Goblin War (4 page)

‘‘Jig, come with me,’’ Grell snapped. She hobbled through the crowd to one of the few doors in the cavern. Fixing wood to rock was tricky, but Golaka the chef made a paste that could be spread on the walls. The mold that grew on the paste clung equally well to stone and wood, enabling the goblins to erect a few crude doors. The chief’s cave was the only one with a lock.

Grell grabbed the door with both hands. Goblins everywhere cringed as the wood screeched over the stone floor. Jig reached out to help, but a glare from Grell stopped him.

‘‘I can open my own door, thank you.’’ Eventually she managed to slide the door wide enough to slip inside.

A single muck pit cast a weak green glow over the cluttered space within. A handful of weapons sat beside a batskin mattress filled with dried grasses. Grell wheezed as she lowered herself onto the bed, a complicated process that involved much grunting and repositioning of her canes. Finally she sat back and pulled a blanket of tunnel cat fur over her body.

‘‘Perhaps Jig Dragonslayer should lead the goblins while you rest?’’ Relka suggested as she dragged the door shut behind her.

Grell opened her eyes. ‘‘And perhaps you’d like me to find a new place to store my cane.’’ She reached to the other side of her mattress and grabbed a clay pot. Jig’s nose wrinkled at the smell of stale klak beer. ‘‘The dragon take this wind and snow. Every time there’s a storm, my joints swell up like leeches on an ogre’s backside. And I think I did something to my knee out there on the river.’’

Jig sat beside the bed. He shoved the blanket back and put one hand on her knee. He could feel the joint grinding as Grell straightened her leg, and her kneecap popped beneath his fingers.

No matter how often Jig healed Grell of one ailment or another, nothing seemed to last. Was Shadowstar’s magic failing? The other goblins stayed healed. Well, except for Relka’s friends. But when you interrupted a warrior’s dinner to sing the praises of Tymalous Shadowstar, you had to expect a plate-size bruise on your face.

The warmth of Shadowstar’s magic flowed through Jig’s fingers, driving away the last of the snow’s pain as Jig healed Grell’s knee.

I can help you fix the damage she did on the ice, but it won’t last.
Tymalous Shadowstar, forgotten God of the Autumn Star, sounded strange. His voice was softer than usual.

But what’s doing this to her?
Jig glanced around, frowning as he spotted the klak beer.
Is someone poisoning her?

I know.
Everyone knew Grell was old. That’s why her skin was all wrinkly, and she had to run to the privy four times a night.
But why is she—

Jig shook his head.

The tendons twitched beneath Jig’s hand, and Grell gasped. She bent her leg, and this time the kneecap stayed where it was.

‘‘That’s a little better,’’ Grell said with a sigh.

‘‘Praise Shadowstar.’’

Jig glanced up at Relka, then bit back a groan. She had taken off her blanket. Her shirt was torn in the middle, revealing the scar where Jig had stabbed and healed her.

In the old days, you would have had hundreds of followers like Relka and her friends
, Shadowstar said.
Well, not exactly like her. But it’s only natural for them to look up to you and Braf.

Can’t they look up to us from a distance?
Jig asked.

Shadowstar laughed, a sound that always reminded Jig of tiny bells.
Be thankful I’m not asking you and the others to perform the solstice dance.

Another jingling laugh.
On the first night of autumn, when my star is highest in the sky, you and the others spread your yearly offerings on a great bonfire. The idea was that the smoke would carry your prayers to the stars. Then you dance from sundown to sunrise to celebrate another year of life.

Jig wasn’t much of a dancer, but that didn’t sound too bad.

Did I mention that the high priest dances naked?
added Shadowstar.

Goblin war cries erupted from the tunnels. Jig twisted around, his ears perked high. The door muffled the noise somewhat, but it sounded like the humans had reached the temple. He hoped Braf had made it away before the humans arrived.

‘‘That idiot Ruk.’’ Grell crawled off the mattress and rummaged through her pile of weapons. ‘‘He was supposed to scream before they killed him.’’

Smudge was squirming about in Jig’s hood. Now that they were inside, the cold didn’t suppress the fire-spider’s heat. Jig grabbed Smudge and dropped him into a pocket in his cloak, one he had lined with leather. Then he stuck his fingers in his mouth. Smudge wasn’t hot enough to blister skin, but he was close.

‘‘Shadowstar will protect us,’’ said Relka. ‘‘I am not afraid.’’

Another scream punctuated her words.

‘‘Like he protected that poor fool?’’ Grell asked.

‘‘If those goblins had truly believed, Shadowstar would have saved them.’’

‘‘I miss Veka,’’ Jig mumbled. Veka was a distillery worker with delusions of heroism. She had followed Jig around for a while, just like Relka. Veka had dreamed of learning the secrets of magic in order to become a sorceress and a hero.

Jig thought she was mad, but at least Veka had been useful in a fight. Unfortunately, she had left shortly after the battle with the pixies and the ogres, going out into the world to ‘‘pursue her destiny.’’

Jig had never worried about pursuing his destiny. Generally, destiny pursued him. Then it knocked him down and kicked him a few times for good measure.

This time it sounded like destiny planned to bully the entire lair. The humans had already reached the main cavern.

In the past, the goblins would have charged into the tunnels two or three at a time, to be killed at the humans’ leisure. These days, they had learned to wait and allow intruders to charge into the lair, where they would be surrounded and outnumbered.

The twang of bowstrings and the shrieks of goblins told Jig how well that tactic was working.

‘‘We should have covered the muck pits,’’ Jig whispered. Humans didn’t do well in the dark. Extinguishing the fires might have given the goblins more of an advantage.

‘‘Come on.’’ Relka grabbed Jig’s arm and tugged him toward the door. She had her knife ready. ‘‘The goblins need their champion!’’

‘‘What am I supposed to do?’’ He pressed his ear to the door. The clank of armor and the clash of weapons had already spread. He heard shouts from the back of the cavern, where goblins were no doubt fighting one another in their eagerness to escape down the garbage crack that led to the lower tunnels.

‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ From the opposite side of the cavern, Golaka’s outraged shriek was loud enough to make Jig flinch back from the door. A loud clank followed, as if an enormous stirring spoon had dented a soldier’s helmet.

‘‘Focus your efforts on that one!’’ A human’s voice. Male, with a slightly nasal tone to it. ‘‘Form a line and drive the rest of these vermin back!’’

‘‘Clear room for the archers!’’ This voice was female. At least Jig thought it was. With humans, it could be hard to tell. They all sounded a lot alike, probably because of those tiny mouths and teeth.

An arrow punched through the door in front of Jig’s nose. He leaped back so fast his head hit the wall.

‘‘Jig, open the door.’’

‘‘What?’’ Jig stared at Grell. How much klak beer had she drunk since they returned?

Grell pulled her blanket up to her chin and settled back. ‘‘We face them now and find out what they want, or else we wait until they’ve slaughtered every last goblin in the lair.’’

‘‘I like waiting,’’ Jig mumbled.

‘‘Open the door, or else when we get out of this, I’ll tell Golaka you’ve been stealing her fried rat tails.’’

‘‘So you’re the one!’’ Relka whispered.

‘‘No!’’ Jig’s toes curled in his boots at the thought of the last goblin Golaka had caught stealing her treats. Golaka had turned his ears into a spice pouch. ‘‘I mean, it was only a few. Smudge likes them, and—’’

The loudest crash yet made the door shiver. Golaka must have flung one of her cauldrons at the attackers.

Grell bared her yellow teeth. ‘‘Enough of this. Relka, go tell Golaka—’’

Jig shoved the door open a crack. Then another shout from the humans pushed any thought of Golaka from his mind.

‘‘We have the spoon!’’

‘‘Oh no,’’ Jig whispered. He peeked past the edge of the door.

The humans stood in a half circle in front of the main entrance. Another group battled Golaka and the other goblins near the kitchen. A ring of humans lay groaning at her feet. Skewers, forks, and other utensils protruded from their bodies.

One of the humans ran back toward the entrance, waving an oversize stirring spoon above his head. Several others shot arrows to stop the goblins from pursuing. One arrow rang as it ricocheted off the iron lid Golaka held in one hand. Another hit her in the arm. More arrows drove her back into the kitchen. Humans with spears pursued, keeping their weapons extended to break any counterattack.

‘‘Where is your chief?’’ That was the female voice. She stood near the entrance. A tight ring of soldiers blocked her from sight.

The goblins backed away. Seeing Golaka driven to retreat had taken much of the fight out of them. Several pointed toward Jig.

‘‘Him?’’ The human sounded skeptical.

‘‘No!’’ Jig yelped. ‘‘Not me, her!’’ He shoved the door wider and pointed to Grell.

Whatever the woman tried to say was overpowered by screams from the kitchen. Spears clattered to the ground as the humans stumbled out, covered in steaming lizard-fish pudding.

‘‘Forget the chef,’’ the woman shouted. She and about twenty soldiers shoved their way toward Grell’s cave.

Jig scurried out of the way as soldiers stepped into the room. One of them smirked as he studied the goblins. ‘‘Nothing to worry about, Highness. A runt, a girl, and an old woman.’’

The woman entered next. She was shorter than the others. Her tabard was black, as was the embroidered crest of that odd beast. Jig could barely see the shine of the thread. The hardened leather of her armor was black as well, reminding Jig of the shine of the lake deeper in the tunnels.

Her sword was thin and sharp, with a blackened guard like a metal basket that covered her entire hand. Even the gem that shone in its pommel was black. Her boots, her belt, her gloves, even her hair . . . it was as if someone had spilled nighttime all over her.

A round helmet—black, of course—left her pale face bare, and something about that sweaty expression seemed familiar.

She glanced at Jig and Relka, then turned to Grell. ‘‘I’m supposed to believe one of you leads these monsters?’’

‘‘That’s right,’’ said Grell. ‘‘And you’re in charge of this mob?’’

‘‘My brother and I, yes. I am Genevieve, daughter of—’’

‘‘I don’t care.’’ Grell tossed her blanket to one side. In her hands she held a small, cocked crossbow. Before anyone could react, she pulled the trigger. The bolt flew into the woman’s neck . . .

... and dropped to the ground. A small drop of blood welled up on Genevieve’s neck where the point had—barely—penetrated the skin. The blood was surprisingly colorful against her pale skin.

Grell flung the crossbow to the ground. ‘‘Stupid, worthless piece of hobgoblin garbage.’’

One of the soldiers leaped to the bed and pressed a knife to Grell’s throat. Another kicked Jig to the ground for good measure. Relka got the same treatment on the other side of the cave.

‘‘Easy there,’’ said Grell. ‘‘Cut my throat and you’ll never find the antidote.’’

‘‘Antidote?’’ Genevieve touched her neck and stared at the smear of blood on her glove.

‘‘I keep that little toy by my bed to discourage younger goblins who think they should be chief,’’ Grell said.

The soldiers stepped aside as Genevieve approached the bed. One slipped out of the cave and ran back toward the tunnels.

Genevieve leveled her blade at Grell’s chest. ‘‘Give it to me, goblin.’’

‘‘Tell your people to retreat and leave us alone,’’ Grell said.

Jig glanced at the floor where Grell’s crossbow bolt had fallen. With everyone’s attention on Grell, he could snatch that bolt and plunge it into Genevieve’s back.

And then what? Killing a goblin chief led to chaos. Half of the goblins turned on one another, eager to take the chief’s place, while the rest fled to avoid getting drawn into the brawl. But humans weren’t like that. They had things like discipline and loyalty, not to mention enough weapons to kill every goblin still in the lair. Killing their leader wouldn’t stop them; it would only make them angrier.

‘‘The antidote,’’ Genevieve said. ‘‘Or I’ll cut off your ears.’’

‘‘Don’t give it to her!’’ shouted Relka, earning another kick.

Grell sighed and pointed to a small box.

Genevieve grabbed it and wiped crumbs from the top. Inside was a wooden tube, plugged with wax.

Jig had never seen Grell give up that easily. Actually, he had never seen Grell give up at all. He stared at Grell, but her face was pure, wrinkly innocence.

Genevieve uncapped the tube and poured the cloudy liquid down her throat. She coughed and wiped her lips on her wrist. ‘‘What a foul concoction.’’

‘‘So I’ve been told,’’ Grell said. ‘‘I thought about mixing blackberry juice to mask the taste of the poison, but—’’

‘‘The taste of the what?’’ Genevieve stared at the empty tube.

‘‘Poison. That’s a mix of rock serpent venom and lizard-fish blood.’’

Relka snickered.

‘‘You said that was an antidote to the poisoned bolt,’’ Genevieve said.