by Jim C. Hines
“Aye.” He looked torn. “But I’ve not yet told the goblin of the godless years.”
The goblin had already taken the opportunity to scoot away, and now hid on the other side of the fountain. He wondered why Barius hadn’t intervened an hour ago. Probably this was one more way to punish me. If so, Jig hoped the prince would go back to hitting him next time. Still, he felt a strange sense of gratitude to Barius for having rescued him at all.
He remained hidden until Darnak finished his map. They moved on, again following Ryslind as he used his magic to track the Necromancer. While they walked, Jig pondered a new problem. How, precisely, did one go about worshiping a god? Maybe he would need a necklace like Darnak’s. Something with the starburst and lightning of Tymalous Shadowstar instead of Earthmaker’s hammer. But what else?
In his tale, Darnak had mentioned mortals who made sacrifices to the gods in exchange for divine help. Jig tried to remember the details. There had been something about giving up one’s firstborn son, and another who killed “lambs,” whatever they were. Jig had no son, no lamb, and he wasn’t about to try to sacrifice one of the adventurers. The best he could do was Smudge, and the little fire-spider wouldn’t make much of a sacrifice. Not that Jig would have given him up. Except for right after Smudge had burned off Jig’s hair, maybe.
That left prayers. What did you say when you prayed? How did you strike up a chat with a god? Jig wasn’t even very good at starting a conversation with other goblins. Did you have to say the words out loud, or would the god hear you in your head?
He decided that gods could hear your thoughts. If he had to speak the words, he’d be too embarrassed to try. He could already hear Barius’s reaction. “What god would tolerate a follower of your ilk?” he would say. And he might be right. To be honest, Jig didn’t expect much. Goblins and gods were like . . . well, like goblins and every other race. There wasn’t much in the way of mingling.
Still it couldn’t hurt. All things considered, it would be difficult for Jig’s situation to be any worse. So he began to talk in his mind as they crept through the corridors.
Tymalous Shadowstar? What a clunky name. He wondered if he could get away with calling a god “Tym.” Probably not. My name is Jig. Can you hear me?
He paused, but there was no answer. Then again, Darnak’s conversations with Earthmaker seemed pretty one-sided as well, so it might not mean anything.
I’m wandering around lost with a dwarf, an elven child, an arrogant prince, and a wizard teetering on the edge of madness. Well, not so much teetering. More bouncing back and forth between mad and really mad. I wondered if you could help keep me alive long enough to get home in one piece?
Still nothing. Jig sighed and started to hurry after the others when inspiration hit. No goblin helped another without getting something in return. Why should gods be any different?
I don’t know how worship works or anything, but if there’s anything you need, I’ll try to help out.
That felt better. A fair deal, just like a human would make. Jig would help Tymalous Shadowstar, and the god would help Jig. He wondered what kind of favors a god might need. He hoped it would be nothing like that acorn story Darnak had told.
“Hold,” Barius said in a low voice. “A door. Thief, check for traps and locks and such.”
Riana grimaced. Remembering what had happened the last time, Jig couldn’t blame her. A few more traps, and she would have no fingers left.
“Wait,” he called.
He hurried up to the door with her, to Barius’s annoyance. There, he reached into his boot and retrieved the strip of meat he had been saving for later. He brushed off the dust and fuzz and tried to ignore the rumbling of his stomach.
“Tie your tools to this.” He handed the meat to Riana.
She nodded, apparently remembering how Jig had checked the other door. With a bit of Darnak’s twine, she secured her pick to the meat and probed at the keyhole. As before, there was a click, and a silver needle lodged in the meat. Dry and stiff the meat might be, but Jig swore he saw its color fade.
“Why do you delay?” Barius asked. “Disarm the trap and open the door.”
Riana muttered, “Disarm it yourself, you overdressed sheep-lover.”
She pulled out her knife and used the blade to bend the needle out of the way. That left only the lock itself. She stared angrily at her hands.
“I wasn’t very good at this even before I lost my finger,” she snapped. Jig took a step back, hoping she wouldn’t decide to punish the one who cost her that finger. She slid the lockpick into the keyhole and probed the mechanism of the lock. Her eyes narrowed with concentration, and her tongue tip stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked. “Come on, damn you.”
The pick slipped from her fingers. With an icy glare at Jig, she tried again. Then a third time. She tried using the pick in her left hand, but it was no use. “I can’t do it.”
“You did it before,” Barius said.
“That was an easier lock. This has two tumblers instead of one, and I think there’s some kind of button in the back that needs to be pressed.”
“Try again,” Barius said. He shook his head. “We’ve dragged you through half this accursed place, and on the two occasions we require your help, you fail us.”
“I’m sorry to interfere with your great quest. Next time bring a key instead.” She punctuated every third word with a vicious jab at the lock. When that still didn’t work, she grabbed Jig’s wrist. “Hold this.”
She pressed the stronger rod into his hand, keeping the slender pick for herself. “Place the bent end into the lock and twist toward me. There are two tumblers in there, and I can’t get both of them at once. I’m going to try to rip the lock.”
“What?” He had an image of Riana tearing the door loose with her bare hands. Darnak might be able to do it, but he couldn’t see Riana succeeding, no matter how strong elves might be.
“It’s a thieving trick. I’m going to yank the pick past the tumblers and hope it knocks them both up long enough for you to turn the lock.” She adjusted the rod in Jig’s hand. “There, like it’s a key. I’ve got the end pressed against the button in the lock. Hold it still, and keep pressing sideways. If this works, the tumblers will bounce up, and you need to turn the lock before they fall.”
He squinted, trying to bring the lock into focus in the dim light. The least Barius could do was bring the lantern closer.
“Not that tight,” Riana said. “Didn’t you see how I held it before?”
“I don’t see very well,” Jig muttered.
“Oh.” She grabbed another lockpick from her kit, this one with a smoother bump on the end. “The elves make lenses that would help. Jewelers use them a lot. Sometimes they sell them to old rich humans whose eyes are starting to fail.”
“Sure,” Jig said. “I’ll remember that the next time I pass through an elven jewelry shop.”
Riana ignored him. She slid the pick in past Jig’s fingers, took a deep breath, and jerked it free. Nothing happened. “Too hard,” she muttered. She tried again, and again.
The fourth time, it worked. The rod in Jig’s hand turned, surprising him so much he dropped it. He winced, waiting for Riana’s explosion. But that first quarter-turn was enough. She picked up her tools and finished opening the lock.
“Back up,” she said. Once Jig was clear, she yanked the door open and shot Barius a look comprised of equal smugness and annoyance. Blinking innocently, she asked, “Will there be anything more, Your Majesty?”
Barius didn’t answer. He stared in shock through the door into the room beyond. His lips moved without speaking. This from a man who had faced hobgoblins, lizard-fish, and even the Necromancer’s warriors.
Jig peeked around the door, half afraid to see what monster awaited them. But better to see what it was, so as to know if he had any hope of running away. His eyes widened.
The door opened into a large, empty room. The floor and walls were made of the same black
marble they had seen all along, but the ceiling was a familiar mosaic of tiled glass. In case Jig had any doubts about where they were, a pillar of whirling water stood at the center of the room.
Of everyone in the party, Darnak appeared the most distraught. He shoved his way into the room and stared at the pillar, as if sheer indignation would make it disappear. He counted the tiles of the floor and walls and compared his figures to the notes on his map. He studied the patterns in the ceiling, trying to persuade himself that they hadn’t in fact come back to the very room where they first arrived.
“One forty-seven, one forty-eight, one forty-nine.” He spat on the final tile as he finished his second recount. “How could I have been so far off?”
He had spread his map on the floor to better study their path. Jig peered over his shoulder, looking at the winding tunnels that led from the center of the map—this room—through various tunnels and over what must be the bridge, to judge by the small bats Darnak had drawn, and finally to a door in the upper right corner of the map. Jig didn’t know much about maps, but he knew that the door in the corner shouldn’t have led them into the room in the center.
“There’s no way we got turned about that badly.” Darnak chewed the tip of one dark braid as he paced tight circles around the map, nearly colliding with Jig. “Even if I were off four or five degrees on those turns. A right rotten trick that would be, using eighty-five-degree turns instead of solid right angles. I’ll have to remember that when I get home. I could design a nasty maze that way. But we didn’t even pass over the chasm a second time.
“And what happened to get your magic so clogged up?” he demanded of Ryslind. “You said you were taking us to the Necromancer. Unless he’s a wee fish swimming about in that column, I’m not seeing any Necromancer here.”
“As I said before, this room was blocked to me.” Ryslind’s eyes were cracks of red light as he studied the walls. “I thought it was the magic of the water that overwhelmed my spell, so I commanded my power to ignore this room and take me to the Necromancer.”
Darnak glanced down at his map once more. “Ah, hell.” So saying, he grabbed the map, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the corner. “Getting cramps in my fingers anyway.”
“Is that all you have to offer me?” Barius threw up his arms. “One hundred and thirty-two years of age, Silas Earthmaker at your side, and all you can do is complain of cramped fingers.”
He whirled on Ryslind. “As for you, my brother, what are we to make of your vaunted powers? Where is your otherworldly wisdom, great one? I was wrong to doubt you. How great your art must be, that it led us back to the very spot from which we left.”
“What if he’s right?” Jig asked. The room felt much colder to him. Colder and darker. “What if the Necromancer is here?”
“Ridiculous.” Barius waved one hand. “He must be hidden away, down some tunnel we neglected to explore. Only after defeating the minions do we face the master. Else what point to having minions at all?”
Jig frowned. That was a good question. Maybe this was a good time to ask for help again. Shadowstar, am I right? Why would the Necromancer play with us like that? He blinked as a thought occurred to him.
“Maybe . . .” It sounded ridiculous now that he started to say it out loud. Too late, though. Everyone waited for him to finish.
“Well the Necromancer isn’t a very nice person, right?” Barius rolled his eyes, and Jig hurried to finish. “Maybe he’s doing this just to be mean. Teasing us, like animals, before he kills us. He probably doesn’t get much company here, you know. He probably gets lonely.”
“A master of the dark arts lonely?” Ryslind raised both eyebrows.
Is that the answer? But if so, that would mean the Necromancer was here, watching us even as we argue. He probably laughed when we found ourselves back here, like it was the greatest joke in the world. But where is he watching from?
Jig’s gut tightened, and sweat ran down his back as he looked around. The room was empty, as before. Nothing but the water. No place to hide. Even with magic, it would be difficult to hide in here, with the way the light bounced off the marble panels, illuminating every corner of the room.
The panels. Jig stared. Like the panels in the hall that disappeared when those creatures had attacked.
Riana sat by one wall, gnawing on her bread and looking bored. Ryslind looked like he was trying to use his art to find the Necromancer again, but Barius kept interrupting. Darnak had flattened his map and begun again to retrace their path. Aside from a few chuckles and Ryslind’s raised brows, they thought Jig’s idea was a waste of time. What could a goblin know? But he was right. He knew it.
“He’s behind the panels.”
Only Riana heard. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks went pale. “Are you sure?”
Before he could answer, a booming laugh came from the walls. Ryslind raised his hands, fingers twisted to hurl a spell, but he could find no target. Barius’s sword hissed free, and Darnak grabbed his club. From Jig’s shoulder came the smell of singed leather as Smudge branded eight dots onto his shoulder pad.
“Very good, little goblin.” The voice came from every part of the room at once. Not even Jig’s ears could pinpoint the speaker.
“Show yourself, Necromancer,” Barius said calmly. “Face us with honor and die like a man.”
Even Darnak sighed at that. Jig didn’t know a lot about adventuring or quests, but even he knew that “honor” wasn’t a word that went with “necromancy.” But if Barius insisted on playing the noble hero, Jig had no complaints. Barius’s posturing made him the center of attention, as he no doubt intended. It also meant that he, not Jig, was the obvious target.
“You’ve all done very well,” the voice went on. “I thought my warriors would finish you off in the hallway. But your wizard had more power than I expected. He’s a fool, but a powerful one.”
Ryslind’s eyes burned a deeper red at that; he said nothing.
“Come, wizard. Find me if you can. I’m here, right beyond your grasp. Waiting and laughing.”
“Can you find this villain?” Barius demanded. At Ryslind’s angry nod, he snapped, “Why then do you delay?”
No, that’s what he wants! Jig didn’t know where the thought came from, and it was too late anyway. Ryslind’s fingers straightened. He turned toward one of the panels, and fire shot from his hands.
Jig cringed and turned away as orange light brightened the room. Black smoke stung his nose, and even from behind the pillar he felt the heat against his skin. How Ryslind could touch that fire, hold it in his fingers, and control it was beyond Jig.
The flames stopped. Ryslind’s fingers curved and straightened again, and this time water shot forth, freezing instantly when it touched the wall. Flakes of snow fell from the stream as he shot more water at the icy wall.
Smudge hid behind Jig’s neck, making Jig wish he had something more substantial to hide behind. He had seen evidence of Ryslind’s power before, but never in such a raw display. Those two spells alone would wipe out a goblin patrol before they could even grab weapons.
A thick layer of white ice covered the marble panel. Ryslind sent a second line of fire into its center. As soon as the flames touched the marble, a loud crack shot through the room. The panel fell to the floor in a dozen triangular pieces that shattered upon impact. Behind the steam and smoke, one of the dead warriors drew a sword and stepped forward.
Ryslind’s lip curled into a sneer, and another blast of fire incinerated the corpse. Seconds later, only ashes remained.
“You might try toning it down a little,” Darnak said nervously. “Better to keep a bit of power in reserve, just in case.”
Ryslind either didn’t hear or didn’t care. The flames that had destroyed the corpse moved to the next panel.
How many were there? Jig counted as fast as he could. Twenty-eight panels. He didn’t know much about magic, but he doubted Ryslind could keep up this kind of magic long enough to destroy them all.
Darnak appeared to have the same idea, for he was tugging Ryslind’s robe, trying to make him stop.
The wizard brushed him away with a gesture that left Darnak angrily patting wisps of flame from his beard. One hand fell to his club, and Jig watched as Darnak fought the urge to club the wizard unconscious. Jig didn’t know if that would be an improvement or not, but in the end, the dwarf decided against it. Instead, he grabbed his amulet and began to pray. Probably trying to lend Ryslind more strength, Jig guessed.
Ryslind made it through two more panels and destroyed two more of the creatures before collapsing in pain. This time, as Ryslind fell, so did Darnak. But where the dwarf remained on the floor clutching his head, Ryslind stood back up as swiftly as he had fallen.
“Excellent,” came the Necromancer’s voice. The rest of the marble panels vanished, and two dozen dead soldiers stepped into the room. “You proved stronger than I had guessed, wizard.”
With the panels gone, the Necromancer’s voice no longer echoed from all directions. Nor was it the deep, threatening voice they had heard before.
To Jig’s left, guarded by two well armored corpses, stood a throne. Jig had never seen a real throne before, but this could be nothing else. No gold or gems decorated this chair. It had been carved from a single piece of stone, so black that even the marble looked bright by comparison. Light vanished into the throne, sucked into shadow. The legs formed claws, and the arms ended in small animal heads. Jig couldn’t see well enough to identify them. The back of the throne rose to the top of the alcove, nearly ten feet. The Necromancer himself sat cross-legged upon purple cushions of velvet. In one hand, he held a long silver wand.
Jig smirked. He couldn’t help it. After all his fear, all the legends and songs about the terrible Necromancer, this was not what he had imagined in his nightmares. For starters, Jig had expected him to be, well, taller. For another, a dark wizard shouldn’t have large, gossamer wings. And didn’t wizards wear robes? Granted, the Necromancer’s loose trousers and vest were both black, and his bare arms did have a pale, deathlike pallor, but the effect was spoiled by the mop of brilliant blue hair that topped it all off.