by Jim C. Hines
Behind him, Riana yelped.
Ryslind looked away, and Jig gasped for breath.
“What happened?” Darnak asked.
“The silly girl triggered a trap,” Barius said angrily.
A trap? Jig followed the dwarf to the door. Riana sat on the floor, clutching her index finger with an expression of shock. A tiny bead of blood glistened at her fingertip.
“A needle trap,” Barius said. “Probably poisoned.”
His words chipped away at Riana’s hard facade. She shot a pleading look at Darnak. “It was an accident.”
“Wait,” Jig said. “What about the potions we took, to protect us from the lizard-fish poison? Will they be enough to protect her?”
Hope and gratitude flashed in Riana’s eyes as she looked to Ryslind for the answer.
The wizard shrugged. “The potion was a short-acting one. I don’t know if it will still be effective. Nor, without knowing what poison was used, can I be certain that even a full dose would have protected her. Were I to create such a trap, the types of poison I might choose would still kill her.”
Jig stepped closer to the door. A tiny needle protruded from the lock. It reminded him of the way the lizard-fish had flicked their tongues as they attacked. “Is this sort of thing common where you come from? Hidden doors, trapped locks . . . how do you people survive from day to day?”
Barius shrugged. “Only a fool would put his faith in a simple lock.”
He wondered how many accidents came from trying to build such intricate traps. It was a strange world where the job of the locksmith could be more dangerous than that of a soldier.
Riana whimpered suddenly. Darnak gasped. “Earthmaker help us.”
Her finger had begun to shrivel, and the skin turned gray as they watched. The nail yellowed and cracked at the tip. She touched the dying flesh with her other hand. “It’s cold.”
“The Necromancer’s work, no doubt,” Barius said.
That much Jig could have figured out without the prince’s dramatic pronouncement. What he didn’t know was how to stop whatever was happening to Riana. Would this poison spread throughout her body, or would the potion be strong enough to stop it before she died? Worse, if the poison took her, what would happen to her then? The fingertip still moved like living flesh. Would she be truly dead, or would she become something worse, some kind of toy for the Necromancer? If this was a taste of the Necromancer’s power, Jig would happily stay up above with the hobgoblins and the lizard-fish.
“Can you heal her?” Jig asked.
But Darnak was already shaking his head. “It’s in the gods’ hands now.”
Jig turned to Ryslind, but words caught in his throat. Could the wizard save Riana? He had made potions to counteract the lizard-fish, after all. Seeing the shadows beneath Ryslind’s eyes, and the sweat still shining on his bald scalp, Jig decided against asking. If the overuse of Ryslind’s art had caused the fit Jig saw, the last thing he wanted to do was ask the wizard to exert himself further.
The decay spread toward the second knuckle. Riana held her hand away from her, clutching the wrist with her good hand.
“Broken bones, bloody cuts, and other wounds of honest battle, those I can heal with Earthmaker’s blessing. Poison and magic, though . . .” Darnak shook his head. “Those are beyond me.”
“Your counsel, old teacher,” Barius said. He drew the dwarf to the other side of the room and began to speak in a low whisper.
Jig perked his ears. No doubt their voices were too quiet for Ryslind to overhear, and Riana was too distraught to listen. Goblin ears were another matter. With everything he had seen in the past hour, Jig wasn’t about to let anyone start plotting behind his back.
“How long before the poison slays her?” Barius asked.
“It’s not the slaying that worries me. You saw her finger. Dead, but still moving. I fear what she’ll become.”
Jig nodded. He had seen the same thing. Good to know Darnak agreed with him.
“If the poison takes her, she could turn upon us. That cannot be permitted.”
“And what would you have me do about it?” Darnak sounded suspicious.
“I will distract the girl. Make her end quick and painless.”
Barius was so calm that it took Jig several heartbeats to understand what he was saying. He wanted to kill Riana! No, that wasn’t true. He wanted Darnak to do it.
“ ’Tis not in me to murder an innocent girl in cold blood,” Darnak said sternly. “Nor is it a worthy thought for a prince. I’d have expected such from the goblin, but not you.”
Jig scowled. Why would he have made such a suggestion? They didn’t listen to him anyway. Nor would he have proposed murdering Riana even if they did listen. Running away before she finished her transformation, maybe, but not murder.
“She’s no innocent,” Barius snapped. “She’s a thief. By law, she should have been imprisoned the moment she tried to rob us.”
“Imprisoned, aye.” He took another swig from his wineskin. “But not executed. Your father would have my head if—”
“My father is not here with us. In his absence, my word is as law.”
Darnak fell silent. Jig risked a glance back to see what was happening. Both had their arms crossed, and Darnak was shaking his head.
Jig also noticed Ryslind leaning against the wall, looking bored. His lips curled slightly, hinting at amusement. He probably couldn’t hear what was being discussed as well as Jig, but that didn’t matter. He knew Darnak and his brother, and he must have deduced what Barius wanted to do. He only waited to hear who would win the argument.
“I’ll not do it,” Darnak said finally. “I’ll not kill a girl in cold blood. Not even for you.”
Jig nodded with satisfaction. Only an instant passed, though, before he realized what the dwarf had not said. He’d not kill Riana, but he wouldn’t stop Barius from doing so, either. Jig looked again, and saw Barius walking toward Riana. His hands were empty, but his face was carefully expressionless. Ryslind fell into step behind his brother.
“Riana, give me your hand,” Jig whispered. She obeyed, too scared to argue.
Jig rolled his eyes. “The other one.”
Trembling, she held out her poisoned hand. The decay had taken over most of the finger, with only a thin ring of healthy skin above the knuckle. Jig studied it closely, folding her other fingers back so he could see better.
“What’s going to happen?” Fresh tears dripped down her cheek, making her look like a young child.
“How old are you?” Jig asked absently.
“Sixteen.”
He stared. “But I thought elves lived to be hundreds of years. Even thousands.”
That earned a small, brave grin. “You think we’re born with centuries already behind us? That’d be hell on the mother.”
He shook his head, confused. Of course there were young elves. It was only that none of the songs or stories ever mentioned them, so Jig had never stopped to imagine an elf less than a century old. Elves were ancient beings who had lived through events other races only knew of as distant history. That was what made them so hard to kill. How did you beat someone with that much experience?
“Riana,” Barius called. “We must speak of your injury.”
“They’re going to let me die, aren’t they?”
“No,” he said. An honest, if misleading answer. They wouldn’t let her die. All that remained to be seen was whether Barius or his brother would do the actual killing. Jig wagered it would be Ryslind.
When Riana started to move toward the humans, Jig tightened his grip and pulled her off balance. With his other hand, he drew his sword and placed it at the base of her wounded finger. She looked back, eyes wide with fear and betrayal.
Jig didn’t have time to explain. Before she could speak, he pulled the blade toward himself as hard as he could.
Which was harder than necessary, as it turned out. The poison must have weakened the bone, or else the blade was sharper
than Jig was used to. His sword sliced through the finger, then continued on to slash Jig’s own forearm.
Riana stared, shocked, at the blood leaking from the stump of her finger.
Jig watched his own blood drip from the long cut in his arm. All of his strength drained away. His legs threatened to give out, and the sword slipped from his fingers. Pain and shock spread from his arm throughout his body. He looked to Riana, mouth open to speak, but words failed him.
Her eyes narrowed, and with her good hand, she punched him in the nose. As he staggered back into the wall, Jig realized that at least one of the legends was true: Elves were much stronger than they appeared.
Jig probed his throbbing nose. Blood dripped from both nostrils, but the nose itself didn’t feel broken. “Gak,” he said as blood ran down the back of his throat. “Disgusting.” Even worse than Ryslind’s potion. He sat down and rested his head between his knees, using one hand to pinch his nose shut.
Hot footsteps on his back brought him back to alertness. What was Smudge running away from?
He looked up, and when his eyes focused, he found himself staring at the tip of Barius’s sword. As he had noted earlier, it was a masterful work of weaponscraft. The blade was perfectly straight, and three narrow grooves ran the length of the sword. To make it lighter, Jig guessed. Which no doubt made it easier for Barius to keep it leveled at Jig’s heart.
“We should have slain you from the outset, goblin.”
“Me?” Jig asked. Stupid question. How many other goblins do you see down here?
“I turn my back but for a few brief moments, and you draw steel against your own companions.”
The quiet outrage in Barius’s voice was so perfect that, for a heartbeat, Jig felt guilty. Only for a heartbeat, though. Then he remembered why he had done it.
“Me?” he said again, dumbfounded. “I heard you talking to Darnak. Better to cut off her finger than—”
The prince stepped forward and punched Jig in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. As he lay there staring at the beauty of the ceiling, he wondered if there was any reason to stand again. Not if people were going to keep hitting him, he decided. No, he would stay right here. If the gods were just, Barius would at least chip his sword on the floor when he finished Jig off.
His eyes traced one of the blue whirls toward the center of the ceiling, where it vanished into the water. Yes, this is much better. As long as I don’t move, nothing hurts. I should have thought of this from the beginning. They could have killed me and been done with it. At least I would have died comfortable.
He wondered what was taking Barius so long. Maybe he doesn’t want to chip his sword. Jig grinned. The prince would be so offended if he damaged his weapon on a mere goblin. Smiling turned out to be a mistake. The prince’s blow had split his upper lip, and his amusement vanished with a hiss of pain.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax as he waited. This is why goblins make such poor adventurers , he concluded. A few blows to the head, and Jig was out of commission. Well, to be fair, he had also been flung out of a whirlpool into a stone room. That cut on his arm hadn’t helped, either. And he’d be in better shape if he had eaten a real meal in the past day and a half. Still real heroes were the men who shrugged off a half-dozen arrows and continued to fight. Goblins tended to run and scream if they stubbed their toe on a rock.
A strong hand grabbed his injured arm. Until that moment, Jig had thought he was ready to die. He had been expecting it all along, ever since Porak sent him off alone. Death should have been a relief. But as powerful fingers pulled him into a sitting position, Jig realized the waiting wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps he could stand to put things off for a mite longer. He raised his other arm to protect his head and kicked blindly.
“Here now, none of that,” Darnak grumbled.
The alcohol on Darnak’s breath was enough to knock Jig backward, even with his nostrils half-clogged by blood. His eyes snapped open. “What?” Where was Barius? Why wasn’t Jig dead yet?
“I know what you did,” Darnak said in a low voice. “True, she hates you now. And that wouldn’t have helped her against normal poison, but you may have saved her life.”
“I did?”
“Not a word about it, I warn ye.” The dwarf wouldn’t meet his gaze. “He’s got a temper, Barius does, and he’s throwing a right fit about you. I persuaded him to let you keep breathing for a while yet, but you’re to lose the sword. And it’s back to the rope.”
“Riana?” Jig asked.
“I stopped the bleeding. Earthmaker should kick me for not thinking of that myself. A bit of magic, and the skin healed over as smooth as an egg. She’s a little put out, mind you, but she should live.” He grabbed his hammer on its thong and closed his eyes. “Now let me see what I can do about that arm.”
This time, Jig watched closely as Darnak called upon his god to work his healing magic. With the hammer hidden in his thick fist, he began to mumble. Jig listened closely, but the words were foreign. Dwarvish, he guessed. The language sounded like a mixture of coughing, spitting, and gnashing of teeth. A bit like Goblin, really, but not close enough for him to understand.
So intent was Jig on watching the dwarf, he didn’t notice when the pain in his arm began to recede. What had been a sharp tearing pain became a dull burn, unpleasant but less intense. He could feel his blood pound with each beat of his heart. The rhythm grew louder, booming in his ears until he expected to see his very skin throb. The heat in his arm grew.
Like a blacksmith, Jig thought suddenly. Each pulse was a hammer blow that forged the flesh whole again. Fitting, coming from a dwarven god.
When Darnak pulled his hand away, a dark blue scar ran the length of Jig’s forearm. Blood still smeared the skin, but it was dark and crusted. He brushed his arm, marveling at the new scar. His battle scar. Not, he admitted, that he had come by it in the normal way. But he doubted any goblin would ever learn he had inflicted the wound with his own hand.
“Best I can do, lad. Dwarven magic doesn’t work so well on goblins, it seems.”
Jig ignored him. He flexed his arm, watching the way his new scar moved with the muscles beneath. Bits of blood flaked away as he moved. He wondered if the scar would fade with time. If only he had been allowed to keep the short sword as well. But Barius had already taken the weapon and tucked it into his own belt. The exuberance of his scar faded as he realized what it had cost him.
He had lost the first good weapon he had ever owned, and for what? To protect an elf girl’s life? These were the people he was supposed to kill. Porak would have taken the sword from Riana and buried it in her back as soon as she turned. Not Jig. No, he had tried to help. See where that misguided effort had landed him. Unarmed, and soon to be tied up again like a slave.
Jig tried to tell himself it would have made no difference, that had he used his sword against the adventurers, he would have died instantly. He had seen them fight, and he knew he had no chance. But still the guilt and confusion warred. What was wrong with him?
His only consolation was that the Necromancer would soon make it right. Already one of the party had almost died, and they hadn’t even left the first room. What would they face beyond that door, and how many of them would wish they had drowned in the lake above?
CHAPTER 7
The Heat of Battle
Barius was not happy. “We have still accomplished nothing! The door remains sealed both to my brother’s art and the elf’s tools.”
And the party is short by one finger, Jig added silently. He watched as Riana examined the lock. She struggled to grasp her tools with her crippled hand, a task made harder by fear. Her hands trembled as they approached the door, and she had yet to actually touch the lock.
Not that Jig blamed her. If he had been in her place, the last thing he’d want to do is poke around the trap a second time. But the ache in his jaw and the rope around his wrists made it hard to feel any sympathy. As Riana tried again to examine the lock, he commented,
“I wonder if the Necromancer was clever enough to put a second trap on the lock.”
She leaped away from the door so fast that she tripped and fell. Her tools jingled as they hit the floor. Jig grinned at his mischief. The enemy might be stronger and better armed, but he could still cause trouble.
“Enough,” Barius shouted. He stomped toward Jig. “You will probe the lock for further traps.”
Wordlessly, Jig held up his bound wrists. Barius turned a deeper shade of red, and Jig wondered if he had pushed too far.
The prince grabbed the end of Jig’s rope and yanked him upright. He untied the knot and jerked the rope away so quickly Jig lost a layer of skin. Jig started for the door, but Barius caught his ear and held him in place.
Jig stopped, indignant. Didn’t he know you only grabbed children that way? No adult goblin would allow himself to be dragged about by the ear. He should bite off Barius’s hand for this. He should plant a lizard-fish in Barius’s bedroll!
Glimpsing the prince’s face, he decided that he should do nothing at all. Barius tied a quick loop in the rope and tightened it about Jig’s neck. Still, the freedom to use his hands was a victory, if a small one. Jig was a small goblin. Perhaps his triumphs were better taken in small bites.
With an impudent grin, Jig headed for the door. Darnak knelt with Riana to one side, trying to boost her spirits. He had given her a bit of his ale, a kind gesture which may have been a mistake. To judge from the way her head wobbled, elves didn’t handle dwarven ale very well.
“Don’t worry about a lost finger,” Darnak said gently. “Many an adventurer has lost a finger, or worse, and still gone on to accomplish great things. Have you heard the song of . . . I forget his name. The little guy with nine fingers, from the middle continent. The one involved with that ring business a while back.”
Jig hovered over them both, clicking his toenails against the floor until Darnak acknowledged him.