Tears rolled down Skar's face, collecting in a bulbous drop at the tip of his warty nose. "Boil, stop this. I can—I can make you a high clan! Yes, you'll live in the high mountain. Stop her, stop her and live like a king!"
"So now you're begging?" Boil's blood seethed as red edged his vision. "I begged you once. Do you remember that? It was on the ledge over the lake, when you had your hand wrapped around Ember's neck. I begged you to spare her. I begged you! What did you do then, Skar? Did you show her mercy?"
Bits of bone slashed Skar's cheeks, washing his face in wet scarlet. "I would have spared her if I'd known. Please, Boil, spare me. Spare me!"
The mine master shrieked and sobbed. Skin hung in loose flaps from his chest and shoulders. Rock and bone cut ever deeper into his flesh. "Please...."
Boil stopped at the edge of the violent storm tearing Skar apart. He lifted his chin and stared up at the greenskin. "I have no mercy to give you, Skar. You took her from me. The least I can do is take your life from you."
A column of black wind blasted from behind Boil and smashed into the greenskin. Thunder cracked and shook the cavern. And then, the chaos stilled.
Swirling, malevolent winds abated. Behind them they left the mine master's skeleton, still fixed to the wall by the bone shards. Not a single ounce of flesh or drop of blood remained. Skar's skull tilted and dropped, clattering to the floor.
Boil swallowed. Sweat rolled down his temples as he stared at the shell of his former tormentor. "You'll never hurt anyone again, Skar. Never."
Diggers never faced down high clans and survived. It just didn't happen. The greenskins in the high mountain weighed twice as much and stood twice as tall as the biggest diggers. But for the first time in the history of the world beneath the mountain, a digger had power over all other greenskins beneath the peak.
He turned to Urt. The old digger knotted himself into a quivering mass of wrinkled skin and bones on the cavern floor. Behind him, a wall of shiny black skeletons stood over high clan corpses, their necks snapped and lips drooling blood.
The skeletons bowed and clasped their hands before them. They did not bow for Boil—they bowed for her.
Slowly Boil turned to the shattered coffin and faced his savior. Like her coffin prison, she had skin like fresh milk and shimmering hair black as an abyss that washed over her shoulders and pooled at her feet. Jewels and gems weighed her slender fingers and wreathed loosely around her neck. She wore a black robe that shimmered like oil, and she looked upon him with eyes of polished obsidian, two pools so deep and vast they stole every word he'd ever learned, every memory he remembered, every fear he ever had. In those eyes, he was hers and hung on her every word, and her shy smile knew it.
She blinked, and the old Boil came lurching back into reality. He looked down, fidgeting with his hands. Suddenly the Boil who had power over every greenskin in the mountain became a digger once again. "Th—th—thank you."
Her light laugh warmed his heart. Fear gave way to an overpowering urge to please this woman. He bounced his gaze up and grinned, bounding forward. Boil came to a knee before her like the skeletons behind him and placed a hand on his heart. "I am Boil the ... Boil the ... Well, I'm just Boil now I think."
"Yes, you are no longer Boil the Digger. You are Boil the Hero. You have freed me from my prison after so very, very long. For this you and I are bound to one another in ways not even I can see. Lift your eyes, little goblin, and stand."
Boil did exactly as she commanded. He brushed the dirt from his shirt and straightened like a soldier. She smiled and bent, brushing her knuckles across his cheeks. "My name is Sahdirathrashan Elionrathwalaea, but you may simply call me Sahdira."
"It's nice to meet you, Sahdira."
She flashed a toothy grin and stood. "We have much work to do."
Urt's whimpering interrupted Boil's thoughts. He turned to the pathetic digger and sighed. "What do we do with him?"
Sahdira walked—no, she floated—toward the wrinkled greenskin and circled him with a gaze that pulled him apart and put him back together. She paused behind him and met Boil's gaze. "Tell me, what do you think we should do with him?"
Boil's eyes flicked to Skar's bones and back to Urt. His friend's betrayal hurt almost as much as Ember's murder. Boil and Urt never clicked. The old greenskin always had a mean dig or cross word to toss Boil's way. But watching Urt sniveling at Sahdira's feet, so terrified he couldn't stand, Boil couldn't bring himself to kill the greenskin. "He shouldn't die."
Sahdira nodded. Urt unfolded and scrambled toward him. "Oh, thank you, Boil. I don't deserve this. Thank you!" He clawed at Boil's pants and flashed his broken smile.
"I wish I could've seen it earlier, but you were right, you are a digger. You've been a digger all your life. Asking you to be something else was just too much."
"Yes, yes! Please, have mercy on me, Boil."
"You already got it." He wrestled free of his former friend and looked to Sahdira. "What now?"
"What now indeed." She plucked the book from the ground and clutched it against her chest. Her lips went slack as her eyes closed, momentarily losing herself in thought.
Boil bit his lip and looked longingly at the tome that sparked his adventure. "You wrote that book."
"I did," she said, opening her eyes. "I wrote it long ago, and long ago I used it to save you, to save all of us. Thanks to you, I am reunited with my most priceless treasure, and I can finally begin to right the wrongs of my past."
She saw the look on his face and laughed, wafting toward him with rosy cheeks. "Oh, Boil, do not mourn the loss of your book. Greater treasures await you in the world beyond the mountain. I have a very special task I need you to complete. You remember your promise to me, don't you? You remember what I promised if you helped me?"
"I'll never forget." He wiped his palms on his shirt and swallowed. "What do you need me to do?"
"The world beyond the mountain is beyond any size you can imagine, but I will teach the lands and the peoples of it. You may have never seen the sun, my child, but rest assured you will leave your world of rock and shadow knowing more than those who spent their lives beneath it. You will travel from this summit and find for me a very precious thing, more precious than even my book of mojo."
"More precious than your book?" Boil blinked as Sahdira pressed her hand against his back and led him to the chained gate.
"Yes, more precious than even that. You see, I do not seek gold or jewels or even mojo. No, I seek something much rarer."
They reached the gate, and she pressed her pale fingers against the rusted iron. The links shattered like brittle glass and fell as dust to the ground. The gate flung open, crashing into the tunnel beyond. "Oh my, how your power has faded."
"Whose power?" Boil asked.
"Never you mind that." Sahdira brushed her nails over her robe and ushered Boil into the darkness. "You will seek a treasure for me, a simple box that shimmers much like the book you found. Men will guard it, but I will give you the knowledge and the tools to take it for yourself."
"A box?" Boil slowed, his brows furrowing. "Why do you want a little box?"
"Long ago I was wronged, Boil. What's within this box will go a long way to right those wrongs."
Boil heard the hunger in her voice, the eager want edged by desire. It chilled his core and brought all the fear he felt before he toppled the coffin over and released Sahdira. "Is it a weapon?"
"Perhaps. It is more like ... a possibility. My power will shape what it becomes. Think of it as an empty vessel needing something to fill it. My mojo is what must pour inside it."
"And what happens then?"
"Why should you care?" she asked. The warm air chilled with her tone.
"I, ah, I don't ... I just—I'm sorry."
She sighed and stopped him, bending to his level with another warm smile painted on her porcelain face. "You will make a fine goblin emperor one day. Don't you want to see Ember to be your empress when that happens?"
&
nbsp; "Yes! I do."
"Good." She swept her knuckles down his jaw. "Because if you fail me, I'm afraid you will never see your love again. I will be forced to make you an example for the others who will not bend to me. You see, this is my mountain now, Boil, and all who dwell within it are mine. I will command the greenskin horde and sculpt them into an army this world has never seen, and an effective army requires absolute commitment and obedience. Should you waver, should you turn from me, I will hunt you through the world and cause you suffering the likes of which no mortal can fathom. Then, once your body has been decimated, I will turn to your spirit. Believe me when I say a mortal's pain is a candle flame compared to the inferno of a spirit's torment."
Boil's heart sunk into the cold pit of his stomach. Her words echoed eerily down the tunnel. His lip trembled. "I've gone from one mine master to another, haven't I?"
Her breath washed over his face. "Boil, I am so much more than a master of mines. I am a master of creation, and you have promised me your loyal service. My power may not reach beyond the mountain yet, but that does not mean I cannot exert my will over you, little goblin."
Sahdira snapped, and Ember's ghostly image appeared behind her. Ember opened her mouth in a silent scream as flames engulfed her body. Boil lurched forward, but Sahdira snapped again, and Ember faded. "Your love died in my mountain, and I claimed her soul. Defy me, and she will face my wrath. Defy me, and for the second time, she will suffer greatly for you."
"No! I can't let her hurt anymore. I won't."
"Then do as I say, and let us never have cross words again. My will is power and my word law, but I reward those greatly who succeed in their service to me. So tell me, Boil, will you bring me my little box?"
Boil clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. "For Ember, anything."
"For Ember."
"What do I need to do?"
Sahdira pressed her palm against his temple and smiled. "Close your eyes, and I will tell you everything you need to know."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Goats and Gardens
Nothing sparked Grump's joy quite as much as a radish poking its purplish bulb from the sticky, chocolate soil. He planted his knees before the row of vegetables and leaned over, gently lifting the emerald leaves away from the bulge. He caressed his radish, then gently clasped the stem and plucked it from the loamy earth. Its roots protested, but a vegetable didn't stand a chance against a troll, and soon the radish dangled before him, dark clumps dropping from the pointy tip.
Radish stew tasted the best with a hint of salt, a handful of onions, and a nice hare cooked so tender its meat melted like goat butter on his tongue. He pictured the thick stew slowly turning in the iron kettle in his cave, seasoned steam filling the cavern and wetting his brow with deliciously hot moisture as he leaned over and savored the rich flavors brought forth by bubbling broth.
Grump's mouth watered. He brushed off his knees and grinned at the pen of goats staring just beyond the garden's row of verdant bushels. He thrust the radish at them and pursed his lips. "And what'd you think of this, eh? Looks like the radishes'll be good this season. Maybe I'll give one or two to you if you're good to your daddy and don't go sneaking coriander when I'm not looking."
One of the goats bleated and spit. Grump chuckled, strolling past them.
He came to a stone behind the pen. The rock, dotted with moss and webbed by ivy, was the only thing beside his goats that kept Grump company. But unlike his goats, it didn't ask much from him, so he rewarded it by boring it with all his idle thoughts.
"I'll eat well this season," he told the stone. "Crop's gonna to be good. Never even saw a human during the winter. I think they've finally decided there's nothing in these woods they want."
He opened his palm and inspected the radish. "True enough, I should've seen one or two poke their soft heads in the woods when the snow's quiet and they get hungry for deer when the eating's lean. Maybe their king's fed them better this year."
A snort slipped through his nose. "Maybe. C'mon, Grump, time to quit talking to rocks and get some grub cooking."
The Russet Forest sang and sighed with the ebb and flow of a breeze rife with pungent pine and the sweet aroma of wild lavender complimented with the pungent wild onions Grump so loved. He'd gather a few later for his stew, but first the fresh night demanded another ritual.
Roses bloomed at the edge of his garden, enormous bushes splattered with splayed blossoms of scarlet, crimson, and a pink as pale as the first twinge of sunrise on the horizon. He stopped before the bush as he did every night when the sun's light faded from the sky and sniffed their silky petals.
Once—it seemed so long ago now—he cringed at their scent. How the years had passed since those days. Grump chuckled and shook his head. "I couldn't plant a weed to save my life. Was I ever the fool."
He turned from the bush and surveyed the winding garden rows. Cabbage, radish, lettuce, asparagus, beans both black and lima, tomatoes, grapes—for wine, of course—carrots, and coriander, always coriander. They burst from the dark soil and unfurled toward the twinkling night sky.
It took a while to find this spot in the woods, far enough removed from humankind to give him some measure of safety and open enough to let the sunlight nourish his plants. It wasn't like he could just wait for sunrise and trollop through woods looking for a sunny plot of land with rich earth. No, it took much trial and error to find his patch of fertile soil not shaded by redwood branches or hardened by the rocks that grew into the dangerous, dark peaks of the Granite Ridge.
But Grump eventually found his spot, and all was grand in his quiet life of goats and gardens. Except, one thing did bother him.
His youngest billy Patches coughed again, interrupting his quiet contemplation. Grump turned to the goat pen, thumbing the antler pipe tucked into his overalls' chest pocket.
The little goat hacked and spat a gooey blob onto the ground. Grump huffed and crossed his arms. "You're not better yet?"
Patches answered with a dry wheeze. Grump rolled his eyes and leaned over the pen, clasping the kid's throat, peering in both eyes. A little yellow snot dribbled from Patches’ nose, and the kid shivered even in the warm summer air.
"You weren't doing that yesterday," Grump said. "What's that on your lips?"
The skin around Patches’ lips was swollen into little red lumps, like the kid had stuck his jaw in a beehive and taken a few hits with stingers. A few of the bumps had broken open and oozed clear. Others had a mix of blood.
Grump's jaw tightened. "How'd I miss that? Dammit, Patches, you should've let me know sooner!"
Patches sneezed, spotting Grump's overalls with snot. He grumbled and flicked the slime off, then rushed to the cave where his garden met the mountain's first steep cliffs. With a low grunt, he slid the massive boulder blocking the entrance just wide enough for a troll to pass within.
He thumbed through dried herbs dangling from lines zigzagging the ceiling. Clay pots clattered to his feet as he swept his arm over the rough tabletop, scouring for the ingredients he needed. "Keep calm, Grump. Remember your lessons. Be a smart troll. You learned well."
A honey-tinted pedal protruded from a mound of cracking browns, and his frown snapped into a grin. "Hah! Found you, you sneaky little fox daisy."
Grump rummaged through the mound. With each dried leaf or bent stem, he moved, his smile faded. Once the pile had flattened over the table, he blinked blankly at the single fox daisy before him. He wrung his great, calloused hands together as his tongue passed over one of the curved tusks spiking from his jaw. "Of course I didn't think to gather more when I had the chance. 'You won't need them,' I said. 'They're hardly useful.' Damned fool I was for not making the effort."
At least these daisies were common enough in the East. They didn't grow in the Russet Woods where he made his home. But the Grey Plains? They sprouted in bushels across those rolling fields. Unfortunately, so did men with their farms and their torches and their steel.
"Watch
this kid be the death of me. After all this, I'm gonna get killed by a bunch of fair folk while I'm picking daisies for a goat."
He grumbled as he yanked a massive shovel from the wall and stomped into the chirping woods. The tool's handle was smooth and strong, a comforting steadiness in a situation that threatened his tranquil isolation.
"I should've been a beekeeper." He pointed the shovel at Patches. "Bees don't get sick. They don't eat coriander, either. Just you wait until I get back. We're gonna have a talk, you and I."
Patches bleated and flashed his buckteeth in something Grump thought might be a goat's smile. "Stupid kid," he said, bounding into the forest of ancient, quiet redwoods.
Grump wrung the shovel's handle as he struck through a veil of ferns. His garden vanished behind the leafy veil.
Trolls didn't usually fear men. At least good trolls didn't. A troll's hand could smash a human's skull like a hammer on a watermelon. What could men do? Poke him with their silly swords and spears. Try and poison his troll blood with their weak potions? He might hesitate before one of their mages, but this far from their stony fortresses and sprawling cities, mages were rare as water in the desert.
He clenched his teeth and whispered calm words under his breath. "Then why are you so afraid, you fool?"
"Because of it," he whispered, passing a hand across the scar on his chest. "If they come, so will it."
The beastly scar running jagged across his chest itched under his touch. Grump scratched it angrily as he splashed through a shallow creek. In the distance, an owl hooted from its perch. A fox's amber eyes glittered from the ferns where it watched.
"No. I will not let it take me. Even if men attack. I will be stronger." Grump took two deep breaths and listened to his heartbeat. "Yes, that's it. Be stronger. Be more, like she wanted."
Faster than a Farlain squirrel he scaled a great redwood. Leaping limb to limb would be a faster mode of travel, even if it might alert any of the fair folk hunters brave enough to lurk in the Russet Woods. He'd found their nasty traps before. Scars around his ankles would never let him forget that beyond his garden the world waited, and it had teeth.
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