by Jim C. Hines
Nine armed kobolds against three goblins. Jig still had the knife he had taken from Genevieve, and Trok had his stick. But the kobolds were all armed and wearing armor . . . such as it was.
Jig made his way to the edge of the ice. ‘‘That’s not true!’’
‘‘So the smelly goblins will pay?’’ Hessafa asked.
‘‘We did pay.’’ Jig stepped to the side, out of reach of her spear. ‘‘We paid her lots of metal. Coins and nails and a dwarf shield. She didn’t want to share!’’ He pointed back at the road. ‘‘She buried it in the snow so she could keep it all for herself!’’
‘‘Lies!’’ Hessafa shouted. But the other kobolds had begun to mutter to one another.
‘‘Lots of shiny metal,’’ Jig said. ‘‘Iron and copper and steel and brass.’’
‘‘Where?’’ demanded a fat male. The butt of his spear was studded with rusty metal fishhooks.
‘‘Back on the other side of the bridge. She made us close our eyes, so I don’t know exactly where she buried it.’’
‘‘Hessafa knows,’’ said a kobold who wore a shovel blade for a breastplate.
‘‘That’s right,’’ said Jig, trying to look surprised. ‘‘Hessafa does know. She could show you.’’
‘‘No!’’ Hessafa shouted. ‘‘Smelly goblins lie!’’
But it was too late. Hessafa yipped and snarled as the other kobolds dragged her across the stream.
‘‘Come on,’’ Jig said. The kobolds had to have been nearby to respond so quickly. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering what they would do to Hessafa. Would they believe her when she couldn’t lead them to her stolen metal, or would they try to pound the truth out of her?
And then he crested a low hill, and all thought of Hessafa vanished. They had reached Pottersville.
Pottersville was built on the intersection of several roads, as well as that annoying river. One road led off toward the mountains to the north. Another bridged the stream and disappeared up into what Darnak had said were elf lands.
As with the town of Avery, Pottersville was surrounded by a low wall. From the look of things, it hadn’t done much to protect the town.
Whole sections were ripped down, with figures moving in and out like bugs. Big bugs, with swords and axes and spears. To the right of the smashed gate where the road passed through the wall, goblins swarmed over abandoned farmhouses. There had to be hundreds of goblins down there. Some worked to load barrels and other bundles onto wagons. Others chased after a group of fluffy gray animals who had apparently escaped from inside a battered wooden fence.
The kobolds had taken over the other side of the road. Small groups of kobolds crept along the edge of the woods. Hunting for food? Or perhaps they were guarding against human survivors who might come back for revenge.
‘‘What are those?’’ Relka pointed to where huge, long-limbed creatures with rubbery green skin chopped a fallen section of wall into individual logs.
‘‘Trolls,’’ said Jig. He hadn’t seen one since his involuntary quest a few years ago. There had been a few trolls living down in the lower caverns with Straum the dragon back then. As far as Jig could tell, they had been eaten by the ogres.
Being uneaten, these trolls were better off than the ones back home, but not by much. As far as Jig could tell, they were prisoners. They were chained together by metal collars, a bit like the goblins had been back at Avery.
‘‘And those monsters guarding them must be orcs,’’ Relka said.
The orcs wore dingy metal breastplates and shields, all painted a dull black. Or maybe they were just dirty. Either way, Genevieve would have appreciated their sense of style.
‘‘Look at them,’’ Trok whispered, his tone very similar to Relka’s when she talked about Tymalous Shadowstar. ‘‘They’re so tough, the cold doesn’t even bother them!’’
Most of the orcs kept their muscular arms bare. Though when Jig squinted through his spectacles, he could see a few shivering as they marched through the broken gate. And they did march quite close together, presumably for warmth. It was still an impressive sight.
Jig wondered if the grayish tinge of their skin was their natural coloring or an effect of the cold.
His breath caught as he glimpsed more orcs within the town walls. Between the kobolds and the goblins and the orcs, there had to be thousands of monsters gathered here. Strong monsters. Warriors and fighters who would have no problem defeating Genevieve’s little band of soldiers. All Jig had to do was persuade them to help.
As he watched, one of the goblins snuck away from the others to relieve himself on a rather out-of-place tree with thick, bare branches. The tree shivered, sprinkling snow. Then, before the goblin could react, the tree stomped him into the earth.
‘‘First rule,’’ Jig said, his throat dry. ‘‘Don’t pee on the trees.’’
‘‘Right.’’ For once, Trok spoke without his usual bluster.
Jig watched as the tree wiped its . . . foot in the mud, then wrapped several branches around the remains of the goblin. It lifted the goblin, bent back until the body nearly touched the ground behind it, and then snapped straight. From the trajectory, the goblin landed somewhere near the back wall of the town.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea. For goblins, safety lay in numbers. Billa’s army had sounded like the safest place to hide.
Back at the lair, Jig had always been able to disappear into the background. Well, up until everyone found out about that healing trick. But nobody here knew he could do that.
He glanced at Relka and sighed. Even if he asked Trok to cut out Relka’s tongue right now, he would never blend in here. He was scrawnier than any goblin in sight. A part of him wanted nothing more than to flee and hide.
One of the goblins broke away from the others and jogged up the road. Toward them. Waving a sword in the air. ‘‘What are you worms doing away from your regiment? If Oakbottom catches you, he’ll toss you all! He’s still convinced he can clear the far wall if he finds a light enough goblin.’’
‘‘Who are you calling worms?’’ Trok still carried his sharpened stick, and he jabbed it at the approaching goblin.
Jig and Relka glanced at each other and took a quiet step back, leaving Trok to his fate.
‘‘Threatening a superior officer is grounds for summary execution.’’ The approaching goblin was smaller than Trok, but his sword made up for any difference in size. His left ear was gone, sliced off at the scalp, and he was missing two fingers on his left hand. He wore a simple helmet of hammered metal, shaped like a bowl with large crescents cut on either side for the ears. Given this goblin’s handicap, his helmet listed a bit to one side.
He pulled out a flattened stack of stained, rat-chewed pages and waved them under Trok’s nose. ‘‘Regulations also give the condemned soldier a choice. Would you rather I force feed you your own weapon or toss you to the trolls?’’
‘‘We’re not soldiers,’’ Jig squeaked. ‘‘The humans attacked our lair, but we escaped, and—’’
‘‘You mean you’re here to enlist?’’ The goblin’s entire demeanor changed in an instant, as if the word ‘‘enlist’’ were a magical spell. ‘‘A wonderful choice. You won’t regret it, I can promise you that. I’m Gratz. Corporal in the army of Billa the Bloody.’’
He sheathed his sword and hurried over to clap Trok’s shoulder. The move was so unexpected that Trok didn’t even stab Gratz. ‘‘Joining Billa was the best choice I ever made. Changed my life. Come on, I’ll take you to Silverfang.’’
‘‘Silverfang?’’ asked Relka.
‘‘One of Billa’s lieutenants,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘He’s in charge of the whole goblin regiment. He’ll be the one to decide whether you’re fit to join us.’’
‘‘What if he decides we’re not?’’ asked Jig. He doubted Trok had much to worry about, and even Relka was bigger and stronger than Jig. But the more Jig saw of this army, the more out of place he felt.
Gratz studied J
ig closely, and his forehead wrinkled. ‘‘Don’t you worry,’’ he said, though his cheerful confidence had disappeared. ‘‘Silverfang will find a use for you, one way or another.’’
Somehow Jig wasn’t reassured. He glanced behind, wondering if it was too late to flee.
The angry yaps of the returning kobolds answered that question.
‘‘Right,’’ said Jig. ‘‘The sooner we get to Silverfang, the better!’’
Growing up, Jig had learned to avoid the warriors whenever possible. The warriors were the goblins most eager to prove themselves. For some reason, proving themselves always seemed to involve tormenting Jig. Whether it was dropping rats in his muck pail or locking him in the garbage pit, they all took their frustrations out on Jig.
So he had learned to watch for the signs. If a band of adventurers slaughtered some goblins in passing, Jig would hide in the nursery or the distillery for a few days. If Golaka blackened a warrior’s eye for trying to steal a toad dumpling from her kitchen, Jig would do his best to stay on the opposite side of the lair, along with the rest of the weaker goblins.
Here in Billa’s army, there were no weaker goblins. Only Jig. He tried not to make eye contact, but he could feel them staring as he followed Gratz toward the walls of Pottersville. Slitted eyes peered out from crude tents. Mud-covered goblins working down by the river paused to look. Farther on, a line of goblins stopped stabbing stacks of hay to watch Jig. Why they were attacking hay was beyond Jig’s comprehension, but better hay than him.
Beside him, Trok was grinning and pointing and babbling like a child. ‘‘When can I get an ax like that?’’ he asked. ‘‘And that shield with the big spikes on the edge. I want one of those, too. And that helmet with the animal horns on the sides.’’
‘‘One thing at a time,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘Recruits start off with standard arms and armor. Regulations give you the right to claim better equipment from the enemy. Or from the bodies of your fellow goblins. Just make sure they’re dead first.’’ He pointed toward the wall, where several wide planks of wood had been lashed together and propped up to create a makeshift cave. ‘‘First you talk to Silverfang.’’
They passed a small cook fire, where two goblins were roasting one of the fluffy gray animals.
Relka stopped. ‘‘That’s not right.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ asked Gratz.
‘‘They’re not even saving the blood. How are they supposed to make the gravy?’’
Gratz laughed. ‘‘Gravy? With this lot, you’re lucky to know where the meat ends and the bones begin.’’
As if to prove his point, the spit holding the animal broke and fell into the fire. Both goblins immediately began to shout at one another. Neither bothered to try to get the meat out of the fire. The smell of burned fur made Jig’s eyes water.
‘‘That’s enough!’’ Both of the would-be chefs jumped. Neither one made a sound as the biggest, meanest-looking goblin Jig had ever seen ducked out of the wooden cave.
‘‘Lieutenant Silverfang, sir,’’ Gratz snapped, his body stiffening.
A scar on the left side of Silverfang’s face twisted his mouth into a grimace. His left fang had been replaced with a round steel spike, apparently held in place by the three small pins protruding from his jaw. He wore black plates of metal for armor, like the orcs Jig had seen in the town, and on his back he carried a curved sword that was almost as long as Jig was tall.
Silverfang’s heavy boots crunched through frozen mud. His sword slid free, and both chefs closed their eyes. Silverfang thrust his sword into the burning animal. With a grunt, he hauled it into the air and flung it to one side, nearly hitting another goblin. He turned to jab a thick finger at the nearer of the two chefs. ‘‘Fetch another goat. Ruin this one and I’ll make you eat the coals.’’
He beckoned the other chef closer, then grabbed him by the shirt. A whimper slipped from the goblin’s lips.
Turning that huge sword with one hand, Silverfang wiped the blade on the goblin’s collar. When he let go, the poor goblin fell on his backside in his eagerness to scramble away.
Silverfang turned to Gratz. ‘‘Fresh meat?’’
‘‘They want to enlist,’’ said Gratz.
Silverfang came closer. His left eye was cloudy and oozed blue-black crud from the corner. He fixed the right on Trok. He grunted, then turned to study Relka. This time, his grunt sounded amused. He poked Relka’s shoulder hard enough to knock her back a step.
Finally he turned to Jig.
‘‘You want to join Billa’s army?’’ He chuckled. ‘‘You’re not even worth feeding to the kobolds.’’
Relka had done nothing when Silverfang poked her. But now she stepped in front of Jig, standing so close she could have bitten Silverfang’s nose.
‘‘That’s Jig Dragonslayer. He’s smarter and stronger than any warrior in your—’’
Silverfang punched her in the jaw. She landed on the ground, spitting blood.
‘‘Stronger than me?’’ Silverfang asked.
Jig thought about the knife tucked through his belt. Should he kill himself and get it over with, or would it be better to stab Relka first?
Silverfang stabbed his sword into the ground. With one claw, he traced the scar on his face. ‘‘A dwarf’s ax did that. Took my tooth and my eye with one swing, and still I bested him. He forged this tooth before I tossed him to the wolves.’’ He raised his voice. ‘‘Gather round, men. Let the little dragonslayer show off his battle scars.’’
‘‘My what?’’ Jig tried to back away. He bumped into another goblin who had come up behind him. Jig turned to find himself ringed by goblin warriors, most of whom shared Silverfang’s disdainful smirk.
‘‘Your scars,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘To prove your experience and worth as a warrior. It’s how we measure the experience of new recruits. Regulations even allow you to enlist at a higher rank, if your scars meet certain criteria.’’
Silverfang rolled his eyes.
‘‘Jig is a warrior.’’ Relka still sat on the ground where she had fallen.
‘‘But wouldn’t the best warrior be the one who didn’t get stabbed?’’ Jig asked.
Utter silence told him exactly how big a mistake those words had been. He cringed as he turned back to Silverfang, who was rubbing the huge scar on his face. ‘‘I didn’t mean you’re not a good warrior. I only—’’
‘‘Show us your scars, or I’ll give you some,’’ said Silverfang.
Scars. Right. Jig’s hand shook as he pushed back his sleeve. ‘‘That’s a sword cut from a few years ago,’’ he said, pointing to a nasty gash on his forearm. He didn’t think anyone needed to know it was self-inflicted.
He pulled off his cloak. The cold wind made him shiver even harder. Tugging down the shoulder of his shirt, he pointed to a small hard circle of pale skin. ‘‘That’s from a wizard’s arrow.’’ He turned around to show them the matching spot on his back, beside the shoulder blade.
By now the goblins had stopped laughing.
Jig tugged his shirt up. ‘‘I can’t reach it, but there’s another stab wound in my back, below the ribs.’’ He reached to touch the wrinkled scar on his ear. ‘‘I tore that in a fight with another goblin, years ago.’’
He wondered if he should include the various burns Smudge had inflicted over the years.
‘‘How did a runt like you survive all that?’’ Gratz asked. Silverfang scowled, and Gratz’s face went pale. ‘‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to speak out of turn. Won’t happen again. My apologies. I’ll make sure—’’
‘‘Gratz talks too much,’’ Silverfang said. ‘‘But he has a point.’’ He grabbed Jig by the shoulder and spun him around, poking the arrow scar. ‘‘Most of this lot would have curled up and died from a wound like this.’’
‘‘That’s nothing!’’ Trok shouted. ‘‘A tunnel cat clawed half my leg off once.’’ He yanked his trousers down to his knees, revealing a row of scars crossing his thigh. ‘‘I still kille
d that beast with my bare hands.’’
Relka snickered. ‘‘I was in the kitchen when you brought that ‘beast’ in for Golaka. It was so old there was barely any meat. It was missing most of its teeth, not to mention a leg.’’ She sat up on the ground and pulled up her shirt, revealing the scar in the middle of her belly. ‘‘My wound was given to me by Jig Dragonslayer himself, for daring to challenge him. Not by some crippled old beast who gummed my leg a few times.’’
‘‘You shut up!’’ Trok drew back his leg to kick her.
Silverfang was faster. He punched Trok in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground beside Relka. Silverfang flexed his fingers. ‘‘Next one of you who acts up gets the sword. Got it?’’ He turned back to Jig. ‘‘If the best warrior is the one who doesn’t get stabbed, I guess you’re one lousy warrior.’’
‘‘Definitely,’’ Jig said.
‘‘And I suppose you expect me to believe her nonsense about you slaying a dragon?’’ Silverfang asked.
For once, Jig managed to keep his mouth shut. He doubted there was anything he could say that wouldn’t infuriate Silverfang even further.
‘‘So does he qualify for enlistment at a higher rank?’’ Gratz asked.
Silverfang closed his eyes. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and every goblin backed away.
‘‘First they ought to prove themselves, don’t you think?’’ Silverfang turned to Gratz. ‘‘Take them to the wolf pens.’’
The sound of goblins wagering on their survival did nothing to calm Jig as he followed Gratz through the camp. Nor did Trok’s babbling about Silverfang and the army.
‘‘Can you imagine if we had a chief like him?’’ Trok was saying. ‘‘We’d chase those hobgoblins right out of our mountain! The humans and elves wouldn’t dare set foot in our territory.’’ He paused to spit. His blood was bright blue against the snow. ‘‘Did you see how fast he hit me?’’
‘‘Do you think we could get him to do it again?’’ Relka muttered.
Gratz grinned. ‘‘I was the same way when Billa came to our lair. All those goblins and orcs, and even the kobolds. We had been living near a dwarven copper mine. They mostly left us alone unless we ventured near their tunnels. Those tunnels used to be ours, but the dwarves ran us off.’’ He punched the air with both hands. ‘‘The dwarves didn’t stand a chance against Billa the Bloody. They’ll never set foot in our territory again!’’