by Mel Odom
“I will.”
Hallekk turned away, leaving Craugh standing there to say his good-byes.
“This is uncomfortable,” the wizard said after a moment.
Wick silently agreed. Although he and Craugh had journeyed together in the past and had shared meals, stories, and hardships in their adventures, they weren’t close friends.
“You’re not making it any easier to leave,” Craugh growled.
“If you ask me, the easy part is getting back in that longboat to return to the ship. Not staying here,” Wick said.
Craugh grinned at him then. “I guess you’re right. Well, we’ve seen harder times than these. You haven’t gotten yourself killed before, so just keep doing that.” Without another word, Craugh turned and walked away.
An empty feeling opened up in Wick’s middle and spread quickly outward.
“Oh.” Craugh turned around. “There is one other thing.”
“Another warning?” Wick asked.
“No. I see no reason not to believe you’ve been given a sufficient number of those.” Craugh reached inside his travel cloak. “You’ll need a guide of sorts while you’re here.”
“I thought no one was staying.”
“No one is. This guide will blend into the surroundings, but he’s not very noticeable.” Taking out his hand, Craugh held a foot-long skink by the tail. He opened his fingers and dropped the lizard with a plop to the ground.
The skink immediately slithered away and raced over to a clutch of rocks. It sat there looking at them with big, unblinking eyes.
“You’re leaving me a lizard to act as a guide?” Wick asked in disbelief. Maybe I could use it as bait for fishing.
“Yes. I think you’ll find him useful. His name is Rohoh. There’s more to him than meets the eye.”
Good, Wick thought, because what meets the eye isn’t even worth throwing into a kettle and using as soup stock. “Sure,” he said.
Quietly, with a few last-minute well wishes, the ship’s crew—including Craugh—was back in the longboat and pulling for the ship. One-Eyed Peggie sat at anchor, riding the ocean’s gentle swells. A few lanterns used as running lights marked her for Wick to see.
He stood there on the shore, listening to the slap of the waves, and watched as the pirate ship unfurled part of her sails and got underway again. Getting seen by an incoming ship or by dwarves looking for new ore wasn’t a good idea. It would be easy to guess that perhaps Wick wasn’t an escaped slave.
After a while, One-Eyed Peggie disappeared over the horizon.
“Hey,” the skink said.
Wick glanced at the lizard in surprise. “You talk.”
“Sure I talk.” The skink whipped his tail around as if taking pride in his accomplishment, or maybe it was to show disdain.
“It figures. Don’t tell me, you’re here to tell me what Craugh would do whenever there’s a problem.”
“Actually,” the skink said, rising on his two hind legs to address Wick from the rocks, “I’m not any happier about this than you are.”
“Getting stranded on this lump of rock in the middle of the Rusting Sea?”
The skink looked around. Moonslight gleamed over the small scales. “This is actually a pretty good place. Warm and cozy.” He took a deep sniff. “And it has a certain … aroma about it that seems fascinating.” He glanced back at Wick and sniffed. “Craugh lied to me.”
“Craugh lies to everybody. It’s one of those dependable things in life.”
“He told me you were a bonafide hero.”
“I’m a Librarian,” Wick said because he was tired and he wasn’t thinking straight what with all the worry and fear clamoring inside his head.
“Oh,” Rohoh said disdainfully. “A book person.”
“You know about book people?”
“Mold, mildew, and dust. Those are terrible smells. Yes, I know books.” He inhaled again. “Not like this.”
“How do you know about books?”
“I’ve traveled with Craugh to different places. I’ve been to the Vault of All Known Knowledge. There was a man there. Grandmagister Ludaan. I played chess with him.”
Wick was surprised. “You knew Grandmagister Ludaan?”
“Yes. A fascinating man. For a human with no wizardly abilities.” The skink rubbed his light green stomach. “He was always generous with his food.”
Suspicion darkened Wick’s thoughts. “Were you something else before you met Craugh?”
The skink blinked. “Yes, I was. I was much safer. And I was happy.”
“You weren’t a human? Or an elf? Or a dwarf? Or a dweller? Or something else?”
“Please.” Rohoh crossed his skinny arms over his narrow chest. “Why would I want to be anything else than what I am now? Being a skink is perfect for me.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I owed Craugh a favor. He told me I’d be working with a hero who had dunderheaded tendencies.”
“‘Dunderheaded tendencies’?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t take it personal. Craugh doesn’t have a high opinion of anybody.” The skink used his thin, pointed tail to pick his teeth. “Except for Grandmagister Ludaan, of course. I think Craugh likes his food, too.”
Sighing, Wick marched back to the small cave they’d chosen for him to spend the night in.
“That reminds me, I’m hungry,” the lizard said. It scurried after him, its lightning quick skills easily making up for Wick’s longer stride.
“So?” Taking off his traveling cloak, Wick folded it into a rough pillow at the back of the cave and laid down. “Go catch a bug.”
“Have you ever tried to clean bug legs out from between your teeth?”
“You don’t have teeth.” Wick struggled in his bed on the hard rock and succeeded in finding an almost comfortable position.
“I was trying to put it in perspective for you. And if you swallow them whole, you end up swallowing them again and again. All night long. It’s not worth the bother, I tell you.”
Wick turned away from the skink and ignored him. What have I gotten myself into? Something scurried across the cave ceiling above him. When he looked up, the lizard hung upside down by its hind feet, regarding him with unblinking eyes.
“Don’t you have anything to eat?” Rohoh asked.
“No,” Wick said. “Craugh and the others took it away from me. I’m supposed to be an escaped slave.”
“You don’t have anything?”
“No.”
“Can I search your pockets for crumbs?”
“No.”
“You might have missed something.”
“If you crawl inside my clothing,” Wick promised, “I’m going to feed you to the first goblinkin I find.”
Just then, light flared into the tunnel, chasing away the darkness. The skink hung frozen for a moment, his mouth wide in surprise. Then he bolted for the back recesses of the cave.
“Now an’ why would I want to eat a skinny ol’ lizard what’s probably tough as leather when I could fetch me a nice plump halfer fer me stewpot?” a rough voice demanded. “Lookee here. I told ye I thought I smelt me a halfer.”
Putting a hand up to block the torchlight, Wick spotted three horrible shapes standing in the cave mouth. Goblinkin! He was doomed even before his task got underway!
5
On the Menu
Springing to his feet, Wick tried to run for his life. The skink had managed to escape. But the cave ceiling was low. Wick didn’t see the overhang that caught him across the forehead and knocked him from his feet. Nearly senseless, he landed flat on his back and couldn’t move.
I’m paralyzed! he thought. Panic coursed through him.
The light from the goblinkin’s torch came on into the cave, trailing the rude laughter from the approaching goblinkin.
“Stupid halfer,” one of the goblinkin snarled. “Goin’ a-runnin’ through a dark cave like that when ye can’t see. Ain’t got no sense.”
“Well,�
� another said, “we ain’t gonna eat him ’cause he’s smart. We’re gonna eat him ’cause he tastes good. Leastways, he’ll taste good once we get him all stewed up.”
“Maybe ye don’t care for ’em none,” a third commented, “but I like halfer brains. They’s soft. I can swallow ’em down without even chewin’.”
Wick discovered that he wasn’t totally paralyzed because his stomach turned queasy at that revelation. He’d never made a study of what goblinkin ate. The information he had came as a result of misfortune. And he surely didn’t want to learn about the culinary delights of goblinkin firsthand.
Bats fluttered on the ceiling, hanging upside down like dried figs. Several of them turned loose their holds and dropped, then spread their tiny wings and flew toward the cave mouth.
“Look out!” one of the goblinkin shouted.
The torchlight danced crazily as the goblinkin dodged the bats. Then the bats were gone from the cave.
Wick suddenly discovered that he wasn’t paralyzed anymore. He tried to get to his feet. Only then a clawed goblinkin foot came crashing down on his chest and knocked the breath from him as it pinned him against the cave floor.
“Good thing ye didn’t let him run,” one of the goblinkin said. “Halfers is almighty quick. I hate fast food.”
“Where do ye a-think ye’re a-goin’?” The goblinkin leaned down, thrusting his ugly face into Wick’s.
“N-n-nowhere,” Wick stuttered, wishing he wasn’t so afraid. But even after years of trekking around the mainland chasing after books and legends and seeing goblinkin many of those times, he still wasn’t used to them.
Goblinkin were particularly ugly. Baby goblinkin were even more so, which was why they started out in the world unloved and pretty much on their own. Besides that, there was always another goblinkin that came along in case the first was eaten by something larger than him, killed while on a battlefield or falling from a mountain, or beneath the tusks of a wild Borhovian skurulta (which, for some odd reason no one knew, fancied goblinkin flesh), or was butchered and eaten by siblings who had grown tired of him.
The goblinkin’s face was a triangle shape, with the narrowest point being the chin. Using the allotted space for features, nature had spread the piggy eyes apart so there was plenty of room for the bulbous nose to take root over the narrow mouth jammed with crooked, yellow fangs. The hair was tied back in a ponytail festooned with rocks and gems and bones that told the story of the goblinkin’s tribe and accomplishments.
A sparse sprinkling of bushy black hair on the chin formed something of a beard. The ears were huge sails as big as the bats that had fled the cave, and both were punctured several times over with earrings fashioned from victims’ bones. In proper daylight, the skin was splotchy gray-green that maintained an unhealthy pallor.
“That’s right,” the goblinkin taunted, “you ain’t a-goin’ nowhere.”
“Uh, Sebble,” the smallest goblinkin said hesitantly.
“What, Droos?” Sebble snarled.
“The halfer.” Droos nodded at Wick. “He’s gotta go somewhere.”
“No, he ain’t,” Sebble said, “’cause I said he ain’t a-goin’ nowhere. An’ I’m the chief of this here patrol.”
“Okay,” the younger goblinkin said, looking around. “We can eat him here, I suppose. But he’s gonna be cold an’ tough if ’n we don’t cook him up proper.”
“Oh.” Sebble appeared to give that some thought. He scratched his head with a black talon. “We need to cook him, don’t we?”
“We could eat him raw,” the third goblinkin suggested. “Just open him up like a melon an’ he can be his own bowl. After we scoop him clean, we can eat the rind. We’ve done it afore.” He kicked Wick with a big toe. “That way we don’t have to share him. Ain’t enough meat on his bones to share with the others anyway.”
“You don’t want to eat him raw,” a voice called from the back of the cave. Wick recognized the skink’s voice but apparently the goblinkin didn’t.
“Right,” Sebble said. “We don’t want to eat him raw, Kuuch.”
“Why not?” Kuuch asked.
“Well,” Sebble said, evidently thinking it over again.
Some chief, Wick thought.
“Because if you eat him raw, you’ll get a bad belly and … and … a case of the spoilt meat trots,” Rohoh called from the back of the cave.
Sebble slapped Kuuch with an open hand. “We doesn’t want to eat the halfer raw, ye idjit. It’d give us the spoilt meat trots, is what it’d do.”
“Take him back to the camp and put him in a stewpot,” Rohoh suggested.
If I ever see that turncoat again, Wick thought, it’s going to be too soon!
“We have a stewpot back at the camp,” Droos said.
“Yeah.” Sebble nodded. “We’ll cook him up there. Let’s go. We gotta find some potatoes.”
“An’ some carrots,” Droos said. “I like carrots. But we don’t wanna cook ’em too long. I like ’em crunchy.”
“That’s ’cause ye still got all yer teeth,” Kuuch snarled, slapping the back of the younger goblinkin’s head. “I like me carrots mushy. Otherwise I have to pick ’em out.”
“Ain’t my fault ye lost yer teeth,” Droos sniveled, backing away from the others. “Told ye eatin’ that many carrion rats at one time wasn’t good for ye. Give ye gas an’ rotted out yer teeth. Ye shoulda mixed ’em better with them slimeweed greens.”
“I hate slimeweed greens,” Kuuch moped.
“You’ll want some salt and pepper, too,” Rohoh called from the back of the cave.
“An’ salt,” Sebble said.
“An’ pepper,” Kuuch added.
Sebble glared at the other goblinkin. “I was gonna say that.”
“And onions,” Rohoh said.
Sebble turned to Droos. “Are ye rememberin’ all this?”
Droos shrank back. “Maaaaybeee.”
Sebble slapped the younger goblinkin again, making Droos yelp. “Remember it, ye worthless gullet. Potatoes an’ carrots an’—”
“Salt an’ pepper,” Kuuch said.
“I was gettin’ to that,” Sebble whined. “I wasn’t gonna forget salt an’ pepper.”
“I think maybe we used up all the pepper,” Droos said.
“We got pepper,” Kuuch said. “Banna still has some he’s hid up an’ I know where he hid it.”
“There was somethin’ else,” Sebble said. He’d been counting ingredients on his fingers and had nearly a full hand.
“Onions,” Rohoh said.
“Oh yeah,” Sebble said. “Onions. There’s them wild onions what grows on the hill.”
“I don’t want them wild onions,” Kuuch whined. “They gives me gas.”
“Ever’thin’ ye eats gives ye gas,” Droos said. “I tell ye, ye shouldn’t got a sweet tooth fer them carrion rats.”
“Well, I like them wild onions,” Sebble said. “But ye’re a-sleepin’ downwind of us after we eat.”
Wick lay still under the goblinkin’s foot. He couldn’t believe he was fated to become indigestion after years of serving as a Novice and a Third Level Librarian. He’d practically only gotten promoted to Second Level Librarian. Maybe First Level Librarian wasn’t going to happen any time soon, but it was a possibility he was looking forward to. Everything happened eventually.
But not if he ended up as a repast for goblinkin.
“Firepears would be nice,” Rohoh said.
Sebble nodded. “They would at that. I like firepears.” He looked for another finger on his first hand and discovered that he was all out. He turned up a finger on his other hand like it was something he’d never seen before.
“C’mon,” Sebble said. “We ain’t got all night if we’re gonna have the halfer stewed by mornin’.”
Wick knew pleading for his life wasn’t going to do any good. But he still felt inclined.
Together, the three goblinkin turned and walked away, arguing among themselves how best to prepare a
dweller stew. Wick lay on the ground unnoticed. They were so involved in planning their meal they’d forgotten the main ingredient. Cautiously, head aching from the impact, Wick got to his feet.
“Wait,” Droos said from outside the cave. “We left the halfer.”
Seeing the torch hurrying back toward him, Wick turned to run again. Perhaps he could lose himself in the back of the cave. All he needed was—
“Look out!” Rohoh yelled.
The familiar impact slammed across Wick’s forehead again. He was lying on his back, seeing stars, when Sebble returned for him.
Grinning, the goblinkin fisted Wick’s clothes and lifted him from the ground. “Ye’re really stupid, halfer. I hope I don’t catch it from eatin’ ye.”
A short while later, Wick trudged up the mountain in the darkness. The rope around his neck chafed something fierce. Tied behind his back, his hands had gone numb. He fell again and again, bruising his face and cutting his lips and chin.
Every now and then, when he didn’t fall fast enough to suit Sebble, who held the rope around Wick’s neck, the goblinkin yanked the line and caused him to fall. Sebble and Kuuch hooted with laughter at the sport.
“Mayhap we could walk closer to him with the torch so he could see,” Droos suggested. For a goblinkin, he seemed to have a more tender heart.
“Nah,” Sebble replied. “All that fallin’ down he’s a-doin’ is just tenderizin’ him some.”
“Well, if ’n ye keep a-playin’ with our food like that,” Droos said, “ye’re liable to lose him over the side in one of them firepits.”
So much for the tender heart theory, Wick thought. Then, Firepits! He peered over the side of the trail and noticed that, indeed, he felt an occasional wafting of heat from that direction. Evidently the island still had vent tubes that ran to the heart of the smoldering volcano on the ocean floor.
Up and up and up, Wick went, following a narrow path that had been worn into the stone. Since there wasn’t any game on the island that he knew of, Wick felt certain goblinkin or dwarves had made the trail.
Without warning, something ran up Wick’s leg. Tiny claws bit into his flesh. Memory of Hallekk’s description of the goldengreed weed ran through his mind and he couldn’t help thinking that he’d stumbled against one of the plants in the dark and was now infested with flesh-eating insects. He halted in the middle of the trail and howled helplessly, jumping up and down. The claws just bit in more fiercely.