Goblin War

by Jim C. Hines

  Not so difficult to smash one senseless, as it turned out.

  Finally he reached the wall, where various pots and sacks provided shadows and shelter. He squeezed behind a stack of fleshy cactus leaves. Hopefully nobody would need the pungent, needle-covered leaves for tonight’s meal. Anyone who found Autumnstar here would either toss him into the pot for dinner or break his neck to put him out of his misery.

  His tongue flicked out, smelling the cool night air. He rested his head against the barrel and looked out at Anisah’s body.

  Well, at least she had died smiling. Even if Autumnstar hadn’t planned to comfort her in quite that fashion.

  What had gone wrong? Healing a mortal body needed only the tiniest pinch of magic. He should have had no trouble easing Anisah’s pain. Or fixing his own crushed spine, for that matter.

  He closed his eyes, fighting off fear as he peered beyond the stone walls of the city. Surely the gods weren’t still hunting him after all this time. A quick peek into the realm of the divine shouldn’t draw any notice. Priests did it all the time, using purely mortal magic. And sometimes a particular type of mushroom.

  He braced himself as his surroundings appeared to fade, but nothing more happened. Autumnstar rested his head on a cactus leaf and tried to relax.

  It was strange to see the stars from down here. The constellations were recognizable, but altered. Tarvha the Trapper was much skinnier from this angle. The Three-Headed Dragon appeared to have his leftmost head wedged in a very improbable location. Then again, dragons were quite flexible.

  He turned, trying to orient himself. A half-moon hovered over the eastern horizon, which meant The Guardian should be to his right. The Guardian looked like a potbellied dwarf from here. Autumnstar followed the tip of The Guardian’s nose, toward—

  ‘‘It’s gone,’’ he whispered. He searched again, making sure the oddly distorted constellations hadn’t tricked him, but there was no mistake. Before, a lone star had burned red in the sky between The Guardian and Elsa the Drunk. Now there was nothing.

  No, not nothing. He squinted, trying to make out a spot of darkness that was somehow blacker than the surrounding space. A point in the sky that seemed to absorb the light of nearby stars.

  He should have guessed. Noc was nothing if not dramatic. No doubt the death of the Autumn Star had been a great spectacle, seen by gods and mortals throughout the universe.

  ‘‘I hope you burned your eyebrows off,’’ Autumnstar muttered.

  A circle of orcs waited at the edge of the swamps. Jig counted at least eight, though there could have been more in back.

  They stood with swords and axes ready. How much time did they spend polishing their blades, to get them to shine like that? And had they deliberately positioned themselves so their weapons would best reflect the moonlight?

  Intentional or not, it worked. Jig didn’t even realize he had slowed down until one of the other goblins bumped into him.

  ‘‘Say nothing unless Billa talks to you,’’ Gratz whispered. ‘‘Don’t make any sudden moves, either. If one of those orcs decides you’re a threat, you’ll be dead before you can spit.’’

  Jig pulled his cloak tight, tucking his hands into his armpits. His fingers felt numb, as if the blood had frozen. Even the inside of his nostrils felt like they were coated in a thin layer of ice. He stared longingly at Trok’s furs, then gave a tentative sniff. Cold as it was, the icy breeze couldn’t completely kill Trok’s stench.

  Silverfang pulled Bastard to a halt a few paces away from the lead orcs. The wolf snarled, but the orcs didn’t so much as blink.

  Billa was awfully confident, to come with so few guards. Sure, any one of those orcs could probably kill every goblin here, but with enough goblins and wolves, there was always the chance one would get lucky. Most of the goblins were new recruits. How did Billa know there wouldn’t be trouble?

  ‘‘General,’’ Silverfang said, bowing his head.

  The frontmost orcs stepped to either side, revealing Billa the Bloody.

  Jig’s first thought was that Billa looked awfully skinny for an orc. Her skin was paler, too. Her hair was a dirty white, pulled into a thick, snarled rope at the top of her head. Despite the white hair, she appeared quite young. Her face was unwrinkled, marred only by the tribal scar on her nose and a sprinkling of pimples on her forehead.

  She wore a cape of white horsehair over her armor. Like the rest of the orcs, her arms were bare, but she didn’t appear to notice the cold. Her skin wasn’t pimpled like the others, nor did her face have the same flushed appearance.

  She chewed her thumbnail as she contemplated the goblins. The rest of her nails were bitten raw.

  Jig would have sworn the air got colder when she turned to look at him. Even the wolves backed away as her gaze swept them. She spat a bit of nail into the snow. One hand brushed the hilt of her sword.

  ‘‘What happened tonight?’’ Her voice was softer than Jig expected.

  Gratz cleared his throat. ‘‘We found and killed one elf, sir.’’

  ‘‘Good. Who killed it?’’

  Gratz made a face like he had bitten into a fried rat, only to have it bite him back. ‘‘Her,’’ he said, pointing to Hessafa. One of the orcs snickered.

  Billa chewed her lower lip as she studied the kobold. ‘‘You killed an elf scout?’’

  Hessafa glanced at Jig, then grinned. ‘‘Goblins fight stupid. Hessafa killed elf.’’

  ‘‘Nothing stupid about the Grab-and-Squeeze formation,’’ Gratz muttered.

  Billa drew her sword. Gratz squeaked once and was silent.

  No wonder Billa hadn’t worried about a few goblins and their wolves. With a sword like that, she could kill—

  A god, said Shadowstar.

  Most of the blade was a cloudy gray, rippled like sand on the shore of the underground lake back home. The edges were clear as glass. Fog rose from the surface, and frost soon covered the blade from hilt to tip. Cold spread from the sword like stink from Trok, so powerful Jig might as well have been standing naked in the snow.

  So it isn’t Noc after all, Shadowstar said absently. This could be bad.

  Jig snorted, then tensed, hoping nobody had noticed. What’s worse than a god of death hunting us?

  ‘‘So I’m to believe a kobold summoned the power of Tymalous Autumnstar to help her overcome this elf?’’ Billa asked, her voice still mild.

  For an instant, Jig felt hope. You’re Tymalous Shadowstar . Maybe she’s confused you with some other god?

  Isa, Shadowstar whispered. I thought she was dead.

  ‘‘Tymalous who?’’ Hessafa glanced at Jig again before asking, ‘‘Is that another stupid goblin?’’

  So who is Isa? Jig demanded.

  Another goddess. She created that sword during the war. For Billa to carry it means Isa has taken her as her champion.

  Billa stepped toward Jig. ‘‘Tell me what you know of Tymalous Autumnstar, little goblin. Lie to me, and I’ll cut out your tongue.’’

  Relka stepped forward. ‘‘Jig is—’’

  Silverfang punched her in the head. ‘‘No speaking out of turn!’’

  Jig gave silent thanks for Silverfang and his temper. Relka would get them all killed if she didn’t keep her mouth shut. ‘‘I’ve never heard that name before,’’ Jig said.

  Too late he wondered if Billa could read his thoughts. No . . . if she could, Jig would already be dead. He tried to imagine how an innocent goblin would act. Terrified, most likely. Jig could do that.

  ‘‘She probably means Tymalous Shadowstar,’’ Trok said.

  Silverfang drew back a fist, but Billa held up her hand, and he hesitated.

  ‘‘Tymalous Shadowstar?’’ Billa stepped toward him, leaving Jig to shiver uncontrollably from cold and fear. ‘‘Tell me where you heard that name.’’

  Trok folded his arms. ‘‘If I do, will you make me a wolf-rider?’’

  Gratz started to say something about regulations and orders, but Silverf
ang was faster. He reached for Trok, bellowing, ‘‘I’m going to rip off your arm and—’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Billa. ‘‘Tell me what I want to know, and Silverfang will make you one of his wolf-riders.’’

  Silverfang’s scowl wrinkled his face so badly his metal tooth pricked the skin beneath his eye. A drop of blue blood trailed down his cheek like a tear. But he said only, ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  Even if Jig could have stopped shaking, there was nowhere to run. The wolves would be on him in a single leap, assuming Billa didn’t simply run him through with that sword. He stared at Trok, waiting for him to condemn Jig to death.

  ‘‘You want her,’’ Trok said. He nudged Relka with his foot, then reached down to grab the new pendant she had made.

  Relka groaned and tried to take it back.

  ‘‘She won’t shut up about Tymalous Shadowstar,’’ said Trok. ‘‘You should hear the hymns.’’

  His feral grin made his motivation obvious. He might not know why Billa was asking about Shadowstar, but anything that rid him of Relka’s presence was a good thing. As a bonus, he would get to be a wolf-rider and keep Jig around to heal whatever injuries he might suffer . . . up until Relka opened her mouth and told Billa the truth.

  ‘‘She’s not—’’ Jig swallowed and tried again. ‘‘Relka’s not the one you want.’’

  ‘‘Is that so?’’ asked Billa, turning that frigid glare on him once more. Trok looked angry too, but he was a minor worry compared to Billa.

  ‘‘You want Shadowstar’s priest.’’ He blurted it out quickly, before his sense of self-preservation could render him mute. ‘‘A goblin named Braf. Relka might have prayed to Shadowstar while we were fighting the elf, but Braf is his one and only true priest.’’

  Come to think of it, Relka probably had prayed to Shadowstar during the fighting. Jig wouldn’t be surprised if she prayed for Shadowstar’s blessing every time she washed a pot or cooked an omelette.

  She does. Why do you think they taste so good?

  ‘‘Go on,’’ Billa said.

  ‘‘Braf cast spells for his followers. He put them on those necklaces. But he’s not very good with magic.’’ That last part was true, if nothing else. Braf had trouble concentrating on what he was doing. Jig still remembered the time Braf tried to heal one of the kitchen workers Golaka had stabbed for swiping fire-spider eggs. Braf had pressed two fingers into the wound, guiding Shadowstar’s magic deep into the goblin’s body. Jig found him there hours later, having healed the wound with his fingers still inside.

  With a grimace, Jig said, ‘‘Relka must have used that magic to try to help her during the fight.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘I didn’t notice anything. Shadowstar never struck me as being a very helpful god.’’

  Billa took the necklace from Trok and studied it closely. ‘‘What happened to Braf?’’

  ‘‘He died,’’ Jig said quickly. ‘‘When Princess Genevieve attacked our lair.’’

  ‘‘Champions of a god aren’t so easy to kill.’’ Billa waved at Relka. ‘‘Take her.’’ Two of her orcs hauled Relka upright. ‘‘Prepare your goblins, Silverfang. We march tonight.’’

  ‘‘Tonight?’’ Silverfang cleared his throat. ‘‘Begging your pardon, but I’ve got two squads out with boot rot, and we haven’t finished—’’

  ‘‘Leave them.’’ Billa glanced at another of the orcs. ‘‘Spread the word. We march through the night.’’

  Relka’s feet dragged through the mud and snow as the orcs hauled her away. She watched Jig the whole time, hardly even blinking.

  Billa sheathed her sword. ‘‘And give this goblin a wolf,’’ she added, waving a hand at Trok.

  Now what? asked Shadowstar.

  Jig’s shoulders slumped. I was hoping you would tell me.

  Goblin drums beat out a steady rhythm as Billa’s army marched up the road. At first Jig had been delighted to hear drums actually pounding in unison. Such a nice change from the cacophony of battle back at the lair. Row after row of goblins, all marching in step. Not one knew where they were going, but that didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was staying in line and not drawing Oakbottom’s attention.

  The walking tree wandered through the ranks, his bare branches lashing out like whips at anyone who faltered. As far as Jig could tell, he never actually stepped on anyone. The base of his trunk split into four ‘‘legs,’’ each one ending in a long mess of gnarled roots. He walked slowly, but with his size, he could take one step for every five of Jig’s and still keep up. And his branches were long enough to strike seven lines ahead or behind, as the goblin next to Jig had learned earlier. The poor fellow was still limping.

  As one of the newest, and presumably one of the most expendable recruits, Jig found himself near the front line. A group of orcs on horseback led the way, followed closely by the goblin wolf-riders. Trok rode Smelly, which seemed a perfect match. To either side of the main column, small groups of kobolds jogged along, presumably searching the woods for ambushes.

  He glanced behind, still amazed at the sheer size of Billa’s army. They filled the road and much of the land to either side. Billa and most of her orcs were toward the rear, followed by troll-drawn wagons. Presumably Relka was back there as well, assuming Billa hadn’t killed her.

  She’s alive, said Shadowstar. Frightened and exhausted, but alive.

  She hadn’t told Billa about Jig, either, judging from the fact that Jig was also still alive. What does Isa want with you? Who is she? What happened to Noc?

  Isa was Goddess of the Winter Winds.

  That would explain the cold. If Jig had to face another god, couldn’t it have been a god of warm, comfy breezes?

  She was also my wife.

  Jig stopped walking. Goblins behind him cursed and swore as they collided with one another. Jig hunched his shoulders against a punch to the back that sent him staggering. He hurried to catch up with the rest of his line, hoping Oakbottom hadn’t noticed.

  Your wife? he repeated. Goblins didn’t mate for life, but he knew surface-dwellers had different habits. Habits apparently shared by the gods. I don’t understand. Shouldn’t you be happy to see her then?

  I’m glad she’s alive, Shadowstar said, though he sounded less than certain. I’ll be happier when I know why she’s hunting me.

  Another goblin crashed into Jig as a small brawl erupted behind him. He tried to hurry away, but the formation was too tight. He had no place to go.

  That didn’t stop Oakbottom. He kicked goblins aside like pebbles in a tunnel. Branches shot out, hauling goblins into the air. Jig counted eight goblins, all squirming and kicking and helpless as bugs in a spiderweb.

  ‘‘Most of you are new to Billa’s army,’’ Oakbottom said. He had no mouth or face that Jig could see, though the thick branches concealed much of his trunk. Many of his words were punctuated by a sound like boards clapping together. ‘‘So most of you probably don’t know the punishment for brawling on duty.’’

  More branches wrapped around one of the goblins, and the great tree spun in a quick circle. The goblin flew in a long arc over the rest of the formation and into the darkness beyond. His scream faded with distance, then cut off abruptly.

  ‘‘Now you know,’’ Oakbottom shouted. He tossed the rest of the goblins to the ground, where they scrambled back into line.

  A short distance ahead, Gratz chuckled. ‘‘That ought to keep things quiet for a few days.’’ He glanced back at Jig and lowered his voice. ‘‘Oakbottom’s a very angry tree. Doesn’t like anyone, but he’s especially mad at humans. Makes him a great asset during battle, and he’s good for discipline.’’

  ‘‘Why would a tree hate humans?’’ Jig asked.

  Gratz winced. ‘‘Not so loud.’’

  It was too late. Oakbottom was already stepping toward Jig. Despite the lack of visible ears, Oakbottom could hear as well as any goblin.

  ‘‘You think you blood-sacks are the only ones to be abused by the humans?’’ Oakbottom asked.
/>
  ‘‘Here he goes again,’’ one of the other goblins whispered.

  ‘‘When I was little more than a sapling, there was a little boy who used to visit me,’’ Oakbottom said. ‘‘Every day he came. He would swing from my branches. He slept in the shade against my trunk. Sometimes he shot stones at squirrels and birds with his little sling. I loved that little boy. We were happy.’’

  ‘‘What happened?’’ Jig asked.

  ‘‘Time passed, and the boy grew older. He stopped visiting as often. But one day he returned. He had fallen in love, and he wanted to make his girl a gift. So I told him, ‘Take my leaves and branches and weave a beautiful headband.’ And so he did.

  ‘‘He came back a year later. He and this girl were to marry, and he wished to build a great bonfire to celebrate. So I said, ‘Cut more of my branches and dry them for your bonfire.’ And so he did. Soon I saw smoke in the distance as they celebrated and danced.

  ‘‘Seasons passed, and I thought the boy had forgotten me. Then one day he returned, carrying an ax. He said to me, ‘Old friend, my wife is pregnant, and there is no space in my father’s home for a baby. Give me your wood so I can build a house.’ ’’

  Oakbottom shuddered as he walked. ‘‘He slammed that ax into my trunk. You can still see the scar. And so I did what any self-respecting tree would have done. I ripped the ax out of his hands and gave him a taste of his own blade.’’

  ‘‘He’s been killing humans ever since,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Naturally Billa made him an officer. He doesn’t like to be called sir, though.’’

  ‘‘Trees don’t concern themselves with ranks and titles,’’ Oakbottom said. ‘‘Give me the sun on my leaves, damp earth beneath my roots, and humans to throw, and I will be happy.’’

  ‘‘Hear, hear!’’ Gratz shouted. The other goblins joined in.

  Lovely company you’re keeping these days, Shadowstar commented.

  Jig didn’t answer. He would have gladly listened to a hundred such stories. Marching was dull, mindless activity, which meant he had far too much time to worry.