by Jim C. Hines
But the adventurers wanted him to lead them beyond goblin territory and the neutral tunnels. Once he crossed those borders, he would be as lost as any surface-dweller.
What could he do? He wouldn’t lead them back to the goblin lair. His job was to protect the lair. Even if Porak and the others had sent him off on his own, he still had to try to stop the adventurers.
Unless he could trick them. He rubbed the tip of one fang as he considered an idea. If he lured the adventurers to the lair without saying where they were going, it wouldn’t matter how powerful or strong they were. The goblins would overwhelm them with sheer force of numbers. Many goblins would die, of course. Goblins always died. That was a defining trait of goblinhood.
Wait—maybe he didn’t have to risk goblins at all. What if he led them west, toward the hobgoblins? Hobgoblins were bigger, stronger, and better fighters. Jig could escape in the confusion and run back to the lair. By then Porak would have returned as well. He’d probably be laughing about how Jig had run off and gotten himself lost. Jig could imagine the look of shock on Porak’s face when Jig not only turned up alive, but told them all how he had single-handedly led three adventurers to their deaths. Not even Porak had that kind of victory to his name.
What was the best way to lure them into hobgoblin territory? He needed to find out what they wanted. Treasure, obviously. Every adventurer wanted treasure. They seemed to want it more than food or water or air to breathe. But what else? From the gems on Barius’s sword, this lot was already wealthier than the average adventurers. What reward would fuel their greed so they would rush to their deaths without a thought?
His ears shot straight up. Finding out what the adventurers wanted would have to wait. If he wasn’t mistaken, those faint voices he heard from the tunnel were coming closer, and they sounded like goblins. His heart sank. They sounded like drunk goblins. Soon the others noticed as well.
“So what’s this, then?” Darnak asked, turning toward Jig. “More of you? Planning to wait until your friends come along to take us on, were you?”
“We should slay him now, before he can warn his comrades,” Barius said.
“No!” Jig cried before he could stop himself.
Their eyes widened. “The little bugger speaks our tongue.” Darnak laughed. “Thought you’d sit there and spy on us?”
Jig knew what a real hero would do. A hero would scream something defiant, wrestle Darnak’s club away, and use it against the dwarf and the human. A hero might even slay them both before making his escape. Of course, Jig knew all the goblin songs, so he knew what happened to goblin heroes. While he was busy going for Darnak’s club, Barius would stab him from behind, and that would be the end of Jig. Unless he was lucky enough to make it into a song.
He had no desire to be a hero. He only wanted to go home, curl up with a hot bowl of lizard-egg soup, and feed dead cockroaches to Smudge.
The spider had resumed his perch on Jig’s head, where he grew uncomfortably nervous. Jig didn’t worry too much about the heat. Goblin skin was thick, and now that his hair was gone, he should be a bit more fireproof. Still he stroked the fire-spider with one finger to calm him.
“Well? Have you anything to say in your defense?” Barius strode across the room and looked down at Jig, a sneer of disgust wrinkling his aristocratic features like a prune.
A real hero would muster up something clever on which to spend his last breath. He would face death like a man, with courage. He certainly would not kick the young prince square in the vitals.
Jig was no hero. As Barius tumbled to the ground, Jig whirled and sprinted up the corridor as fast as he could. Behind him the dwarf swore, the prince moaned, and the elf giggled.
He had to catch the others. If he could reach Porak in time, they might have a chance. Because these were the tunnels Jig knew. Three of the doorways in the shiny room led down passageways that eventually merged into one. The fourth led to the surface.
From what Darnak said, they hadn’t explored the other three passages yet. They would expect Jig to return with help, but they’d expect that help to come as single mad rush.
Twelve goblins. Three passageways. That meant four goblins through each doorway. If they timed things right, the adventurers would face an attack from three directions at once. Even goblins couldn’t mess up a plan of such beauty.
He wished Porak and the others would stop singing. They would call their deaths down upon their heads if they didn’t shut up.
“Quiet!” Jig shouted as he neared the group. “Intruders. Adventurers, three of them behind me. We need to head back to the junction.” He stopped to catch his breath.
The song broke off in midchorus. “Who’s that? Jig? Running back with his tail between his legs already?”
“Jig! We thought an ogre had gotten you,” someone said, giggling.
“No, I thought a bat had mistaken him for a bug.”
A deeper voice said, “But it couldn’t be Jig. Jig would never be foolish enough to tell me what to do.”
Jig saw orange torchlight on the tunnel walls up ahead. “Porak, you don’t understand. There are intruders back there!”
As Porak came into view, Jig bit back everything else he was going to say and retreated toward the wall. He had forgotten how mean Porak got when he was drunk. He was mean sober, too, but alcohol made him even worse. Bottle in one hand, Porak stomped up the tunnel and grabbed Jig’s throat.
“Intruders or not, you don’t command here. Not unless you want to fight me for it.” He squeezed. “Well?”
Jig shook his head, feeling stupid. What had he been thinking? That Porak would be grateful for his help? That everyone would thank him for his advice and follow his plan? That wasn’t the goblin way. The goblin way was to charge in like idiots, following whoever was biggest and loudest, and in this case, drunkest. Being this close to Porak meant his every breath filled Jig’s nostrils with the scent of fungus-distilled klak beer.
“Come on,” Porak shouted. “Most likely our little pup got too close to the entrance and was frightened by his shadow. But we’ll check it out anyway. Weapons ready.”
Porak’s hand moved to Jig’s shoulder. He shoved the smaller goblin so hard that Jig nearly fell. “And you can lead us, pup. Take us to these intruders of yours.”
He considered trying to explain his plan again, but one look at Porak’s angry, bloodshot eyes killed that idea. There would be no clever ambush. No, they would fight like goblins and die like goblins, the latter being the inevitable result of the former.
He looked at Smudge, who still emitted dry waves of heat from Jig’s shoulder. He thought about tossing the fire-spider into the shadows. No sense letting him get squished in the upcoming massacre. But he changed his mind.
“After all, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this mess,” he muttered. Smudge lifted his head as if to protest, then turned so he could see where they were going.
“Come on,” Jig said wearily. “They’re up this way.” This was turning into a very bad day.
Where were they? Jig had almost reached the shiny room, and still no sign of the adventurers. Some of the more intoxicated goblins had begun to snicker, and a few were even singing again. Jig’s heart beat so fast it was like a buzz in his chest. On top of that, he was going to have eight heat blisters on his shoulder, each the size of a certain spider’s foot. This wasn’t right. Something should have happened by now.
Behind him, the goblins started in on the chorus for the third time. Jig folded his ears forward, trying to block out the sounds of “101 Deaths for a Goblin Hero,” but it didn’t help. What kind of stupid song was that, anyway? He bet dwarven songs didn’t all end with the dwarves getting their heads cut off or being trampled by horses or catching a poisoned arrow in the eye. “Only goblins,” he grumbled.
The tunnel ahead was dark. “They must have put out their fire.”
Porak shook his head. “Hear that? Jig’s invisible friends are hiding. Maybe he frightened them off.
”
The laughter of the goblins briefly interrupted the song, and Jig flushed so hot he felt like a fire-spider himself. Trying to ignore Porak and the others, he found himself singing along as he crept up the tunnel.
He can run into battle and fall upon a spear.
He can peek around a corner, catch an arrow in the ear,
Or be chewed up by a dragon he just happened to offend,
There are oh so many ways a goblin hero meets his end.
His mouth dried out from fear. Every step he took was torture. What was their plan? Whatever it was, Jig guessed it would result in a lot of dead goblins. As “101 Deaths” continued, Jig found himself thinking of new lyrics.
The human’s shining sword could slice off my poor head,
Or the dwarf could use his club; either way I end up dead.
Only a few more steps and every one of us is doomed.
Why oh why oh why did I go into that room?
“What’s the matter Jig, afraid of the dark?” Porak raised a torch and shoved past Jig. “Nothing to worry about. Let a real goblin go first to show you that—”
Jig didn’t get to hear what Porak wanted to show him. With a loud grunt, Porak spun and fell. The shadows flickered as his torch dropped to the ground. Suddenly the others were rushing forward, swords and clubs waving in the air as they charged. Porak himself had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder as he pulled himself up and stumbled toward the room ahead. Jig tried not to think about how close he had been standing to the goblin captain. A foot to one side, and that arrow could have hit him. He backed into the wall and waited for the rest of the goblins to pass by. If they were the “real goblins,” let them be first to the slaughter.
But only four or five goblins made it into the room. Where were the rest? Jig looked back, confused.
He saw one of the drunker goblins stumble to the ground, not an unusual thing by itself, but at least half of the group had fallen, and nobody was getting back up. He couldn’t see well enough to figure out what was causing their collective loss of balance, though.
Hurrying back, he grabbed a fallen goblin and shook him hard. His fingers touched warm blood on the goblin’s back. Slowly, Jig released his grip. He could shake and prod all he wanted, but this goblin wouldn’t be joining the fight. Jig had never been in battle before, but he was fairly certain this was one dead goblin. The arrow sticking out of his back like a roasting spit provided all the evidence Jig needed.
Sticking out of the back . . . Jig flattened himself to the floor as that sank in. Something buzzed over his head, and another goblin fell. The few who had survived long enough to enter the room weren’t doing too well either. Jig heard Darnak the dwarf shouting merrily, stopping only to punctuate his war cries with the crunch of wood against bone. He also heard Barius yelling, “Back, you unwashed creatures, you monstrous cowards of the dark. Back, I say!”
Even if Jig hadn’t recognized the prince’s voice, he doubted anyone else could sound that pretentious and swing a sword at the same time. But if the prince and the dwarf were both up ahead, who was behind them in the dark? The elf? Elves were supposed to be fearsome archers, but the girl hadn’t carried a bow.
Another arrow shot past, and Jig decided perhaps this wasn’t the best time to ponder such mysteries. He dropped to the ground and crawled toward Porak’s dropped torch. His ears were useless with all the shouting and dying going on, and he could barely see a thing in this blasted darkness. Not that he’d be able to see much better in the light, but maybe he would at least know which way to run.
He crawled past several more bodies to get to the room. Every time an arrow shot past, he cringed and stopped moving. Just a little farther. Once he made it to the doorway, whoever was back there would have to stop shooting, or else risk hitting their own party. Unless they’re a really good shot. He tried not to think about that.
After an eternity of crawling through blood, bodies, and the occasional squishy thing he didn’t want to identify, Jig finally made it. He pulled himself into the room and rolled away from the doorway.
Of the goblins who had made it this far, most lay senseless on the floor. Senseless, and in several cases handless, armless, or headless. A few groaned and swore in the general direction of the adventurers.
To Jig’s shock, three goblins were still up and fighting. One sounded like Porak, still attacking and shouting despite the arrow in his shoulder. The other two were too busy with the dwarf to say much.
Jig wondered how long it would take for the last few goblins to die. When Barius slipped in a puddle of blood, Darnak moved close to protect him. The dwarf knocked Porak’s sword aside, deflecting a blow that could have split the prince’s head. Before Porak could recover, Darnak dropped his club, caught Porak’s arms, and flung him into the other goblin, knocking them both off balance and giving Barius time to regain his footing.
Before the fight could continue, Jig heard two sharp twangs, and both goblins fell. One thrashed about on the floor, but Porak groaned and tried to rise. Two arrows stuck out of his body, but he still lived. As Jig cowered in the corner, all he could think was that being a “real warrior” seemed to involve a great deal of pain and blood loss. Darnak kicked Porak’s sword away, then walked over to greet the archer in the doorway.
This wasn’t the elven girl. Jig couldn’t tell exactly what the shimmering form was, but it was too large to be Riana. He stared, rubbed his eyes, and tried again to focus. The outline of the archer ran and shifted like water, blurring into the shadows. No wonder none of the goblins had noticed him. If he was this hard to see in torchlight, he would have been all but invisible in the dark tunnels.
As he entered the room, the shadow-shimmer vanished as if a curtain had been drawn back, revealing a slender human. He looked around, nodded curtly at Darnak and Barius, and set about unstringing his bow.
“Nice shooting, Ryslind,” said Darnak.
Barius sniffed. “Though as always, brother, your approach to battle leaves much to be desired in the way of honor.”
The one called Ryslind began to examine the fallen goblins. Those few who were still alive he dragged into the center of the room. The rest he left as they were. “If you prefer, I will let you seek the rod by yourself. Don’t worry, when I see our father again, I’ll be sure to tell him you died with your precious honor.”
His voice was similar to Barius’s. Both spoke in a clear, polished baritone, both had the same slight sneer—though that sneer was much more pronounced when they spoke to each other. But there was something more in Ryslind’s voice . . . more power, a presence and self-assurance Barius lacked. It was that same dangerous edge Porak had always tried to project. But for all Porak’s bullying and threatening, Ryslind made him look like a harmless kitten.
Ryslind’s hand shot out and grabbed Jig’s ear. As he was jerked to his feet, he had the unwanted opportunity to study the newcomer up close.
He smelled of strange spices, and Jig tried not to sneeze. Ryslind was as tall as his brother, but of a more slender build. He wore a loose black robe, tied at the waist with a simple white rope. A short sword hung from one hip, a quiver of arrows from the other. Green tattoos covered the backs of his hands and vanished into his sleeves. They looked like writing, but the spiking, angular characters were no language Jig had ever seen. Not that Jig was much of a scholar. Ryslind was completely bald, lacking even eyebrows or eyelashes. Jig wondered if he owned a fire-spider.
Ryslind’s eyes ran the length of Jig’s body, and the goblin stiffened. His fear grew stronger, if that was possible, for those eyes glowed with a soft red light. Taken with the robes and the tattoos, those eyes meant Jig was standing far closer to a living wizard than he wanted to. He wondered if he could subtly put a bit of space between himself and Ryslind. A hundred miles or so should suffice.
“No wounds on this one.” Barius shoved Jig into the middle of the room. On his shoulder, Smudge flared again, and Jig thought he smelled burning skin. “Probably lost his w
eapon and spent the whole fight hiding in the corner.”
“This goblin shows more sense than yourself, brother.” Ryslind clasped his hands together. “Had the one who escaped you before been armed, you would have far worse than bruises to show for your carelessness. As is, you are fortunate I was in place before he led his fellows to attack.”
“Here now, we won and that’s the only thing that matters when you get down to it,” Darnak interrupted. “Let me tie these three up before they try anything else. Barius, why don’t you go find out where Riana’s hiding herself?”
“Find her yourself, friend dwarf.” Barius strode over to face the surviving goblins. “One of these creatures will pay for his assault on my . . . dignity.”
“So that’s what they’re naming it these days,” Darnak muttered.
Beside Jig, Porak groaned. “What’s he talking about?” The third goblin shrugged, then groaned as the movement aggravated the arrow wound in his gut. Jig tried to look invisible. The prince was close enough for Jig to see the hatred in his eyes, and he wondered what sort of revenge Barius had in mind. Knowing humans, it probably involved sharp knives, hot coals, and a great deal of pain and unpleasantness. Pain for Jig, that was. Barius would no doubt enjoy himself immensely.
“Stupid coward,” Porak grumbled. “You led us into a trap. An ambush. Why didn’t you warn us about the archer?”
“I didn’t know,” Jig protested.
“You didn’t know. Most of my patrol wiped out, and you didn’t know.” He snorted in disgust.
“Silence,” Barius snapped.
“Silence yourself, human,” Porak said.
Jig groaned. He didn’t think the prince spoke Goblin—he probably considered it beneath him to learn such a “primitive” language—but there was no way he could have missed the contempt in Porak’s voice.