Goblin War (2 page)

 
Goblin war drums wouldn’t be so bad, Jig decided, if the drummers would only stick to a consistent beat.

He squeezed between a clump of pine trees. Snow spilled from the branches, most of it sliding down the back of his cloak. The rest landed in Jig’s left ear.

Jig yelped and poked a claw into his ear, digging out the worst of the snow.

‘‘We should stay quiet,’’ Relka said behind him.

With great effort, Jig restrained himself from stabbing his fellow goblin. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to ignore her.

Relka brushed snow from his back. ‘‘Don’t you like the cloak I gave you? Why don’t you use the hood?’’ She grabbed the hood before Jig could warn her. A moment later, she was cursing and shoving her singed fingers into the snow.

‘‘Because that’s where Smudge rides,’’ Jig said, his annoyance vanishing as quickly as it had come. He grinned as he reached back to stroke his pet fire-spider. Smudge was still warm, but he settled down at Jig’s touch.

‘‘But you do like the cloak, don’t you? I got it from an adventurer last month.’’ Relka sucked nervously on her lower lip, tugging it between the curved fangs of her lower jaw. She did that a lot around Jig. Between that and the bitter cold, her lips were always cracked and bleeding.

Relka was one of the younger goblins, a kitchen drudge who worked with Golaka the chef. Her fangs were small for a goblin, and her face tended to be sweaty and streaked with soot from the cook fires. She had used an old tunnel cat bone to pin a blanket over her clothes for warmth.

Jig fingered the hole in the front of his cloak. Old blood had turned the frayed edges the color of rust where a goblin had gotten in a lucky blow with his spear. Still, even with the hole, at least the cloak was warm. Lavender wasn’t exactly Jig’s color, and he could have done without the embroidered flowers and vines running along the edges, but he wasn’t about to complain. It was
warm
, and even better, the material was highly flame-resistant. Even if it did smell faintly of blood.

‘‘You hate it, don’t you?’’ Relka slumped. Even her wide, pointed ears sagged.

‘‘It’s not bad,’’ Jig said grudgingly. ‘‘I like the pockets.’’

Relka beamed. Before she could speak, Jig quickly asked, ‘‘Shouldn’t you be taking me to Grell instead of fussing about a cloak?’’

Relka squeezed past him, close enough for her necklace to tangle in Jig’s sleeve. She tried to tug it free, but only managed to jab Jig’s arm.

‘‘Sorry,’’ she mumbled, her face turning a brighter shade of blue.

Her necklace was supposed to symbolize her devotion to Jig’s god, Tymalous Shadowstar. Rat bones were lashed together to form a crude starburst. Pieces of a broken kitchen knife formed a lightning bolt, the lower tip of which was currently poking Jig’s forearm.

Relka’s obsession with Jig and Shadowstar had begun when she tried to stab Jig in the back. Instead, Jig had run her through, leaving her with a nasty belly wound while he led the other goblins off to fight pixies. Relka had crawled away to hide, terrified that Jig would return to finish her off.

Which he might have done, if Tymalous Shadowstar hadn’t had this strange obsession with mercy and forgiveness. Also Relka made really good snake egg omelettes.

Jig clenched his jaw, driving his fangs into his cheeks as he waited for Relka to free her necklace. What was Grell doing outside in the first place, anyway? During a time of battle, a goblin leader traditionally stayed back where it was safe. Especially when it came to enemies like this.

The attack had begun this morning, and from what Jig had heard from the few goblins who limped back to the lair, this was no simple adventuring party.

‘‘Grell?’’ He tried to speak loudly enough for the aging chief to hear, while at the same time keeping his voice low to avoid attracting any human attention. What emerged could best be described as ‘‘quavering.’’

‘‘She said she was going to take care of the drummers,’’ Relka said.

Oh. Jig felt a moment’s sympathy for the goblin drummers. If they had caused Grell to miss her after-lunch nap, she would be even crankier than usual.

The area immediately around the goblin cave was flat, covered in small pine trees. If you walked directly away from the lair, you could go about fifteen paces before tumbling off a steep, rock-strewn drop-off.

The drummers would have taken the left path, which led along the cliffside and up toward the lake. The higher they climbed, the more people they could annoy with their drums.

The trees were denser as they approached the river. Their branches seemed determined to drop snow and needles down the back of his cloak. Trampled snow showed where goblin warriors had stormed through in search of humans to fight.

Pools of blue blood showed exactly where the humans had ambushed them. The bulk of the humans were still farther down the mountainside. They must have sent scouts ahead. It was a smart idea. The scouts could watch to see where the goblins were going, then report back to whoever was in charge. If they got the chance to surprise a few goblins, so much the better.

Jig didn’t bother searching for the injured goblins. There were no bodies, which meant they had probably followed typical practice and fled like frightened rats. If Jig were smarter, he would be doing the same.

But where had the humans gone?

Relka hurried past before Jig could stop her. He crouched down, waiting for her to be shot or stabbed.

Nothing happened. She was already climbing up along the riverbank, using the shrubs and small trees to pull herself along the rocks. Jig held his breath and crept after her.

‘‘It sounds like they’re near the lake,’’ Relka said. She drew a long, wickedly sharp knife. A cooking knife, from the look of it. Hopefully Golaka didn’t know Relka had swiped it.

The drums grew louder as they followed the river back to the lake. Jig started to draw his sword, then thought better of it. Given the rocky, snow-covered terrain, he’d only end up tripping over a rock and impaling himself.

They scrambled on hands and knees to the top of a rise bordering the lake. As Jig pulled himself up, he heard the ripping sound of a dying drum, followed by the squealing sound of a dying goblin. He covered his eyes against the sun’s glare. Only the edges of the lake were frozen, and the still water at the center created a second sun, reflecting the light into Jig’s eyes and blinding him doubly. The amethyst lenses of his spectacles helped, but any relief they brought was balanced by splotches of melted snow. He wiped his sleeve over the lenses, but that only smeared his vision worse.

A short distance ahead, a human in leather and steel armor stood on the edge of the lake, surrounded by fallen goblins. He wore a green tabard with a picture of a giant four-legged boar standing in front of a tower. The animal appeared almost as large as the tower itself, and it held an enormous sword in one paw.

Humans wore strange clothes.

A dent in the human’s helmet suggested the goblins had landed at least one good blow before they fell. Of the four goblin bodies scattered across the snow, only one was still moving.

‘‘Oh, no,’’ Jig whispered. The surviving goblin had fallen onto the ice at the lake’s edge. She struggled to push herself up on twin canes of yellow-dyed wood. One cane punched through the ice. She fell back with a curse, losing her grip on the cane.

‘‘Come on,’’ said Relka. She started to rise, but Jig dragged her back.

‘‘Humans have weird rules about killing unarmed old women,’’ Jig said. ‘‘Some of them do, at least. Grell will be fine.’’

This human appeared to be one of the ‘‘honorable’’ ones. He kept his sword ready, but didn’t try to stop Grell from crawling to the edge of the lake.

‘‘At least you put a stop to that blasted drumming,’’ Grell said. She took another step and her remaining cane slipped.

The human laughed.

‘‘Oh, think this is funny, do you?’’ Grell rolled over and slammed her cane into the human’s leg.

The cane broke. The human laughed even harder.

Jig shook his head. ‘‘It’s not a good idea to laugh at Grell.’’

Grell stabbed the broken end of her cane into the human’s thigh, right through the bottom corner of his tabard.

The human staggered back. He reached down with his free hand to rip Grell’s cane from his leg.

‘‘We’ve got to save her!’’ Relka grabbed Jig’s hand and pulled him over the ridge.

They weren’t going to make it. With only one cane to support her hunched body, Grell could barely even walk. The human was going to kill her, which would leave the goblins without a chief.

The last time that had happened was close to a year ago, when a hobgoblin named Slash killed the previous chief. The goblins had chosen Jig to take her place.

Jig still had nightmares about his short time as chief. Half of the lair had expected him to solve all of their problems. The other half had been busy plotting to kill him and take his place. Jig wasn’t about to let that happen again.

He yanked his sword from its sheath. In the songs and stories, warriors sometimes threw their weapons as a last resort to kill distant enemies. As Relka ran ahead, Jig steadied himself, drew back, and flung his sword as hard as he could.

Either Jig was no warrior, or this wasn’t the right kind of weapon for throwing. Probably both. The sword nearly cut off Relka’s ear as it spun end over end. She dove into the snow.

The sword curved to the right and bounced harmlessly off a tree, halfway between Jig and the human. A bit of snow sprinkled down from the branches.

Everyone turned to look at Jig . . . who had now thrown away his only weapon.

Relka was busy digging through the snow. She must have dropped her knife when she tried to avoid Jig’s sword. Wonderful. With a single throw, Jig had managed to disarm both himself and his companion.

Relka waved at him. ‘‘Don’t worry! Shadowstar will guide you to victory!’’

Jig stared at the limping human. Jig was unarmed, but the human carried enough weapons for three goblins. He switched his sword to his left hand and drew a knife with his right. He flipped the knife, catching it by the blade, and threw.

The knife spun past Jig’s head, close enough for him to hear the whirring sound of its passage. With a loud thunk, the knife buried itself in a tree trunk.

Right.
Warriors
could throw their weapons. Goblins were better off running away.

Jig turned to run. He leaped over the ridge, skidding and flailing his arms for balance. He managed to run a whole three steps before tripping over a tree root. Rocks scraped his knees and hands, and the impact stole his breath. He pushed himself up. Snow smeared his spectacles, rendering them all but useless. He peered over the top of the frames at the blurry figure of the approaching human, who now carried swords in both hands.

That was simply unfair. Two swords against none? Jig squinted. Was that—? It was! The human was carrying Jig’s own sword in his off hand.

‘‘For Shadowstar!’’ Relka waved her knife as she charged to Jig’s defense. It was a typical goblin tactic, with typical results. The human stepped to one side. Relka was running too fast to change direction, but she tried anyway, saving her life in the process. She stumbled, dropping her knife again as she fought to recover her balance. The human’s follow-up attack missed, and then Relka was face-first in the snow.

‘‘There’s no place to run, goblin,’’ the human said. He had faced four goblins, and he wasn’t even breathing hard! ‘‘Turn around and die like a man.’’

Now there was a stupid suggestion if Jig had ever heard one. Jig pulled himself to his feet and searched his pockets for weapons. There were at least twenty pockets sewn into the cloak, enough for Jig to carry most of his belongings.

Unfortunately, that was far too many pockets to remember exactly where everything was. He found an old smoked bat wing, an extra pair of socks, some dead wasps he was saving for Smudge . . . hadn’t he tucked a knife in here somewhere?

The human twirled both swords. The blades hissed through the air. His hands moved so fast Jig could barely follow, and his swords were all but invisible as they created a web of whirling steel. One limping step at a time the human advanced, bringing those blades closer and closer to Jig.

Jig reached into his hood and grabbed Smudge. For a moment Jig simply stood there, letting the fire-spider’s warmth thaw his numb fingers. Then Jig threw him at the human.

Smudge landed on the human’s chest and clung there, a blurry spot of black and red in the middle of the human’s tabard. He had landed near the head of the beast embroidered on the tabard, like a tiny smoldering hat.

Unfortunately, the tabard gave no indication of bursting into flames. Either Smudge wasn’t as frightened as Jig, or else the poor fire-spider was too cold to generate enough heat.

Well, on the bright side, Jig wouldn’t have to worry about the other goblins trying to make him chief again.

The human’s scream was so unexpected—and so terrifying—that Jig found himself screaming in response.

Both swords fell to the ground as the human grabbed the edges of his tabard and tugged it away from his body. He shook the tabard faster and faster, trying to shake Smudge free. Jig could have told him not to bother. Each of the fire-spider’s legs had tiny hairs, like burrs, that let him cling to almost anything.

The human changed tactics. Still screaming, he dropped to his knees and tried to yank the tabard over his head. Unfortunately, he forgot to remove his helmet first.