Goblin War (11 page)

He was almost sure Relka wouldn’t murder him in his sleep, and Trok seemed more annoyed by Relka than Jig, so he would probably kill her first. That would give Jig time to flee. And Relka was the only one who knew how to cook, which was likely the reason Trok hadn’t already strangled her. If Trok’s frustration ever outweighed his need for a good meal, Relka was in trouble.

For the past few nights, Jig had taken to sleeping with Smudge in his hand. Hopefully his burning fingers would wake him up if the humans found them, or if either of the other goblins tried anything. He debated again whether he would be better off running away. He couldn’t decide whether the protection of having two additional goblins around was worth the threat of having two additional goblins around.

‘‘I still say we should have killed the human,’’ Trok said as they crossed another bridge. The first time Jig saw a human bridge, he had been convinced it was magical. How else could an arch of stone hold together with nothing beneath it?

Now he merely groaned. Another bridge meant another treacherous crossing over icy wooden planks stretched between those unnatural arches. There was no railing or wall, only a row of taller stones to either side. The stones were gray and white, with dying grass and moss growing in the cracks. Beneath them, mud turned the thread of flowing water a strange reddish-brown color.

‘‘She attacked our lair, and you just let her go. Besides, the human lied to us,’’ Trok continued. ‘‘We’ve crossed half the world, and I’ve seen no sign of Pottersville or any army.’’

‘‘We’ll find it,’’ Relka said. She coughed and spat to clear her throat, then sang:

 
Jig had been trying so hard to forget the leaves incident, too.

A hard-packed ball of snow and ice hit Relka in the face. ‘‘Next time it’ll be a rock,’’ Trok said. From the expression on Trok’s face, he would definitely be killing Relka first.

‘‘If we had killed Genevieve, the rest of the humans would still be chasing us,’’ Jig said. Though he understood Trok’s feelings, not to mention his hunger. How many times did they have to fight humans and pixies and everything else until they all just left the goblins alone?

He glanced down at the icy river as he crossed the bridge. Glinting yellow eyes stared up at him.

‘‘Who are you?’’

The voice sounded more female than male, if you could get past the growling and the snapping of her jaws. Jig had never seen such a creature. She was slightly shorter than a goblin, with a long face that reminded him of a wolf or dog.

Her armor was . . . unique. She appeared to have taken a heavy blanket and cut holes for her head and arms. Scraps of metal were fastened to every part of the blanket. Rusty metal rings decorated the hem, jingling when she moved. Bits of twine secured enormous iron hinges to her shoulders. A rusted key, a bit of old chain, and several of those crescent-shaped bars Windstorm had worn on his hooves all clanked together on her chest.

Bristly brown fur covered her exposed skin. She carried a short spear, which she jabbed in Jig’s direction. The gesture was less intimidating than it might have been, thanks to the fish still flopping on the end of the spear.

Trok was the first to react. He grabbed Jig by the arm and flung him off the bridge at the creature.

Jig twisted, trying to avoid the spear. The creature did the same, presumably to protect her fish.

His shoulder hit first, slamming into her chest and stamping a key-shaped bruise into his shoulder. They crashed to the ground together, and then the creature’s feet shoved Jig back into the stream. Jig ducked as the creature swung her spear back and forth. She scrambled back to the riverbank, where she threw back her head and yipped.

Trok jumped down and tried to grab the spear. She dodged and smashed the shaft against his knuckles. As Trok howled, she swung the other end, smacking him in the face with her fish.

‘‘Take that, smelly goblin!’’ She did a triumphant dance, never taking her eyes from the goblins. In the distance, Jig could hear other yips and howls. Whatever this thing was, she wasn’t alone.

‘‘Wait,’’ Jig said. ‘‘Darnak said Billa had put together an army of monsters. Goblins and orcs and worse. This thing is probably from that army.’’

Trok scowled. ‘‘This thing is supposed to be worse than a goblin?’’

At the same time, the creature growled and bared an impressive number of sharp teeth. ‘‘Kobold! Stupid goblins.’’

‘‘Can you take us to Billa?’’ Jig asked.

The dog-woman—the
kobold
—tilted her head to one side. ‘‘First you pay me. Then I let you go find Billa’s army.’’

‘‘What?’’ Trok yelled. ‘‘Why should we pay a mangy dog like you?’’

Relka tapped his arm and pointed. Jig counted eight more kobolds—with eight more spears—running toward the bridge.

‘‘What kind of payment?’’ Jig asked.

‘‘Metal.’’ As her companions arrived, she straightened and said, ‘‘Metal for everyone.’’

The rest of the kobolds jangled to a halt, pointing their weapons at the goblins. One wore a helmet made from an old pot. Another had armor made entirely of tarnished copper coins with square holes in the centers. A third wore a suit of arrowheads, with the metal points sticking out like animal spines. His fellow kobolds gave him a wide berth.

‘‘What’s going on, Hessafa?’’ asked the spiny one.

Hessafa pointed her spear and said, ‘‘Smelly goblins won’t pay.’’

Jig could feel Smudge stirring in his hood. The fire-spider wasn’t giving off the searing heat of imminent death, but that could be because of the cold.

Nine armed kobolds against three goblins. Jig still had the knife he had taken from Genevieve, and Trok had his stick. But the kobolds were all armed and wearing armor . . . such as it was.

Jig made his way to the edge of the ice. ‘‘That’s not true!’’

‘‘So the smelly goblins
will
pay?’’ Hessafa asked.

‘‘We did pay.’’ Jig stepped to the side, out of reach of her spear. ‘‘We paid her lots of metal. Coins and nails and a dwarf shield. She didn’t want to share!’’ He pointed back at the road. ‘‘She buried it in the snow so she could keep it all for herself!’’

‘‘Lies!’’ Hessafa shouted. But the other kobolds had begun to mutter to one another.

‘‘Lots of shiny metal,’’ Jig said. ‘‘Iron and copper and steel and brass.’’

‘‘Where?’’ demanded a fat male. The butt of his spear was studded with rusty metal fishhooks.

‘‘Back on the other side of the bridge. She made us close our eyes, so I don’t know exactly where she buried it.’’

‘‘
Hessafa
knows,’’ said a kobold who wore a shovel blade for a breastplate.

‘‘That’s right,’’ said Jig, trying to look surprised. ‘‘Hessafa does know. She could show you.’’

‘‘No!’’ Hessafa shouted. ‘‘Smelly goblins lie!’’

But it was too late. Hessafa yipped and snarled as the other kobolds dragged her across the stream.

‘‘Come on,’’ Jig said. The kobolds had to have been nearby to respond so quickly. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering what they would do to Hessafa. Would they believe her when she couldn’t lead them to her stolen metal, or would they try to pound the truth out of her?

And then he crested a low hill, and all thought of Hessafa vanished. They had reached Pottersville.

Pottersville was built on the intersection of several roads, as well as that annoying river. One road led off toward the mountains to the north. Another bridged the stream and disappeared up into what Darnak had said were elf lands.

As with the town of Avery, Pottersville was surrounded by a low wall. From the look of things, it hadn’t done much to protect the town.

Whole sections were ripped down, with figures moving in and out like bugs. Big bugs, with swords and axes and spears. To the right of the smashed gate where the road passed through the wall, goblins swarmed over abandoned farmhouses. There had to be hundreds of goblins down there. Some worked to load barrels and other bundles onto wagons. Others chased after a group of fluffy gray animals who had apparently escaped from inside a battered wooden fence.

The kobolds had taken over the other side of the road. Small groups of kobolds crept along the edge of the woods. Hunting for food? Or perhaps they were guarding against human survivors who might come back for revenge.

‘‘What are those?’’ Relka pointed to where huge, long-limbed creatures with rubbery green skin chopped a fallen section of wall into individual logs.

‘‘Trolls,’’ said Jig. He hadn’t seen one since his involuntary quest a few years ago. There had been a few trolls living down in the lower caverns with Straum the dragon back then. As far as Jig could tell, they had been eaten by the ogres.

Being uneaten, these trolls were better off than the ones back home, but not by much. As far as Jig could tell, they were prisoners. They were chained together by metal collars, a bit like the goblins had been back at Avery.

‘‘And those monsters guarding them must be orcs,’’ Relka said.

The orcs wore dingy metal breastplates and shields, all painted a dull black. Or maybe they were just dirty. Either way, Genevieve would have appreciated their sense of style.

‘‘Look at them,’’ Trok whispered, his tone very similar to Relka’s when she talked about Tymalous Shadowstar. ‘‘They’re so tough, the cold doesn’t even bother them!’’

Most of the orcs kept their muscular arms bare. Though when Jig squinted through his spectacles, he could see a few shivering as they marched through the broken gate. And they did march quite close together, presumably for warmth. It was still an impressive sight.

Jig wondered if the grayish tinge of their skin was their natural coloring or an effect of the cold.

His breath caught as he glimpsed more orcs within the town walls. Between the kobolds and the goblins and the orcs, there had to be thousands of monsters gathered here. Strong monsters. Warriors and fighters who would have no problem defeating Genevieve’s little band of soldiers. All Jig had to do was persuade them to help.

As he watched, one of the goblins snuck away from the others to relieve himself on a rather out-of-place tree with thick, bare branches. The tree shivered, sprinkling snow. Then, before the goblin could react, the tree stomped him into the earth.

‘‘First rule,’’ Jig said, his throat dry. ‘‘Don’t pee on the trees.’’

‘‘Right.’’ For once, Trok spoke without his usual bluster.

Jig watched as the tree wiped its . . . foot in the mud, then wrapped several branches around the remains of the goblin. It lifted the goblin, bent back until the body nearly touched the ground behind it, and then snapped straight. From the trajectory, the goblin landed somewhere near the back wall of the town.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea. For goblins, safety lay in numbers. Billa’s army had sounded like the safest place to hide.

Back at the lair, Jig had always been able to disappear into the background. Well, up until everyone found out about that healing trick. But nobody here knew he could do that.

He glanced at Relka and sighed. Even if he asked Trok to cut out Relka’s tongue right now, he would never blend in here. He was scrawnier than any goblin in sight. A part of him wanted nothing more than to flee and hide.

One of the goblins broke away from the others and jogged up the road. Toward them. Waving a sword in the air. ‘‘What are you worms doing away from your regiment? If Oakbottom catches you, he’ll toss you all! He’s still convinced he can clear the far wall if he finds a light enough goblin.’’

‘‘Who are you calling worms?’’ Trok still carried his sharpened stick, and he jabbed it at the approaching goblin.

Jig and Relka glanced at each other and took a quiet step back, leaving Trok to his fate.

‘‘Threatening a superior officer is grounds for summary execution.’’ The approaching goblin was smaller than Trok, but his sword made up for any difference in size. His left ear was gone, sliced off at the scalp, and he was missing two fingers on his left hand. He wore a simple helmet of hammered metal, shaped like a bowl with large crescents cut on either side for the ears. Given this goblin’s handicap, his helmet listed a bit to one side.

He pulled out a flattened stack of stained, rat-chewed pages and waved them under Trok’s nose. ‘‘Regulations also give the condemned soldier a choice. Would you rather I force feed you your own weapon or toss you to the trolls?’’

‘‘We’re not soldiers,’’ Jig squeaked. ‘‘The humans attacked our lair, but we escaped, and—’’

‘‘You mean you’re here to enlist?’’ The goblin’s entire demeanor changed in an instant, as if the word ‘‘enlist’’ were a magical spell. ‘‘A wonderful choice. You won’t regret it, I can promise you that. I’m Gratz. Corporal in the army of Billa the Bloody.’’

He sheathed his sword and hurried over to clap Trok’s shoulder. The move was so unexpected that Trok didn’t even stab Gratz. ‘‘Joining Billa was the best choice I ever made. Changed my life. Come on, I’ll take you to Silverfang.’’

‘‘Silverfang?’’ asked Relka.

‘‘One of Billa’s lieutenants,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘He’s in charge of the whole goblin regiment. He’ll be the one to decide whether you’re fit to join us.’’

‘‘What if he decides we’re not?’’ asked Jig. He doubted Trok had much to worry about, and even Relka was bigger and stronger than Jig. But the more Jig saw of this army, the more out of place he felt.

Gratz studied Jig closely, and his forehead wrinkled. ‘‘Don’t you worry,’’ he said, though his cheerful confidence had disappeared. ‘‘Silverfang will find a use for you, one way or another.’’