Goblin War

by Jim C. Hines

  ‘‘I’ve changed my mind,’’ Jig said, staring at Bastard. They had rigged a new harness, mostly by tying extra knots in the old one. ‘‘The rest of you go ahead and capture Avery. I’ll catch up.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be afraid.’’ Trok yanked Smelly’s ropes, and the wolf padded over to stand beside Jig and Bastard. ‘‘These beasts are magnificent!’’

  Bastard lowered his head and butted Jig onto the ground.

  ‘‘See?’’ Trok said. ‘‘He likes you.’’

  ‘‘He still has a bit of Silverfang stuck in his teeth,’’ Jig mumbled. Bad enough the wolf could snap him in half with one chomp, but now every time he looked at Bastard, he saw Silverfang. A single stumble, and Jig would end up the same way. Silverfang’s remains hadn’t been pretty. ‘‘Well tenderized’’ was the phrase Relka had used.

  Whose stupid idea had it been to put goblins on wolfback, anyway? The hobgoblins trained their tunnel cats, but no hobgoblin was mad enough to try to ride one.

  ‘‘He’s definitely fixated on you,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘You’d best mount him soon, to show him who’s boss. Otherwise, you’re small enough he might decide to carry you like a pup instead.’’

  ‘‘What does that mean?’’ Jig asked.

  ‘‘Whenever the pups wander too far away, the adult goes and picks them up by the scruff of the neck.’’ Gratz grabbed his own neck to demonstrate. ‘‘The pups have loose, thick skin at the neck to protect them. You and me, well. . . .’’

  Jig reached out to touch the leather-and-rope harness circling Bastard’s chest and neck. Holding the harness with both hands, he slipped one foot into the small noose on the side.

  ‘‘Not that way,’’ Trok said. ‘‘Not unless you want to ride to Avery with your face in Bastard’s—’’

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ Jig switched feet. The wolf was so tall that simply sliding his foot into the rope stretched Jig’s thighs uncomfortably far. He bounced on his toes, trying to get enough of a jump to throw his other leg over the wolf’s back. Finally he managed to haul himself up.

  ‘‘Well, I guess you’ll learn,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Right. Your turn.’’ He gestured to Relka.

  ‘‘What?’’ Jig asked.

  ‘‘The commander’s mate rides with him.’’

  ‘‘The commander’s what?’’ Jig yelled.

  Trok was laughing so hard he sprayed spit over Smelly’s back.

  Gratz’s face, by contrast, was expressionless. ‘‘I thought, with the way she looks up to you and talks about you. . . .’’

  Jig started to argue, but it wasn’t like he had much choice. Relka had to ride with someone, and Bastard was the biggest wolf.

  Jig clenched his jaw and waited as Relka scrambled up behind him. Gratz tied extra ropes around her legs and waist, cinching her tight against Jig’s back.

  Smudge scrambled out of Jig’s hood barely in time to avoid being squished. He settled down in Bastard’s neck fur.

  Relka’s arms tightened around Jig’s chest. ‘‘I’m ready.’’

  Jig glared at Gratz. If the other goblin so much as smirked, Jig was going to order Bastard to eat him. But Gratz only grunted and returned to his own wolf. He climbed up, tightened his harness, and waited.

  Oh, right. They were waiting for Jig. Bastard was the pack leader, and Jig was in command. Jig leaned down. ‘‘Come on, Bastard.’’

  Trok chuckled again.

  ‘‘Kick him in the sides to start him moving,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Tug the ropes to one side or the other and squeeze with your knees to turn. Pull back to slow him down or stop. If you want him angry, you can reach out and pluck his whiskers. Riles him into a frenzy.’’

  ‘‘Kick him,’’ Jig repeated. Gratz was crazy. Jig had survived this long precisely because he didn’t run around kicking huge wolves that could eat his head in one bite.

  Trok kicked Smelly, then tugged his ropes to guide the wolf in a tight circle. ‘‘Nothing to it.’’

  Jig grabbed the ropes with both hands and gave them a light pull. Bastard pulled back, ripping the ropes from his fingers. Jig tried again, his face hot.

  ‘‘Don’t forget to kick,’’ Relka said. Before Jig could answer, she slammed her heels into Bastard’s ribs.

  Bastard went from a standstill to a sprint so fast Jig’s head snapped backward into Relka’s jaw. The other wolves raced after them. Jig glanced back to see Trok waving one hand in the air and laughing like an idiot. Trok’s hand hit a low branch, dropping snow onto the next wolf-rider.

  ‘‘To Avery!’’ Relka shouted.

  To Avery. Now all Jig had to do was figure out what to do once they arrived . . .

  By the time Jig spotted the outlying farms of Avery, he was starting to wish he had let Billa kill him.

  The insides of his legs were damp with sweat. Bastard’s sweat or his own, he wasn’t sure. But sweaty trousers were the least of his problems. These oversize wolves also had oversize backbones, and their gait was more than a little bumpy. He wouldn’t be able to sit down again for days.

  His back, and presumably Relka’s front, were also soaked with sweat. Her necklace jabbed him between the shoulder blades, and she kept trying to rest her chin on his shoulder, which meant her hair tickled his ear.

  The only one who seemed to be enjoying the ride was Smudge. He had climbed up onto Bastard’s head, where he stood as tall as he could, the wind brushing his bristly fur.

  ‘‘We’re almost there,’’ Relka said.

  ‘‘I know.’’ Jig tugged the ropes and tried to squeeze with his legs. Bastard turned. ‘‘Wrong knee,’’ Jig muttered, pressing hard with the other leg. Slowly he steered Bastard toward the trees and tried to remember how to stop. He glanced at Trok, who was tugging Smelly’s reins. That’s right. Jig pulled hard, and Bastard came to a grudging halt.

  Falling snow had streaked Jig’s spectacles, but when he looked through the trees, he could still make out the wall surrounding Avery.

  Jig fumbled with the harness, trying to escape. Relka freed herself first, sliding easily over Bastard’s rump. Jig stared at the mess of ropes and knots. Which ones held him in place, and which were part of the hasty repairs to the harness?

  Eventually Jig gave up and drew his knife. He freed himself in short order, though he ended up with a loop of rope still tied around one leg. Ignoring it for now, he turned to study his . . . his troops.

  The wolves weren’t even breathing very hard. For the most part, the goblins appeared eager to charge the town. Their weapons were ready, and they were joking and bantering the way goblins always did before they ran into battle and got killed.

  Gratz was the exception. He had already dismounted and now sat on the ground, tugging off his boots.

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’ Jig asked, his other problems momentarily forgotten.

  ‘‘Reg . . . regulations, sir.’’ Gratz shivered hard as the first boot slid free. ‘‘After any sustained ride, soldiers are advised to dry off. Prevents fungus and other . . . nasty things.’’

  To Jig’s horror, once Gratz was barefoot, he then began to unbuckle his belt.

  ‘‘No time,’’ Jig said quickly. ‘‘We’ll dry ourselves in Avery, in front of a warm fire.’’

  That earned a few quiet cheers. Jig turned back to the town. The gate was closed. The elf atop the wall would pick off half his goblins before they even reached the gate. ‘‘What do regulations say about attacking a town like this?’’

  ‘‘With a large force, you can cut them off from supplies and reinforcements and wait for them to surrender,’’ Gratz said.

  Jig glanced at his goblins. ‘‘What about smaller forces?’’

  ‘‘Try to gain the walls, or break down the gate,’’ Gratz said as he rubbed his toes. ‘‘Either way, for an attack against a walled town, you’re looking at about a ten-to-one casualty ratio. That means for every one of them we kill, they’ll probably kill ten of us.’’

  ‘‘Wait, what was that?’’ Jig turned back to
Gratz. ‘‘We have fifteen goblins. You’re saying we’d kill one or two humans before they wipe us all out?’’

  Gratz beamed. ‘‘You catch on quick! Of course that elf on the wall bumps the numbers closer to fifteen-to-one.’’

  The other goblins had grown quiet.

  ‘‘And our attacking force is made up of goblins,’’ Gratz added. ‘‘That makes it more like twenty-to-one.’’

  ‘‘But we have Jig Dragonslayer,’’ Relka said. ‘‘Champion of Tymalous Shadowstar. Slayer of Straum the dragon and the Necromancer. Vanquisher of the pixie queen. Rider of Bastard. Companion of Smudge. Your regulations know nothing of Jig.’’

  ‘‘Unless he’s also the Deflector of Arrows and the Breaker of Gates, we’re still going to die before we kill a single human,’’ Trok said.

  ‘‘No back talk,’’ snapped Gratz. ‘‘I’m sure our commander has a plan.’’

  Trok smirked as he turned to Jig. ‘‘Well, sir? What’s your plan?’’

  Right. A plan. Jig covered his eyes against the sun, studying the goblins working near the gate. They had cleared the flowers from the lower section of the wall, and now they worked on ladders to reach the higher flowers. A single elf watched from above, bow in one hand. It looked like the same elf who had shot at them before. A few armed humans stood by the gate. They mostly appeared to be watching the goblins.

  ‘‘Princess Genevieve is the key to taking Avery,’’ Jig said. ‘‘We need to capture her alive.’’ If she was anything like the rest of her family, she would die before she surrendered to goblins, but they didn’t know that. Jig only needed a few minutes to talk to her, to force her to listen.

  Though if she was anything like the rest of her family, she probably wasn’t very big on listening, either.

  ‘‘We need more troops,’’ Jig decided. ‘‘Genevieve dragged at least forty goblin warriors away to Avery. It looks like at least twenty of them are still alive.’’

  ‘‘How do we free them without getting killed?’’ another goblin asked.

  Jig closed his eyes. Tell Braf we’re here.

  He waited while Shadowstar relayed the message. Moments later, one of the goblins on the ladders turned around and cupped his hands over his eyes. Jig squinted through his spectacles, trying to be certain that was Braf. Then the goblin waved and nearly fell off his ladder.

  ‘‘How did you do that?’’ whispered Gratz.

  Jig sighed. Shadowstar, would you please smite Braf before he alerts the elf and everyone else that we’re here?

  Braf jumped like he had been stabbed, then quickly turned back to the wall.

  Thank you. Jig stepped closer to the edge of the woods. Braf, we need to capture Princess Genevieve. We need her help to stop Billa the Bloody.

  Why do we want to stop Billa? Shadowstar did a decent job of conveying the slow, deceptively stupid tone of Braf’s voice. Jig wondered what Braf heard. Was Shadowstar mimicking Jig’s voice as well?

  Because she plans to kill everyone, said Jig. Goblins, humans, it doesn’t matter. She wants us all dead. Also because Shadowstar said so. Jig studied the goblin prisoners. They would still be tied together, which limited what they could do. They had their knives, but the human weapons were far better. Not to mention that elf on the wall. How often does Genevieve leave the city?

  A few times each day, Braf said. She’s always there when they drag us in and out of town. Mornings are the worst. It’s still dark and cold, and nobody wants to come out and work. Nights are bad too. Also midmorning, when you’ve been working a while and have to use the privy, but you know it’s a long time until lunch. Afternoons are pretty lousy. There aren’t any good times, really.

  Genevieve? Jig prodded.

  Oh. Right. She and Darnak go for walks in the evenings sometimes, too.

  ‘‘You’re planning to use bound prisoners to help us fight?’’ Trok asked.

  As if the unbound goblins Jig had brought were much of a threat. ‘‘They’re going to be our distraction.’’ He raised his voice. ‘‘We wait until evening. Genevieve will be outside the walls. The prisoners will draw the attention of the guards. When that happens, we attack. No matter what else happens, we have to capture Genevieve.’’

  ‘‘Brilliant,’’ said Relka.

  No, brilliant would have been running deeper into the tunnels when Genevieve first attacked their lair, and staying there until this whole thing was over. Or minding his own business when Billa dragged Relka into the temple. Really, could anyone but a goblin have managed to pick a fight with both sides in a war?

  Jig?

  What is it? Jig couldn’t quite tell whether it was Braf or Shadowstar talking.

  Hold on . . . I just got a thorn in my ear.

  Braf, then. Jig peered out of the woods, trying to pick Braf out of the group. There he was, clawing at his left ear. How had he managed to . . . on second thought, Jig didn’t want to know.

  Jig, it would be a lot easier to distract the guards if we weren’t tied up.

  I’m sure it would. Jig stared at the walls. It would also be easier if Genevieve ordered her warriors to cook themselves for dinner. But I don’t know how to make that happen, do you?

  Well, we’re about ready to haul another load of flowers out to the farms, Braf said. The guards are watching for goblins who try to escape. But they probably wouldn’t notice someone who joined us. Then you could use Smudge to burn through some of our ropes while we worked.

  Jig forgot sometimes that Braf only pretended to be stupid. Probably because he did such an amazing job of pretending.

  Slowly Jig started to smile. The best part of Braf’s plan was that it would save him from having to ride Bastard again. He turned to the other goblins. ‘‘Relka, I’m leaving you in charge. You’ll know when to attack. Try to be as quiet as you can. The closer you can get before they notice you, the less time they’ll have to react. Remember, we have to capture Genevieve alive.’’

  ‘‘I won’t fail you.’’ Relka saluted with every bit as much sincerity and stiffness as Gratz.

  Jig tried not to laugh. She was worried about failing him? He was the one sending goblins into battle against humans.

  The loop of rope from Bastard’s harness finally slipped down from Jig’s ankle. He kicked it to Trok. ‘‘Someone needs to fix Bastard’s harness again,’’ he said.

  ‘‘What will you be doing?’’ Trok asked, his voice gruff with suspicion.

  Jig stared at the mounds of flowers. ‘‘Trying not to sneeze.’’

  Brown stalks tickled Jig’s face as he crept through the field. He squinted, wiping his face as he watched the goblins climbing down from their ladders. Behind him, sunlight turned the snow-covered hills and mountains a fiery orange. He saw no sign of his wolf-riders, which was good. Hopefully, the elf couldn’t see them either.

  He jogged the rest of the way to the edge of the field, then stopped. Not only could he see the flower petals piled up beside the farmhouse, he could smell them. His vision blurred, and his nose began to drip. He covered the lower part of his face with his cloak. Smudge crept around Jig’s neck and perched on his shoulder.

  Holding his breath, Jig ran to the pile and lay down behind it, out of sight of the wall. If anyone had seen him, he was dead. Though at least then he wouldn’t have to keep inhaling flower perfume. He pulled his hood over his head and tried to breathe as little as possible.

  A tiny spider crept out from beneath the flowers, drawn by the warmth of Jig’s body.

  Smudge pounced. A quick burst of heat cooked the tiny spider, and then Smudge was retreating back to the warmth of Jig’s hood, carrying his meal in his forelegs. Jig felt strangely sympathetic for the smaller spider.

  His ear twitched as the goblins left the wall, trudging toward the farmhouse. Jig rubbed his eyes and peered around the side of the pile. That elf was watching the goblins closely now. This was the best opportunity for them to run off, so he would have an arrow ready to discourage them. After Jig’s escape, he doubted
the elf’s pride would allow anyone else to take a single suspicious step.

  As if the goblins would have cooperated long enough to escape. They had no way to cut the rope around their necks, which meant they would have to run together. Goblins rarely did anything together.

  No, that wasn’t true. Billa’s goblins worked together. They marched as one, fought as one, and if Billa and Isa had their way, they would die as one.

  The scritch of rakes signaled the arrival of the prisoners. Jig waited until they had all reached the pile, then darted into line behind Braf.

  ‘‘Jig!’’ Braf grinned. So did the other goblins, to Jig’s surprise.

  ‘‘Braf told us he was talking to you,’’ said one. He shrugged. ‘‘I figured all that human food had rotted his brain.’’

  ‘‘So, how are you going to get us out of here?’’ asked another.

  ‘‘Wait, before you free us, can you do something about these blisters on my hands?’’

  ‘‘And my feet are killing me!’’

  ‘‘Quiet,’’ Jig snapped. He glanced at the wall. The elf was still watching them. Had he noticed anything? Probably not, since Jig was still arrow-free. He concentrated on looking like another miserable prisoner. Keeping his voice low, he said, ‘‘Once I cut everyone free, you’re going to distract the guards.’’

  ‘‘Us?’’ The goblins’ grins began to fade. ‘‘We’re supposed to fight armed humans?’’

  ‘‘And an elf,’’ Braf said, ever helpful.

  ‘‘Only until my . . . my army attacks.’’ Jig braced himself, but the other goblins didn’t even smirk. To his shock, they actually sounded reassured.

  Jig sniffled and sneezed and did his best to help with the flowers. By the time they started back, he was about ready to cut off his own nose to stop it from dripping.

  Jig bit the rope as they walked, clutching it in his fangs so that, from a distance, he might appear to be tied up with the rest. When they reached the wall, he climbed up the ladder after Braf. The goblin tied behind him crowded uncomfortably close, but hopefully he wouldn’t have to stay here for long.