Goblin War (7 page)

Genevieve dismounted from her horse. ‘‘Take them to the stables for now. Bring food and water. Blankets as well. I didn’t drag these filthy creatures down here only to have them freeze.’’

‘‘What about that privy?’’ Braf stood with his legs tightly crossed, and his voice was higher than usual.

Genevieve turned away. ‘‘Bring a bucket.’’

 
Jig had a hard time falling asleep that night. Maybe it was the fact that nobody had bothered to untie them, so every time Trok or Relka shifted in their sleep, Jig choked. Or maybe it was the human food they had been forced to eat.

The humans had brought two barrels. The first contained hard, green, smelly things called
pickles
. He had tried to feed some to Smudge, and the fire-spider grew so hot he nearly burned Jig’s hand. The slimy, hard vegetables smelled a bit like Trok. Hardly an appetizing aroma.

The other barrel contained grungy brown bulbs with white shoots sprouting from them like tentacles. The humans called them
potatoes
, and they were cold, hard, and tasteless.

Still, after trying a pickle, ‘‘tasteless’’ was a significant improvement.

One of the horses snorted and shifted position. That was the real reason Jig hadn’t slept. The goblins shared the stables with at least thirty horses. Sure, the horses were penned in their stalls, but Jig doubted those flimsy gates would stop them.

The dry air coated Jig’s mouth and nose, though at least there were no flowers in here. He and the rest of the goblins huddled together at the far end of the narrow wooden building.

Do you know why we’re here?
Jig asked.

Shadowstar’s answer was anything but helpful.
Probably because it’s the only place in town big enough to hold forty goblins.

‘‘Jig?’’ Relka’s whisper interrupted Jig’s retort.

‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘Do you think they’re going to kill us?’’

Jig closed his eyes. ‘‘Probably.’’

‘‘Do you think I’ll get to meet Tymalous Shadowstar when I die?’’

He didn’t answer. If he said no, Relka would spend the rest of the night praying and singing, trying to prove herself worthy. And if Jig said yes, he had no doubt that Relka would immediately provoke Trok into killing her, just to hurry things along.

Eventually exhaustion overpowered fear. Jig didn’t sleep comfortably, not with Trok’s elbow wedged into his gut and Relka’s knees in his back, but he slept.

The clang of bells ripped him from a dream in which elves leaped from the walls to shoot pickle-tipped arrows at Jig and his fellow goblins. Trok leaped to his feet, nearly breaking Jig’s neck in the process.

‘‘Everyone out!’’ The stable door swung open to reveal the shapes of Genevieve and several of her soldiers. The bright sunlight made it impossible to discern anything more.

The horses in their pens bared their huge teeth as the goblins passed. Those round eyes seemed to bore right through Jig’s skin. Maybe that was the real reason Genevieve had brought goblins to Avery. They had run out of horse food, and the horses were too smart to settle for pickles or potatoes.

‘‘How are we going to fight them?’’ Trok whispered.

Jig looked around, trying to see who Trok was talking to. A tug of the rope yanked his attention back to Trok. ‘‘Me?’’

‘‘You’re the dragonslayer, right? You’re the one who fought all those pixies.’’ Trok glanced at Genevieve. ‘‘So how are you going to kill this lot?’’

Technically, Jig hadn’t really killed the dragon. And while he had fought pixies, most of the goblins who had accompanied him in that battle hadn’t come back.

‘‘No talking,’’ Genevieve said, saving him from having to come up with a response. She walked along the line, studying each goblin. Behind her, several men handed out more potatoes. Another dipped water from a barrel, offering each goblin a drink. These were no soldiers. They were unarmed, and their wide eyes barely blinked as they watched the goblins.

Other humans watched from windows and doorways. Those who passed walked faster, either staring at the goblins or averting their eyes.

The roads all seemed to stretch out from the center of town, with smaller paths between them. They reminded Jig a bit of branches growing from a tree. Buildings and trees crowded together between the roads. For the most part, the buildings appeared far younger than the trees. Many were wood and stone, though a few seemed to be built into the base of the trees themselves. Those looked like miniature versions of the wall surrounding the town.

A pair of children whispered and pointed from high up in one of the trees. An older man stood in his doorway holding an ax. They were afraid. Were goblins so terrifying? The rope around Jig’s neck was clearly visible to anyone.

A rough-shaven man slapped a potato into Jig’s hand, and his stomach clenched. He forced himself to take a bite. He picked one of the bitter sprouts from between his teeth. The white sprouts were the only part of the potato with any flavor, but Darnak had mentioned that they were also toxic. It figured.

Genevieve kicked her horse, yanking the reins to lead it back toward the gate. The goblins gagged down the rest of their food as armed guards escorted them out of the city after Genevieve.

There she slid down and drew a knife. Before she could speak, the horse butted its head into her shoulder, knocking her into the wall. Then it stepped past her and began to chew one of the flowers.

‘‘Stop that.’’ Genevieve reached up to tug the reins, then swore as the horse nipped her arm.

Theodore laughed as he rode his own horse alongside hers. Most of the elves rode behind him. Like the elves, Theodore rode bareback, though he still used reins. ‘‘If Windstorm is too much to handle, I’m sure we could find you a more suitable mount. I believe I saw an old mule in one of the farmhouses.’’

‘‘I believe I see one riding horseback with the elves,’’ Genevieve shot back.

Even their insults brought back memories of Barius and Ryslind.

Genevieve handed the reins to Darnak and stepped to the wall.

‘‘This is steelthorn. It’s an elf tree.’’ She wrapped her fingers around the base of a flower, pulling the petals out to expose the brown stem. She placed her knife at the tip of the stem. The flowers must have been tougher than they appeared, because it took several hard tugs to cut through.

She dropped the petals and wiped her hand on her trousers. ‘‘Each of you will be given a knife.’’ She tossed hers to the nearest goblin, who immediately tried to cut himself free. When the rope wouldn’t budge, he shrugged and lunged at the princess.

An arrow pinned his rear foot to the ground. He screamed as he fell, and the knife dropped into the snow.

Genevieve picked it up. ‘‘Use your knife on anything but these flowers, and one of my brother’s pet elves will put an arrow through your throat.’’ She pointed to the top of the wall, where a slender figure waved his bow in salute.

‘‘So you captured goblin warriors to fight flowers?’’ Trok asked.

Genevieve shrugged. ‘‘If you prefer, I can find other uses for you. Your bodies could fertilize the fields.’’

Jig studied the stem where Genevieve had cut away the flower. Thin, reddish-brown leaves had already begun to curl tightly around the stem. Smaller thorns covered the outside of the leaves.

‘‘Every flower must be cut,’’ said Genevieve.

Jig stared at the wall. The flowers in front of him were too many to count, and the wall stretched on to surround an entire town. Not to mention how high they grew.

‘‘A waste of time,’’ Theodore shouted as he rode his horse to the gate. He pulled the Rod of Creation from his belt and held it overhead. He still hadn’t bothered to take the metal bowl off the end of the spoon. ‘‘I take my leave of you, dear Sister. While you play with your pet goblins, Father and I shall protect our kingdom once and for all.’’

‘‘And while you play with your rod, dear Brother, I shall restore this city.’’

Several of the goblins snickered. Theodore pointed the rod at the nearest, but that only caused the goblin to laugh louder.

‘‘That’s enough you two.’’ Darnak walked right past the prince’s horse, completely unafraid of those enormous hooves. ‘‘Teddy, you need to be getting yourself to Skysdale. Your father’s expecting you. Genevieve, stop posturing for the goblins and put them to work already.’’

‘‘You overstep your bounds, dwarf,’’ Theodore said, wrenching at the reins with one hand. Jig watched him closely. If he dropped the rod, Jig could try to grab it, and . . . his shoulders slumped. The rod could only affect one person at a time. He could transform the prince into a worm, and then Genevieve and the humans and elves would all take turns slicing Jig into worm food.

Darnak pulled a slightly wrinkled red fruit from his pocket and held it up for Genevieve’s horse. ‘‘My oath is to your father, boy.’’ He waved the fruit in the air, and the horse calmed enough to pluck it from Darnak’s hand. Darnak chuckled and grabbed a silver flask from another pocket. He took a deep swallow. ‘‘Get on with you. Elf steeds or no, you’ve a long ride ahead of you.’’

‘‘The dwarf speaks the truth,’’ Theodore shouted. He turned his horse around so he faced the small crowd. ‘‘I shall return, good people, with tidings of victory. Sa’illienth é traseth!’’

Darnak choked on his drink. ‘‘Begging Your Highness’ pardon, but are you sure you don’t mean sa’illienth é trathess? ‘Victory and honor’ is the traditional elvish battle cry. Not that there’s anything wrong with ‘Victory and bacon,’ mind you.’’

‘‘Come my friends,’’ Theodore said, his face red. ‘‘Alléia!’’

Jig doubted human ears would have picked up Genevieve’s muttered, ‘‘
Illéia
, you twit.’’

 
By the time the sun reached the top of the sky, Jig was ready to collapse. He and the other goblins had spent the entire morning cutting flowers from the wall. As he had guessed, the flowers were tough as leather near the base. His hands were cramped and blistered, and sweat kept dripping onto his spectacles. His nose was too stuffed up to breathe, and he sneezed every time he cut another steelthorn flower.

Their only break from harvesting flowers had come when humans passed out rakes, ordering them to drag the flowers off toward one of the farmhouses. There, some of the petals had been fed to fat, lumbering beasts the men called cows.

Jig paused to wipe his nose and study the wall. They had begun to the left of the gate, and had cleared an area roughly thirty paces wide and one goblin high. Where flowers had grown, shiny thorned spikes now covered the trees. Jig reached out to test one. It was surprisingly hard, considering how the leaves had curled so easily around the stems.

‘‘Have you figured out how to escape yet?’’ Trok asked.

Jig shook his head. ‘‘This used to be an elf town.’’ He touched another of the spikes. ‘‘These are the same color as the armor they wear. I’m betting they’ll be hard as metal by tomorrow. And as deadly.’’

‘‘Let’s find out.’’ Before Jig could respond, Trok grabbed the goblin to his right and shoved him into the wall.

The goblin, a warrior named Rakell, screamed and stumbled back. Only a few of the spikes were hard enough to pierce his skin. Puncture wounds in his chest and leg dripped blue. Several more of the spikes had broken away from the tree, leaving oozing wounds in the bark. Jig touched the sap, which was slick as oil. Anyone who tried to climb the wall would either impale themselves, or else the thorns would break away. The sap would cause them to slip and fall.

‘‘What’s all this ruckus?’’ Darnak asked. He and some of the humans were rolling a now-familiar barrel through the snow.

Trok snarled at the sight. ‘‘If they try to give me one more pickle, I’m going to beat them all to death with it.’’

Jig turned back to the wall. A small beetle crawled out of the bark. Jig smashed it with his thumb, then dropped the bug into his pocket for Smudge. At least one of them would eat a decent meal today.

Rakell finally recovered enough to punch Trok in the face. Trok snarled and grabbed Rakell by the throat. Goblins to either side stumbled, their ropes pulling them into the fight. Jig found himself pressed against Trok’s furs, close enough to realize that what looked like a death-bite on Rakell’s throat was actually Trok whispering to the other goblin.

With a shout, Trok shoved Rakell away, toward Darnak. Rakell raised his knife.

The human who had been helping Darnak with the barrel leaped away. Darnak simply waited.

An arrow buzzed from the top of the wall and punched through Rakell’s throat. Darnak plucked the knife from Rakell’s hand as he fell. A second goblin flung himself at Darnak, who caught him by the arm. A quick punch sent the goblin staggering back with one fang missing.

The goblins stopped moving. Darnak tucked Rakell’s knife into his belt. ‘‘Anyone eager to join this poor wretch?’’ He nudged Rakell with his foot.

Nobody moved.

‘‘Right,’’ said Darnak. He turned his attention back to the barrel. ‘‘Then it’s pickles and cheese for lunch.’’

‘‘What about Rakell?’’ Relka asked.

‘‘I don’t imagine he’ll be having much of an appetite,’’ said Darnak. ‘‘Or did you mean the ropes? You’ll have to wait for the elf to untie him. It takes a special touch to unknot an elven rope.’’

‘‘No,’’ said Relka. ‘‘What are you going to do with the meat?’’

Darnak shook his head and muttered, ‘‘Goblins.’’

He and the human passed out the food. The morning’s hard work had given Jig enough of an appetite that pickles sounded almost palatable. Almost. Jig accepted a pickle and a rock-hard lump of white cheese.

‘‘Darnak, what is everyone afraid of?’’ he asked.

The dwarf shook his head. ‘‘Earthmaker willing, nothing at all.’’

Trok crunched into his pickle. ‘‘Your princess wouldn’t be worried about preparing this wall unless she expected to need it. She’s planning for an attack.’’