by Jim C. Hines
‘‘What about a goblin?’’ Jig asked.
That earned a soft chuckle. She blew another stream of smoke into the wind and stared up at the moon. Jig turned to go, then hesitated. ‘‘Aren’t you going to get some sleep too?’’
‘‘Eventually.’’ She sucked another breath through the pipe. ‘‘Darnak used to tell us stories about the great dwarf commanders, and how they would walk among their men the night before the battle.’’ She ducked her head and added, ‘‘Besides, I get nightmares.’’
Jig started down the ladder. He had just lowered himself down so his hands clutched the top disk of lichen when Genevieve said, ‘‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Jig.’’
She sounded almost drunk, but her breath didn’t have the stink of alcohol. Humans were weird.
It’s time, Jig.
Shadowstar’s voice yanked Jig from a dream in which Billa and her orcs had been pelting him with potatoes. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then hooked his spectacles over his ears. The sight of all those snoring, drooling goblins was anything but pretty.
The stable door slid open, and Gratz peeked inside.
‘‘You’re awake.’’ Gratz sounded surprised.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ The idea of Gratz out and moving around on his own made Jig nervous.
‘‘Checking on the wolves, sir. I thought it best to make sure they were fed before we attack. Not too much, of course. Hunger gives a wolf his edge, right?’’
‘‘Sure.’’ Jig staggered toward the door. He stopped long enough to nudge Trok awake. ‘‘Get the wolf-riders ready,’’ Jig said, fighting a yawn.
‘‘Get them yourself, you scrawny little—’’ Trok rubbed his eyes. ‘‘Er. Sorry.’’ He leaned over and punched the closest goblin in the gut. ‘‘Get everyone awake, and be quick about it.’’
That wasn’t exactly what Jig had intended, but it worked. Soon his entire command was gathered outside the stables, shivering in the wind. The sky overhead was a dark blue color. Most of the stars had faded, and the moon was gone from sight. Over the far wall, Jig could see a faint trace of red.
‘‘Beautiful morning, eh?’’ Darnak shouted as he jogged toward them, followed by Genevieve and several other humans. ‘‘Nothing like the chill of the pre-dawn air to get the blood pumping.’’
Darnak was the closest thing Jig had to a friend here, but if the dwarf kept grinning like that, Jig was going to stab him.
Dark smudges beneath Genevieve’s eyes made her look a bit like a raccoon. Her expression was one of complete understanding. ‘‘It could be worse,’’ she muttered. ‘‘When he woke me up, he was singing.’’
Jig grinned and checked his sword. Orange light spilled from the end of the scabbard. Jig hurried back into the stable and grabbed a blanket. He pulled it over himself, wrapping one corner around the sword to hide it. ‘‘Gratz, Trok, take some of the goblins and go get the wolves.’’
‘‘What about food?’’ Relka asked.
‘‘Billa’s troops will be breaking their fast soon,’’ Darnak said. ‘‘Attack now, and we catch them in the middle of their meal. They’ll be reluctant to abandon their food, and that gives you the advantage.’’
‘‘Here,’’ said Relka. She handed Jig a strip of meat so dry it crunched. ‘‘I swiped it from the humans last night.’’
‘‘What is it?’’ Jig asked warily.
‘‘They called it bacon.’’ Relka glared at Darnak. ‘‘It’s quick, and we can eat it while we prepare. No goblin should die hungry.’’
Jig took a bite, and the smoky, spicy taste caused his mouth to fill with drool. He stuffed the rest into his mouth and grinned. ‘‘You’re sure this is human food? It’s good!’’
Relka handed him another greasy strip of bacon, then turned to the other goblins. Soon all of Jig’s troops were wiping greasy fingers on their clothes, their hair, and each other.
Snarls and growls signaled the arrival of the wolves. Gratz, Trok, and a few other goblins strained at the ropes. The wolves tugged and fought, but Gratz and Trok had tied them well. The ropes circling the wolves’ necks were knotted in front of the throat. The more the wolves pulled, the deeper that knot pressed into their windpipes.
Of course, if you were Bastard, you could simply double back and bite the arm of the goblin holding your leash. With blue blood dripping from his jaws, Bastard bounded down the road toward Jig, his rope bouncing along the road behind him.
Darnak drew his club and stepped in front of Genevieve, shoving her out of Bastard’s path. Several of the humans fumbled with their weapons. The goblins, being smarter, fought to get out of the way. Jig grabbed the sack Trok had given him. By the time his cold fingers closed around a toe, Bastard was almost on top of him.
‘‘Bastard, down!’’ Jig squealed, throwing the toe.
Bastard twisted, snapped the toe out of the air, and crashed into Jig. Still chewing, Bastard bent down to sniff Jig’s face.
‘‘Argh,’’ Jig gasped. ‘‘Toe breath!’’
Relka grabbed Bastard’s leash and tugged. Bastard barely noticed, but then Darnak added his weight to Relka’s, dragging the wolf back enough for Jig to wiggle free.
Thirteen wolves in total, including Bastard. Fourteen if you counted Fungus, who was still limping from an arrow wound. Jig had already tried to get close enough to heal Fungus’ wound. The attempt had almost cost him a hand.
He stood and brushed wolf fur from his cloak. Amazing how much these animals could shed.
‘‘Do you have riders picked out?’’ Genevieve asked.
Jig nodded. Keeping his voice low, he said, ‘‘A mix of our goblins and the ones from Billa’s army. Mostly goblins who are too dumb to realize what’s going to happen to them. Gratz and I will be on Bastard.’’
It was a good thing Shadowstar was still muffling Jig’s fear. Bad enough he would be riding with the goblin who had tried to kill him yesterday. Without Shadowstar’s help, the idea of riding Bastard again would have sent Jig running from town.
Jig handed out the toes Trok had collected and watched as his goblins climbed onto the wolves. Seeing them knot themselves into place made him think about the way Silverfang had died. ‘‘Everyone make sure you have a knife as well as a sword. If something happens, you’ll want to cut yourselves free before your wolf falls on you.’’
Darnak cleared his throat. ‘‘Not that I’m one to tell goblins how to ride a wolf, but I’m thinking you might want to use a slipknot for those harnesses.’’
‘‘A what?’’ Gratz asked.
Darnak walked up to one of the wolves, apparently unworried by the huge, growling jaws. Maybe his god took away his fear, too. Or maybe dwarves just didn’t know how to be afraid. He twisted and tugged the rope, forming a small loop. A few more twists gave him a second, larger loop.
‘‘This will hold you tight as a babe,’’ Darnak said, tugging the loop. He switched his grip and grabbed one of the ends. ‘‘Something goes wrong, pull here.’’ A swift jerk, and the loop fell apart.
Jig waited while the other goblins climbed onto their wolves. Trok was riding Smelly again, and looked as happy as Jig had ever seen him. Relka was on Ugly, and Braf was feeding Fungus a few extra toes, distracting the wolf long enough to heal his leg.
‘‘Sir?’’ Gratz said. ‘‘I . . . I don’t think Bastard will let me ride him without you.’’
Jig nodded and stepped past Gratz. Bastard licked his face, nearly knocking him into the snow. Jig shoved the wolf’s muzzle aside and climbed onto his back. His legs and groin were already aching from the memory of his last ride.
He raised his hands while Darnak tied him into place. A second slipknot secured Jig’s wrists. Anyone looking would assume he was a helpless prisoner. He pulled his cloak and blanket so they covered his sword.
Gratz climbed up behind him and reached around to grab Bastard’s reins.
‘‘Wait!’’ Jig shouted suddenly. He yanked the release ropes and hopped down.
&nbs
p; ‘‘What is it, sir?’’ Gratz asked. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’
Relka leaped from her own wolf. ‘‘Is it an omen from Shadowstar?’’
‘‘Not exactly.’’ Jig’s face was burning. ‘‘I just . . . if I’m going to ride Bastard, I really need to use the privy first.’’
CHAPTER 15
Jig was marvelous! Selfish and cowardly and completely untrustworthy, but also clever and resourceful and desperate to be something more than he was. Unfortunately, he was also so busy staying alive that he rarely thought about things beyond his little world in the caves . . . until now.
Did the adventurers who had captured him realize how Jig was studying them, how he drank in every word, every action, trying to learn how he too could be such a hero?
And did Jig realize what he had already accomplished? He had survived the ambush of his patrol and single-handedly helped the adventurers survive a hobgoblin trap. He had even played a part in overcoming the various surprises the Necromancer had scattered through his tunnels. They were currently resting, having explored much of those tunnels to no avail.
This was Shadowstar’s chance. He had seen how keenly Jig watched the dwarf, fascinated by Darnak’s healing abilities. Shadowstar reached out, subtly nudging Jig until the goblin’s curiosity overpowered his fear.
‘‘Tell me of the gods,’’ Jig said.
Shadowstar gathered his power. With no worshipers, he had to forge and maintain his own connection to the mortal realm. He would have to wait for the perfect moment.
Darnak started talking. And talking. The other adventurers retreated to the far side of the room. Jig’s eyes began to glaze. Still the dwarf talked.
Was he even stopping long enough to breathe? Jig hadn’t asked for a lecture on the romantic preferences of Olin Birch, one of the woodland gods, let alone the resulting diseases that had followed him through succeeding centuries.
Shadowstar grinned at the memories. Old Olin Knottytwig, they had called him.
On and on the dwarf talked. Despite himself, Shadowstar was impressed. Darnak knew the gods’ histories better than most gods.
Finally, Darnak paused for a drink. Shadowstar reached out, channeling his power into a single seed of thought and praying it would take root in the dwarf’s mind.
He chuckled when he realized Darnak’s earlier tale had gotten him thinking in tree metaphors.
Darnak belched. ‘‘Then you had the Forgotten Gods.’’ He frowned, apparently confused, and took another sip of wine.
Jig stared, hardly hearing a word of it. A bit of drool trickled from one side of his mouth. He was exhausted and bored out of his mind. Shadowstar gathered himself and poked Jig as hard as he could.
‘‘What was that?’’ Jig asked.
Shadowstar turned his power back onto Darnak, who blinked. ‘‘Eh? Oh, the Fifteen Forgotten Gods of the War of Shadows?’’
‘‘Who were they?’’
Shadowstar could already feel his connection to the dwarf fading. ‘‘Remember,’’ he begged. The curse had been laid by a god, so a god should be strong enough to break it, even if only for a brief time. ‘‘Remember, blast you!’’
‘‘Take the Shadowstar,’’ Darnak said. ‘‘They stripped his mind, flayed his body with blades of lightning, and cast him loose in the desert.’’
Shadowstar’s grip on the dwarf slipped. Had it been enough?
Darnak babbled a few moments longer, and then his voice trailed off. He glanced about in confusion. ‘‘What was I saying just then?’’
It didn’t matter. Shadowstar could already feel Jig reaching out, searching.
For the first time in thousands of years, Tymalous Shadowstar had a follower.
Jig kept one hand on his rope, ready to loosen his bonds at the first hint of trouble. The fingers of his other hand twisted into his cloak, holding it shut to hide his sword. He grimaced and hunched his head. He wished he could have put up his hood, but they needed his face to be visible so everyone would see he was a prisoner. But that meant Gratz’s breath kept tickling his neck as they rode.
The gates of Avery swung shut behind them. Given the size of the gates, he expected a loud clang, or at least a heavy thud. Anything to mark the drama of the moment as the small goblin force set out to get themselves killed. The only sound the elf-grown doors made was an annoying squeak.
Jig wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Billa’s army appeared even bigger from the ground. Goblins and kobolds huddled around feebly burning campfires. The monsters had camped on the road as well as in the fields, so there was no clear path to Billa.
Gratz guided Bastard toward the goblin ranks, avoiding the kobolds. Hopefully the goblins would be less suspicious of their own kind. Even so, goblins everywhere stopped what they were doing to stare.
Gratz tugged the reins as they passed the first few goblins, trying to keep the wolf from investigating the rabbit turning over a fire, or the particularly smelly goblin who scampered past.
Familiar odors surrounded them. Smoke from the damp wood of the campfires. Burning meat. Filthy soldiers. Sheep droppings. Jig hadn’t realized how accustomed he had grown to the smells in his short time with Billa. Then the wind shifted, and the stench of Smelly the wolf overpowered it all.
An armored goblin approached, a spear clutched in his hands. ‘‘Gratz, is that you? What happened to Silverfang?’’
Jig held his breath. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Gratz’s response. Fear had nothing to do with it. The simple fact was that Gratz was a goblin, and this was the best chance he would have to betray Jig.
‘‘The runt killed him.’’ Gratz slapped the back of Jig’s head. ‘‘Billa has plans for this one.’’ He leaned his head down and whispered, ‘‘Sorry, sir. I know regulations say I’m not allowed to hit a superior officer, but if I act like you’re my superior officer, nobody’s going to believe—’’
‘‘Shut up,’’ Jig said.
The guard grinned at Jig. ‘‘Try not to scream too loudly when she kills you. Some of the troops are still sleeping.’’
Jig did his best to look afraid. Strange, to have to force his features into an expression of terror. He hoped it wasn’t too fake.
Goblins whispered and pointed as they rode, but none moved to stop them. Word spread quickly in the army. Jig could hear Gratz muttering, sounding more and more annoyed with every step.
‘‘Regulations require them to challenge everyone who passes. They should have stopped us before we ever reached the perimeter.’’ He glared back at the goblin with the spear. ‘‘He doesn’t even have his spear in a proper grip. With thirteen wolves, he should have brought reinforcements. He should have insisted on searching the prisoner, to make sure you’re not smuggling anything in.’’
‘‘I am,’’ Jig said. ‘‘I’m smuggling a sword, remember?’’
‘‘I know. That doesn’t make it any less shameful. Silverfang would have—’’
The creaking of branches interrupted whatever Gratz was saying. Snow shivered from Oakbottom’s branches as he waded through the goblin camp, moving to intercept the wolf-riders. Several of the drowsy goblins were too slow to move out of his way. Their screams made Jig wince.
‘‘What’s this?’’ Oakbottom asked, stopping directly in front of Jig.
‘‘That’s more like it,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Though by rights, he never should have allowed us this deep into—’’
Jig jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
Gratz coughed, then said, ‘‘The humans decided to surrender Jig to Billa the Bloody, and to let us go free!’’
As planned, the other wolf-riders cheered and waved their weapons in the air. Jig studied Oakbottom, waiting to see whether he believed their story. How was Jig supposed to read the facial expressions of a tree?
How did Oakbottom even see? He had no eyes, as far as Jig could tell. It had to be even worse during the summer, when all his leaves grew in. Did he have someone trim his branches?
‘‘Billa w
ill be interested in hearing what took you so long,’’ Oakbottom said.
‘‘I’ll give her my full report when I turn over the prisoner,’’ Gratz answered, snapping off a quick salute.
‘‘Bring your wolves to the pen.’’ Oakbottom pointed his branches toward a small farmhouse. ‘‘Billa said I was to take the prisoner, if they turned him over. Apparently this one’s tricky, for a goblin.’’
Jig waited, but Gratz didn’t answer. Oakbottom stood unmoving, like . . . well, like a tree.
‘‘Gratz?’’ Jig whispered. Hopefully Oakbottom’s hearing wasn’t as acute as a goblin’s.
‘‘Yes, sir?’’ Gratz’s voice was equally low.
‘‘Answer the tree!’’
‘‘What do I say?’’
Jig groaned. Of course Gratz didn’t know what to do. Regulations didn’t say how to handle it when your plan fell apart and your superior officer couldn’t bark out new orders because he was pretending to be a prisoner.
Jig glanced around. They were roughly halfway through the goblins. Too far to turn back, but not close enough to have any hope of reaching Billa.
Jig was used to his plans not working. All goblins were. But he had hoped to make a bit more progress before everything fell apart.
‘‘Is there a problem, goblin?’’
Was it Jig’s imagination, or did Oakbottom sound hopeful? Maybe he hadn’t been able to toss a goblin in a few days.
Before Jig or Gratz could respond, another wolf bounded past. Relka pointed her sword at Oakbottom and shouted, ‘‘For Jig and Shadowstar!’’
Why had Jig insisted on bringing the stupid goblins along? He tugged the release rope, freeing his hands and giving himself a nasty rope burn on his wrists. ‘‘Split into two lines,’’ he shouted. ‘‘Run past him and make for Billa!’’
Gratz was already tugging Bastard’s reins, leading him to the right. The other wolves began to charge, like a river flowing around a rock. Or around a big, angry tree who liked to throw goblins. Nobody wanted to come within reach of those branches.
Nobody except Relka. She and Ugly rode straight for Oakbottom. He reached out, and she slammed her sword into his branch.