Goblin War (10 page)

He handed the arrow back to Trok, then pulled out Darnak’s half-empty flask. With shaking hands, he poured the remaining beer over the pinecone.

‘‘I thought you said that was a stupid idea,’’ Trok said.

‘‘It is.’’ Jig dropped the flask, twisted around, and snatched Smudge from his hood. He poked Smudge with the tip of the pinecone.

Nothing happened. Smudge had fallen asleep.

Genevieve had her sword pointed toward them as she charged. Toward Jig in particular.

‘‘Wake up, you stupid spider!’’ Jig blew in Smudge’s face. The fire-spider stirred. He took several tentative steps, then fell off the edge of Jig’s hand. He dropped slowly, suspended by a silken line that ran from his backside to Jig’s palm.

Jig thrust the pinecone into Smudge’s face. The pinecone burst into flames. So did the line of web. Smudge plopped into the snow, and Jig threw the pinecone as hard as he could.

He was aiming for Genevieve’s cloak, but he had thrown too low. The pinecone was going to hit the horse instead.

The horse reared back on his hind legs, and Genevieve tumbled to the ground.

Jig sucked on his hand. Smudge’s web had burned swiftly, like any fire-spider web. Jig could already see a nasty blister where the line had stuck to his skin.

Genevieve tried to stand, then yelled and clutched her knee. She toppled onto her side, one hand holding her knee, the other reaching for her sword.

Trok was already dragging Jig and Relka toward the princess. He extended his arrow like a lance. Jig wondered if he had learned the tactic from watching Genevieve’s people kill goblins the same way.

Genevieve reached her sword. A single swipe of her blade snapped the arrow in half, and then Jig was wondering whether Trok’s body was bulky enough to stop the backswing from hitting Jig, too.

Trok leaped back. Genevieve stretched far enough to slice his arm, but the effort overbalanced her. She yelled again, and tumbled slowly into the snow. This time she didn’t get back up.

Trok studied the broken arrow. Genevieve’s sword had cut cleanly through the wood, leaving a nasty point. With a shrug, Trok raised it overhead like a knife.

Jig grabbed the rope and pulled him back.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Trok said, gasping for air. He turned the broken arrow toward Jig.

‘‘She’s faking to lure you close enough to kill.’’ Jig pointed to her hand. ‘‘See? She’s still holding her sword. And she fell with her good leg bent, so she could push off and run you through.’’

‘‘How did you know?’’ asked Relka.

Genevieve turned her head. ‘‘Yes, how
did
you know?’’

‘‘I fall down a lot,’’ said Jig. ‘‘I’ve never landed as softly or comfortably as you did.’’

Trok grinned. ‘‘Great. Jig, help me throw Relka at her.’’

‘‘What?’’ Relka yelped.

‘‘Genevieve will stab her, but by the time she gets her sword free of Relka’s body, I can kill her with my fangs and arrow.’’

To his shock, Relka merely nodded. ‘‘If it helps to protect Shadowstar’s chosen.’’ She closed her eyes. ‘‘May Shadowstar guide your fangs.’’

‘‘Who?’’ Genevieve sat back, shaking her head. ‘‘Never mind. Kill me, and every goblin at Avery will be executed.’’

Trok grinned, showing off his fangs. ‘‘But we won’t be at Avery.’’ He started to shove Relka at Genevieve.

‘‘Wait.’’ Jig braced himself, yanking her back by the rope. ‘‘Princess, we can either kill each other, or else you can let us go and limp back to town. Darnak can fix your leg.’’

‘‘If my brother were here, he would sooner die than bargain with a goblin.’’

‘‘Your brother is an idiot,’’ Jig snapped.

Genevieve tilted her head. ‘‘True enough.’’

‘‘And what would your parents say if they lost another child to the goblins?’’

‘‘My mother would weep. Father would probably say something along the lines of ‘I told you so.’ And then he’d spend the next month in mourning, wearing nothing but black and talking more about his dead daughter than he did in all the time she was alive.’’ Still, Genevieve nodded, conceding the point. Goblins paid no attention to parentage, but such things were important to humans and other surface dwellers. ‘‘He hates black.’’

‘‘
You
wear black,’’ Relka pointed out.

Genevieve almost smiled. ‘‘It annoys my father.’’

‘‘Give us your dagger,’’ said Jig. He glanced at Relka and Trok, then added, ‘‘And tell us where to find Billa’s army.’’

Genevieve switched her sword to her left hand, pulling her knife with her right. A flick of her wrist sent the knife into the ground at Jig’s feet.

Jig clenched his teeth, hoping nobody had heard his frightened squeak. He grabbed the knife and sliced back and forth on the rope.

‘‘Did you really guide my brothers through the mountain?’’

The knife slipped. Genevieve kept a sharp blade. Not sharp enough to cut elf rope, but more than enough to slice deep into goblin flesh. Jig could barely feel the cut on his hand, despite the blood. ‘‘They didn’t give me much of a choice.’’

‘‘No, they wouldn’t.’’ Genevieve shook her head. ‘‘To get so close . . . to actually find the Rod of Creation, only to fall to goblins.’’

‘‘Well, there were a lot of goblins.’’ Jig glared at Relka, silently begging her to keep her mouth shut.

‘‘Did they fight well?’’

‘‘Sure. Dead goblins everywhere. It took months to clean up the mess.’’ Jig cut himself again, in almost exactly the same spot. A few more tries, and he should be able to completely sever his own thumb.

‘‘Elf ropes,’’ Genevieve said. ‘‘The knife will never get through them.’’

‘‘It doesn’t matter. Smudge can do it once he’s sober.’’ Jig pointed to the sheath on Genevieve’s belt. ‘‘Could I have that, too? It’s awfully hard to carry a knife otherwise.’’

Genevieve shook her head as she tossed him the sheath. ‘‘Billa is on her way to Pottersville. Follow the road to the west for five days, keeping to the base of the mountains.’’ She studied the goblins. ‘‘Make that a week.’’

‘‘We’re taking your horse, too,’’ said Trok.

‘‘What?’’ Jig didn’t know who said it first, him or Genevieve. He stared at the horse, which had wandered a short distance away to munch a sad, half-frozen fern. Was it his imagination, or was the horse watching him? The horse’s tail twitched like a whip. ‘‘We’d be safer on foot.’’

‘‘Horses are faster,’’ Trok argued. ‘‘It’s big enough to carry us all. We could ride in comfort, like the humans.’’ He stared off into the distance. ‘‘An ax in one hand, a spear in the other, cutting down anyone who dared stand in my way. Anyone I missed, my warhorse would trample into the earth.’’

‘‘Warhorse?’’ Genevieve glanced at the horse. ‘‘Windstorm?’’ Her face tightened. It almost looked like she was trying not to laugh. ‘‘Only if you swear to take proper care of him.’’

‘‘We don’t need a horse,’’ Jig said. ‘‘We can—’’

Trok grabbed the rope around Jig’s neck, choking Jig and Relka with one tug. ‘‘Come on. You two go around and distract him. I’ll sneak up and grab the reins.’’

Genevieve grinned and moved out of the way. ‘‘Windstorm can be a little stubborn. If he won’t run, all you have to do is dig those claws into his ear and twist.’’

 
Trok was right about at least one thing. Windstorm did speed their progress. Not in the way Trok had imagined, perhaps. . . .

‘‘He’s running back to the road,’’ Relka called. Jig groaned. His stomach had already begun to cramp from all of the running.

‘‘Don’t let him turn back toward the town.’’ Trok threw a rock at Windstorm’s head. He missed, but the horse snorted and veered away. They were actually making better time than Jig had hoped, running after the horse.

Windstorm had crossed into a farmer’s abandoned field, which was overgrown with dry, withered vines. Dead, half-frozen orange gourds the size of Trok’s head were scattered about like hobgoblin traps. No matter how closely Jig watched, he kept tripping over the rotting things. The toe of his boot was stained orange from the last one he had kicked. Why would the humans work so hard to grow these things, only to abandon them?

Cold flakes tickled his face, spotting his vision. He glanced at the sky, remembering what he had heard back at Avery. Snow had come early this year. Maybe they hadn’t meant to leave their plants to die.

‘‘Try to get in front of him!’’ Trok crossed Jig’s path, trying to get behind the horse. ‘‘Keep him distracted while I sneak up and grab the reins.’’

Windstorm stopped to munch the plants at the edge of the field. Either that or he was playing with them, giving them the chance to catch up before darting off again. Just as he had waited for Jig to finish burning through their ropes before running away. Jig was starting to think horses were even smarter than he had realized. This one clearly intended to defeat his goblin foes by running until they passed out, at which point Windstorm could consume their unconscious bodies at his leisure.

Relka stepped into the road and raised her hands. ‘‘In the name of Jig Dragonslayer and his glorious god Tymalous Shadowstar, I command you to halt!’’

Windstorm flicked his tail and began to relieve himself.

Trok crept up behind the horse. As Windstorm finished, Trok lunged. His fingers closed around the reins. ‘‘I caught him!’’

Jig winced, waiting for Windstorm to bite Trok’s nose off or smash his skull with one of those huge, iron-shod hooves. But Windstorm only snorted.

‘‘Help me into the seat,’’ Trok said.

Slowly Jig moved closer to the horse. Maybe Windstorm was waiting until all three goblins were close enough to kill.

‘‘I think the humans called it a saddle,’’ Relka said.

Humans climbed into the saddles by putting one foot in the metal loop on the side and swinging their bodies up onto the horses’ backs. But humans had longer legs than goblins.

Trok solved the problem by punching Relka in the gut with his free hand. She dropped to her hands and knees, and Trok put one foot on her back. Pushing himself up, he managed to swing his other foot into the metal loop.

Windstorm trotted a few more steps to eat another bit of snow-covered plant. Trok tried valiantly to hold on, but there was only so far his legs could stretch. He squealed and fell onto the ground, still clutching the reins with both hands.

Relka’s fury slowly eased, giving way to amusement as they watched Trok dragged through the snow, flopping about like a broken toy.

Trok tried to pull himself up and punch Windstorm in the head. But he had to release the reins to swing. In the time it took to recover his balance, Windstorm trotted easily out of reach.

‘‘Stupid horse,’’ Trok shouted.

Relka glanced at Jig. ‘‘I’m starting to see why the princess let us take him.’’

This time, Trok threw himself onto the saddle before Windstorm could move away. Trok scrambled to hold on, kicking his leg around and gripping the saddle with both hands. He straightened, and his triumphant grin faded. In his haste, he had managed to seat himself backward.

‘‘Aw, pixie farts,’’ Trok said.

Before he could straighten himself out, Windstorm reared back on his hind legs. Trok tumbled into the snow and dirt.

Windstorm’s whinny sounded a lot like laughter.

Goblins like Trok lived by making sure everyone else was afraid of them. When that fear faded, he did whatever it took to restore it. Apparently that went for horses too. Trok snarled and grabbed the front of Windstorm’s saddle. With his other hand, he stretched up to grab the horse’s ear.

‘‘Wait,’’ said Jig. ‘‘I don’t know if you should—’’

Windstorm squealed.

‘‘Ha! Think you can best a goblin warrior, do you?’’

The horse slammed his head into Trok’s chest. Given the size of Windstorm’s head, Trok flew back as if he had been punched by an ogre. Windstorm snorted, then reached down to nip Trok’s ear.

‘‘Make him let go!’’ Trok screamed, but Windstorm had already released him. Jig didn’t blame him. If Trok tasted as foul as he smelled, Jig would have rather eaten plants too.

Trok grabbed his bloody ear with one hand. His other clenched into a fist.

‘‘Trok, wait.’’

‘‘What is it, runt?’’ Trok pulled out his broken arrow. ‘‘You think you get to give the orders, just because you got lucky with those pixies?’’

‘‘And the dragon,’’ Relka said. ‘‘And the Necromancer. Don’t forget the old chief, Kralk. And the hobgoblins. Also, he’s the one who saved you from taking Genevieve’s sword through the belly. Personally, if Jig Dragonslayer told me to wait, I’d listen.’’

Jig stepped back. From the look on Trok’s face, the only thing stopping Trok from killing them all was that he couldn’t make up his mind who to kill first.

‘‘There are probably still some humans out looking for us,’’ Jig said. He was tempted to let Trok and Windstorm work things out. But Trok would be more useful as an angry goblin warrior than as a blue smear of slush in some farmer’s field. ‘‘We’ll need your help if we’re going to make it to Billa’s army.’’

‘‘Why?’’ asked Relka.

‘‘Because there are a lot more humans out there.’’ Jig took a deep breath, never taking his eyes off of Trok’s weapon. ‘‘Look, even if you do manage to ride him, we—’’

Trok snarled.

‘‘I mean
when
! When you ride him. Well, it’s still going to take a few days to get to Billa’s army, right?’’

‘‘I suppose,’’ said Trok. ‘‘What does that have to do with anything?’’

‘‘Well, none of us brought any food.’’

Slowly both Trok and Relka turned toward Windstorm....

CHAPTER 4

 
After seven days of smoked horse meat, Relka and Trok were beginning to look tasty. Jig was certain they were having similar thoughts about him.