Grey doe-skin boots patter up next to the ursine face.
“Yer good, Brontok. Big. Yer o good o’ boy.”
A fur-lined hood thrusts itself into view. Inside it, white fangs, and above those, slanted eyes. Goblin, and no “half” about it.
Great.
My head lolls to the side of its own accord and I wonder if they found Lucinda, but there is no sign of her. Another bear, a smaller one, nudges the corpse of a wolf with its nose, rolls it over, and then moves on, stopping to sniff a second corpse. The bear chuffs, blowing out steam, the dark shadow of his head turning to face the one rider who managed to stay on.
“Rest, Petya,” says the rider, and the stone bear collapses, rump end first.
My view of the bear and rider is blocked again as someone in a fur-lined hood squats right in front of me, crowding my sight line. Under his winter wear he looks like Grippy, but with more curl in his spine, and with wilder hair.
“Are yer wantin’ some help?” he asks.
I’m too frozen to nod, and my yes-blink only makes it halfway.
#
The pale man turns a few more pages in his book.
I drool on the rug, not dead, but maybe not alive.
#
There’s still a rug against my face, but this time it isn’t red. It’s grey. It’s a hot rug, steaming the winter sky. The divine warmth fills my nasal passages like cider or spiced wassail. The warmer I get, the more musky and ursine it smells, though I can smell a hint of goat cheese and raw potato there as well. Ropes dig into the padding of my coat and I realize I’m being tied bodily to this giant, hot rug. Whoever is doing it is not being gentle, and apparently my large size is the problem.
“O’drecking big oaf!”
This also warms my heart.
On my periphery I can see the other giant stone bear standing watch, turning. There are at least three goblin adolescents on the bear, still young enough to be called goblings. They glare around, bouncing like puppets in saddle-pockets strapped to the bear’s side. They straighten in turns to peer around, all trying to watch in every direction.
The larger goblins are tying another body opposite from me. Since I can hear three voices swearing instead of one, I assume it’s Lucinda and they’re struggling with her size. They loop her ropes through steel joiner rings, and when they hoist, her head crests the centerline and I can finally see her. Her face is deathly still, hair golden and matted with ashy snow.
I close my eyes again. It’s a start. Who wouldn’t prefer to be eaten by goblins rather than wolves? And maybe the rumors aren’t true. After all, excepting the angular, green faces and diminutive frames, they’re not much different than your average Ectorian trapper.
There are ropes around my shoulders, ropes around my neck, ropes around my feet and legs. There are even ropes riding up into my nether regions, but I’m too frozen to care. I bury my face in the hot fur and go back to sleep.
The gentle rocking motion carries on for ages. The crunch, crunch, crunch of large paws on snow and the grunt and yip of small voices blend into eternity.
THREE
When I wake again, it’s to the sound of a hundred silent bellows. Whispers, inhalations, echoes, and sighs. Instead of rope, rug, or fur, my face is pressed against straw and stone, and my body feels both sore and energized all at once.
I shake my right foot. Should be frozen through, but it tingles as if it’s been scrubbed clean.
The air is pleasant. Not warm or cold, but tinged with the smell of burnt sage, or yesterday’s moth wings in the candle flame.
The indefinable ambient light would be considered “dim” by most, but I’ve made a habit of prowling around in the dark. With Tom’s ring on this light is more than adequate, though I can’t tell where it is coming from.
I ache. I try to close my blurry eyes, but my body wants to stretch and move. It doesn’t care that my last trustworthy memory involves passing out in a snowdrift.
I open my eyes slowly. Here I am. Somewhere. Somewhere with a loud, echoey feel to it. Somewhere that bodes exploration. I sit up, go to one knee, and then stand in the middle of a pile of straw I’ve been sleeping in. It clings to my shirt and I brush it off slowly. My coat and pants are folded and dry next to my one remaining boot.
I’m penned in, but I don’t think it’s really meant to keep me. The enclosure is chest height, with one small shelf in the corner. It’s been constructed of rough-lathed dowel branches, two fingers in width, imbedded into a split log running along the base, and capped by another narrow beam, half as wide, running along the top. The dowels push into drill holes in both the log and the beam to form bars like those in the windows of Lower Ector’s clink-house, only these are wood. Not meant to keep a person in.
The woodwork is functional, not fine. It probably represents the work of several hours, a stripping knife, a splitter, and an augur. More pens spread out to the right and left of mine and on into the darkness, all just as carefully crafted.
Just outside my pen, Lucinda is stretched out on a pile of hay that’s twice as big as mine. Her long arms and legs poke through a long, mostly clean, white shift that looks suspiciously like a pillowcase. At least she’s safe. And asleep. She’s breathing in that low-alto, high-tenor resonance that speaks of contentment.
Relief. If the goblins had intended to eat us, they would have managed it already, I suspect.
To my back is a stone wall, sloping gently upward, soaring into the darkness like the steeple of a crooked church. If the angle is constant and darkness to be trusted, the ceiling here is higher than Lord Bailey’s dining hall.
The wall is also solid. It leaks no wind. It’s better chinked than the wattle-and-daub houses of Lower Ector. It’s better joined than the stone homes in Upper Ector or Fortrus.
I hop from railing to railing, tracing from pen to pen the wall that twists and bends in ways that suggest the builder wasn’t sober. It is fluid like water, and there is a slight downward slope.
This isn’t some mountain lodge or summer retreat, I realize. I am inside the rock, swallowed up by the very mountains I’ve been trying to escape for the last two weeks. For a moment I want to claw at the wall, dig my way out of this tomb. But if there’s a way in, there’s a way out, and I’ve always been good at exits.
Planning usually helps. I peer about, gathering as much information as I can. The cavern has been subdivided by woodworks. In many places the wood looks dark, oiled by the hands that have caressed them through the centuries. I listen to the sounds of soft breathing and realize that some of these pens, shelves, and platforms house little goblins, one each on a little mat of hay, squeaking quietly in their sleep. I smell lumber and grasses in other pens, and foodstuffs as well.
Following the upward slope, I find pens for goats and domesticated pheasants, large, clay-fired pools with water in them, and two enormous trout the length of my thigh bone.
The deepest sounds come from up a narrow tunnel that rises gradually and widens suddenly into another room. This is where the stone bears sleep, guarding an entrance, which is still another sixty feet up the tunnel. I know it’s an entrance because I follow the double-curve of it and stumble headlong into a pile of snow. There is a tiny gap at the top where the grey of early morning shows its sad face and pushes through a breath of frigid air and the smell of storm and snow.
I turn back down the tunnel and examine the bears.
There are two. They are surrounded by small piles of rags that snore, and squeak, and wheeze, and punch each other in their sleep. One of the bears cracks an eye and sniffs the air, but she puts her head down as I back away.
I trot back down the tunnel until it opens back into the main cavern. There’s a fire pit here with large, metal pans that look like giant, mounded shields, with a small base and wide rim that appears perfectly suited to cooking large amounts of food over a very small fire.
I creep down each of the several adjoining tunnels, stealthy as a mouse moving into a new home.
There’s a cavern that could swallow up the whole of Number 7 Redemption Alley without a second thought, littered with tanner’s tools and a pair of large, expertly joined barrels. These are filled to the brim with wolf pelts. Another tunnel leads upward to more food stores and racks of smoking meat, with smoke from a small pile of coals traveling up a narrow, winding chimney of rock into caverns above.
The last tunnel slopes downward and opens on a huge pit, fifty feet across. The descent is rimmed with a wooden staircase made of the same, well-oiled woodwork.
I don’t go down into the darkness. There’s a slight buzzing in my ears, reminiscent of the magical traps on Pale Tom’s valuables. I’ve always been sensitive to the sound, which explains why I’m still alive. Here in the dim cavern, with uncertain distances and odd echoes, it’s best not to muddle about or risk bumbling into a magic trap. This path seems to lead deeper into the mountain and not toward an exit.
I make my way back to where Lucinda is sleeping, cataloguing everything as I go. From my time provisioning for Father Cartwright at Fortrus Abbey, it’s a cinch to estimate these caverns can support two or three large families through a long winter. The shelves and pens seem low on livestock and foodstuffs, but with whatever meat is smoking they should be fine for as long as winter grips the peaks and passes. There even seem to be storage nooks high on the cavern walls, though no ladders or other means of reaching them are apparent. Just smooth cavern dome. Still, the hold is amazing.
I’m anxious to tell Lucinda what I’ve found and discuss the implications, but I’m not quite quick enough.
In the Abbey, it’s no problem if you’re the last one to wake. If you’re the self-righteous type, you crawl out of bed and self-impose a bit of penance for sloth, and then you wander down to morning prayers with your holy practice sword and your sacred desire to get clobbered by some other paladin, all for the glory of Pan. Timmy calls morning prayers “The Holy Morning Brawl,” and he isn’t wrong. You might get the fisheye for coming late to prayers, but the Brothers of Light certainly won’t stand around your bed and stare you up with beady eyes and pointy teeth.
Goblings will. More so if it’s winter and they’re bored.
Whoever rescued us laid Lucinda out on the cavern floor in plain sight of any early risers, and the early risers have fetched friends. And so forth. One moment Lucinda’s twitching through some nightmare and the next she’s being prodded with a stick.
The heavy coils of sleep don’t rustle off gently. They combust. Lucinda’s a whirlwind of long limbs and golden hair as she explodes out of the hay, shouting curses. The pillowcase shift is a far cry from the skirmishing gear she’s been wearing for the last few months, or even the tight-fitting corsets of her Black Cat days, but when she snarls everyone knows she means business.
Human kids would back away. They’d have a healthy respect for pain. But goblin kids? Goblings? They’re weaned on the scrap-fight, and just like wolves they’re pack hunters. The little ones grin back at Lucinda, extending their necks in anticipation, little white teeth glinting mischievously. Their eyebrows pinch tightly as relaxed hands turn to flexed claws. They’re ready to pounce, cataloguing her hair, her height, her reach, and her stance.
Lucinda must see it coming. She snarls again, dropping immediately to a low crouch, fists out, bouncing slightly, every piece of her in motion as she loosens up, rolling her head around her shoulders for a fight.
“Easy, Lucinda.”
I extend my voice out over the chamber, running rapidly along the beam that marks off the storage and sleeping pens, trying to get through her sleepy head that this is exactly the wrong thing to do.
“The little ones like to fight,” I say, jumping down between her and the goblings. “They’ll take your stance as an invitation.”
Lucinda straightens a little, but not enough, towering over our hosts. “Teacup, where are my clothes? My other stuff?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You seem plenty dressed to me.”
She gives me an irritated look.
“Relax,” I say. “You’ll probably get it back. All my stuff returned clean and dry.” I motion to my sleeping pen.
“Only one boot,” she observes skeptically, looking over the rail. “And did you find your daggers?”
The little goblins edge clockwise, jaws flexing.
“No. I didn’t. But seriously, Lucinda. Relax. Now. Grippy’s told me about these things.” Or rather, I eavesdropped on him while he was telling others.
I take her hand and squeeze it.
Evidently, Grippy hasn’t told me enough. One of them—a girl, I think—interprets my calming grip as an overture to violence. Instead of opening on the big, threatening human, she sinks her teeth into me, into the arm holding back Lucinda.
Wake-up call devolves into a giant dog-pile of scratching and grappling.
Eventually, Lucinda starts tossing the little monsters into nearby sleeping enclosures, but this only aggravates the problem because they seem to like it and rejoin the pile faster than she can throw them. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the easiest way to end a fight with a goblin, as I’ve just figured out, is to play dead. At this point I don’t think she’d listen to me, anyway.
This approach is not without a downside. It takes a full minute of passivity before the one who keeps chewing on my arm finally gives me a hurt look, unhooks her little teeth, and joins the crowd around Lucinda.
A larger goblin saunters up, grinning as Lucinda finally relents and collapses on her back to let them beat upon her chest and tug her hair. I notice that none of them seem intent on biting her. Almost immediately, once the wrestling has stopped, several begin braiding her hair.
“Yer lucky thing this o’not one of the larger enclaves,” the larger goblin says. “O’ Ketch’er’rik, they’ll not relent a’fore there’s a pint o’ blood on the stones.” His grin feels every bit as dangerous as the little one’s teeth.
“Oi,” I say. I also nod “yes” to show my understanding, because I can’t trust myself to speak their dialect reliably.
“Yer commin' through yonder pass ter bring us food?”
I reevaluate my last thought. He’s definitely more dangerous. He’s already bargaining. Bargaining with goblins is iffy at best. The fireside tales of travelers bargaining poorly and later being eaten alive in the snowy passes are so prevalent that even a half-pitched bard can classify them into six distinct subgenres. The ballad of Jeffy Gade and the Goblin Trade was especially good for encouraging an audience to share their good fortune with a poor, traveling minstrel.
Mr. Gade’s failed negotiation and subsequent demise don’t seem so funny in the dim light of an actual goblin holding.
I know a lot about goblins just from watching Grippy. He doesn’t talk about his other half, but his behavior lends truth to some of the tales. I know better than to refuse the gift a goblin has asked for. But there’s a double meaning here.
“Yer commin' though yonder pass ter bring us food?”
“On a freezing night like tonight, our food is your food,” I say. Hopefully he understands the unspoken corollary: “Clearly, we are not our own food, so please don’t you eat us either.”
“May it warm your belly,” I add lamely.
“Then our food is yours as well, forest brother.” His grin is slightly less menacing now, but still crafty. From the fresh wolf pelts in the barrels up the tunnel, I know they’ve already claimed the fruits of last night’s labors.
“You were so cold and wet when we brought you here,” he insists. “Near death, even.”
The longer I listen, the easier he is to understand.
“True,” I say, stalling briefly to gather my thoughts, thankful for all the years I’ve spent beating my head against Ector’s stingiest fences. Without that, I’d be even more out of my depth, perhaps not even aware that Lucinda and I are suddenly midway through the most important negotiation of our lives. This goblin knows he’s saved us. He’s agreed not to eat us . . . I
think . . . but he’s implied that we owe him our lives, suggesting indentured servitude as the proper reimbursement. We can’t afford that deal, not if we want to save Carmen.
“This life is a forest, and the world beyond is a land of unparalleled marvel. How much should one thank the North Wind for keeping the forest frozen?”
His smile thins and his eyes narrow.
I’ve got to be careful here. I can’t lose, but I can’t win either. The last time I outwitted a goblin I had a tavern full of humans at my back. Now I’ve told him that saving us was no big deal because the afterlife will be just as fun. For that he might throw us back out in the snow without our gear and be done with us. I backpedal.
“Still, my friends and family would thank you, were I to see them again soon. They’re quite fond of having me in this world. Perhaps some favor from the town of Ector would please you and your family.”
Involuntarily, the man twitches at the word “Ector.” There is no indication beyond that. No excitement. No fear. Just specific recognition.
“You know of this town?” I press, while I have the advantage. “You would like something from it?”
Slowly he nods, menace fading, looking like nothing more than a human with large teeth. “My wife has some small goods to be delivered to this town, goods I would prefer not to send with the trappers. It is a small thing to do, but it would please her, and raise me greatly in her eyes.”
“What sort of merchandise?”
“That of little burden.” He glances at the kids, demeanor completely changed. “Let us keep these terms between us until I am sure it is ready.”
Lucinda notices the change in his demeanor. She sits up and the gobling sitting on her topples off. “You know of Ector?” she asks.
“Later,” he insists. “When my wife desires it.” He claps me on the back. “I am Grafnuk. You are CupufTea,” he says to me, showing how well informed he is. He’s probably been through my satchel by now. “What is lady’s name?”
Shadowcloaks Page 3