by Mel Odom
Concerned by their prisoner’s antics, the goblinkin halted. Sebble raised his torch and looked at Wick. “What are ye about, halfer?”
“Something’s on me!” Wick cried, jumping and flopping his elbows—which was all he could manage with his hands bound behind him. “I think I was bitten by a goldengreed weed!”
Anxiously, the goblinkin stepped back. That didn’t help because Sebble kept a firm grip on the rope and yanked Wick off balance. He hopped and skipped a short distance back down the trail. Instantly, the goblinkin retreated farther and started yelling threats, but that tactic didn’t do any good because Sebble kept hold of the rope and kept pulling Wick after them. Down and down they skipped, till finally the little Librarian lost his balance and fell with a thud.
Frantic, Wick rolled and accidentally tumbled into one of the craters. Suddenly the only thing keeping him from plunging into one of the volcanic vents was the hateful rope around his neck. Thankfully the goblinkin had tied it well and it was a strong rope.
But he was strangling.
“Quick!” one of the goblinkin cried. “Pull him up afore we lose our dinner!”
“Maybe we should let him go,” another suggested. “I don’t want to eat any of those weevil eggs.”
“Or we could just let him dangle a bit until he’s properly steamed. Likely as not, the meat would fall right offa the bone in a little bit.”
Wick felt like his eyes were about to pop from his head. He couldn’t breathe and hot air from the vent came close to scalding his legs. It didn’t take much for him to imagine the red-hot lava waiting only a short—or long—distance below.
Whatever was on Wick ran up his back, hooking claws into his shirt, then clung in his hair by his right ear. “Shhhhh!” Rohoh hissed. “It’s me. I came to help.”
Help? Wick thought. How is a skink going to help me? Especially since it’s the same skink that gave the goblinkin the stew recipe?
Rohoh crawled along Wick’s shoulder and hid behind his hair. “Just keep quiet,” the skink whispered. “I’ll get you out of the mess you got yourself into soon enough.”
Mess I got myself into! Wick tried to speak but couldn’t. He kicked against the side of the crater wall, trying in vain to find some kind of purchase. At the same time, he was afraid his struggles would yank the rope from the hands of the goblinkin.
“If he’s got weevils in him,” Kuuch said as if he’d given the matter grave consideration, “we could just lop off that part. Would mean we’d have less to share, but I’d still like to have me dinner. I worked up an appetite just bringin’ it this far.”
“Ggggghhhhhh!” Wick managed. Even he didn’t know what he was trying to say, but he felt certain something had to be said.
“I wasn’t bitten,” Rohoh called up. “It was a mosquito.”
“All that noise over a mosquito?” Sebble pushed his ugly face over the crater’s edge and peered down with the torch in hand. “Ye’ve got mighty sensitive skin, halfer.”
“Yes,” Rohoh said. “It just means I’ll be more tender.”
“Tender is good.”
Strength drained from Wick. He thought this was the end after all. In Hanged Elf’s Point, he’d escaped the slave market (he’d had help, of course, but that was beside the point) and here in the Cinder Clouds Islands, he couldn’t even make it into a goblinkin stewpot.
“Pull me up,” Rohoh cried again.
“All right,” Sebble told his companions, “heave ho.”
Wick thought his head was going to separate from his shoulders when they started pulling him up, but it didn’t. By the time he reached the top of the crater and solid ground again, his tongue was protruding from his mouth.
The goblinkin loosened the rope around his neck and peered down at him.
“Is he dead?” Kuuch asked. “If he’s dead, maybe we could just eat him here. Doesn’t make much sense to cook him if he’s dead. Now I can work me up an appetite watchin’ him flop around in the stewpot when the water gets hot.”
“He was talkin’,” Sebble argued. He kicked Wick in the head. “Are ye alive, halfer?”
“Yes,” Wick croaked, even though he couldn’t believe it. “I’m … alive.”
“Good. Now get up an’ walk. We got a stewpot waitin’ on ye.”
6
The Goblinkin Chef
Weak and hurting, Wick finally stumbled to the goblinkin lair in a cave formed from a large vent hole at the top of the island. Ten other goblinkin sat around a large fire made of timbers that looked like they’d once belonged to a ship.
“What’s that ye got, Sebble?” one of the other goblinkin asked. The foul creature stood up and hitched up the belt around his bulging waistline that held up his ragged breeches.
“Dinner,” Sebble said. “Thought I smelt me a halfer, an’ I did.”
“Bring him over here.”
Barely able to stand, Wick walked over to the fire and stood while the goblinkin poked and prodded him with callused fingers.
“Ye got a scrawny little thing,” one of the goblinkin said. “Couldn’t ye a-taken a better one?”
“This ’un was the only one there was.” Sebble pulled Wick back, then stepped in front of him. The goblinkin’s hand tightened around his club. “He’s ours, Hesst. We foun’ him an’ we catched him.”
“You a-gonna roast him?” another goblinkin asked.
“Thought we’d make stew,” Kuuch answered.
“Well then,” a particularly loutish goblinkin said with a grin, “if ye’re a-gonna be makin’ stew, ye’ll be wantin’ to use me stewpot.” He tapped a foot lazily against the heavy iron cauldron sitting crookedly against the wall.
“We do,” Sebble said.
“I can let ye use the stewpot,” the goblinkin offered, “but it’s gonna cost ye.”
“What’s it gonna cost?”
“A few bowls o’ stew, ’course.”
Angrily, Sebble pinched one of Wick’s arms. “Ye can see for yerself there ain’t much here, Ookool. We’ll be lucky to have enough for ourselves.”
“If’n ye roast him, ye’re gonna lose a lot of the fat to the fire,” Ookool pointed out. “The fat’s some of the most flavorful. That’s why makin’ a stew out of him is such a good idea.”
Wick couldn’t believe he was standing there listening to the goblinkin figuring out how best to serve him. And where was Cap’n Farok and the crew of One-Eyed Peggie? Shouldn’t they be putting in an appearance about now?
“I’d really like a nice stew,” Droos said. “I kinda had me heart set on it.”
Sebble sighed as if put upon. “All right. We’ll make stew. Ookool, we’ll use yer stewpot an’ ye can have a bowlful or two. We’ll be needin’ some vegetables, too. Some potatoes an’ carrots …”
“Salt an’ pepper,” Droos added.
“An’ onions an’ firepears,” Kuuch put in.
Sebble tied Wick to the kettle and went searching for ingredients. The goblinkin set about their savage scavenger hunt. There were a number of ale kegs, proof they’d taken cargo from ships.
As they sorted out the vegetables, Wick spotted the broken bones piled against one of the cave walls. Evidently the goblinkin had been getting by on fish, turtles, dwellers, and dwarves.
“Get a grip,” the skink said from his hiding place beneath Wick’s hair. “I’ve got a plan.”
“If they put me in that stewpot,” Wick promised, “I’m taking you with me.”
Rohoh snorted derisively at that.
“What’s the plan?” Wick asked.
“They’re not going to cook you with the rope around your neck and wrists,” Rohoh said. “When they take it off—run!”
Wick shook his head. The goblinkin were more successful in their hunt for side dishes than he’d thought. The vegetables were piling up in front of the stewpot, which Ookool was filling with fresh water from the barrel they had.
“That’s it?” Wick asked in disgust. “That’s your big plan? Run for it?”
“If you get a better idea,” the skink said, sounding miffed, “maybe you should let me know.”
Watching the goblinkin bring up the vegetables, Wick suddenly remembered a story he’d read in Hralbomm’s Wing. Actually, the tale had gotten handed down through several different cultures that had written it up.
Thinking quickly, Wick latched hold of a desperate idea. He tried to be calm and rational, but it was hard to when presented with becoming the main course for goblinkin gluttony.
“Wait!” Wick yelled.
The goblinkin all frowned at him.
“I hate food that talks,” Ookool grumped.
Several of the other goblinkin agreed.
“Have you ever eaten dweller surprise?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Wick wished he’d remembered the name of another dish. He needed something more exotic if he was going to get their interest. But smoked dweller, dweller al fresco, and—especially—shredded dweller or blackened dweller sounded worse.
The goblinkin looked at each other.
“Have ye ever had dweller surprise?” one asked.
“No, not me. But I’ve surprised a few now an’ again.”
“I can fix dweller surprise!” Wick yelled.
“Ye can?” a goblinkin asked. He turned and nudged the fellow next to him. “Hey, the dweller says he can fix dweller surprise.”
A large goblinkin with a prodigious belly shoved through the others till he stood in front of Wick. Judging from the finger and toe on his necklace, he was the chief of the goblinkin tribe. “Ye can make dweller surprise?”
Wick swallowed hard. His legs trembled. “I can. I’ve fixed it before.”
“Have you?” Rohoh whispered in his ear. “Well, now that’s just disgusting. Craugh really left me in the dark on this one. I bet you’re a real favorite at all the goblinkin parties.”
Wick shook his head, trying in vain to dislodge the skink.
“Well,” the chief said, scratching the tuft of hair that grew on his bony chin.
“C’mon, chief,” Droos said, rubbing his belly in anticipation. “Let him fix the dweller surprise. Ye can’ have the first servin’.”
The chief slapped Droos and made him yelp. “I get the first servin’ anyway,” the chief snorted.
But the other goblinkin joined in, all clamoring for dweller surprise.
“Okay then,” the chief grudgingly gave in. “Ye can fix the dweller surprise, but if ’n ye mess it up—” Here he drew a scarred forefinger across his own throat.
“Wouldn’t you already be dead after you make the dweller surprise?” Rohoh asked.
Not if I can help it, Wick thought.
A few minutes later, after some of the feeling had returned to his hands, Wick stood on an empty ale keg in front of the kettle. The keg didn’t sit terribly well on the uneven cave floor and he risked falling into the kettle every time he moved. Beneath the scorched iron bottom, flames licked out. Heat played over him. The goblinkin had even found a chef’s hat in the piles of clothing they used as bedding. Chief Zoobi had plunked it on Wick’s head. Overall, Wick was not happy about his current situation.
“Careful, you little cannibal,” the skink hissed.
“I’m not a cannibal,” Wick whispered back angrily.
“Why? You fix dweller surprise but you don’t eat it?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
Chief Zoobi glared at Wick. “Were ye a-talkin’ to me, halfer?”
“Noooooo,” Wick replied, smiling charitably. “I was talking to myself.”
“Wouldn’t make a habit of it if ’n I was ye.”
On the verge of going into a goblinkin kettle for dweller surprise, I wouldn’t think any habits would be forthcoming. But Wick kept that observation to himself. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I need the potatoes now.”
While he’d been waiting for his hands to return to life, the goblinkin had been busy preparing vegetables at his direction. They handed over buckets of potatoes, some of them black with bruising. Wick didn’t hesitate; he poured them into the bubbling kettle, then he stirred the pot with a ship’s oar that was barely big enough for the job. The kettle was easily big enough for him to swim in.
“And some ale,” Wick said.
“Ale?” Zoobi asked.
“Ale.” Wick nodded. “It will help season the meat.”
After a little grumbling, one of the ale kegs was broken open. Wick poured a bucket into the kettle. Then, as he’d hoped, the goblinkin fell to and quickly helped themselves to the rest of the ale. He stirred the kettle while they finished off the keg.
“Carrots,” he called.
The goblinkin brought the carrots by the bucketful.
“More ale,” Wick said.
“More ale?” the chief asked.
“If you want the true dweller surprise instead of a pale imitation,” Wick said.
Another keg was opened. Another bucket was passed up to Wick, who poured it into the kettle and began stirring again.
While the goblinkin waited on their stew, they helped themselves to the open keg.
Wick started a song while he stirred, keeping an eye on the goblinkin.
Dweller surprise!
Dweller surprise!
Oh what a feast
For our hungry eyes!
Dweller surprise!
Dweller surprise!
It’s warm and good,
I’ll tell you no lies!
All of the goblinkin just looked at him.
“Onions,” Wick called out. “And another bucket of ale.”
They passed along the buckets of onions, then opened another keg of ale. He repeated the process with the salt and the pepper, asking for a bucket of ale after each. The kettle slopped over the sides from time to time. Steam boiled up as the liquid hit the flaming boards under the kettle. He stirred for a long time, hoping the ale the goblinkin had drunk would start to affect them, all the while singing his song over and over.
“Your singing really stinks,” Rohoh muttered.
“They don’t think so,” Wick whispered back.
Several of the goblinkin started singing the “Dweller Surprise Song” in off-key voices. It sounded like several cats getting strangled at once. But they were singing.
“Firepears,” Wick yelled, knowing it was the last ingredient before they plopped him in.
“Firepears!” the goblinkin yelled happily. This time when they formed a line to pass the firepears along, they weaved and swayed unsteadily. Several firepears spilled out of the buckets.
Wick led the song again, and this time the goblinkin readily joined in. After he poured the last of the firepears in, he called for more ale.
The ingredient caused a minor celebration. The goblinkin sang even louder. Wick gave them another song to sing.
Ale for me!
Ale for you!
Wouldn’t you like to drink
Ale from a shoe?
Learning the song almost at once, the goblinkin joined in and their raucous voices filled the lair.
“You’ve gotten them drunk,” Rohoh said.
“Yes,” Wick agreed.
“Well that’s stupid. Goblinkin are mean drunks.”
“They’re singing right now.”
“If that’s what you call it. This is still stupid.”
“Want me to tell them that the last secret ingredient is skink?”
“No.”
“Then be quiet and let me get us out of here.” Wick stood atop the keg and turned to face the goblinkin. “Hey.”
They looked up at him.
“Is it soup yet?” one of the goblinkin asked.
“Put the dweller in,” another suggested.
“No,” Wick said, holding his hands up. “It’s got to simmer for a while. I need more wood for the fire and another bucket of ale.”
The goblinkin lurched to fulfill his requests. Several of them shook his hand and thanked him for his time. A number of them told him the
concoction bubbling merrily in the kettle was the finest thing they’d ever smelled. Then the latest keg of ale made the rounds.
Wick stirred some more, listening to the drunken versions of the songs he’d made up, and grew more hopeful about his plan. Then he turned to the goblinkin and put his hands together, clapping to a definite beat.
“It’s time to dance!” Wick yelled out.
Crying out in excitement, the goblinkin raced around the lair. Three of them grabbed leather-covered drums and started laying down a fast-paced beat.
“Do ye know how to dance, halfer?” Chief Zoobi asked, grinning wildly.
“Yes,” Wick replied.
“Then show us a dance step while we wait on the dweller surprise to cook.”
Astounded, too surprised for a moment to even think straight, Wick listened to the rapid beat. Then he began a Swalian Grassroots Elven Clan dance that he’d choreographed in a recent book.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rohoh asked.
Wick waved his arms around. “Saving my life,” he whispered to the skink.
“You’ve got an odd way of doing it.”
Ignoring the comment, Wick tried to stay erect on his trembling knees. He’d mixed in all the ingredients. All that was left to finish off the dweller surprise was tossing in the dweller.
The goblinkin had trouble following the convoluted dance steps and gave up, complaining loudly. Upon reflection, Wick admitted that perhaps he’d selected the wrong dance. The Swalian Grassroots elves were given to complicated movements.
“You’re losing them,” Rohoh said. “They’re going to want stew soon.” The skink abandoned his position behind Wick’s head and ran down his body to stand on the keg. He stood on his back legs and looked up at Wick. “Get off the keg. You don’t have any rhythm.”
Reluctantly, Wick abandoned his post. He jumped down and nearly lost the chef’s hat. He pushed it back to the top of his head. So far, that hat was the only thing that marked him as something other than a stew ingredient.
