by Tom Holt
Boredom isn’t something that happens to goblins in the normal course of events, just as snowmen rarely catch cold; their lives are busy, violent and terrifying, and there simply isn’t the time or the opportunity for tedium. Consequently, goblins don’t build up an immunity to boredom the way humans do, and although the monkey-suit came hardwired with a certain level of boredom tolerance, once that was exceeded, the inner goblin was horribly vulnerable, like remote South Sea islanders exposed to European coughs and sniffles for the first time. It was a situation that called for every last scrap of Archie’s resourcefulness and self-control. He tried complex mental arithmetic, counting Elves falling through a hole in the floor, imagining games of goblin hockey–not much use, because the average game lasts about two minutes before everybody’s killed. He silently hummed every tune he knew, including the goblin national anthem. He made up poetry, letters to friends back home, comprehensive lists of every artefact he’d ever owned. Starting from first principles (in the Beginning was the Howl…) he tried to figure out what had happened to him, and where he might be, and what he could do about it. He did his best, but it wasn’t long before boredom started to eat into his soul. Get me out of here, he longed to yell, but of course he couldn’t, could he?
He thought about Elves. Elves, as everybody knows, are supreme masters of mental discipline–well, they would be, wouldn’t they? Smug, condescending, insufferable prickle-eared bastards; he thought quite hard for a long time about how much he hated Elves, and that was marvellous, probably saved his sanity, for a little while–and are reputed to be able to will themselves to death, should the need arise. How they go about doing this, nobody knows, although there are theories–for example, they reflect on how unutterably superior they are to every other living thing in the cosmos, come to the conclusion that Life simply isn’t worthy of them, and immediately die of natural justice. Could a goblin do that, he wondered? He tried it; no dice. So he tried not breathing instead, only to realise that he hadn’t drawn a single breath since he’d woken up. Nuts, he thought.
Stuff Elves; there must be something goblins can do, equally cool but rather more productive. He set about finding out. Do they, for example, have tremendous latent powers of telekinesis? Can they communicate telepathically with other goblins over vast distances? Summoning up every scruple of inner strength, can they wiggle their big toes? Apparently not.
Ho hum. Six sixes are thirty-six. I spy with my little eye something beginning with N. Nothing, your turn. Oglak had a little troll, its coat was stiff as wire, so every time it scratched itself, it set its bum on fire. Name forty-six underground rivers in Cavern Seventeen beginning with Y. Help!
His thoughts returned to what the Curator had told him, just before he drank the strange-tasting blue liquid and fell asleep. Cryogenic suspension; whatever that was supposed to mean. The Curator had made it sound like a cross between a holiday and heaven. And it was all because of the Law of Conservation of All Sorts of Things, some incomprehensible garbage about Good and Evil—
Maybe not as incomprehensible as all that. Think about it. If what the Curator had said was true and there was only so much good and so much evil in the world, and those two so-muches balance; and then suppose something happens and a whole load of evil just disappears, then yes, you’d have an imbalance, and quite possibly that would make trouble. So, what do you do? You ship in a whole load of evil from outside, to set the balance straight again. Exactly how that worked in terms of mystic holes in cliffs and goblins and suddenly finding yourself in the wrong place and the wrong skin, he neither knew nor needed to know. The point was, he’d been brought here to make up a certain quantity (at a rough guess, somewhere in the region of a whole load) of evil, and why him? Because goblins are Dark creatures per se, irredeemably bad, incapable of salvation, made by the Dark Force as a cruel, mocking perversion of Elves. Cool. Having got him here, understandably enough, they’d stowed him away in some kind of permanent secure storage, like a safe or a vault. As far as they were concerned, job done, problem solved. It wouldn’t, of course, occur to them to consider that he, their victim, even though he was a mere goblin, might have hopes, fears, ambitions, sensibilities, likes, dislikes, feelings, just possibly (though probably not, all things considered) maybe even one or two fundamental sentient rights, a life of his own, a place in the scheme of things; that even a mere goblin might just conceivably matter—
(He paused and counted to three under his breath. Ah well, he thought. Here goes nothing.)
But that’s all right, he thought. I don’t mind. I forgive them.
He waited. Nothing seemed to be happening. His heart fell. It had been worth a try, he supposed–convert the evil to good, thereby destroying the carefully restored balance and buggering up the whole scheme–but clearly it wasn’t going to work, and it was a bit stupid, really, to have imagined that it possibly could—
Then a siren went off.
He heard it, clear as anything; like a very loud horn going honk-honk, muffled and a long way away but unmistakable. A moment later a bell started shrilling, followed by a different siren going whoop-whoop. Coincidence? He didn’t think so. Just in time he caught himself thinking Got you, bastards, serve you right–which would, of course, have cancelled everything out and snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. So instead he thought, I forgive you, I forgive you, over and over again; and the more he thought it, the more sirens, alarms, buzzers and klaxons burst into song all around him. Peace, he thought wildly, harmony, understanding and all that shi—all those very good things. Happiness, joy, liberty, equality, I’d like to give the world a home and furnish it with love, give peace a chance and extreme kindness to animals. Which set off a particularly piercing tweep-tweep-tweep noise that made him want to bite his own head off just so it’d stop.
Other noises, too; running footsteps, shouting, something analogous to the lifting and banging shut of lids, getting closer. He knew he had to keep going but he was rapidly running out of stuff to think. Make love not war, do unto others as you would have them do unto you, eat five fruit and veg a day, please dispose of can tidily. He heard a grating sound, just possibly a crowbar being inserted into a narrow gap. It takes seventeen muscles to smile and forty-three to frown, I have a dream, it’s nice to be nice, and I says to myself, it’s a wonderful—
Light flooded down on him like an avalanche. His heart suddenly lurched into motion, his lungs filled with great solid wodges of air, he could just feel a tiny needle of pain in his big toe and a voice somewhere overhead yelled, “Over here, I’ve found it, it’s this one.”
Peace be with you, dirtbag, he thought, and passed out.
“What you should’ve done,” Efluviel pointed out, not for the first time, “was ask that man.”
Mordak sighed, sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree and let the straps of his rucksack slide off his shoulders. His feet hurt, but not nearly enough to distract him from his headache. “It’s all right,” he said feebly. “We’re not lost. I know exactly where we are.”
“So do I,” Efluviel said. “In fact, I know this place like the back of my hand. I should do, we keep coming back here. In fact, ten more minutes and I’ll be entitled to claim it as my domicile for tax purposes.”
She had a point. With the ears, make that three. This particular conjunction of fallen tree, smelly sedge-covered pool and forked road did look painfully familiar. “Fine,” he said. “This time we’ll go left.”
“We tried that. Time before last. And two times before that. You should’ve asked that man. We’d be there by now if you had.”
“Asked him what? We don’t know what we’re supposed to be looking for. Excuse me, friend, could you tell us how to get there? Where? Sorry, we don’t actually know. Yes, on mature reflection, that would’ve helped a lot.”
“Goblins,” Efluviel sighed, and sat down beside him on the log. “Always got to know best about everything.” She glanced up at the sky. “It’s getting dark.”
“Yes
.”
“Won’t be long now before the sun goes in.”
“Small mercies.”
“We’ll just have to stay here all night and then carry on with being hopelessly lost in the morning.”
“We are not hopelessly lost.”
She shrugged. “All right, optimistically lost.” She looked round at the gloomy eaves of the forest all around them. “We could wander round and round for days and never find the way out,” she said. “It looks like it goes on for miles and miles in every direction.” She sniffed. “I think it’ll probably start raining soon.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Perfectly on cue, the first fat raindrop chose that moment to splatter on the back of his neck. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go and shelter under the trees. No point in getting soaked.”
“We shouldn’t leave the path. Trust me, I’m an Elf, we know about woods. Don’t ever leave the path, not unless you know precisely where you are.”
Mordak stood up. “That’s all right, then,” he said. “You know this place like the back of your hand, you just said so.”
“If only you’d asked that man when I told you to.”
Thanks to the spreading canopy of an ancient beech tree, which protected them from five out of every six raindrops, it was nearly thirty seconds before they were comprehensively drenched. “We don’t even know what sort of thing we’re supposed to be looking for,” Mordak pointed out. “It could be a ruined tower or a charcoal-burner’s hut or a forester’s cottage, any damn thing. So asking would’ve been—”
“Oh, don’t keep going on about it.”
“I’m not the one who—”
“What’s that? Over there.”
Mordak wiped rain out of his eyes with his knuckles. “Where? I can’t see anything.”
“I don’t suppose you can, you’re a goblin. There. No, there. Under those trees.”
In context, that was marvellously unhelpful. “Which trees?”
“Look. Where I’m pointing.”
Now she came to mention it, there was something, just possibly. A structure of some kind? Or just an illusion of form created by distance, obscurity and the chance angle of a fallen branch. “You’re imagining things.”
“No I’m not. It’s a hut or a shed or something. Go and look.”
“You go and look.”
“What, and get wet? You’re the one who didn’t ask the man, you go.”
“Fine.” Mordak tweaked the sodden felt of his hood a little further forward. Rain trickled up his sleeve and down his arm as far as his elbow. “Stay here and for crying out loud don’t wander off.”
He trudged out over the squelching wet leaf-mould, following the line she’d pointed out. It wasn’t easy, because some damn fool had left trees lying around all over the place; but as he drew closer, he realised that the vague shape in the distance was indeed a primitive sort of building. Quite a big one, in fact. Actually, it was huge.
“Hello?” he called out.
Indeed, huge was putting it mildly. It was just a single-storey shed, built of undressed logs and crudely thatched with dried bracken, but Mordak had seen smaller castles. He reached the wall and stood gratefully for a while under the shelter of the eaves. Then he started to follow the wall in search of a door. He walked for a disturbingly long time, but there wasn’t one. Eventually he came to a corner, and turned it. The side of the building stretched away in front of him for as far as he could see.
“Hello?”
Something this size, he rationalised, as he walked along beside the wall, must’ve cost a small fortune to build. If you’d gone to all that trouble and expense, surely you wouldn’t spoil it all by not having at least one door. After all, what do doors cost? Practically nothing. But a building’s not much use without one.
He turned another corner. If anything, this side looked even longer than the other two, though he wasn’t entirely sure that was possible. He hunched his shoulders and carried on. Eventually, just as he was about to give up, he found a door. It was solidly built out of oak planks, and wide enough for two carts. He tried the handle. It was open.
It was a barn.
Talk about your anticlimaxes. A huge great big building, hidden in the depths of the forest, and it turned out to be nothing but a stupid barn, full of straw-bales. He called out at the top of his voice, but the noise just soaked away into the sound-insulating straw. Never mind, he thought. It’s dry in here, and the straw looks awfully warm and soft. He thought about Efluviel, waiting anxiously for his return out there in the driving rain. He grinned, lay down on a bale, and closed his eyes. Must be ever such a lot of straw in here was his last thought, and then he was asleep.
The straw was beautifully comfortable, but just occasionally when you turned over there were prickles, and one particular prickle was sharp enough to wake him up, and when he opened his eyes it wasn’t a prickle at all, it was the point of a knife, scientifically pressed against his neck just below the angle of his jaw. Holding it was a little round-faced man. “Hello,” the little man said.
“M,” Mordak replied. It was about as much communication as he could manage without cutting his own throat.
“Are you a straw-thief? If you are, just nod.”
Fortunate for Mordak that he wasn’t, or his jugular vein would’ve been severely compromised. He kept perfectly still and mouthed No.
“That’s all right, then.” The little man withdrew the knife, and Mordak took a long-overdue breath of air. “Sorry about that,” the little man continued. “But you know how it is. All this straw. You can’t be too careful these days.”
Mordak massaged his neck with his fingertips. “You stupid old fool,” he said. “You could do someone an injury.”
For some reason, the little man smiled at that. “You’re not particularly interested in straw, are you?”
“What? God, no. Look, will you put that thing away, you’re making me nervous.”
“Of course.” The little man slipped the knife back in its sheath. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Splendid.” The little man grinned. “It’s been ever such a long time since I met someone who doesn’t know me. Really rather refreshing, actually. Oh, by the way, where’s the Elf?”
“What? Oh, right.” Mordak shrugged. “Still out in the forest, I guess.”
“In the rain.”
“Presumably.”
“Getting wet.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“It’s an ill wind.” The little man wandered away and came back with a bottle and two glasses. “Of course, I haven’t actually met many Elves since I’ve been in this–in these parts.”
“Lucky you.”
“But I can’t say I’ve taken to them, exactly. My fault, probably.”
“No.”
“Ah well. Drink? It’s something I brought with me from home. It’s called Scotch. You might like it.”
A bit like being inside a volcano at the moment of eruption, Mordak decided, but not unpleasant. “Another?” the little man asked.
“Yes please.”
“Your very good health.” The little man looked at him. “You’re King Mordak.”
Mordak tried to say yes, but his tongue was acting all funny. He nodded.
“Splendid. You got my message, then.”
“Message?”
“I asked two associates of mine to get you to come here. An elderly gentleman and—”
“Oh, them.”
“I’m glad you’re here. It’s time for the next phase, you see, and I need you.”
Mordak frowned. “What did you say your name was?”
The little man got up and wandered off again. This time he came back with a saucepan of soup. It was the colour of blood and smelt of honey. “Also from home,” he said. “Heinz tomato. I brought six palletloads. God, I’m sick of it. Have some?”
Mordak peered doubtfully into the saucepan. “Is it safe to eat?�
�
“Opinions differ.”
“Go on, then. I’m starving.”
“You need to be, to eat this stuff. More Scotch?”
“Maybe later. A lot later.”
“Sensible. It makes the world a better place, but wobbly. Croutons?”
“You what?”
“Little cubes of stale bread you put in the soup,” the little man explained. “Why anyone should want to I have no idea, but it’s traditional. Then again, in many cultures so is human sacrifice. Right, to business.”
Mordak accepted a spoon. He looked at it. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“No,” the little man said. “You’re interested in knowing,” he went on, “where the humans have been getting all their gold from.”
The soup tasted mostly of sugar, though with a slightly metallic taste. Maybe the spoon was dissolving in it. “Yes,” Mordak said.
The little man slurped a mouthful of soup and pulled a face. “You’d better go and get the Elf before she catches pneumonia.”
“After you’ve told me—”
But the little man shook his head. “Think how she’ll moan at you.”
“True.” Mordak frowned. “You’ll be here when I get back?”
“You have my word. As a member of my former profession.”
“All right. Oh, thanks for the soup.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“It was horrible,” Mordak said. “But I was very hungry.” He put the bowl down on the floor and stood up. He could hear rain pattering on the thatch, like a million mice line-dancing. “Sounds like it’s really chucking it down out there,” he said mournfully. “Ah well.”
The little man was fishing about inside a small barrel. “Here,” he said, pulling out what looked like a fancy walking-stick wrapped in a black flag. “Try this. Something else I brought with me. Look.”
Mordak looked. Then he shook his head. “We had a bloke made up something like that once,” he said. “They don’t work. Silly sod jumped off a hundred-foot tower and broke his neck.”