by Jim C. Hines
“You hear me?” Porak glared at Jig. “You have to be tough.” He shoved Jig into the wall.
With a harsh laugh, he added, “But even the weak have their uses. This one’s going to run ahead to flush out any game. Our own little hunting dog.”
Porak pulled out a set of dice, which brought cheers from the others. “We’ll stay here, to protect the lair. If you find anything, we’ll be along to do the fighting. All you have to do is stay alive long enough for us to rescue you. Go get ’em, dog.”
The other goblins quickly picked up the chant, some barking while others punched and kicked at him. Jig covered his head and ran, Porak’s loud voice following after.
“If you see anyone, make sure you scream before they kill you.”
Jig’s bare feet slapped against the tunnel floor. His ears burned as he put distance between himself and the others, but their jeers seemed to follow on his heels.
“Do we really want to send a runt to do a dog’s job?”
“Scrawny bitch, isn’t it?”
At least now Jig understood what was going on. He knew why he had been chosen to go with the patrol tonight. They wanted him to check the tunnels so they could play their games. This way they could carouse through the night without, technically, ignoring their duty.
Actually it wasn’t a bad idea, which made Jig suspect someone other than Porak had come up with it. Porak was tough and mean, but he would lose a battle of wits with his own shadow.
Jig reached up to make sure Smudge was still there. He scratched one of the spider’s legs as he walked. “Too bad I can’t teach you to burn on command. I’d love to slip you into Porak’s trousers one of these nights.”
He reconsidered. Some things were too evil even for a goblin. He couldn’t do that to poor Smudge.
“If Porak were smart, he would have brought me in on his plan. How does he know I won’t tell the chief what he’s up to?” Jig stopped to rest for a minute. “No, even Porak isn’t that stupid. If he gets in trouble, he’ll know who told. Next time he’ll put me into the muck pot.”
He extinguished his torch on the floor and started walking again, taking a left at the first fork, then two rights. He let his ears and his memory guide him through the dark tunnels.
“Maybe I could blackmail him instead. Threaten to tell the chief if Porak doesn’t do what I want.” He grinned. Porak was big and important. If Jig could get Porak on his side, life would get a lot nicer. No more sleeping by the entrance, where the draft froze his feet every night. No more waiting at the end of the food line so that his meal was nothing but bones, gristle, and the occasional lump of fat.
“No more getting sent ahead on patrol while the others gamble.”
Maybe he’d even get a real sword instead of the stupid kitchen knife he carried now. He pulled the knife out of his belt and swung at an imaginary foe. He could almost hear the hiss of the broadsword. He ducked, thrust, and attacked again.
“Help me,” Porak would say as two adventurers backed him into a corner. Jig grinned and crossed the tunnel to rescue his captain. He took one adventurer from behind. The other was meaner. He put up quite a fight before Jig’s sword caught him in the chest. Jig raised his weapon in triumph as the adventurer gasped and died. Back in the lair, everyone would talk about his heroic battle. They would ask him to lead patrols of his own, and say things like—
“Be patient, lad. You’ve gone and made me lose count. I’ll have to start again.”
Jig jumped. The reality of his small kitchen knife replaced his daydreams of battle and luxury. He pressed himself against the wall and swiveled his ears forward to better hear the voices ahead.
“By all the gods, do not allow me to interfere, oh wise one. Perhaps you’d like to wait while I summon a calligrapher to assist you. And you’ll want an artist to paint another scene of old Earthmaker.”
“Enough. We’re not going anywhere until I finish my map, and I’ll not be able to do that until you get out of my way.”
Jig clutched his knife in both hands. Two voices. The first one sounded old and gravelly. The second was definitely human.
So what should he do? Screaming was out of the question, despite Porak’s orders. Sure, it would alert the others about the intruders. It would also alert the intruders about Jig. That was a problem. Humans had longer legs, and therefore longer strides, so Jig’s chances of making it back to the other goblins were slim.
He knew how long he would last against real warriors. About as long as the average fly lasted once Smudge trapped it in his web.
Speaking of Smudge, Jig didn’t know if the fire-spider could sense Jig’s own anxiety, or if he had heard the intruders down the tunnel, but the top of Jig’s head was growing uncomfortably warm.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry.” Jig backed away from the voices as quietly as he could. His free hand went up to pet the spider.
That turned out to be a mistake. Smudge apparently didn’t see Jig’s hand coming, and when his fingers touched the spider’s fuzzy thorax, Smudge curled into a frightened ball. With an audible whoosh, Jig’s hair lit up like oil-soaked rags.
The knife clattered to the floor. Smudge leaped away. Jig yelped and tried to beat out the flames. Crazy shadows danced on the walls and floor, and he spotted Smudge racing toward the opposite wall. “Stupid spider,” he shouted. He wasn’t worried about the intruders anymore. Not with his hair ablaze. If they caught him, maybe they’d at least extinguish his head before they killed him.
“Ow, ow, ow.” He smacked at the flames, trying not to burn his hands. The fire had died down when Smudge fled, and Jig soon managed to put himself out. Unfortunately the blaze had taken most of his hair with it. His scalp was tender and blistered, but he didn’t seem to be bleeding.
Jig leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. “What’s the matter with you?” he whispered in Smudge’s general direction. “You have eight eyes. Eight! How could you not see my hand? I’m the blind one. What were you doing up there, daydreaming? I should let Golaka make a pot pie out of you.”
Smudge skittered back and climbed up his leg. As he reached Jig’s waist, Jig snagged him and lifted him to eye level. The spider waved his legs and pincers, almost like he had understood Jig’s halfhearted threat. Which was possible, Jig admitted. The spider was at least as smart as Porak. “That’s the last time I bring you along on patrol.”
Smudge’s head and legs drooped.
With a disgusted sigh, Jig set the spider on his shoulder. “Just try not to set me on fire again, okay?”
Only then did it occur to Jig to wonder why he could see everything so well. His own aborted blaze had lit the tunnel well enough, but it should have ruined his dark-vision. In fact, if it weren’t for the torchlight behind him, he would be completely blind.
His first theory was that Porak and the others had come to see what was wrong. But they would have started laughing at Jig’s misfortune. Since Jig heard no laughter, whoever had come up behind him wasn’t a goblin. What was the expression surface-dwellers used at times like this?
“Oh, dung.” He turned around.
It was the human he had heard earlier. In one hand the human held a blazing torch. The other pointed a long sword at Jig. A long, gleaming, very sharp sword. Jig bet the blade didn’t wobble in its handle either.
“Draw a weapon or cry out for aid and you’ll never draw breath again.”
Jig blinked. What was he going to do, scramble for his kitchen knife? He should probably call for help though. Porak’s orders. He had to warn the others. It was his duty.
It was an awfully big sword.
“A wise choice. Turn around, and walk into that room up there.”
The human followed him to the room Jig had always thought of as the shiny room. Tiny glass tiles, no larger than his fingernails, covered the entire ceiling in sparkles of color. The ceiling domed upward, and the swirls of blue, green, and red all merged into a spectacular fireburst at the center.
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Even with a sword at his back, Jig couldn’t help but look up as he entered. The adventurers had a small fire going, and the reflected firelight danced on the tiles, turning them into a thousand jewels.
“What’s this?” It was the gravelly voice Jig had heard earlier, and it came from a four-foot tall mountain of muscle, armor, and tangled black hair. In other words, a dwarf.
“I found him snooping up yonder passage.” The human sheathed his sword. “Not much of a spy. He set himself aflame in his panic.”
The dwarf laughed. In barely understandable Goblin, he asked “You lived here long?” Without waiting for an answer, he jumped to his feet and waved a large sheet of parchment in Jig’s face. “We’ve got ourselves a room here that’s thirteen and a half paces by twelve paces with a door in each wall. I don’t suppose you’d be knowing which of those doors will take us to the deep tunnels?”
Jig shook his head and backed into a corner. “I was lost myself,” he lied.
The human laughed again. “Probably true, Darnak. Even for a goblin, he has the look of a kitchen drudge. Perhaps a bit thick in the head as well.”
Darnak shook his head. “I’ve thought the same of you from time to time, Barius Wendelson. That doesn’t make you any less dangerous.”
“How dare you speak to me in such tones?” All traces of mirth vanished from Barius’s face. He started to take a step forward, but Darnak beat him to it, leaving him with one foot in the air and no place to put it if he didn’t want to step on the dwarf.
“I’ve known you since you were a stripling,” Darnak said, grabbing an iron-banded club and waving it under Barius’s nose. “Prince or no, I’ll still crack your skull if need be.”
While they bickered, Jig took the opportunity to look around. He had no doubt that their quarrel would end instantly if he tried to run, but at least he could get a better idea what he was up against.
The human was . . . polished was the best word Jig could come up with. His chain mail gleamed silver, every link a mirrored ring. The jeweled hilt of his sword was wrapped in gold wire, and the pommel had been molded into the shape of a lion’s head. His knee-high boots were soft black leather, and the purple velvet tights looked as expensive as the rest of the outfit. They also looked ridiculous and uncomfortable, but who was Jig to criticize human fashion?
Barius was strong, broad in the shoulders and trim around the waist. What Jig had first taken to be a black hat was actually his hair, cut in a perfectly straight circle around his head. His goatee was trimmed into a point so sharp you could use it for a weapon.
The dwarf looked the meaner of the two. The scale mail he wore under his white robe appeared battered but well cared for. Jig could see where many of the scales had been replaced over time. Likewise, his war club was nicked in several places, as though it had turned aside sword blades or crushed more than a few skulls. As for Darnak himself, a black tangle of hair hid most of his face. His skin was a leathery brown color. A crooked nose, almost as large as a goblin’s, poked over a bushy mustache and beard. Jig could see two piggish eyes hidden beneath caterpillar brows.
Jig saw a third member to their party as he looked around. A skinny elf sat by the fire with his knees to his chest. He ignored the argument, the goblin, everything but the flames. His old trousers and torn shirt were as poor as Barius’s clothes were fine, and his red hair was cut short and ragged. His face was odd, and it took several seconds for Jig to figure out why. Surface types insisted on wearing at least eight layers of clothing, which made Jig wonder how many hours they spent dressing themselves. All those clothes made it harder to tell, but if he wasn’t mistaken, “he” was actually a “she.”
What her role in the group was, Jig hadn’t a clue. She was clearly the least threatening, but she could still be dangerous. She looked nothing like the graceful, slender elves of legend. For a second, he wondered if she might be some subrace he had never heard of. He knew there were different types of elves: forest elves, mountain elves, and so on. But urchin elves?
“So what do we do with him, Your Majesty?” Darnak asked.
That caught Jig’s full attention. Since the elf was a she, there was only one “him” they could be talking about.
“Safest to slay him,” Barius said slowly. “Though perhaps he could be of use to us. Idiot or no, he knows more of these tunnels than we do. At worst, he can precede us to lull the suspicions of any creatures we encounter. Still, I dislike the idea of a goblin in our group.”
Jig crossed his arms and clung to hope. As long as he was alive, there was still a chance. Porak and the others might still find him. The other goblins were armed, and they outnumbered the intruders four to one. Even goblins might triumph at those odds. All they had to do was come looking. If they bothered to notice Jig hadn’t come back. If they weren’t too caught up in their games. If they had the brains to figure out what was going on.
Jig groaned and sat down on the floor. He was, without a doubt, a dead goblin.
CHAPTER 2
Barius’s Vital Weakness
Jig had endured many unpleasant things, from cleaning up after drunk goblins who didn’t make it to the privy in time to those nights when Golaka decided to sing as she cooked. None of it had prepared Jig to sit helpless while his captors debated whether or not to kill him.
“He could help us,” Darnak said. “Look at Riana. She picked the lock on that gate just as neat as you could ask. Rumor has it the path we want is ‘cloaked in watery darkness’—maybe he knows where it is.”
“Perhaps he does. But a world of difference exists between an elf, even one of her status, and a goblin.” Barius glanced at Riana, who listened to the conversation as intently as Jig. “You should be watching for other monsters, girl.”
Other monsters. That they thought of Jig as a monster cheered him up a little. Monster was a step up from “nuisance,” which was how most adventurers categorized Jig’s kind.
“To invite a goblin to join us is to invite treachery, cowardice, and deceit into our beds,” Barius pronounced. “What help he could provide does not justify the risk.”
“Ha. As if you’ve ever gotten anyone into your bed without flashing around your gold and your title.”
Jig tried to bite back a laugh and wound up choking instead. Barius whirled while Jig coughed and fought for breath. The human’s pale lips thinned, but then he shrugged and turned back to the dwarf. He doesn’t know I understand their language, Jig realized, thankful for the days when the older goblins would sit around and test the younger ones’ use of Human, the dominant language of the surface-dwellers. Each misspoken word earned a kick to the behind.
“Knowing what your enemy says could keep you alive,” one goblin had said as Jig lay sprawled on the floor. With a hard laugh, he added, “But it probably won’t.”
More to protect his bruised body than to gain an advantage over his future enemies, Jig had learned quickly.
Before Prince Barius could resume his argument, Darnak held up a meaty hand and said, “I’d just as soon send him to hell, Your Majesty, as I would a snake who slipped into the palace. But even a snake has its uses. You’ve always been quick to throw things away without thinking. This is no game, and we could get killed down here faster than you can piss yourself.”
“Granted,” Barius said, sounding like he wanted to hit something. “But perhaps you’ve not heard your own words? That is precisely the reason I feel we should eliminate the goblin.”
“Aye. Kill the snake if you want, but then tell me how you plan to find its hole?”
Barius started to answer, then stopped himself as the dwarf’s words sank in.
“That’s right,” Darnak said. “Damn me if I’m not starting to chip through that granite skull of yours. Who knows how many of them are hiding up these tunnels? For myself, I’d rather know a bit more about what we’re walking into. Otherwise you’re likely to find yourself stepping in something unpleasant.”
Jig kept his face still as they g
lanced at him. They wanted to use him as . . . what? A guide? If so, they would likely be disappointed.
He knew some of the tunnels, of course. Every goblin did. Every goblin who survived past their twelfth year, that was.
That was the age when each goblin was taken up to neutral territory and abandoned. It was a trial to see who had learned the layout of the tunnels and corridors that twisted and branched back on one another. Many spent days wandering in the darkness. Jig himself had taken nearly eight hours to find his way back to the lair. But he had been smart. A few weeks before, he had bribed several of the older goblins with food swiped from Golaka’s kitchen. In return, they told him the tricks of the tunnels. He learned how to feel the slope of the ground and to listen for the echoes that told of open caverns. He learned the general layout well enough to avoid the hobgoblins or the lizard-fish and their lake.
He also heard many stories of the horrors that guarded the hidden tunnel to the lower caverns, and the gruesome death that waited for any goblin foolish enough to wander alone and lost through the tunnels.
“Worse than lizard-fish?” he had asked, trying not to tremble.
The older goblins laughed. “When your skin shrivels up and your bones tear out of your flesh, you’ll wish you’d died a pleasant death among the lizard-fish.”
Forty-one goblins, including Jig, went into the darkness that day. Nineteen made it back. Those with torches died first, since torchlight served as a beacon for hobgoblins and other creatures. Patrols found the bodies of a few, some killed by hobgoblin swords, others by arrows or the occasional beast that roamed the deeper tunnels. But the ugliness of those deaths was nothing compared to Jig’s nightmares about the others, the ones who were never found. There were many stories about the inhabitants of the lower tunnels. Not a single one ended happily, and most made murder by hobgoblins sound like a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Jig had memorized everything he could learn about these tunnels, and he could find his way blind and deaf. He had moved through the darkness, one hand always on the wall, relying only on his memory. That day, memory had proven stronger than fear and confusion, and Jig had made it home.
