Fantasy Gone Wrong

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  She tightened the blanket around herself and Jig. The runt didn’t even produce enough heat to help her ward off the chill of the morning air. His rheumy yellow eyes were wrinkled shut against the sun, but aside from the sucking of his sugar-knot, he didn’t make a sound. “Smart baby,” Grell muttered. “You’re better company than Kralk, I’ll give you that much.”

  The wind whipped through stunted pine trees, sprinkling them both with brown needles. Jig sneezed, spitting his sugar-knot onto his stomach and spraying Grell with a mist of spit and other unsavory things. Jamming the knot back into Jig’s mouth, Grell headed downhill toward the source of the drumbeat.

  The drummer was easy enough to find, standing at the back of a rocky ledge as he watched the battle below. Grell waited amidst the trees to make sure he was alone, then slipped a knife from her belt. She set her cane on the rock. All it would take was one quick blow . . . either to the drum or the drummer, she hadn’t decided yet. She glanced down to make sure Jig was still content, then limped quietly into the open.

  When she was almost within range, three things happened. An arrow hissed through the air . . . and through the drum, and then through the goblin. A tall, lithe figure dropped from the trees beside the clearing, a new arrow already nocked in his longbow. And baby Jig spat his sugar-knot into the dirt and began to cry.

  Grell reacted without thinking: she lifted Jig from his sling, positioning him between herself and the archer.

  “Drop the knife.”

  In the suddenness of the attack, she had forgotten about the knife. It was a miracle she hadn’t stuck the baby. Keeping a firm grip on Jig, she loosened her fingers and let the knife clatter to the rock.

  More shouts rose from the fight below. The archer whirled, fired, and drew another arrow, all before Grell could even think about shoving him off the outcropping. The wooden scales of his breastplate rattled slightly. The naked wood appeared flimsy to Grell’s eye, but no goblin lived to be her age without learning a few things. That was elvish armor, magically hardened to be tougher and lighter than steel. Elves had a real fetish when it came to trees and wood.

  “You’d bring your child to the field of battle?” he asked.

  Grell lowered the wailing, struggling infant back into her sling. Jig was too puny to stop an arrow anyway. “He’s not mine,” she said. That was right . . . most surface-dwellers kept and raised the children they bore. The system seemed terribly inefficient to Grell.

  “I’ve never seen a goblin infant,” said the elf, stepping closer.

  “You thought goblins sprang fully formed from the rocks for you to slaughter?” She jammed a knuckle into Jig’s mouth for him to suck. His baby fangs were just beginning to pierce the gums, but the pain in her finger was better than listening to him cry.

  “We slaughtered nobody.” The voice came from below the outcropping. The elf relaxed his bow and knelt, hauling his companion up onto the ledge. “You goblins attacked us. We defended ourselves.”

  Grell stepped to the edge and studied the woods below. Goblin blood turned the earth a gruesome shade of blue. Elves wove through the trees, making no noise save the twang of bowstrings and the ripping sound of blades tearing through goblin armor and flesh. “Defended yourselves? Next time, why don’t you defend yourselves over in the hobgoblin tunnels rather than sneaking onto our land to do it?”

  The archer caught his companion by the arm. “She’s an old woman, Jonathan. With a child.”

  “She’s a goblin, Rindar.” But he relaxed slightly. He was bulkier than his companion, and the mane of red hair meant he was no elf. Red stubble dotted his chin, though he was too young to grow a proper beard. He wore a heavy mail shirt, with a green tabard depicting a white dragon coiled around a tree. “If we let her live, she’ll lead another attack against us.”

  Grell kicked the corpse of the goblin drummer. “If you let me live, I’ll go back to the nursery and get some sleep.”

  “I won’t risk letting you go free,” said Jonathan. “Not until my quest is complete.”

  Grell rolled her eyes. “What is it about you humans and your quests? Last month it was that knight who wanted to hunt a dragon. Before that it was the wizard and those little fellows. But no matter how important these stupid quests are supposed to be, you all have time to stop and kill goblins along the way.”

  Jonathan glared. “You’re lucky honor prevents me from slaying women or children, goblin.”

  Grell would have to remember that. Next time they should send an all-female group to ambush the adventurers.

  “We will be away from your mountain soon enough,” Jonathan went on. “Once we have rescued the stone witch, we can use her power to help overthrow my uncle Wendel, and I shall take my rightful—”

  “The stone witch?” Grell asked. Jig was beginning to fuss again. She bounced him against her chest, but he kept kicking and clawing. Why did baby claws have to be so blasted sharp? She caught one tiny hand and began biting off the tips of the black nails as Jig squirmed.

  Jonathan drew his sword, adjusting his grip until the moonlight glinted off the blade. “This sword belonged to her lover, the great knight Gregor Williamson. “ For a magical artifact, it was an unimpressive thing. Plain, single-edged steel, with a leather-wrapped hilt. The crossguard was hammered brass. “It is the key to resisting the curse laid upon the witch by her traitorous brother, the Warlock of Silverdale. Many years I searched for this blade, while living in the deepest woods with the elves.”

  Grell spat a bit of claw onto the rock. “Many years?” She was no expert on humans, but she guessed the prince’s age to be no more than fourteen or fifteen.

  Jonathan’s face darkened, but he kept talking. “Even after all these centuries, the edge remains magically sharp, an artifact of great power. With this blade, I will free my—”

  At that point, baby Jig interrupted Jonathan’s lecture. With a noise that could have come from a goblin twice his size, Jig filled his diaper.

  “Disgusting,” Jonathan said, backing away.

  “What do you feed him?” asked the elf, Rindar. His nose wrinkled, but he seemed less horrified than his human companion.

  “Milk diluted with the blood of whatever we happened to kill that day,” Grell said. She set Jig on the ground and untied the knots holding his diaper in place. Moving with the efficiency of many years, she wiped him clean, knotted a replacement diaper between his kicking legs, and carried the soiled diaper to the edge of the ledge. Holding it by one corner, she flung the worst of the contents down the mountainside, narrowly missing one of the elven warriors. She bundled the diaper into a ball and crammed it back into her sack. Kralk could wash it when she returned.

  Jonathan was still staring in horror. He pointed his sword at Grell. “On your hand—”

  Grell glanced down, then wiped her soiled hand on her apron. Drool dripped down Jig’s chin as he grinned at her, showing tiny white fangs on the blue nubs of his gums.

  “If I take you to the witch’s tomb, will you go away?” Grell asked.

  They stared. “You know where the witch is imprisoned?” asked the elf.

  Grell pointed to the goblin corpses below. “So did any one of them, if you’d bothered to ask.” She dumped Jig back into the sling and adjusted the straps. She wasn’t looking forward to this hike. Her back and shoulders already hurt, and her knee popped with every step she took. “Hand me my cane. Unless your noble quest requires you to wipe out another patrol of goblins first?”

  Silver minnows darted away from Grell’s cane as she waded up a shallow stream. Algae and other plant guck made the footing treacherous. Mud swirled from the rock with each step. She hadn’t hiked to the witch’s tomb in years. Had the way always been so steep?

  “Jonathan will be a great ruler,” said Rindar, walking alongside. Jonathan followed a few steps behind, sword in hand as he searched the mountainside for more goblins to defend himself against. The other elves brought up the rear, silent as ghosts.

  Like h
is pointy-eared companions, Rindar showed no trace of discomfort or fatigue. Stupid elves.

  “I’ve done my best to teach him wisdom and peace,” Rindar added, “though he still struggles with his passions. His uncle Wendel ordered him executed when he was barely older than the child you carry. Jonathan was the rightful heir to the throne, the only obstacle to Wendel’s power. Only fate saved him. My cousin was at the palace that day, serving as ambassador to the humans. He overheard, and conspired to save Jonathan. When Wendel’s servant came to take the child, my cousin spirited him away to the south, where we—”

  “Why didn’t Wendel just cut the boy’s throat?” Grell asked. “Why trust a servant to do it?”

  “What?” Rindar blinked, giving Grell a moment of satisfaction. How many goblins could say they had shaken the composure of an elf?

  Before Grell could answer, Rindar stopped in midstep. One hand seized Grell’s arm, halting her motion. He raised his other hand, fingers balled in a fist.

  Grell’s ears perked. She heard it too. The clatter of pebbles farther up the mountain, and a faint whispering.

  “What is it, Rindar?” asked Jonathan. Those puny round ears really were as useless as they looked.

  “Ambush,” whispered the elf.

  “The goblin has led us into a trap.” Jonathan advanced toward Grell, sword raised, but Rindar shook his head.

  “Think, your majesty. Goblins are not known for such carefully laid ambushes. I warned you when you found that sword that there was danger in wielding it. The magic in that blade—”

  “—can be traced by anyone with the proper skill and power,” Jonathan finished, sounding annoyed. “Yes, I know.”

  “How far to the tomb of the stone witch?” asked Rindar.

  “Not far.” Grell’s legs were killing her. The cold water had soaked her sandals and numbed her feet.

  “They will have trouble pinpointing our location,” Rindar said. “We should still be able to rescue the stone witch before Wendel’s scouts discover us, so long as we move swiftly and silently.”

  Jig hiccuped in his sleep, bouncing his head against Grell’s chest. His eyes blinked open. Grell fished for a sugar-knot, but she wasn’t fast enough. Hungry and cold, Jig opened his mouth and wailed.

  Horns began to blow. She heard men running and shouting through the trees. She flattened her ears. First the drums, now horns. Couldn’t anyone fight a quiet battle?

  “Lead them away,” Rindar snapped. Instantly, the other elves leaped from the stream, racing between the trees on either side. Rindar grabbed Jonathan by the arm. “We are outnumbered. We must get to the witch.”

  The elves had already drawn their bows, firing at targets they could only hear as they disappeared into the woods. Show-offs.

  “Come,” said Rindar.

  Grell finally dug a sugar-knot from her sack. It was covered in dirt and fuzz, but most goblins ate worse things on a daily basis. She would have to stop and feed Jig soon, but hopefully this would keep him quiet until they reached the tomb. Or until Wendel’s army killed them.

  Grell put both hands on her cane, resting as much of her weight as she could without snapping the wood. “There,” she said. “That jagged crack, behind the fallen pine tree.”

  She followed them to the entrance. The pine tree was twice as thick as a goblin. (And many goblins could be thick indeed.) She stooped, squeezing through the space where generations of goblins had broken away the smaller branches. Inside, the sunlight dimmed, giving way to a pink glow from the far side of the cave. Insects littered the floor, unmoving and seemingly dead. A young deer lay beyond, its nose almost touching a scattered pile of berries.

  Jonathan swung his sword at the fallen tree. The enchanted blade sheared through the branches like they were nothing but smoke.

  “The witch is there,” said Grell, pointing to the rear of the cave. A line of boulders blocked the body from view. More than one goblin had tried to see what lay hidden there, but the curse on the witch was too powerful. A single step inside the cave was safe enough. A second left you feeling as though you hadn’t slept in days. A third step, and all the war drums in the world would fail to rouse you.

  Grell yawned. Exhausted as she was, the fate of the stone witch was highly tempting.

  “Do you remember the incantation I taught you?” Rindar asked.

  “I remember,” said Jonathan, clutching his sword.

  Rindar squeezed Jonathan’s arm, a proud smile momentarily melting that frigid elvish face. “This is your moment. The goblin and I can go no farther.” He pointed at the deer. “Without the sword, we’ll suffer the same fate as that poor creature.” He peered more closely at the deer, and his forehead wrinkled. “Those berries are fresh. Someone else has been here.”

  “They were thrown in,” said Grell. Jig was getting fussy, and it smelled like he had filled his diaper again. She sat down, groaning as she dropped her sack and pulled Jig out of his sling.

  “Why?” asked Jonathan.

  “Because deer like berries.” He still looked confused. This was the future leader of the humans? “The deer come into the cave. The curse makes them sleep. The goblins come around every few days and use ropes and poles to drag the deer out. The animals are usually groggy when they wake up, so there’s time to cut their throats.”

  Rindar’s left eye twitched. Grell couldn’t tell if he was angry or trying not to laugh. “A curse left by one of the mightiest warlocks ever to roam this world, and you goblins use it . . . to hunt deer?”

  “Deer, rabbits, squirrels. Sometimes wolves or coyotes will sneak in to eat the other animals. Once a family of bears tried to hibernate here for the winter. Those were good days.” She shook a bladder of milk and snake blood, mixing it all together while Jig fussed.

  Removing the stopper, she jammed the end between his lips. The curved neck of the bladder let her shove small, measured swallows into his mouth.

  Another horn blew. Jig jumped, and bloody milk dribbled down his chin and chest. He coughed the rest into Grell’s face for good measure.

  “They’re getting closer,” said Rindar. He drew his sword and slipped out of the cave. “Be quick, your majesty.” Without a sound, he disappeared.

  Jig whimpered, and Grell poked the end of the bladder back into his mouth. Jonathan had his sword in both hands, and was taking slow, measured steps toward the rear of the cave.

  “A lifetime I’ve waited for this moment,” he whispered. “A lifetime I’ve borne the injustices of my uncle, exiled to the elven woods, unable even to speak with other humans, for fear I would be discovered. But no longer. Finally I will return to the northlands and claim the throne for my own.” He stopped, glancing at the light coming through the entrance, then at the sword in his hands. When he spoke again, it was in a voice so soft another human probably wouldn’t have heard. “And I will leave the only home I’ve ever known.”

  Jig choked and coughed. Grell yanked the skin away and sat him up, where he proceeded to spit up. “You barely drank anything,” Grell snapped, wiping the warm, damp mess from her leg. “How can that stunted little body produce so much more than it takes in?”

  Jonathan took a deep breath and kept walking. Pink light cast weird shadows over his face as he stepped past the rocks. “Rindar never told me she would be so beautiful.”

  Grell snorted. “Don’t you listen to your own bards? Name one song where the hero rescues an ugly maiden.”

  “Shut up, goblin.”

  Grell shrugged and turned her attention back to Jig who, from the smell of it, had taken Grell’s words as a personal challenge to prove exactly how much more his little body could expel. She waited to make sure he was finished, then set him down with his head resting on her leg. Holding the skin of milk in one hand, she used her other to untie the leaking diaper, wipe the worst of the mess, and wad the whole thing into a squishy ball.

  Outside, she could hear the elves and humans fighting in the distance. The occasional close scream let her track
Rindar’s progress as he led the rest away from the cave.

  With one last look at the entrance, Jonathan raised the sword. “Rise, milady. I hold the sword of Gregor Williamson. By the love and power bound within this ancient steel, I command you to awaken.” The light at the rear of the cave grew brighter, turning the color of human blood.

  The horns blew again. Grell’s shoulders tensed. “How much longer?” she asked.

  “Soon,” said Jonathan. “Soon I will begin to avenge the injustices of—”

  “And then you’ll be gone?” Grell asked.

  “You know nothing of war, goblin.” Jonathan took a step back, breathing hard. Sweat dripped down his face. Apparently breaking ancient curses was hard work. “The elves are too few to stand against Wendel here. We will retreat to the safety of the elven forest. The stone witch will need time to regain her full powers. We will strike again and again, sapping my uncle’s strength, until we—”

  “The elven forest?” Grell repeated. “That’s south of here, right?”

  “That’s right. We will—”

  “And this Wendel fellow. His lands are north of here?”

  Jonathan nodded impatiently. “As the witch’s strength grows, Wendel’s will wane, and—”

  “And we’ll be stuck in the middle of your stupid war,” Grell finished. The goblin chief would certainly send patrols out to ambush both sides. Goblins had a long, proud tradition of looting battlefields and defeating enemies who were too battered to fight back. And the whole time, the goblins would beat those thrice-damned drums, the humans would blow their horns, and they would all be screaming and shouting, because none of them would have the decency to die quietly.

  “You have something to say to me, goblin?” Jonathan pointed his sword at her. “Speak, if you must.”