wizard here showed up around then, using her magic to fling weapons left and right. Not enough to kill an ogre, but she certainly kept them on their toes while our cats tore into them.”
Veka’s mouth wrinkled, as if she couldn’t decide whether or not to take offense at the “little wizard” remark.
“A number of the ogres fled in the end. Your wizard thinks some pixies survived as well. I don’t know where they’ll get to, but I plan to be ready.” He waved at Slash. “Charak here has been sharing some ideas for pixie traps, and I want them set up in your lair as well as ours.”
Slash pulled a folded packet of parchment from his vest. Charcoal arrows and drawings covered the page. “I’m designing a pixie net using steel wire,” he said, sounding more excited and animated than Jig had ever seen him. “I haven’t figured out how to set a trigger for an airborne target yet, but I will. We can also stretch netting across any opening we don’t want pixies coming through, like your waste pit or the privies. Can you imagine sitting down right when a pixie—”
“We’ll need to do something about Straum’s lair too,” said Jig. “The dragon lined his cave with steel and iron to keep the pixies from coming through. Most of those weapons will have to be returned. Otherwise what’s to stop the next group from recreating the portal?”
“The fact that I blew Straum’s remains to pieces,” Veka mumbled. She sounded dejected, which confused Jig. From the sound of things, she had done everything she ever dreamed of: fought pixies, destroyed the gate, and helped to save the goblins. Her magic was clearly stronger than before, and somehow she had survived the whole mess. What was wrong with her?
“You want us to give up our weapons?” The hobgoblin chief scowled, and Jig took a step back.
“Not all of them,” Jig said. “But enough to line the walls of Straum’s cave. Goblin and hobgoblin weapons both.”
The chief’s scowl faded. “Why not? If we need more swords, we can always come pound a few more goblin warriors and take yours, right?” He clapped Jig on the arm and stood up. “If we’re going to do it, best to start now, before these fools sober up.”
Despite his age, his shouts cut through the noise of the celebration like . . . well, like his sword. “Listen up! We’re going to lock those pixies out of this mountain forever. To do that, I need you hobgoblins to gather every sword, kni
fe, shield, and any other bit of steel or iron you can find. Once we see what we have to work with, we’ll decide how much we need.”
He glanced at Jig, clearly expecting him to make a similar announcement. Already hobgoblins were crowding around the chief, dropping weapons and armor at his feet. The sight of it confirmed something Jig had been thinking about ever since leaving the pixies’ pit.
No matter how loudly he shouted, no matter how many songs the goblins sang about him, no matter how many pixie queens and dragons and Necromancers he killed, the goblins would never leap to obey him the way these hobgoblins did with their chief . . . the way the pixies obeyed their queen. Even the old ogre Trockle had been able to control her family.
Jig wasn’t cut out to be a leader. Sure, they followed him into battle after a bit of prodding and bullying. Then he turned his back on Grop and nearly got himself killed.
His attempts to rally the goblins into battle with the hobgoblins had been humiliating, and his first official act as chief had been to flee to Kralk’s quarters and hide.
Everyone stumbles in the beginning, Shadowstar said.
When a goblin stumbles, there’s usually another goblin to make sure he doesn’t get back up.
By now many of the hobgoblins were watching Jig, as were a number of goblins. He could see their suspicion building. Was this a trick to disarm the hobgoblins? The hobgoblins looked angry, and the goblins looked eager.
“Bring your weapons to the goblin chief,” Jig said, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded. Drawing a deep breath and hoping it wouldn’t be his last, he pointed to Grell. “Bring them to her.”
Grell’s cane jabbed him in the side before he could say anything more. “Did my withered ears deceive me, runt? If you think you can foist this job off on me, you—”
“Isn’t it better than working in the nursery?”
“I’m looking after children either way. At least the babies don’t poison you in your sleep. Not until they’re two or three years old at least. If you want me dead, cut my throat and be done with it.”
She was right, of course. Grell was one of the few goblins who would be even more vulnerable than Jig himself. He could already see the hunger in the eyes of the goblins, the calculating expressions. Jig had lasted several hours before his first assassination attempt. Grell would be lucky to last five minutes.
“Grell’s smart enough to have survived this long,” he said. “That’s something we need from a chief.”
Grell reached beneath her blankets and drew her knife, which she jabbed at Jig’s throat. New odors wafted from Smudge as he grew hot from fright. “That’s right. I survived by avoiding suicidal situations like this one. I’m not about to—”
“I’m not done!” Jig squeaked, backing away from that blade. He raised his voice. “I know you’re already plotting to kill her, so I should warn you. Whoever kills Grell will die a slow, horrible death. I’ve cast a spell of protection on her. Every hurt I’ve healed over the past year, every broken bone, every gash, every split lip and chipped tooth, every gouged eye, hernia, and wart, all of them will be inflicted upon whoever dares lay a hand on her.”
Oh, really? Shadowstar asked.
Shut up. As long as they believe it, who cares? The goblins looked nervous. They kept glancing from Jig to Grell and back again. He held his breath, hoping it would be enough. If not . . . if they didn’t believe him . . .
“Yeah,” Braf piped up. “And then I’ll kill you.” He was unarmed, but he pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. Whatever else he might be, Braf was a big goblin. The crowd began to mutter.
One of the hobgoblin swords floated from the pile of weapons and began to spin. Veka stepped forward to stand beside Braf. She didn’t try to shout, but every other voice in the cavern went silent to listen. “But before he kills you, I’ll seize control of your body. I’ll make you smile as you eat your own limbs.” The sword cut an arc through the air, driving the goblins back. “Cooked or raw, it’s your choice.”
The goblins backed down. A new pile of steel began to grow next to Grell. Jig knew most of the goblins were keeping knives or other weapons hidden, just as the hobgoblins were doing, but hopefully it would be enough. Given how sensitive the pixies had been to the touch of steel, they shouldn’t need to line every bit of the cave. Just enough to disrupt their magic.
He turned to Grell. “Now will you be chief?”
Grell muttered and spat.
“I watched you,” Jig said, lowering his voice. “You helped Braf. You helped me. You were the one who convinced the goblins to follow my orders. You know how to get them to do what you want. I don’t.”
He looked around. “You care. You won’t let them die. You’ll keep them safe and make them stronger.” He swallowed, remembering what Shadowstar had told him. Angry as he was, he couldn’t ignore the truth in Shadowstar’s words. “We can’t keep going on the way we have.”
He held his breath. If he were in Grell’s position, he would ram that knife right into Jig’s belly. Sure, Jig and Braf and Veka had all sworn to avenge her death, but that didn’t do anything to change the fact of her death, did it? Most goblins would be too afraid of Jig’s bluff and the others’ threats to do anything, but there were always a few clever enough to trick another goblin into doing their dirty work. Jig would have to keep an eye on those.
Grell poked him with her cane again. “If I’m going to be chief, I’m going to enjoy it. Grab me a pitcher of klak beer and a plate of Arnor.”
Beside her the hobgoblin chief chuckled and turned his attention back to the growing pile of weapons and armor. Mostly weapons . . . neither hobgoblins nor goblins worried too much about armor. Jig reached around to rub the spot where Grop had stabbed him. Maybe he ought to snatch a scrap of armor for himself before all that steel went back to Straum’s cave . . .
Two beers and a bit of heavily spiced ogre meat later, Jig was sneaking out of the hobgoblin lair toward home. Smudge sat on his shoulder, happily charring the scrap of meat Jig had saved for him.
“Jig, wait.” Veka hurried after him, carrying a borrowed muck lantern. Blue light illuminated the tunnel, nearly washing out the few specks of orange that swirled around her head. “Pixie bugs,” she muttered. “They were all over Straum’s cave.”
Jig didn’t answer. She couldn’t be planning to ask him about magic again. Whatever tricks Jig could do, Veka had clearly surpassed him. So what could she possibly want?
“Jig . . .” She grabbed his arm and dragged him to one side of the tunnel.
Jig tensed, suddenly very aware that he still hadn’t replaced his sword.
But Veka only sighed and looked away. Her huge body seemed to deflate a bit.
“Jig, Braf told me what you did. How you led the goblins through the nest and killed the pixie queen.”
Jig nodded, still unsure where this was going. For a moment, he nearly panicked, thinking Veka might somehow still be under pixie control, here to avenge his attack on the queen.
She swallowed, and her eyes shone. “How did you do it?” she asked softly. “I needed all of my magic just to survive, and even then . . . even then, Slash had to help me. I needed a hobgoblin’s help to keep me alive long enough to kill the giant snake and destroy their gateway. I had all that power at my fingertips, and you had nothing. I know you couldn’t talk to your god. You had no magic, nothing but a few goblins and some old weapons to fight an entire army of pixies and ogres, not to mention the queen herself, and you won. You killed her.”
Jig touched his spectacles. “I was lucky.”
Veka shook her head so vehemently her hair whipped Jig’s face. “Nobody is that lucky.” She patted her apron as though she was searching for something, and then her shoulders slumped even more. “In The Path of the Hero Josca wrote a list of one hundred heroic deeds. I read it so many times I could list the top ten in my sleep.”
She closed her eyes. “For deed number one, Josca wrote, ‘The mark of the true Hero, the one feat that
scores above all others on the dimensions of courage, strength, cunning, and sheer nobility, is the slaying of an evil dragon.’ ”
With a weary sigh, she looked at him and said, “You’re a Hero, Jig. A scrawny, half blind, weak runt with no real magic to speak of, but still a Hero.”
“Thanks,” said Jig.
She shook her head again. “You don’t understand.”
Should he tell her the only reason he had survived his encounter with the pixie queen was because of his spectacles? Or that if she examined every one of his so-called victories, what had kept him alive wasn’t strength or nobility, but pure, unadulterated cowardice?
Veka swatted another bug. “I always thought you were weak. Hiding in your temple, letting Kralk bully you, flinching away from the larger goblins. I never wanted to be like you. But ever since you came back from your adventure, I wanted . . .” Her voice trailed off. Jig wasn’t sure, but he thought she had said, “I wanted to be you.”
“Veka, what—”
“I lost my spellbook. I lost Josca’s book. I even lost that ridiculous cloak.” She cocked her head to one side. “Which is probably for the best. That thing was too heavy for these caves. The material doesn’t breathe at all, and I was always drenched in sweat. But, Jig, what am I supposed to do now?”
“I’m sure Grell wouldn’t mind if you took one of Kralk’s old outfits.”
Veka rolled her eyes. “I thought . . . I wanted to go on adventures and save our people and discover ancient treasures and all that. But you’re the Hero, not me. I’m not the one who killed the queen or slew the dragon. I—”
“Veka, I didn’t kill the stupid dragon,” Jig blurted.
She froze with her mouth half open. “What?”
Jig grimaced as he sang a bit of that blasted song, “ ‘While others fled, Jig grabbed a spear, and he threw.’ The song doesn’t say I actually killed Straum.”
