by Jim C. Hines
“How many of your brothers survived these quests?” he asked.
“Four.”
“Three,” Ryslind corrected.
“Untrue. Thar survived.”
“Thar believed himself to be the god of the sea. He fought a master mage to the east,” Ryslind explained. “The mage died, but he took Thar’s mind with him. So our brother lived, but he developed the unfortunate habit of running nude through the palace, searching for his giant starfish. He drowned in the moat six months later. It seems that our god of the sea never learned to swim.”
“Enough,” Darnak said. He tucked his map into a long leather tube, which he slid into his belt. “We get no closer to the rod by standing here telling old tales. Goblin, which way leads to the deeper tunnels?”
Jig stopped himself before he could answer truthfully. As the saying went, truth caused more trouble than humans and hobgoblins combined. The last thing he wanted to admit was that he knew no more than they did. They wanted a guide, and a guide they would have. Anything to keep himself breathing a bit longer.
“This way,” he said, trying to sound decisive. He would have said more, but he didn’t know if he could keep his voice steady. Besides, it didn’t matter which of the three doorways they took, since all three tunnels merged anyway. Maybe this would give him time to figure out where to go once they reached hobgoblin territory.
The dwarf had said the way was cloaked in watery darkness. The only water Jig knew of was the underground lake, where the lizard-fish lived. He hoped that wasn’t where they needed to go, but considering his luck, he wouldn’t be surprised. Glancing at Smudge to make sure the fire-spider was still safe on his shoulder, Jig marched toward the doorway where he and the others had entered . . . only to be jerked short when Barius grabbed his rope and wrenched him back.
“Your enthusiasm is admirable,” Barius said wryly. “But we prefer to be prepared before charging into the shadowy bowels of the earth.”
Jig sat down and tried not to think about that image.
Darnak grabbed a lantern out of his seemingly bottomless pack and handed it to Barius. Jig stared, fascinated by the device. The lantern was a small metal box with four hinged flaps that could be left open or closed, allowing Barius to shutter the lantern completely when necessary. Or, by leaving only one flap open, the lantern could send a beam of light into the tunnels without being as obvious as a torch.
“I shall go first, accompanied by our goblin guide. Darnak will follow behind me, that he may continue to draw his map by the light of the lantern. Brother, I trust you are able to guard the rear? As well as keep an eye on our young elf, of course.”
A few scrapes of flint against steel sent sparks into the lantern to light the wick, and a yellow glow spread throughout the room. Darnak stomped out the few smoldering torches the goblins had brought with them.
“Be wary, my friends.” Barius’s brown eyes gleamed with imagined glory as he stared into the tunnel. “We have beaten the enemy’s first attack, but their resistance will only grow as we venture deeper into their nests. No doubt we will need every bit of courage, every ounce of strength, to survive.”
Jig guessed he would have gone on that way for the rest of the day if Ryslind hadn’t interrupted. “Either lead the way or hand the lantern to someone who will.”
Barius blinked. With an offended sniff, he tugged Jig along and set off into the tunnel.
Progress was much slower than Jig had expected. After an hour, they still hadn’t reached the junction of the three tunnels. Goblins in a hurry could run the distance in under ten minutes.
But goblins weren’t accompanied by a dwarven scribe, one who insisted on mapping every twist and turn, often retracing his steps so he could get a more accurate sense of the distance. By the time they finally reached the junction point, Jig wanted to scream. Bad enough to be a prisoner whose only hope at this point was to die quickly before they reached the lake. Listening to Darnak mumble to himself, “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six . . .
no wait, there’s a turn here, better pace off the inside and outside walls . . . wonder if the tunnel narrows at all . . . nope, still six paces wide . . .” was pure torture.
Worse, as a dwarf and a teacher, Darnak apparently thought it his duty to critique the stonework as they went, and he was eager to share his observations with the others. “Mahogany obsidian, definitely magic. Someone sent enough heat through this place to melt the rock itself. Even the ceilings have a layer of the stuff. Molten rock is denser, see, so Ellnorein basically burned this place into the mountain. The dark red color comes from impurities in the rock, iron and other elements.”
He stopped to hit a small hammer against the wall. Jig jumped.
“Look there, not even a scratch. Normal obsidian flakes away and leaves a nasty edge. I’m guessing that’s magic at work again. Good thing, too. If the floor were chipped and rough like normal obsidian, it would shred your feet right through those boots.”
“Wait,” Ryslind said suddenly. He held up a hand, cutting off Darnak’s insights on the buildup of dirt and dust by generations of goblins. Taking the lantern, he shone a light back down the tunnel. “There should be bodies here. I shot at least six goblins before joining you.”
“You only now noticed their absence, brother?” Barius grabbed his sword. “Your powers of observation continue to astound me.”
Darnak knelt to study the ground. No trace of blood showed on the floor.
“Could we have passed the corpses without noticing?” Barius asked skeptically.
“Nah. I’d have drawn them on the map.”
“I can understand coming back to collect the bodies,” Ryslind said, looking at Jig. “But would your people have cleaned the blood from the floors?”
“Why would we return for goblin dead?” Jig asked. “We’ve eaten well these past days.”
Only Riana seemed to catch the implications of Jig’s words. She turned slightly green and clutched her hands tightly to her stomach.
“To give them a proper burial,” Barius said.
“You bury your dead?” Jig stared, trying to understand. Well, the surface was probably easier to dig than the impenetrable rock of the mountain. Still that sounded like so much more work than leaving the bodies for the carrion-worms.
“Not always,” Darnak said. “At times they’re burned on a funeral pyre so their sparks can rise to the heavens.”
“That’s disgusting,” Jig said without thinking.
Darnak stiffened, and the humans wore matching expressions of anger, their eyes narrowed and their lips tight.
“Those who want to keep breathing know it’s not a wise thing to be mocking dwarven rituals, goblin.”
Jig swallowed. “I only meant . . . well, the smell. Burning hair and skin.” His own hair had been bad enough when Smudge vaporized it. The idea of burning an entire body was enough to turn his stomach.
The dwarf’s eyes were wide with shock. “And how do goblins honor the dead? What, did your friends throw the bodies into a pit somewhere to rot?”
“They’re only bodies,” Jig said quietly. He wanted to shrink into the shadows, like Riana was doing. With everyone’s attention squarely on him, that was impossible. He didn’t know what he had said to anger everyone, but he knew he had better calm them down quickly. “We leave them for the carrion-worms.”
“For the worms,” Darnak repeated quietly. “ ’Tis an offense against the gods, even for goblins.”
Jig wanted to argue, but that would only fuel their anger. Better to stare at the floor and hope they didn’t decide to punish him for whatever offense it was that goblins had committed. The gods had never complained, so why should these adventurers? It wasn’t like goblins left human and dwarven bodies for the worms. Dead adventurers were things to be valued and treasured. Especially warriors, who often carried enough muscle to make an entire meal by themselves.
He started to explain, then noticed Riana, who still looked a bit nauseated. Maybe the
y wouldn’t take kindly to hearing that, if they died, they would end up in Golaka’s cauldron. But if they didn’t want to be left for the worms and they didn’t want to fill goblin bellies, they should go somewhere else to die.
The thought of Golaka reminded him of the smells of the kitchen, and in that instant he felt a wash of homesickness stronger than anything he had ever experienced. He would have given anything to be back in the lair, stealing just one sip from Golaka’s huge stirring spoon, tasting the tender meat and tangy broth. He eyed Darnak and tried not to think about the last time he had tasted fresh dwarf.
“The tunnel splits,” Barius said, raising his lantern so they could see the dark openings up ahead. “Which way, guide?”
Thankful for the change of subject, Jig hurried to the front and stared at the two tunnels. The right branch was one he knew well. Depending on the turns they took, that tunnel would take them back to goblin territory. Other branchings led to the hobgoblins, an abandoned storeroom now infested with giant rats, and eventually to the lake. The left path could go anywhere.
Older goblins had a saying: Go with the danger you know, for that’s easier to run away from.
“To the right,” Jig said, hoping he sounded confident. That tunnel wasn’t exactly safe, either. If the other survivor of Porak’s patrol had made it back, the goblins might have sent another patrol into the tunnels. That wouldn’t cause much trouble for the adventurers, since the second patrol would likely follow the same thick-headed tactics as Captain Porak. If Jig were lucky, he wouldn’t survive their suicidal attack. If not, the adventurers would probably believe that he had led them into a trap. Barius in particular would love an excuse to cut Jig’s throat.
But goblins were a practical bunch. If the adventurers had killed one patrol, they might decide not to waste a second. Let the hobgoblins finish ’em off.
Which led him to the other danger. Hobgoblins were an angry, vicious, territorial lot. They wouldn’t let anyone pass without a fight. Still better to go with the danger you know. . . .
Ahead, Darnak jumped. “By Earthmaker’s hammer, what manner of beast is that?”
Jig looked where Darnak was pointing. “Oh. Carrion-worm. Old one, from the looks of it.”
“You permit that to consume your dead?” Barius said.
Jig shrugged, not wanting to continue that discussion. Carrion-worms resembled oversize white caterpillars. This one was about five feet long, and most of its round segments were bloated, probably with the remains of Porak’s patrol. Each segment had a circular mouth on the underside and four black feet, two of which the worm used to shovel food into its mouth while keeping the other two on the floor for balance. When they grew too long, the worms would reproduce by breaking apart, sometimes into as many as six or seven shorter worms. At other times, when food was scarce, they turned on each other, and many starving worms became a single, well-fed carrion-worm. An elegant cycle, and one which kept the tunnels clean.
Carrion-worms were blind, but their senses of smell and hearing were uncanny. They could sense a battle from the other side of the mountain, and they never left so much as a drop of blood.
This one had been munching on a splinter of bone, probably a bit of goblin it had dragged here to enjoy. At the sound of the adventurers’ voices, it clutched the bone with the feet of its middle segments and ran into the darkness, moving like an overgrown inchworm.
“It eats even the weapons and clothing?” Barius asked.
“The clothing, yes,” Jig said. “Weapons they take back to their nests. They like the feel of metal.”
“What’s that?” Riana pointed to a thin trail of liquid on the floor.
“Worm piss,” Jig said. Her nose wrinkled. “They use it to mark their path. They can find their way back by following the smell, even in the dark.”
Ryslind was the only one not disgusted by the worm. His eyes glowed red with excitement and he licked his thin lips as he stared after it. “That was a created creature. Like dragons were born of common lizards, that worm originated from its simpler cousins in the earth. The rod is here.”
Jig’s shoulders ached, and the rope had already scraped his wrists raw. He didn’t care about created creatures or Ellnorein’s rod. He was hungry and frustrated, and his fear had begun to wear off. There was only so long he could sustain that level of terror. After a while impatience took the place of fear. Sure, Death was going to find him sooner or later, but it seemed as though Death were taking the scenic route to get there.
Darnak dipped his quill in ink. He had secured the inkpot to the strap of his backpack in a tiny harness. A leather thong around the neck of the pot kept it from falling free.
Darnak scratched a few new lines on his parchment, presumably marking the spot they had found the worms. Though why that information was useful, Jig had no idea.
Perhaps Death delayed because he had decided to make a map along the way. If that were the case, Jig might live as long as an elf.
“Let us be on our way.” Barius tugged Jig’s rope, forcing him forward and wrenching his shoulder.
Fortunately, they encountered no goblins. Perhaps the other survivor of Porak’s patrol hadn’t made it back to the lair. More likely they waited safe in goblin territory, listening for the sounds of battle. They might even be wagering on how long the adventurers would last against the hobgoblins. Jig wondered who would be sent out at the end of the fight to count corpses. Often he got chosen for that thankless duty, earning a few coins from the goblins who won their bets and a few bruises from the losers. As a change of pace, this time Jig would be one of the corpses instead.
They passed the tall crack that led back to the goblin lair. A slight draft carried the smell of sizzling meat into the tunnel.
“What’s up that way?” Darnak asked. “What’s that awful stench?”
Jig looked longingly at the ragged crack. His mouth had watered so much that a trickle of drool ran down his chin. To think he had complained about muck duty. He would cheerfully keep the fire bowls lit for the rest of his days if it meant he could go home. He would do anything to be safe again. As Barius tugged at his rope, he added to that thought. He would also do anything if he could just free his hands and scratch the tip of his left ear.
“There’s nothing down there,” Jig said. “It’s a crack in the rock, a hundred-foot chimney to the hobgoblin kitchens below.”
After waiting for Darnak to sketch the dark crack and label it HUNDRED-FOOT CHIMNEY TO HOBGOBLIN KITCHENS, they moved on. The tunnels slanted upward here, and Jig instinctively leaned forward to compensate. After a while the muscles in the back of his legs began to complain. He wasn’t used to hiking for so long, and even the slight incline was enough to tire him. Sweat dripped down his face and into his eyes, blurring his already poor vision. He stopped trying to watch where they were going and concentrated on walking. One foot in front of the next, careful not to stumble. He had already fallen once, and with his hands bound, that fall had given him a nasty bruise on the side of his face.
“Halt,” Barius said suddenly. “What manner of statue is this?”
To the right, an archway of dark red stone led down another tunnel, this one narrow and low. The humans would have to duck to keep from scraping their heads.
Barius aimed the lantern beam at the wall of the side tunnel, lighting up a detailed statue of a hobgoblin whose glass head nearly touched the ceiling.
Jig blinked to clear his eyes. He could see a wicked double-headed axe in the hobgoblin’s hand. A pointed helmet covered most of the head. Muscles bulged along the bare arms and legs, and a round, spiked shield hid most of the hobgoblin’s torso.
“Nasty-looking fellow,” Darnak commented.
“We should keep going,” Jig said. “That’s hobgoblin territory. We shouldn’t pass the marker.”
“Hobgoblin, is it?” Darnak squinted at the statue. “Looks like an oversized goblin, to me.”
Jig bit his tongue. Of all the blind, ignorant, stupid things to
say. Comparing a hobgoblin to a real goblin. Hobgoblins were big, clumsy, ugly brutes, and goblins were, well, smaller. And weaker. But anyone who had ever tasted hobgoblin cooking knew goblins were the superior species. The differences were endless. If they lingered here for too long, the worst of those differences might quickly become apparent.
Among other things, hobgoblins liked to use nasty traps and ambushes. When they caught a goblin alone in their territory, they had been known to torture it for hours, then send the crippled wretch back to the goblins as a warning.
True, goblins did the same thing if they managed to catch a hobgoblin, but that was simple justice.
“Come,” Jig said. In his nervousness, he actually tugged the rope that tied him to Barius.
Barius pulled him back, but with far more force. Jig stumbled closer to the archway, barely managing not to crash into the human.
“Why so afraid? Have you never explored the depths of this tunnel?”
Jig shook his head. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
Barius grinned and looked at the others. “Then how do we know there isn’t some faster way to our goal? Our vaunted guide tells us we cannot go a certain way. But what path should we explore, if not those forbidden even to the monsters? Does it not follow that those forbidden paths should be the ones to lead to the greatest treasures?”
Ryslind frowned. “As a boy, we were forbidden to explore the torture chamber. I seem to remember you following similar logic when you snuck down after father.”
“Aye,” Darnak said. “You had nightmares for months and kept your brothers awake with your screaming until they moved you to my chambers. As much to keep them from killing you in your sleep as to comfort you. Not that I wasn’t tempted to shut you up a time or two myself.”
Barius flushed so darkly that even Jig could see it. “May I remind you that this is my quest, and the two of you are here at my sufferance? I will be the one to decide our path, and I choose to explore a bit of this hobgoblin lair. Worry not. What is terrible to a goblin is hardly an annoyance to a true warrior.”
