by Jim C. Hines
‘‘You overstep your bounds, dwarf,’’ Theodore said, wrenching at the reins with one hand. Jig watched him closely. If he dropped the rod, Jig could try to grab it, and . . . his shoulders slumped. The rod could only affect one person at a time. He could transform the prince into a worm, and then Genevieve and the humans and elves would all take turns slicing Jig into worm food.
Darnak pulled a slightly wrinkled red fruit from his pocket and held it up for Genevieve’s horse. ‘‘My oath is to your father, boy.’’ He waved the fruit in the air, and the horse calmed enough to pluck it from Darnak’s hand. Darnak chuckled and grabbed a silver flask from another pocket. He took a deep swallow. ‘‘Get on with you. Elf steeds or no, you’ve a long ride ahead of you.’’
‘‘The dwarf speaks the truth,’’ Theodore shouted. He turned his horse around so he faced the small crowd. ‘‘I shall return, good people, with tidings of victory. Sa’illienth é traseth!’’
Darnak choked on his drink. ‘‘Begging Your Highness’ pardon, but are you sure you don’t mean sa’illienth é trathess? ‘Victory and honor’ is the traditional elvish battle cry. Not that there’s anything wrong with ‘Victory and bacon,’ mind you.’’
‘‘Come my friends,’’ Theodore said, his face red. ‘‘Alléia!’’
Jig doubted human ears would have picked up Genevieve’s muttered, ‘‘Illéia, you twit.’’
By the time the sun reached the top of the sky, Jig was ready to collapse. He and the other goblins had spent the entire morning cutting flowers from the wall. As he had guessed, the flowers were tough as leather near the base. His hands were cramped and blistered, and sweat kept dripping onto his spectacles. His nose was too stuffed up to breathe, and he sneezed every time he cut another steelthorn flower.
Their only break from harvesting flowers had come when humans passed out rakes, ordering them to drag the flowers off toward one of the farmhouses. There, some of the petals had been fed to fat, lumbering beasts the men called cows.
Jig paused to wipe his nose and study the wall. They had begun to the left of the gate, and had cleared an area roughly thirty paces wide and one goblin high. Where flowers had grown, shiny thorned spikes now covered the trees. Jig reached out to test one. It was surprisingly hard, considering how the leaves had curled so easily around the stems.
‘‘Have you figured out how to escape yet?’’ Trok asked.
Jig shook his head. ‘‘This used to be an elf town.’’ He touched another of the spikes. ‘‘These are the same color as the armor they wear. I’m betting they’ll be hard as metal by tomorrow. And as deadly.’’
‘‘Let’s find out.’’ Before Jig could respond, Trok grabbed the goblin to his right and shoved him into the wall.
The goblin, a warrior named Rakell, screamed and stumbled back. Only a few of the spikes were hard enough to pierce his skin. Puncture wounds in his chest and leg dripped blue. Several more of the spikes had broken away from the tree, leaving oozing wounds in the bark. Jig touched the sap, which was slick as oil. Anyone who tried to climb the wall would either impale themselves, or else the thorns would break away. The sap would cause them to slip and fall.
‘‘What’s all this ruckus?’’ Darnak asked. He and some of the humans were rolling a now-familiar barrel through the snow.
Trok snarled at the sight. ‘‘If they try to give me one more pickle, I’m going to beat them all to death with it.’’
Jig turned back to the wall. A small beetle crawled out of the bark. Jig smashed it with his thumb, then dropped the bug into his pocket for Smudge. At least one of them would eat a decent meal today.
Rakell finally recovered enough to punch Trok in the face. Trok snarled and grabbed Rakell by the throat. Goblins to either side stumbled, their ropes pulling them into the fight. Jig found himself pressed against Trok’s furs, close enough to realize that what looked like a death-bite on Rakell’s throat was actually Trok whispering to the other goblin.
With a shout, Trok shoved Rakell away, toward Darnak. Rakell raised his knife.
The human who had been helping Darnak with the barrel leaped away. Darnak simply waited.
An arrow buzzed from the top of the wall and punched through Rakell’s throat. Darnak plucked the knife from Rakell’s hand as he fell. A second goblin flung himself at Darnak, who caught him by the arm. A quick punch sent the goblin staggering back with one fang missing.
The goblins stopped moving. Darnak tucked Rakell’s knife into his belt. ‘‘Anyone eager to join this poor wretch?’’ He nudged Rakell with his foot.
Nobody moved.
‘‘Right,’’ said Darnak. He turned his attention back to the barrel. ‘‘Then it’s pickles and cheese for lunch.’’
‘‘What about Rakell?’’ Relka asked.
‘‘I don’t imagine he’ll be having much of an appetite,’’ said Darnak. ‘‘Or did you mean the ropes? You’ll have to wait for the elf to untie him. It takes a special touch to unknot an elven rope.’’
‘‘No,’’ said Relka. ‘‘What are you going to do with the meat?’’
Darnak shook his head and muttered, ‘‘Goblins.’’
He and the human passed out the food. The morning’s hard work had given Jig enough of an appetite that pickles sounded almost palatable. Almost. Jig accepted a pickle and a rock-hard lump of white cheese.
‘‘Darnak, what is everyone afraid of?’’ he asked.
The dwarf shook his head. ‘‘Earthmaker willing, nothing at all.’’
Trok crunched into his pickle. ‘‘Your princess wouldn’t be worried about preparing this wall unless she expected to need it. She’s planning for an attack.’’
Jig turned to stare at the bigger goblin. That was more insightful than he expected, coming from Trok.
Darnak took a steel flask from inside his cloak. ‘‘His majesty the king sent Genevieve here at her own request. Restoring Avery is one of her pet projects. There’s not a lot for a princess to do around the palace, you understand.’’
The dwarf’s breath alone was enough to make Jig feel tipsy. He didn’t remember Darnak drinking so much before. This didn’t smell like dwarven ale, though. More like . . . old leaves.
‘‘Theodore talked about tidings of victory,’’ said Jig. ‘‘Victory against who?’’
‘‘Orcs,’’ said Relka. Everyone turned to stare. ‘‘When you dragged us from the lair, I heard Theodore boasting about how many he’d kill.’’
‘‘Idiot boy,’’ Darnak muttered, too low for human ears.
Jig and Trok stared at one another. How had Jig not heard about the orcs? Oh, wait, that would have been when Jig had been clutching his ears, wondering if the pain of ripping them off would be better than the pain of Relka’s hymns.
‘‘Aye,’’ said Darnak at last. ‘‘Not only orcs. Billa the Bloody has got goblins, too. Goblins and orcs and worse. Thousands of monsters, all marching this way. All of them after killing everyone in their path.’’
‘‘Is Genevieve going to make us fight Billa’s army?’’ Jig asked.
‘‘Avery’s a poor target.’’ Darnak took another drink, then waved his flask at the distant rise. ‘‘We’re right on the border of the king’s lands, and there’s no real strategic advantage to taking the town. The early snowfall would only make things messier for an attacking army. Wendel’s men would sweep down from the valley to crush her. Billa’s too smart to lead her forces into such a slaughter.’’ He stared at the ground. ‘‘In part, Wendel sent his daughter here because it’s likely safer than the palace itself. Not that the palace is in any true danger, mind you.’’
He had barely looked at Jig at all. How odd. Goblins never took their eyes off each other. The instant you stopped paying attention, that was when you’d take a knife to the gut.
‘‘Darnak, what’s going to happen to us when we finish the wall?’’ Jig asked, his voice soft.
‘‘Don’t you worry about that.’’ Darnak took another drink, then stood to go.
Darnak sighed and tugged the end of his beard. He glanced back at the town, then nodded. ‘‘Aye, you’ve earned as much.’’ He dug into his shirt and pulled out his tiny silver hammer. He twisted free of Jig’s grip, and his own fingers clamped around Jig’s arm. Before Jig could break free, Darnak rapped the hammer on his forehead.
Jig yelped. It was as if his skull were a bell that wouldn’t stop clanging. He pressed his ears, but the sound came from within.
‘‘Earthmaker’s Hammer,’’ Darnak said. He tucked the necklace away, then nodded toward the other goblins. Every last one of them was scowling at Jig, ears flattened against their heads. ‘‘It’s a minor spell, but useful when you prefer a bit of privacy. They’ll hear nothing but the blows of his mighty hammer.’’
Relka’s mouth moved, but Jig couldn’t make out the words. Trok said something as well. He started to reach for Darnak, and then Relka pointed back toward the town. Probably reminding Trok of the elf and his bow.
‘‘You have to understand, Jig. King Wendel lost two sons to you goblins.’’ Darnak pulled a tin cup from a pouch at his waist and poured a drink for Jig. ‘‘He would have marched his whole army into your tunnels two years ago, but we couldn’t find the entrance.’’
Jig felt a moment’s smugness as he sipped his drink. He had been right to seal the entrance after all.
And then he felt nothing but a burning sensation on his tongue. He doubled over, dropping the cup as he coughed and scooped snow into his mouth.
‘‘Elf beer,’’ said Darnak. ‘‘Potent stuff, but it tastes like the trees’ own piss.’’
Jig shuddered. His tongue felt as if it had grown a layer of mold. ‘‘What’s going to happen to us?’’
‘‘Wendel decreed that any goblins found anywhere in the kingdom were to be executed on the spot. Genevieve managed to get around that law because she needed the extra muscle, but once the work is finished . . .’’
Earthmaker’s hammer pounded away as Jig stood there, staring. He wasn’t surprised, exactly. Rather, he was more surprised the humans hadn’t killed him and the other goblins already. ‘‘So if we come into their kingdom, they have permission to hunt and kill us like we’re nothing but animals?’’
‘‘Well, no.’’ Darnak took another drink. ‘‘The king has laws limiting the hunting of animals to certain places and times, and protecting—’’
‘‘But we didn’t want to come into your stupid kingdom! You tied us up and dragged us. You can’t kill us for being somewhere we never wanted to be. That’s—’’
‘‘Easy, Jig.’’ Darnak glanced at the other goblins. By now they had figured out that Darnak and Jig were the source of that awful noise. If it continued much longer, a few arrows wouldn’t be enough to stop them from ripping the dwarf apart. ‘‘It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, lad. That mountain you call home is a part of Wendel’s kingdom too.’’
‘‘Our mountain?’’ Jig stared.
‘‘Wendel’s, according to the treaty he signed with the elves.’’ Darnak pointed to the other side of the valley. ‘‘He rules everything up to the top of those hills.’’
That was too much. ‘‘No matter where we go, they’ll kill us.’’
‘‘That’s about the size of it. The story of Barius and Ryslind has spread. Everyone knows they were killed by goblins, and they’re none to happy about having you on their lands.’’ Darnak pressed the flask into Jig’s hand. It was surprisingly heavy. ‘‘Forged that flask myself, with Earthmaker’s help. You need it more than I do.’’
Jig nodded.
‘‘You killed Barius and Ryslind, but you also saved our lives. You spared me, and I’ve not forgotten that. I’ve done my best to convince Genevieve to be merciful. The real trick is persuading her father. The royal children have skulls of granite, it’s true, but they come by that honestly.’’
‘‘Can’t you let us go?’’
Darnak shook his head. ‘‘I’m sworn to obey. Besides, there’s no place to go. Theodore used the rod to seal your lair.’’
Jig could have wept. Without the rod, he could never go home again. And Theodore had taken the rod deep into the human kingdom, where everyone would kill Jig as soon as look at him. Though that really wasn’t anything new. He was a goblin, after all.
‘‘Grant me time to work on Genevieve,’’ Darnak said. ‘‘She’s a bit odd, that one, but she’s got more control over her passions than her father. A bit too much control, really. Takes after her mother that way. If I can convince her it’s in her best interest to keep you goblins alive—’’
‘‘Why would it be in her best interest?’’ Jig asked.
Darnak snorted. ‘‘If I knew, I’d be halfway there.’’ He clapped his hands, and the ringing of Earthmaker’s Hammer faded, to be replaced by the cursing of angry goblins.
‘‘—with his own beard,’’ Trok was saying.
‘‘What about Jig?’’ asked another.
‘‘Jig doesn’t have a beard,’’ said Braf. Trok and the other goblin both shook their heads.
Darnak raised his voice. ‘‘May the gods watch over you, Jig.’’
‘‘They do,’’ Jig whispered. ‘‘But it never seems to help.’’
I resent that, said Shadowstar.
Jig didn’t answer. He turned around, studying the scattered farms, and the woods beyond.
So you plan to run away, do you?
Running away is a proud goblin tradition, Jig said.
So is getting shot by elves.
Jig glanced at Rakell’s body, then looked back at the wall. Only one elf, but there were other humans there. Not to mention the soldiers and their spears and swords. The knife he had been given to cut flowers was better than the old kitchen knife he used to carry, but it still wouldn’t do much against trained warriors.
‘‘What did the dwarf say?’’ asked Relka. Trok and the other goblins crowded around him, curiosity overpowering their annoyance.
Jig took a drink from Darnak’s flask and forced himself to swallow. ‘‘He said we’re all going to die.’’
CHAPTER 3
Fleeing to the realm of the mortals was a desperate move, but it almost worked.
Almost.
Tymalous Autumnstar had made it halfway across the world before Noc’s attack struck him from behind, driving him to the ground. How long ago had it been? The black streaks of lightning that racked his body made it difficult to track the passage of time.
Surely when even the victim had grown bored of the torture, it was time to move on.
The desert sands where Autumnstar lay helpless had been transformed into irregular spikes and blobs of hot glass. Noc could have followed him and finished the job long ago, but to manifest in the real world would make him vulnerable, just as it had with Autumnstar. Noc was being cautious, mindful of another trick. Autumnstar approved, even though he was far too weak for tricks. Every time another streak of blackness shot down upon him, he grew weaker.
Noc was a boring killer. There was no banter, no gloating, nothing but lightning. Was it so much to ask that he at least vary his attacks? Pillars of fire would be a nice change, or maybe the sand could whirl in a blinding storm, each grain ripping at his skin. For a god of death, Noc showed very little imagination.
Between blasts, something tickled Autumnstar’s awareness. A sand lizard, one of the tiny ancestors of the dragons, stood at the edge of the glass crater. The lizard’s crest and wings were raised aggressively. He was probably hoping for a precooked meal.
Autumnstar and his fellow gods had often contemplated whether they were truly immortal, but not once had they stopped to consider whether or not they were edible.
Pressure built in the air as Noc readied another assault. Autumnstar closed his eyes and dropped his defenses, gathering what little power he had.
Jagged blackness cracked the sky, and then
all that remained was the burned, lifeless body that had been Tymalous Autumnstar . . . and a lone sand lizard that scurried away as quickly as its squat little legs would take him.
Another goblin died by the time Jig finished his pickle. This one had managed to loop the rope around a human’s throat.
The human leaned against the pickle barrel, shaking and touching his ear, as if to assure himself it was still there. Jig almost felt sorry for him. First a goblin had nearly killed him, and then an elf had shot an arrow past his face into that goblin’s throat.
On the other hand, this was the human who had helped Darnak inflict another round of pickles on the goblins, which did away with Jig’s sympathy.
Jig hooked a finger through the rope, tugging it away from his windpipe. The rope was thin and light, but not even Trok was strong enough to break it. Their knives did nothing. Trying to loosen the knot only resulted in broken claws. The elves could work the rope as if it were nothing but string. But Jig would have to cut off his own head to escape the bonds.
He had kept that last thought to himself, not wanting to give the others ideas.
‘‘What’s your fire-spider doing?’’ Relka asked.
Jig stared. Smudge despised the snow, but he had crept out of Jig’s pocket and crawled down to the ground, climbing onto the edge of the cup Jig had dropped, the one with the elf beer. Apparently the dwarf had forgotten about it.
Six of Smudge’s legs clung to the rim and handle. Smudge’s head and forelegs disappeared into the cup. ‘‘Maybe he’s thirsty?’’
Back at the lair, fire-spiders would sometimes drink the muck the goblins used to fuel their lanterns and fire pits. The only problem was if an unwary goblin happened to startle one of the spiders in midfeast. On the other hand, Golaka never complained about precooked meat.
Smudge was still drinking. Compared to muck, elf beer might be almost palatable. Better than pickles, at any rate.
‘‘Back to work,’’ shouted one of the humans. He waved his spear at the goblins, then grabbed the end of the rope from the snow. Several of the goblins snarled, but nobody tried to fight.