by Jim C. Hines
‘‘The temple is nearby,’’ Billa shouted. ‘‘Silverfang, bring your goblins.’’
Jig blinked. He had thought they were going back to the lair. What temple—?
Mine, said Shadowstar. She must have sensed it.
What would happen when she realized she couldn’t get into the mountain to reach the temple? Jig stared longingly up the mountainside, wondering how the remaining goblins had fared since he left. They had survived for over a year the first time Jig sealed the entrance. They should be fine. Why, even now Golaka was probably preparing stuffed snakeskins and lizard-fish pudding.
Jig’s mouth watered, and a bit of drool slipped past one of his fangs.
Silverfang turned Bastard in a tight circle. ‘‘Gratz, your squadron’s with me. The rest of you take a break, but anyone who falls asleep had better pray I feed you to the wolves. At least they’ll be quick!’’
Jig and the rest of Gratz’s squadron groaned. Behind them, goblins collapsed to the ground, leaning against one another for support.
Silverfang tugged Bastard’s ropes and shouted, ‘‘March!’’ Bastard trotted after the orcs, and the rest of the wolf-riders fell in behind him.
Trok cursed as Smelly lunged away from the pack, teeth bared as he charged the closest of the horses. Trok yanked the ropes, fighting to get his wolf under control, but Smelly ignored him.
Silverfang threw a rock. No, not a rock. One of those troll toes. It flew past Smelly, who skidded to a halt. His front paws shoveled snow as he dug after the toe. ‘‘Next time you lose control of your mount, it’s your toes I’ll be feeding him,’’ Silverfang said as he rode past.
Jig adjusted his helmet as he and the other goblins jogged up the mountainside after the wolves. His armor bounced with every step, deepening already-painful bruises.
They kept up that pace for what seemed like years, until Jig began to worry that his feet and legs would simply snap away from his body like twigs. Finally the horses and wolves slowed near a half-frozen stream.
‘‘Gratz, take your men up the mountainside and scout around.’’ Silverfang grinned. ‘‘If you find anything, scream really loud before they kill you.’’
Jig glanced behind, surprised at how far they had climbed. When he turned back, he realized he knew this place. Farther upstream was where he and Relka had come to rescue Grell from a human soldier a few weeks back. He was home!
‘‘Spread out,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘Weapons ready.’’
Jig tugged his sword free. The leather wrapping on the hilt did little to protect him from the cold metal, and he switched the sword from one hand to the other as he walked. His other hand he shoved into his cloak pocket, petting Smudge for warmth.
The snow had hidden most evidence of battle, but here and there Jig still saw signs of the humans’ attack. A spear stood point-first in the snow. At first, Jig mistook it for a sapling. Farther along, a bluebird perched on an arrow embedded in a tree. The bird chirped and fluffed its chest, apparently trying to mate with the bright-colored fletching.
What Jig didn’t see was any hint of humans or elves. Genevieve had taken her goblin slaves down to Avery, while Theodore and his elves ran off to join the king and await Billa’s army. How long would it take them to discover Billa had chosen an alternate path? An army of monsters was hardly subtle.
‘‘Jig!’’ Gratz’s sharp whisper made Jig jump. ‘‘You’re on point. Take us to this lair of yours.’’
Jig’s chest tightened as he crept past the others toward the small clearing up ahead.
‘‘Everyone else hold back,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Regulations say the best way to spring traps and ambushes is with a single scout. Be ready.’’
That made sense. One goblin would spring the trap, and then the rest could rush in. It was a great strategy for everyone except the poor scout. But Smudge was still relatively cool, and Jig heard nothing but the eager whispers of his fellow goblins. He crept forward, ears held high, until he reached the entrance. What remained of the entrance, at any rate.
Before, a fallen pine had sheltered the entrance, blocking the wind and hiding the cave from casual view.
Theodore must have used the Rod of Creation on the tree. The flat, brown needles now stretched in all directions, even into the rock of the cave. They were as wide as Jig’s claws, and the edges appeared sharper than Jig’s own sword. Smudge might be able to creep through the cracks between those tight-woven needles, but no goblin would fit. Not without first being chopped into spider-size pieces.
He decided to keep that last thought to himself, lest Gratz or Silverfang start to get ideas.
He would have given anything to be able to crawl through the tree and retreat to his lair. He wanted to be home, not stuck in the cold, waiting for Billa and her goddess to discover who he was.
This is your fault, he muttered. Shadowstar didn’t argue.
‘‘Is the lair secure?’’ Gratz called.
‘‘Yes.’’ It was more than secure. He rapped his sword against one of the needles. The needles bent slightly, like good steel, but when he tried to push them further, they sprang back.
Gratz shouted down the mountainside, then waved for the other goblins to join Jig. The orcs and wolf-riders had left their mounts a short distance below. Jig stepped as far to the side as he could to make way for Billa and her orcs. And Relka. Relka’s bound hands clutched her pendant tight.
Billa scowled at the tree. ‘‘Cut it away,’’ she said.
Orcs raced to obey. Goblins raced to get out of the way of the orcs. Swords and axes crashed against the tree, to no avail. Like the elf scout Jig had fought, the tree was hardened by the Rod of Creation. Indestructible, save for magic.
Billa shoved Relka into the snow and drew her sword. ‘‘I know you’re here, Autumnstar. You can’t hide from me forever.’’
Billa chopped her sword onto the branches. The magically strengthened branches snapped as though they were dead and rotted. A few more swings, and Billa had cleared away enough of the tree for her to slip inside. She grabbed Relka by the arm.
‘‘Nobody comes into this cave, friend or foe,’’ said Billa. Her orcs grunted and took up positions to either side of the cave.
Relka had time for one frightened look at Jig, and then Billa dragged her into the darkness.
‘‘This is boring,’’ Trok muttered, not for the first time. Silverfang had taken several of the goblins down to tend the wolves. The rest were supposed to help the orcs guard the cave, a duty made more difficult by the orcs’ determination to kill anyone who came too close.
Trok was sitting beneath a tree, rubbing a stone over the flat tip of his sword to sharpen it. He raised the sword high, holding it by the blade so the tip pointed down at his boots. He let go, and the sword buried itself in the snow and dirt, a finger’s width from his right foot. ‘‘It’s not right, leaving us out here to freeze. This is our lair. Why should Billa get it all to herself?’’
Jig didn’t answer. Billa had opened the lair! All he had to do was wait until everyone left, and he could return home. He stared at the orcs guarding the cave. Would anyone notice if Jig slipped away to hide?
An angry scream echoed from inside the tunnels.
‘‘On second thought,’’ Trok said, ‘‘Billa seems to know what she’s doing.’’
‘‘That was Relka,’’ Jig said.
‘‘Was being the important word.’’ Trok yanked his sword from the ground and began sliding the stone along the edge. ‘‘With the warriors gone, who do you think will end up eating the rest of the goblins? Tunnel cats or the hobgoblins? My bet’s on the hobgoblins. The yellow-skinned sneaks are probably raiding the kitchens even now.’’
‘‘I doubt it,’’ Jig said. ‘‘They’d have to get past Golaka to do that.’’
Jig, you have to go in there.
What? Jig glanced at the cave. Didn’t you hear that scream? And what about all of those orcs guarding the cave?
Billa is in the temple, Shado
wstar said. She’s going to kill Relka unless I manifest before her.
So manifest!
There was a long silence. Billa carries Isa’s sword. That weapon could kill even me, Jig.
Then I’m pretty sure it would kill me, too!
Trok punched him in the shoulder. ‘‘You’re doing that thing where you stare and mumble to yourself again. It’s creepy.’’
Jig bit his lip to keep from mumbling. She’s your wife, not mine.
Jig, now that Billa has entered my temple, I can hear Isa whispering to her. She means to kill me if I don’t help her. I’m not strong enough to fight another god.
So help her! Jig sat in the snow as he realized what Shadowstar was saying. You’re afraid.
So are you, said Shadowstar.
Well, yes. I’m a goblin.
Relka screamed again. She sounded more angry than afraid.
Wait, I thought Isa wanted to kill you. Now she wants your help? Jig asked.
She wants me to help her kill Noc.
Jig’s head was starting to ache. Didn’t you say Noc was the one who betrayed you? If she has a way to kill him, why wouldn’t you help?
It’s more complicated than that.
Jig wasn’t surprised in the least. Gods were supremely talented when it came to complicating things. Most of the non-goblin races were, come to think of it.
He’s my son.
But why can’t you help Isa kill him?
Shadowstar’s sigh rang through Jig’s skull. Why did it have to be goblins? Without waiting for an answer, he said, Imagine if Billa told you she would destroy you unless you helped her to kill Smudge.
Jig scooped Smudge out of his pocket and shielded him in both hands. Why would Billa want to hurt my fire-spider?
Don’t make me smite you. Another divine sigh, and then, I don’t expect you to understand, Jig. But I can’t let Isa kill my son.
Wouldn’t he be Isa’s son too? Jig asked.
Shadowstar paused. No. That’s another reason Isa isn’t too happy with me. Jig, whether you understand or not, I need you to do this. I can’t help her kill Noc, and I can’t let her sacrifice one of my followers in my own temple.
Save Relka. From an orc and a god. Tymalous Shadowstar was afraid to go into that cave, but he expected Jig to go in?
You swore an oath to me, Jig Dragonslayer. There was no room for argument in his tone. This was Shadowstar at his most serious. Relka believes in me. She believes in you. You can do this.
Jig stared at the orcs standing around the cave. He closed his eyes as another shout tore out of the darkness. No.
The answering silence spooked him more than anything Shadowstar could have said.
If I go in there, Billa will kill two of your followers instead of only one. How is that better?
Still Shadowstar said nothing.
Noc is a death god, Jig said. Why does he need our help against Isa, anyway?
Noc doesn’t know we survived. Even a goblin can kill a larger foe if that foe doesn’t realize the goblin is there.
Jig shook his head. Isa and Billa know I’m here. So do those orcs guarding the cave.
Be not afraid, Shadowstar whispered.
And like that, Jig wasn’t. The knot in his gut relaxed. The tension in his shoulders loosened. He stopped cringing every time Relka shouted. What did you do?
‘‘You’re still mumbling, runt,’’ Trok said. He grabbed Jig’s arm. ‘‘It’s weird.’’
Jig punched Trok in the jaw.
Trok stumbled back, eyes wide. The bigger goblin looked more stunned than anything. That wouldn’t last, though. As soon as Trok recovered, he would snap Jig like a stick.
Jig knew what Trok would do to him, and he didn’t care. He didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t afraid, either. He stared at Trok and said, ‘‘I don’t like being called runt.’’
Trok didn’t move. ‘‘What happened to you?’’
‘‘Shadowstar.’’ Jig rubbed his hand. Next time he would have to remember to punch something softer. Jaws were too solid. You took my fear away.
It’s one of my gifts.
Had Tymalous Shadowstar been present, Jig would have punched him, too. Fear was what kept goblins alive! It didn’t always stop them from running into stupid situations, but it helped. Which was presumably why Shadowstar had done this. To make Jig charge in like an idiot to rescue Relka.
What if I don’t? Jig asked.
Then I’ll hit you with the Light of the Autumn Star again. How long do you think it will take for Isa to sense that and send Billa out to get you. At least if you sneak in, you get the element of surprise.
True enough. Jig turned to Trok, who was still staring at him. Jig knew he should be afraid, but even knowing Trok was angry enough to kill him did nothing. It didn’t help matters that Trok looked so goofy when he got mad. His eyes were all squinty, and his nostrils flapped with every breath. Jig fought the urge to reach up and pinch his nose.
‘‘If a god ever decides to talk to you, the best thing you can do is pretend you don’t hear him.’’ Jig grabbed Trok’s arm and tugged him toward the orcs. ‘‘We have to save Relka.’’
Trok’s anger disappeared, replaced by laughter. ‘‘Why would we do that?’’
‘‘Because if you don’t, I’ll pull out my sword and cut your throat.’’ Jig reconsidered the state of his weapon. ‘‘Or I’ll bludgeon you to death with it.’’
Trok laughed even harder, until he started to cough. ‘‘Try it, runt.’’
Jig didn’t bother to draw his weapon. He simply spun, smashing the sheathed blade into Trok’s knee. Trok yelped and fell. A few other goblins glanced their way, then went back to whatever they were doing.
‘‘I told you not to call me that,’’ Jig said. ‘‘Now one of two things is going to happen. Either I kill you, in which case you’re dead. Or else I’ll try and fail, and you’ll kill me.’’
‘‘Let’s find out,’’ Trok snarled.
Jig pointed to where Gratz and Silverfang were yelling at another goblin who had been so careless as to get himself bitten by one of the wolves. ‘‘Kill another soldier in Billa’s army, and they’ll feed you to the wolves. Either way, you die.’’
Of course, the same was true for Jig. But Trok hadn’t had his fear sucked out of his ears by a cowardly god.
Trok nodded slowly. ‘‘I’ll help you.’’
Jig turned around. He suspected he would be dead very soon, but in the meantime, living without fear was kind of fun. He took a single step, only to have Trok yank him back by his cloak.
‘‘If you support me as goblin chief once this is over,’’ Trok finished.
Jig stared. ‘‘Grell is chief. She’d have us both for dinner if I tried to make you chief in her place.’’
‘‘Grell won’t live forever.’’ Trok spun his sword in a lazy circle. ‘‘The goblins look up to you. They listen to you. If you tell them I should be the next chief, they’ll believe you.’’
There had been a time, years ago, when Jig would have thought Trok was the perfect choice to be chief. The job had always gone to the biggest, meanest goblin, the one who could kill all challengers. And then Jig had helped kill the previous chief, and suddenly a nearsighted runt was in charge of the entire lair. Jig wasn’t crazy, so he had surrendered power as soon as he possibly could, turning the job over to Grell . . . who had turned out to be the best chief Jig could remember.
She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t loud. She rarely bothered to kill anyone. People obeyed her not because she threatened them, but because she was Grell. She kept her enemies busy killing one another instead of trying to kill her. It was a trick Jig really wanted to learn someday.
Trok wasn’t stupid, but he was a warrior. What kind of chief would he be? More importantly, what would he do to Jig once he took power? If Jig helped make Trok chief, it followed that Jig could take that away as well. The smart thing would be for Trok to immediately slit Jig’s throat.
On the other han
d, since both of them would probably die trying to save Relka, none of it made any difference anyway. ‘‘Fine. You’ll be chief. Now go distract those orcs.’’
‘‘How am I supposed to do that?’’
Jig tugged Trok’s sword from his hand. To his amazement, Trok didn’t try to fight him. How had Jig ever been scared of him? Jig marched over to the orcs, stopping just out of reach of their weapons. ‘‘Do any of you know how to play Toe Stub?’’
The orcs stared. Jig could see their eagerness. Just a few more steps, and they would have an excuse to kill a goblin.
Jig turned back to Trok. ‘‘See? I told you they’d be too afraid to play.’’
That got one orc’s attention. ‘‘Afraid of a goblin game?’’
Jig slapped the sword back into Trok’s hand. ‘‘Trok here was the best Toe Stub player in our whole lair.’’ That wasn’t saying much, considering Jig had just made up the game. ‘‘But I made a bet that he couldn’t beat a real orc warrior.’’
By now several other goblins had approached. They whispered and pointed, and Jig heard at least one wager being made.
Trok leaned down to Jig and said, ‘‘Toe Stub?’’
‘‘Watch,’’ said Jig. ‘‘Trok holds the sword by the blade and drops it. The winner is whoever gets the blade the closest to their foot without cutting off a toe. If you get scared and yank your foot away, you lose.’’
‘‘Give me that,’’ said the orc. He grabbed Trok’s sword.
Trok started to smile. ‘‘You have to hold it so the tip is at least as high as your face.’’
The orc dropped the sword. It plunged into the dirt, a good distance from his foot. He cursed and clutched his hand.
‘‘A typical beginner’s mistake,’’ Trok said, chuckling as he eased into the deception. He picked up his sword and said, ‘‘You have to yank your hand back quickly, or else you’ll slice your fingers.’’
Jig grinned and backed away. His luck appeared to be changing. Neither the orcs nor the goblins paid him any attention.
Of course, since his apparent good fortune was giving him the means to slip into the tunnels to confront an orc and her god-forged sword, perhaps his luck hadn’t changed after all.