Goblin Hero (38 page)

“Thanks,” Jig said, cringing.

“The others already started climbing back up to the lair,” Grell went on. “I wanted to follow, but this clod kept insisting you were alive, talking about how he had to save you. When I asked how he planned to do that with the bones of his foot all crushed to gravel, he sat down and started fixing his own foot. After that I figured maybe he knew what he was talking about for once.”

“How did you get here?” Jig asked.

Braf pointed to a rope hanging down the side of the pit. “One of the ogres tried to fly straight into the tunnel. Snapped his wings, but he nearly got me. Grell snuck up and jabbed a knife in his ear. We tied the rope around his body and climbed on down.”

Jig stood up, testing his balance. He was filthy, hungry, and exhausted, but everything appeared to be working. He crouched by Noroka and shook her until she stirred. “Watch her,” Jig warned. “Stop her if she tries to go over the edge.”

Braf and Grell looked confused, but they didn’t argue. Braf stepped toward the pit, arms spread.

“My head hurts,” Noroka said. “I think the mountain punched me in the face.” She gasped. “Grop. He—”

“Took a dive into the pit,” Jig said. “Do you want to do the same?”

Noroka scowled. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” Jig realized he was grinning. He didn’t know how long he had lain there, but it was long enough for the pixie queen’s magic to disperse. If the steel arrowhead hadn’t killed her, the wind would eventually do the job, smashing her against the walls of the pit. Most of the pixies had probably suffered the same fate as they flew so recklessly after their queen, trying in vain to save her.

He stepped to the end of the tunnel and looked into the darkness. The muck fire gave enough light for Jig to see the nearest bubbles of the pixie nest. They sagged gray and broken from the walls. He saw pieces flaking away, spinning as they disappeared into the dark.

Of all the goblins who had come with him, only a handful still survived. He wondered how the goblins back at the lair had done against the ogres. If things had gone as poorly there, Jig might have singlehandedly overseen the extermination of half the goblins in the mountain.

Is that why you spoke to Braf?
he asked.
To replace me with a follower who doesn’t get everyone around him killed?

Don’t be daft,
snapped Shadowstar.
I spoke to him because it was the only way to keep you from bleeding to death. I actually asked Grell first, but she told me to go to hell. I wiped it from her mind, so she doesn’t remember. But that left the idiot.

“What now, Jig?” Braf asked.

Jig stared for a long time before realizing what Braf meant. Jig was still chief. Braf and the others still expected him to tell them what to do. Jig groaned and rubbed his head. “We should go home,” he said. “We have to find out if anyone survived up there.”

“Braf and I will go first,” Grell said. “He can haul me back up, and then you two follow. We shouldn’t put too much weight on the rope. That ogre was a big fellow, but we don’t want to push our luck.”

Jig nodded.

“Watch out for that nest too,” Grell added. “Those chunks are hard as wood when they fall, and they’ll scratch you good. The big ones could knock you clean off the rope.”

“I will,” Jig said.

“Of course some of the pieces are pretty sharp. We’ll be lucky if one doesn’t cut the rope clean through as we’re trying to—”

“Will you just go?” Jig snapped.

“Hmph.” Grell grabbed a bit of rope and began tying herself to Braf. “See if I ever share my sugar-knots with you again.”

 

Jig climbed slowly, despite his fears. He had hesitated at first, not sure whether he should go first and give Noroka a clear shot at his back. But if he followed, it would be just as easy for her to cut the rope, sending him into the pit. In the end he decided he was too tired to worry about it. If she killed him, at least he wouldn’t have to be chief anymore.

His mind hurt as he tried to absorb it all. What had happened to the pixies’ world? No matter how he thought about it, he kept coming to the same answer: Veka. She and Slash must have found a way to close the gateway. Jig spent a fair amount of time wondering how in the name of the Fifteen Forgotten Gods she had managed to pull that off.

Then there was Braf and Shadowstar. By all logic, Jig should have been happy. Let the goblins come to someone else for a while with their broken bones and their bloody wounds. Let Braf be the one the ogres sought out when pixies invaded. Braf could have Tymalous Shadowstar, and Jig could have some peace and quiet.

Yet every time he thought about it, the idea of Braf taking his place made his teeth clench tighter.

Jig rolled his eyes.
Can’t you snoop around in his mind for a while?

You,
said Jig.
You pushed me to go to the lower caverns with Walland. You pushed me to fight the pixies. You pushed me into that fight with Kralk. You’ve been trying to control me all along, just like the pixies controlled their ogres.

Haven’t we already been over this?
Shadowstar asked, sounding a bit testy.
Jig, what do you think would have happened if you hadn’t gone? The pixies would have swept through this mountain, and every last goblin would be dead or a slave.

Jig wrapped his arms and legs around the rope and rested briefly.
Kralk could have led that fight.

Jig snorted.
That’s what happens when goblins fight ogres.

Jig didn’t answer.

I sealed the entrance to protect us,
Jig snapped.
And if this is your solution, I’m not impressed. All you did was speed up the process.

You want us to leave?
Jig asked.

Jig shook his head.
I can’t—

It all sounded so reasonable. Jig rested his face against the rock.
Why didn’t you tell me? Why not trust us to make our own decisions?

Shadowstar didn’t respond, and Jig didn’t bother to repeat himself.

 

The goblin lair was empty. Braf and Grell had opened the door from the waste pit, and the cavern was as quiet as the Necromancer’s throne room.

“Do you think the ogres won?” Braf asked.

Jig shook his head. The pixies’ control over the ogres should have been broken, but that probably didn’t matter. The ogres would have found themselves free, in the midst of a battle with goblins and hobgoblins. Being ogres, they probably reacted the same way the goblins would have: by finishing the battle. But if that was the case, why hadn’t they overrun the lair? Where were the goblins who had remained behind? There were no bodies, no signs of battle, aside from day-to-day goblin messiness.

He hurried past the others, running toward the kitchen. Dying muck fires flickered to either side as he peered through the doorway.

The kitchen was empty. The cookfire was little more than embers.

“Golaka left her kitchen?” Braf whispered, sounding shaken.

Jig wanted to weep. He didn’t have the strength for another battle. He reached up to pet Smudge. The fire-spider didn’t seem worried. Maybe the events of the past few days had burned out his ability to feel fear.

By now Noroka had emerged from the waste pit. She cocked her head to one side and said, “Jig, listen.”

He tilted his head and twitched his good ear. Screams coming from the hobgoblin lair. He started to reach for his sword, forgetting the pixies had thrown it away. Grimacing, he snatched a large kitchen knife and headed for the tunnels.

The closer they came to hobgoblin territory, the stranger the sounds became. He didn’t hear the ring of steel or the high-pitched squeals of wounded goblins. The taunts and shouts weren’t as loud or hateful as he would have expected either. Some of the voices actually sounded like they were singing.

A group of hobgoblins stood near their statue, guarding the entrance. One raised a copper mug. “Who goes there?”

“Filthy beasts, aren’t they?” asked another of the guards.

Jig glanced down at himself. Perhaps he should have changed clothes after coming through the waste pit.

“Looks like a bunch of carrion-worms masquerading as goblins.” That earned a laugh from the other hobgoblins.

“This is Jig Dragonslayer,” snapped Grell. “The goblin who singlehandedly killed the pixie queen.”

Jig flushed as the hobgoblins peered closer. A horrible thought entered his mind. Would they start calling him Jig Pixieslayer now?

“Jig Dragonslayer, eh?” The guard was clearly skeptical that the goblin chief would be wandering about in such a state. He glanced at his companions and shrugged.

“Put that thing away,” said the largest of the guards, pointing at Jig’s knife. Two others ducked into the hobgoblin lair. “They already carved the meat.”

Already carved the meat? Jig stared at the knife in his hand. It wouldn’t do much good against the hobgoblins anyway. The blade fit loosely into the empty sheath on his belt. “I don’t understand. What—”

The other hobgoblins returned carrying large, wooden buckets. Before Jig could react, they tossed the contents over him and the other goblins. Jig barely had time to shield Smudge before the frigid water knocked him back.

“That’s better,” said the closest guard, swishing the half-empty bucket. “Folks are trying to eat and drink back there. If we don’t rinse you down, you’re going to ruin their appetites.”

Jig was too confused to do anything but nod and turn around. They had a point, he supposed. He did smell pretty rank. Smudge was even worse, since fire-spiders cleansed themselves by burning whatever dirt clung to their bodies.

Still, there was no reason the water had to be so cold.

Eventually they were deemed suitable for hobgoblin society, whatever that meant, and led into the larger cavern. The dead goblin they passed along the way did nothing to calm Jig’s fear. The hobgoblins stepped around the body. One of them muttered, “Makkar was supposed to clean up the traps. Looks like she missed one.”

“This is weird,” whispered Noroka.

Jig only nodded. Most of the partitions that had divided the hobgoblin lair were gone, torn down and piled to the sides. Hobgoblins and goblins crowded around an enormous bonfire, and as far as Jig could see, nobody was killing anyone else. He spotted a few fights, but they were weaponless spats. A hobgoblin bludgeoning a goblin here, a gang of four goblins piling on a hobgoblin there, nothing out of the ordinary. And those few fights were the exception to the overall sense of . . . of celebration.

Jig made his way toward the fire, where two hobgoblins were turning an enormous spit. Both hobgoblins cast nervous looks at Golaka, who rapped her ever-present wooden spoon against her palm as she supervised.

She supervised one hobgoblin on the back of the head, hard enough to knock him away from the spit. “Don’t turn it so fast,” she shouted. “Give the ogre time to cook. Give the sauce time to work through the meat. Otherwise you might as well eat him raw!”

Braf tapped Jig on the shoulder and pointed to the bonfire. “Isn’t that Arnor?”

Jig squinted. Golaka’s garnishes hid some of the features, but he thought Braf was right. Apparently some of the ogre refugees hadn’t managed to escape from the pixies.

Grell sniffed the air. “Smells like Golaka broke out the elven wine sauce.”

A loud, harsh voice cut through the noise. “Jig Dragonslayer!” From the far side of the cavern, the hobgoblin chief waved his sword. “Someone drag that scrawny excuse for a leader to me.”

Jig waded through the crowd, doing his best to avoid the larger goblins. Cheerful as things appeared, he was still the goblin chief, and there were a lot of ambitious goblins crammed in here. Nowhere near as many as there had been before, thanks to the fighting, but more than enough for Jig’s comfort. Not to mention the hobgoblins, one of whom left claw marks in Jig’s arm as he tried to hurry Jig along.

The chief sat on one of the rolled-up partitions, basically a log of heavy red cloth. One of his tunnel cats sat with its paws tucked beneath its chin as it worked the marrow from an ogre bone. Veka and Slash stood to one side, drinking klak beer. Veka had lost her robe and staff. Both she and the hobgoblin looked bruised and battered, and it was strange to see Veka in her ragged muckworking clothes. They made her look smaller somehow. Younger.