by Jim C. Hines
"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."
"Do you want Wendel's throne?" Grell snapped.
Jonathan stared. "My father's blood pounds through my veins like fire, screaming for justice. My mother's dying screams echo in my dreams, demanding—"
"Do you want it?" she repeated. Jonathan's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Grell rolled her eyes. "Go home, boy."
"You know nothing of justice or honor, goblin." Jonathan closed his eyes and raised his sword again.
"I know children," Grell said. "Go home. Let the rest of us get some sleep."
Jonathan spun, his face dark. "Be careful how you address me, or I'll forget you serve no further use."
"I thought honorable men didn't kill women and children," Grell said.
"You're a goblin. You'd turn on me in the end anyway, and I'd be forced to cut you down." Jonathan began to move around from the witch's stone grave, sword held high.
He had taken only a single step when Grell grabbed the wadded diaper and hurled it at him.
The prince moved with the reflexes of an elf-trained warrior, instinctively moving to block the missile with his sword...his enchanted sword, with the supernaturally sharp edge. The blade sliced clean through the diaper, spraying its contents all over his neck, chest, and arms.
Grell had never seen such an expression of horror and disgust. For several heartbeats, Jonathan stood frozen. Then he was screaming and ripping the tabard from his body. The sword clattered to the ground as he tried desperately to get the tabard over his head while avoiding the soiled spots.
He didn't have time to realize his mistake. With the tabard still raised partially over his face, Jonathan toppled to the ground, asleep.
"What a shame," Grell said. The body of the would-be prince had fallen behind the rocks. "Waste of a good meal."
* * *
Grell found Rindar in hand-to-hand combat with two human scouts. For some reason, Rindar had gone back to using his bow and arrow, while the humans thrust at him with short swords. Rindar twisted and leapt, avoiding lunge after lunge until one of the humans stumbled. Quicker than Grell could see, Rindar drew and fired. The arrow ripped through both men, who collapsed to the ground.
Elves were such show-offs. Grell hobbled closer, slapping the rocks with her cane so he would be sure to hear.
"What happened?" Rindar asked. "Is Jonathan—"
"He got halfway through his incantation and dropped his sword."
The sound that escaped Rindar's open mouth was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "How?"
Grell shrugged. "I was busy with an oozing diaper at the time. Maybe the warlock placed a second curse to trap any would-be rescuers. Maybe his hands were sweaty and he lost his grip. Maybe he just didn't want to be king. How should I know?"
Rindar's face went still, losing what little color it had. "Jonathan...the sword...can we retrieve it?"
"He was standing behind the tomb when he fell." She leaned on her cane, using her other hand to bounce Jig in his sling.
Rindar slipped his bow over one shoulder. He looked like he was about to fall down. "I shouldn't have left him," he whispered.
; "You said he was the last heir to that throne, right?" Grell asked.
Rindar nodded.
"So his uncle would be the legitimate ruler now."
Another slow, stunned nod.
"Which means there's really no reason to keep up all this fighting?"
Rindar moved slowly, like a man underwater. He removed a silver chain from around his neck. A long, gold whistle hung at the end of the chain. The high, piercing sound was more than enough to start Jig crying again.
"I failed him," Rindar whispered.
Grell was already making her way back to the cave, flattening her ears against Jig's crying. If that fool elf kept standing there all forlorn, he would be an easy target for Wendel and his human soldiers. As for Grell, there was no way she was going to hike back to the lair with humans and elves racing about the mountain. Goblins too, once they scrounged another drum. She could wait until tomorrow, when the elves had retreated and things settled down.
Inside the witch's cave, she emptied out her sack and set the still-wailing Jig inside. She stifled a yawn as she looped the strap over the end of her cane. With both hands, she lifted the sack further into the cave until Jig's cries died down.
With that, she gathered the fallen branches from outside the cave and lay them down beside her. She bundled a clean rag beneath her head and closed her eyes. The sticks would prevent her from rolling into the cave and falling under the enchantment. Rocks dug into her back, and the pink light from the back was a bit distracting, not to mention the pine-scented breeze blowing in the entrance.
But for the first time in days, neither horns nor drums nor wailing children interrupted her rest.
_____
Author's Note: From the very first day I started writing about Jig, he was always the runt of the lair. He survived through luck and cleverness, with some help from his fire-spider Smudge. But after writing the first two books, I found myself wondering how he had survived as an infant. Goblins didn't strike me as being terribly protective of their young, so how did Jig live long enough to grow up and start looking after himself?
When Brittiany Koren invited me to write a humorous fantasy story for Fantasy Gone Wrong, I knew it was time to answer that question. Getting to write about a younger Grell and Kralk was a bonus.
This story was dedicated to my then four-month-old son. I leave it as an exercise for the reader to figure out why.
The Haunting of Jig's Ear
Jig sucked the last drops of lizard-fish juice from the stick. Another few days of this, and he'd be hungry enough to eat his own arm.
Of course, it was his own fault for not telling Lurok about the carrion worm nesting in his chamber pot. Jig wasn't the only goblin who had seen the long, segmented scavenger climb into the pot, but he was the smallest, and therefore the easiest target of Lurok's wrath.
If Lurok kept chasing Jig away from meals, Jig was going to get smaller still. The threads of meat he got from discarded skewers were hardly enough to keep him alive.
Jig jabbed the clean end of the skewer into his ear. Lurok had flung a clod of dirt at Jig this morning, and some of it had lodged in his ear.
At last.
The voice came from within his ear. Jig yelped, then covered his mouth with his free hand. He should be safe here in the darkness of the old storage cave, but if Lurok found out where he had been hiding...
Jig pushed the stick harder, wiggling it around. The pressure in his ear was worse, as if the dirt was expanding.
Set me free!
Jig jumped. The stick broke. A burst of green light resolved into the shape of a glowing human female.
She arched her back like a tunnel-cat. "Rescued at last from eternal imprisonment—" She spotted Jig, and her voice turned into a screech. "By a damned goblin?"
"It was an accident!" Jig backed away.
The woman was tall and slender, dressed in a heavy robe with strange, shadowy characters circling the cuffs. She rippled like an animated puddle when she moved. Jig's vision had always been poor, but the blurring boundaries of her form made his head hurt.
"I'm still in that horrid mountain, aren't I?" she asked. "Who are you, and how did you find my wand?"
"I'm Jig." He glanced at the heavy, mildew-smelling curtain hanging over the cave mouth. The woman's light clearly illuminated the mold and water damage. Would he be safer out there with the goblins, or in here with the glowing human?
His hands twitched. The broken stick flew from his grip, and the pieces hovered before the woman.
"You broke it?" She reached out, but her fingers passed right through the sticks. "You idiot! I needed that wand to break the curse!"
Jig sighed. Of course there was a curse. There was always a curse.
Before he could answer, a meaty blue hand ripped the curtain aside. "Ha! I thought I heard voices." Lurok stepped into the cave. Lurok was a true goblin warrior. His blue skin stretched tight over long, rope-like muscles. The point of one ear was torn from a fight with an ogre. His fangs curved upward, nearly touching his eyes. "I'll teach you to run off like— What in the name of the dragon's hairy arse is that?"
Jig didn't bother to remind the other goblin that dragons had no hair, only scales.
"It's a girl!" Lurok said. "A human girl." He drew his weapon, a long club with sharp bits of metal lashed to the end.
"How very perceptive," said the ghost. "Can it also be trained to feed itself and not soil the carpets?"
Lurok snarled. His club whistled through the air, then through the ghost, before embedding itself in a crate of old leather. The ghost raised her hands, and sparks of energy danced along her fingers.
"Wait!" Jig had no objection to her slaying Lurok, but once humans started killing goblins, they tended to keep going.
Lurok swung again, this time knocking down a pile of kindling and sending a swarm of tiny spiders scurrying across the floor.
"Lurok, she's cursed!"
Jig took a pinch of satisfaction in the way Lurok jumped back. "Cursed?"
"That's correct," said the ghost. "My name is Muré. I was an apprentice sorceress. My master brought me here more than a year ago to test my power, or so he said. Instead he betrayed me, trapping my soul in my own wand in order to enslave me. But he was careless. While he finished his spell, one of the mountain cats pounced on him, knocking him into a crevasse. My body was slain along with his, but my spirit survived."
Her eyes brightened. Jig squinted and looked away.
"His staff might still remain," Muré whispered. "If we found it, I could use his power to break this curse. I would be free."
"Aren't you already free?" Jig asked.
"The curse still binds me to that wand. Even now I feel its pull." She studied the two goblins. "You will help me. Once I have the power of Firam's staff, I'll reward you both."
For a moment, Jig was tempted. His mouth watered at the thought of the feasts Muré's magic could conjure. Then he thought about the tunnel cats, and his throat tightened.
"If there really are tunnel cats, Jig will make good bait." Lurok chuckled. "They like to play with rats."
"Take Lurok," Jig said. "He's a warrior! He's strong and brave and stupid! Let him have the glory and the reward and the horrific death."
Muré's finger began to glow red. "You're both coming. If you don't, my wand won't be the only thing broken."
Lurok took one last swing with his club, nearly removing Jig's nose on the backswing. Flame sprang up around the tip of Muré's finger.
Lurok was stupid, but he learned from his mistakes. Eventually. "Pah. Been too long since I hunted tunnel cat anyway."
Easy for him to say. He had his club. Jig's only weapon was a stolen kitchen knife with a wobbly blade.
He should try to escape. Muré didn't need him. If he ran fast enough, he might be able to hide in the lair. Jig was good at hiding. He could—
Cold, ghostly fingers seized the tip of his ear. The broken wand floated back into Jig's pouch. "Keep that safe, goblin. Do you und
erstand?"
Jig nodded hard, too frightened to make a sound, save one pathetic gurgle from his stomach.
* * *
Jig and Lurok walked through the dusty goblin caverns and into the obsidian tunnels beyond without attracting a second glance. At first, Jig had been worried. What would the other goblins do if they saw Muré? But Muré was a ghost. She knew how to remain inconspicuous. She refused to return to her broken wand, afraid of being trapped again, but there were other places to hide.
"You could have at least asked first," Jig mumbled.
Do you think I like it in here? Her voice came from within Jig's ear. Apparently when he broke the wand, a bit of magic had lodged in his ear like a parasite. It reminded him of the time a group of older goblins had tried to drown him in Golaka's soup cauldron. A chunk of mushroom had gotten stuck in his ear for days. But at least the mushroom hadn't talked so much.
Firam was a lecherous old fool. He tried to seduce me, but I refused him. This is his punishment for that slight. I should have known. I should have insisted on bringing one of the other masters along for the test. But I was young and trusting.
Jig snorted. In the goblin language, the word for "trusting" was a variant of the word for "dead."
"Quiet," snapped Lurok. "Hobgoblins up ahead. Two guards."
I always understood that hobgoblins were cousins to the goblins, practically the same species.
"You take that back," said Jig. "Hobgoblins are nothing like us. They're...well, they're bigger."
Lurok's fingers dug into Jig's throat, stopping the conversation. "Two of them and two of us. But we have the element of surprise."
Jig peeked around the tunnel bend. A lantern hung on the wall near the arched entrance to hobgoblin territory. Green light reflected from the obsidian walls. Only the floor was dull, where years of grime and dirt formed a clay-like layer over the volcanic glass.
"They have the element of really big swords," said Jig. "Couldn't we try to bribe them?" Hobgoblins thrived on their trade with goblins. Goblins provided food, firewood, beer, and a variety of other goods. In trade, the hobgoblins let the goblins live. Most of the time.