Goblin Hero (3 page)

Kralk stepped closer. “You killed far more hobgoblins than goblins. We considered it a favor.”

“Right. So you won’t mind doing us a favor in return.” The ogre stared at Jig. “Whatever they are, they’ve got magic on their side. Many of us have already died. Others have been enslaved. They’re hunting down those who remain, the families who fled into the deeper tunnels.”

Jig had met two wizards in his time. One had been a companion on his quest. The other was the dreaded Necromancer. Both had tried to kill him. To be fair, a number of nonwizards had also tried to kill him, but wizards tended to be much nastier about it.

“We’ve heard of you,” the ogre said. “You’ve got magic of your own, right?”

Jig knew where this was going, and his mouth was too dry to answer. He managed a weak nod.

Kralk’s smile grew. Smudge responded to that smile with enough heat to sear the leather shoulder pad. Tiny threads of smoke rose from beneath his feet. Interesting that the goblin chief frightened him more than the ogre. Jig had always known Smudge was smart.

“What do you say, Jig?” asked Kralk.

Jig took a step back. There had to be a way out of this. He whirled and pointed at Veka. “What about her? She can cast a binding spell, and she
wants
to be a Hero.”

The closest goblins started to laugh, either at Jig’s cowardice or at the idea of smelly, overweight Veka as a hero. As for Veka herself, she flashed a grin nearly as wicked as Kralk’s own. “Sorry, Jig. If you had taught me magic, I might be powerful enough to help. But I guess you’ll have to do this on your own.”

“But—”

“This is your path, Jig Dragonslayer, not mine.” Veka tapped her staff on the floor, rattling the beads and bones. “A Hero must make her own path. To quote the valiant Duke Hoffman, who transformed himself to rescue the mermaid Liriara, ‘I have chosen my way, and it is the way of the squid.’ ”

The ogre stared. “What’s she talking about? What’s a squid?”

Say yes.
Shadowstar’s voice was calm and firm.

Jig’s was not. “What?” He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the rest of the cavern so he could concentrate on Tymalous Shadowstar.
You want me to say yes?

Waiting sounds good.
Shadowstar didn’t answer. Jig sighed. The god always meant business when he used Jig’s full name.
What do you expect me to do? They’re ogres! If they can’t fight this thing, how am I—

Right. Jig looked at the ogre. “I’ll go,” he muttered.

“Excellent!” The ogre slapped him on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Whoops. Sorry about that. I forget how fragile you bugs are. Nothing broken, I hope?” He grabbed Jig’s arm and hauled him upright.

Jig stepped back, testing his arm. Fortunately, the ogre hadn’t struck the shoulder where Smudge was perched. The fire-spider was crouched into a hot ball, staring at the ogre. Smudge extended his legs. With a burst of speed, Smudge raced down Jig’s chest and burrowed into a pouch on his belt, leaving a trail of smoking dots down Jig’s shirt.

“Take Braf along for protection,” said Kralk, sneering. “Whoever’s hunting the ogres might not have heard ‘The Song of Jig.’ They might mistake you for a stunted coward and rip you apart before you have the chance to tell them of your great deeds.”

Jig glanced at Braf, who was busy picking the scabs on his nose. He couldn’t decide if bringing Braf would improve his chances of survival or make them worse. Braf grimaced and stretched his jaw, using the tip of his fang to scratch inside his freshly healed nostril. Definitely worse.

“Someone else volunteered to accompany you,” Kralk added.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said a goblin from the back of the cave, in a voice so old it creaked.

Kralk grinned again. “Jig will certainly need a nursemaid to look after him.”

Goblins snickered as Grell made her way through the group to join Jig. If there was any goblin who would be of less use than Braf, it was Grell.

The canes she used to support her weight were smooth sticks, dyed dark yellow with hobgoblin blood. Grell was older than any goblin Jig knew, with the possible exception of Golaka the chef. But where Golaka had gotten bigger and meaner with age, Grell had shrunk until she was almost as small as Jig himself. Her face reminded Jig of wrinkled rotten fruit. Grell had worked in the nursery for as long as Jig could remember, and generations of teething goblin babies had covered her hands and forearms in scars. Dark stains covered her sleeveless shirt. Jig tried not to think about the origins of those stains.

“Are you sure?” Jig asked. “It will be dangerous. The ogres—”

“Ogres, ha!” Grell said. One whiff of her breath made the rotten fruit comparison much more apt. One of her yellowed fangs was broken near the gums, and the smell of decay made Jig want to gag. “Spend a week with twenty-three goblin babies and another nine toddlers, then we’ll talk about danger.”

“But—”

Grell jabbed the end of one cane into Jig’s chest. “Listen, boy. If I spend one more day with those monsters, either I’m going to kill them or, more likely, they’re going to kill me. I refuse to die buried in sniveling, crying brats. Kralk agreed to give me a break from nursery duty if I went with you and this green-skinned clod, so I’m going. Understand?”

“What about the nursery?” Jig asked desperately. “Who’s going to take over?”

“Riva’s still in there, but you’re right. Without help, they’ll probably overpower her pretty quickly.” Grell turned toward the kitchens. “Hey, Golaka. Send one of your drudges over to help watch the brats!” To Jig, she added, “That should work. They can always threaten to barbecue the older ones if they get out of line.”

Golaka peered out of the doorway. Sweat made her round face shine. She waved her stirring spoon in the air, spraying droplets of gravy over the nearest goblins. “My helpers are all busy mashing worms for dinner.”

“I only want one. And your worm pudding tastes like week-old vomit anyway,” Grell shouted back.

Jig cringed. He could see other goblins creeping out of the way, as far from Golaka as they could get. On the bright side, maybe he wouldn’t have to take Grell along after all.

Golaka shook her spoon at Grell. “Last one who complained about my cooking got his tongue ripped out. The taste didn’t bother him at all after that.”

“Pah,” said Grell. “Just send over whatever idiot overspiced the snake meat the other night. One day dealing with teething goblin babies, and they’ll work twice as hard once they’re back safe in your kitchen.”

Golaka’s spoon stopped in midshake. The rage on her face slowly melted away, and she began to chuckle. “I like that.” She spun and headed back to the kitchen. “Hey, Pallik. Stop licking the hammer and get over here. I’ve got a new job for you!”

Jig turned to the ogre, who had watched the entire exchange with an increasingly skeptical expression.

“Come on,” said Jig.
Before anyone else volunteers to “help.”

 

The laughter of the other goblins followed them out of the lair, stopping abruptly when the ogre spun around and snarled. The silence drew a faint smile from Jig. His goblin companions might be worse than useless, but he could get used to having an ogre along.

Jig studied the two goblins. “What is that supposed to be?” he asked, staring at the object in Braf’s hand.

“A weapon, I think,” said Braf. “I traded a hobgoblin for it a few days ago.”

The so-called weapon was the length of Jig’s leg. A thick wooden shaft ended in a brass hook, wide enough to catch someone’s neck. The other end was barbed and pointed.

“Do you know how to use it?” Jig asked.

“I wanted to name it first. I was going to call it a hooker.”

Jig cringed.

“But that didn’t sound right,” Braf went on, rotating the weapon and testing the point on his other hand. “I thought about calling it a goblin-stick, because I’m a goblin. But I think I’m going to name it a hook-tooth, because it’s sharp like a tooth, only the other end is hooked, see?”

Standing behind Jig, the ogre snickered. He could probably snap Braf’s hook-tooth with one hand.

“I wish I could remember where I put my shield though,” Braf continued. “I had it at dinner last night because I used it as a plate, and I remember Mellok kept stealing my fried bat wings.”

Grell’s wrinkled face tightened with disgust. Shifting her balance, she raised her cane and slammed it into Braf’s back, making a loud
thunk
.

Braf hardly budged, but his face lit up. He craned his neck and patted the edge of the shield, still strapped to his back. “Thanks, Grell!”

Jig turned to the ogre. “What’s your name?”

“Walland Wallandson the Fourth.”

“The fourth what?” asked Braf.

“The fourth Walland Wallandson.”

Braf stared. “Couldn’t the other ogres come up with enough names?” He seemed oblivious to the glare Grell shot him, so she slapped the back of his head.

“It’s my father’s name,” said Walland. He flexed his fingers, and his knuckles popped with the sound of cracking bones. “He was Walland Wallandson the Third. His father was the Second, and my great-grandfather was Walland Wallandson the First. Your name is your legacy. Your family is everything. Anyone who mocks the Wallandson name had best prepare for a long, painful death.” That last was said with a glare at Braf.

“Seems awfully inefficient,” said Grell. “All those ogres taking care of their own offspring. How do you find time for anything else?”

Walland shrugged. “They don’t stay young forever.” He turned to Jig. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are we going?”

Jig had forgotten he was supposed to be in charge of the other goblins. “Right. Sorry.” He raised his lantern, then hesitated. Going first meant leaving two goblins and an ogre at his back. Walland probably wouldn’t do anything, not if he really wanted Jig’s help. But the other two, well, they were goblins. Worse, Kralk must have talked to both of them before Jig even arrived.

“What’s wrong?” Braf asked.

It wasn’t that Jig didn’t trust them. He trusted them to behave like goblins. “I’m wondering which one of you has orders to kill me.”

He hoped his bluntness would startle the guilty one into confessing. Instead, Braf and Grell glanced at one another, then at the floor. Neither one would meet Jig’s eyes.

Jig was in trouble. “Braf?”

Braf scratched his nose. “Kralk said she’d chop me up and toss me in Golaka’s stewpot if you came back alive. She thinks you want to kill her and take her place.”

“Why, so the entire lair can plot my death instead of just you two?” Jig asked, his voice pitched higher than normal. Borderline hysteria had that effect on him. “What about you?” he asked, turning to Grell. “What did she promise you?”

“She said if I killed you, she’d make sure I never have to work in that miserable, foul-smelling nursery again.”

“You can’t do that,” Braf protested, raising his hook-tooth. “Kralk told
me
to kill him.”

Jig’s hand brushed the handle of his sword. From this angle, he could probably stab Grell in the back, but Braf was out of reach. Besides, Tymalous Shadowstar frowned on stabbing people in the back. Jig had never understood that, but he knew better than to argue the point.

Walland snorted and stepped past Jig, giving Braf a light shove that sent him bouncing off the wall. Braf landed on his backside, nearly impaling himself on his own weapon. “Trustworthy lot, you goblins,” said Walland.

Jig didn’t answer. Despite common belief, the goblin language did include a word for trust. It was derived from the word for trustworthy, which in the goblin tongue, was the same as the word for dead.

Jig stared at the ogre’s leathery face, hoping he wasn’t about to make a mistake. “Walland came to us for help,” he said. “He asked for me. For Jig Dragonslayer.” He narrowed his eyes and tried to look menacing as he turned to the other goblins. “I imagine he’d be very unhappy if something happened to me before we could help him.”

Braf stood up, rubbing his behind. “I’m not afraid of some ogre,” he said, lowering Jig’s estimate of his intelligence even further. But he tucked his hook-tooth through the shield on his back and made no move to attack.

“Grell?” Jig asked.

Grell shrugged. “The way I figure it, there’s a good chance you’ll get yourself killed down there and save me the trouble.”

“Fine.” Knowing she was probably right gave Jig a sick feeling in his gut, as though he had eaten something that wasn’t quite dead yet. His only consolation, as he raised the lantern and set off down the tunnel, was that whatever killed him would no doubt kill the other goblins as well.

CHAPTER 2