Grump fidgeted. He didn't like her tone, or where the conversation headed. He looked into his bowl and smacked his lips. "I want to taste this soup of yours. Hopefully I'll live through it."
Her eyes twinkled as her smile shot up. "Have a seat then!"
Teacher replaced the ladle while Grump sat cross-legged nearby, the fire bathing his left side in gentle waves of warmth. Teacher sat on the stool beside him. She watched as he lifted the bowl's rim to his lips and tipped it back. The soup spilled over his tongue, and the broth's intense flavors shot his eyes wide.
The salt brought forth the mix of onion and garlic and gave the vegetables a sumptuous taste. He tipped the bowl farther and guzzled the soup in seconds, Teacher's laugh ticking his ears.
"Still alive?" she asked.
"This is delicious!"
"Good, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'll let you try your hand at cooking it tomorrow. My hands ache stirring, but you've got a healthy set on you. Figure I'd let you try so I can get a little rest for once."
While Grump went for seconds and thirds, she quietly finished her bowl. Soon, he had emptied out the cauldron, and the fire burned low over a bed of smoldering scarlet embers.
Teacher placed the pipe in her lap and lit a twig in the fire. "Nothing caps a good meal like thimbleweed. Here, have a try."
He took the pipe and placed it between his lips. "What now?"
She handed him the smoldering twig. Grump placed the ember over the bowl and watched a little trail of smoke rise from it. Teacher laughed and shook her head. "You have to inhale while you do it. After you put the pipe between your lips, take a breath. Hold it in your lungs, then exhale."
Grump's cheeks warmed with embarrassment. He nodded and inhaled as he placed the twig into the bowl. The thimbleweed lit, blackening as it smoldered.
Hot smoke inflated his lungs. Grump pulled the pipe from his lips and handed it to Teacher. She watched him with a bemused grin and rolled her hand. "Go ahead, exhale."
Thick smoke poured from his nostrils, washing over his tusks and down his chest. As it left his body, it took all the stress with it. Tense muscles loosened. The Hunger always growling in his thoughts quieted while the world gained a tranquil clarity and color the likes of which he'd never seen.
"This thimbleweed has cured my Hunger!"
Teacher smoked from her pipe, exhaling little smoke rings after a deep breath. "For a time. Thimbleweed won't last forever, and when it leaves your blood the Hunger will return. Until then, you can enjoy some peace without it. What do you think?"
"I only want my garden to grow this thimbleweed and nothing else!"
Teacher chortled and leaned on her knees. "No, no, Grump. A mind on only thimbleweed might as well be made of cabbage. Enjoy it once a day after dinner and never more."
He might have frowned if he could, but his lips could only smile. "Whatever you say."
Grump leaned back on his hands and stared at the glittering field of stars surrounding a moon tinged a carroty orange, signaling dawn approached. "Thank you for the meal."
"You're very welcome."
He stared into the sky for a moment, then brought his gaze back to her. "How'd you end up here all alone?"
She plastered on a smile, something he noticed she did often when he asked her a question that wasn't about gardening or cooking. Teacher stroked her pipe and shrugged. "Because like you, I don't belong where I'm supposed to be."
"Did you run away?"
"I didn't run so much as stayed."
"That makes no sense, Teacher."
"One day it might. Enough of this dull chat! Let's just enjoy the stars while they shine and listen to the world."
They sat in silence, both perfectly content to enjoy one another without a single word passed between them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Mojo Lesson
Climbing the broken gate was out of the picture, at least until next torch fall. Boil gingerly rubbed his slowly healing ribs. The ache in the bones had faded somewhat from earlier in the day. In fact, they probably wouldn't hurt at all tomorrow. Goblin wounds never lasted long, and generations of living in the mine's brutal, stifling bowels made diggers hardier than most.
But tonight, no climbing. So Boil nudged the gate hair by hair until it widened enough for him to pass. Once he entered the mine master's hovel, he paused and closed his eyes. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs so loudly he feared Skar would hear it. But the mine master didn't wake, and Boil continued on.
Between Urt's doubts, Ember's fears, and Boil's wounds, hope dwindled in their little clan. They needed something to push them through, to dig them out. His book, his secret treasure, it would renew their hopes. He didn't want to give the tome to Urt, but what choice did he have? That book taught him of the world beyond the mountain. Maybe it would teach them, too.
He sped through the tunnels, bypassed the main elevator to the high mountain, and descended deeper into the maze of the under mountain. Once he reached the tunnel leading to their hideout, he paused in the shadows. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his breaths came in heavy puffs. Boil pressed the book against his chest and counted. When he reached one hundred. He relaxed.
A pale scarab scampered down the tunnel, sniffing for discarded flesh. Boil inched away from the opal insect and dove into the sloping passage. In the black where even his keen vision failed, he found the entrance to the room of skeletons.
"Ember? Urt?" his voice echoed on the walls.
"You made it!" Ember called.
"Can you light a torch? It's darker than centipede poop in here."
She giggled. Sparks flared in an arc. A flame flickered to life and illuminated the skeletons watching from their frozen perches.
The fire glittered on Ember's polished teeth. Urt scowled behind her, arms fixed over his chest. "This is too dangerous, Boil. We should just turn ourselves in. Maybe the mine master would have mercy on us if we did."
"That's stupid," Boil snapped. "He'd kill us both and take Ember as his mate. We're in this whether we like it or not."
"But—"
"The book!" Ember danced to Boil and wagged her fingers for the tome. "Can I see? Oh please, let me see what the sky looks like."
Urt grumbled a protest, but his gaze drifted from Boil to the book. They sat in a circle, and Boil lowered the tome to its center. "Now you've got to understand that this is really, really old. Seeing as how the room I found it in was hidden, I'm betting it's from the way back days before even greenskin times. It might even be from the age of the emperor."
Ember's lips formed a cute little “o” of wonder. She brushed her fingers over the black leather while Urt smacked his lips. Boil saw the curiosity in the old greenskin's eyes building like water welling from a deep shaft, even if the geezer kept his posture stiff and his chin angled to the side.
The leather cover creaked as Boil opened it. Cracked and yellowed pages bounced as they settled. Ember sucked in a breath. Urt bit his lip, inching forward.
Boil grinned and swept a hand over the page. "Now get a look at what's waiting for us."
Strange runes written in neat lines filled the parchment. Boil didn't much care for them; the pictures, that was where all the discoveries waited. And so he thumbed through the pages one by one. "See how I'm turning them? You have to flip them one at a time. Any more, and the pages will crumble."
After a few achingly slow moments, he came to the first page with drawings. Skeletons clasped hands, forming a tight circle around some kind of five-pointed star.
"There're tons of drawings like this one," Boil said. "Sometimes they're skeletons, sometimes they're ... other things."
Urt grumbled, pinching his chin. "Maybe these runes written on the page are in the same language the skeletons speak."
"What do you mean speak? They're just sculptures. Rock doesn't talk."
Urt pressed his wrinkled lips into a line, his gaze darting to the walls. He leaned close, his voice the barest of whispers. "When I'm awak
e, they don't make sense. But when I'm about to fall asleep, I think I know what they say, what they want. But when I wake up again, the words get all mashed like a beetle under a rolling boulder."
Ember flashed Boil a worried look. He frowned, straightening. "Sounds like the air might be getting a little stuffy in here. Maybe we should see about getting you out for a walk every other torch fall."
"Don't you dare make fun of me for what I hear! I've lit more torches in my day than both of you combined. I've eaten rocks you can only dream of. These skeletons speak, and they want to tell me something."
"Then why haven't we heard them?"
"Because this is my clan?" The old greenskin leaned away and folded his hands in his lap. "I think it's about the arch we're digging through. I get the feeling they're speaking of it, but I can't be sure why."
"Maybe you should start lighting a torch before you sleep," Ember suggested.
"I started that days ago, and it doesn't shut them up. Nothing does." The frustration in Urt's tone came in the rise and fall of his heavy breaths. He ran his fingers down his temple and closed his eyes. "Always whispering something. Always telling something. I just wish it made sense."
Boil flipped the page and swallowed the lump in his throat. "It'll all end soon enough. We should be almost through the wall."
"What if it's a warning? What if they're trying to tell us not to go through the wall? There's a reason the rock’s so hard and no greenskins dig in these tunnels. It's bad mojo."
"Urt, you've got to trust me. I'll keep you safe, and once we're out of the mountain you'll never hear a skeleton whisper again." He flipped a page, and his eyes shot wide. "Ah! Here it is. You wanted to see the sky? Take a look."
Both Urt and Ember lurched forward as Boil planted his finger on the drawing. It was the dome of the outside divided neatly in half into day and night. On the left side, a bright sun shone over a mountain set against a field of indigo. On the right side, the indigo gave way to obsidian studded with alabaster points.
"The sky," Ember rasped.
"It really is bigger than the mountain," Urt said.
Boil bit his lip to keep his grin from splitting. "Watch this."
He pressed his palms against the ground and bent to the page. With breath as light as a centipede's sigh, he blew softly across the parchment. The sun shimmered, and the stars sparkled. For an instant, the picture became more than a mere drawing. It was a window, and through it, three diggers gazed upon a world without end.
"It's mojo." Urt licked his lips, his gaze darting from Boil to the book and back again. "You found mojo in the mountain! I didn't believe it, but you really did, you crazy digger."
"I am not a digger, not anymore. Neither are you."
"Yeah, well, whatever."
Ember blew across the page and watched the picture dazzle. "It's beautiful. Is this what all mojo's like?"
"Maybe," Boil said. He'd honestly only heard mojo mentioned once or twice in his lifetime. Supposedly the high clans had a few goblins with it, but no digger he knew ever met one who could use it, and during his few days in the high mountain, he hadn't come across a single spell or enchantment. Not that he knew what to look for anyway.
"This isn't what mojo's like." Urt sat back, keeping his eye on the book. "Not at all. This is like getting a peek of it, but not the real thing. Neither of you are old enough to know what us older diggers experienced, the things we saw, stories we heard."
"Tell me what it's like then," Ember said, scooting toward him.
Boil's eyes narrowed to slits. He held his tongue, fighting the urge to argue with Urt about mojo. His book did have mojo, and it was the mountain that led him to it. If anyone knew about real mojo, it was Boil, not some half-crazy digger with broken teeth and a bad leg.
Urt stroked his whiskery chin and smacked his lips. "Mojo's a deep and dark and dangerous thing. It comes from a place so low not even the emperor's diggers ever found its source."
Boil arched a brow, his lips pressing into a line. "But I thought the emperor lived in the bottom of the world?"
"This is beneath the bottom. The world floats on top of mojo like cloth floats on a puddle. The emperor discovered it when he dug his well so deep it touched the waters. When he drank it, he became the god of all goblins and built his golden palace at the bottom of the world, where we all go to dine when the mountain claims us."
Boil snorted and slapped the air. "That doesn't sound so deep and dark and dangerous. Who wouldn't want to take a nice big gulp of mojo and become a god?"
"That's because you're a silly little greenskin with dreams no proper greenskin should ever have. You want me to finish or not?"
Ember nudged Boil, flashing him a smile that spread warmth from his heart to the tips of his fingers. "Let him tell his story," she said.
Boil reflected her smile and faced the old goblin. Satisfied, Urt continued his tale. "As I was saying before Boil's rude interruption, the emperor became the god of all goblins. But he was not the only one in those early days of creation to discover the mojo waters. Others sought the mojo, digging deep into the rock of the world for the power swirling beneath it. Eventually, some found it. Men, ogres, elves, giants, trolls, dwarves and all other sorts of nasty things that slink beyond the mountains drank what was never meant for them.
Urt's gaze glazed like pottery in a kiln, and his voice took on an eerie deepness that chilled Boil's blood. He inched back from the old greenskin, and Ember did the same.
Urt opened his palms and placed them on his folded legs. "Mojo flooded the world in a wash of war and slaughter, and the sky burned with power unleashed upon lands never meant to taste its unbridled destruction. Plains became graveyards, forests tombs, and mountains catacombs as those first drinkers of power vied for dominion of creation.
"Two orders rose of those who wielded the greatest power. Not gods, not yet, but they yearned for the title and the worship. Wizards of the Ebon Robes and Amber Circle, they called themselves. For the Ebon, creation was to be ruled by strength, by power, and by total domination. For the Amber, creation was to be ruled with a caring hand, to nurture, to help, to grow. And so one fought to supplant the other, and all suffered for it. Whole lands were shattered and rebuilt. Entire races slaughtered or transformed.
"Two wizards, one of Ebon and one of Amber, saw the cataclysm their kind created and struck a bargain to save their precious land from oblivion. They betrayed their kin, expelling both from Oya's shores and rending the ocean that flowed to other lands.”
“What’s going on with him?” Ember whispered.
Boil shrugged, completely transfixed by the goblin’s eerie tale.
“The spell that saved Oya required great sacrifice,” Urt continued. “and while a wizard's spirit cannot be destroyed, they gave up their bodies to keep Oya safe from the wizards who sought to control it. And so the ocean tore, and Oya rose above the world, a haven for those within its shores and beyond the reach of all who would destroy it rule it."
Ember squeezed Boil's hand so tight he feared she might break his fingers. She pressed herself against him, her breaths washing over his neck. "I'll keep you safe," he whispered. "What happened next, Urt?"
"One wizard’s heart was false. One wizard betrayed the other. One wizard pretended to sacrifice her body, instead living beyond the spell’s casting to enjoy the peaceful lands another made. In the end, only one wizard truly sacrificed everything to save Oya, and so the mojo cast upon the ocean, while strong, would last only so long as the wizard who died remained sealed within the land. There will come a time when the pendulum of fate swings, and the wizard denied will rise again. And in her wake, the world will burn. Her heart was broken, and for it, she will break the world."
"How do you know all this? Where did you learn it?" Boil asked.
Urt's lips closed, and his gaze focused somewhere beyond the room. Ember squeezed Boil's hand. He squeezed hers back and blinked at their elderly companion. He leaned to Ember's ear and shook his
head. "What's wrong with him? It's like it's not even Urt speaking."
"It's mojo," she breathed. "Real mojo, Boil."
"I don't believe it." He poked Urt in the shoulder. "Hello? Snap out of it!"
The old digger cocked his wrinkled head. "Now you know the truth written in our bones. Turn back. Turn back and dig no more!"
His lips snapped into a fanged smile. He thrust his chin to the ceiling and cackled. Wind flooded the room, and the torch blinked out with a hiss, leaving them in darkness accosted by a laugh unlike anything a greenskin's mouth could utter.
Ember wrapped her arms around Boil. He pulled her from Urt, rolling them both to the ground as the wind howled.
"I'm scared!" she screamed.
Boil pressed a hand against her cheek and looked her in the eyes. "I'm here! I'll keep you safe, I promise."
She buried her head against his chest and held tight. "I know you will!”
Urt's cackling halted as quickly as it came. Boil could feel the greenskin's gaze squirming over him like a wet, hungry slug. He tensed, pulling Ember closer. "You're—you're scaring us, Urt. Stop it!"
Silence.
"I said stop!"
The weight of Urt's gaze lifted. "I ... What? What happened here. Did I doze off? Why'd you snuff out the torch? I can't see a damned thing in this."
Boil swallowed, listening as the old greenskin shuffled toward the torch. Sparks flashed against the Urt's crackled face as they fell upon the torch and birthed a new flame. Urt sighed and propped the light against the wall, dusting his hands with a nod. "Better. I don't like this place after torch fall. It's creepy."
"It's creepy?" Boil looked to Ember and blinked.
"What was all that?" she asked.
They sat up, awkwardly peeling from one another. Boil wiped the sweat from his palms and glared at Urt. "You started telling us about mojo and the wizards. You got all—weird—and started laughing. I didn't like it. Don't do it again."
"War? Mojo?" Urt scrunched one side of his nose until it hid his eye. "I don't know emeralds from opals about war and mojo. You two have been dipping in the ale again. Didn't I tell you we'd have a drink once we dug out of the mountain? You want to keep me loyal to our cause you better not start going back to your old ways! I swear, young diggers have no patience."
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