“Keep your enemies close, but your friends closer. That way your friends are between you and your enemies.”
—Goblin Proverb
Normally Jig was good at considering his options and discovering the best way out of whatever situation he had been flung into. He was finding that much more difficult now, as the ogres’ rope squished his face against Slash’s hard leather vest. He didn’t know what the hobgoblin carried on his belt, but a number of pouches and tools kept jabbing Jig in the chest and armpit. Adding to his discomfort was the cheeselike odor of Grell’s right foot, currently resting on Slash’s hip, so close Jig could have licked her sandal.
The only options he could come up with all centered on how they were going to die. The male ogre carried a large ax on his belt, which seemed a likely way to go. Though ogres were known to enjoy crushing their enemies bare-handed. They could also settle for simply tugging the rope tighter until it squeezed Jig and the others to death, though that probably wouldn’t be as much fun for the ogres.
He glanced at Veka. Given what she had already done, she might be even more dangerous than the ogres and pixies. At the moment though, the ogres’ second rope had her face pressed against the back of the strangling bat. Jig doubted she could cast a spell with a mouth full of bat fur.
That meant Braf was their best hope. Perhaps “hope” wasn’t the right word. Dangling from his hook-tooth, Braf had been low enough that the rope only caught his wrists. He had been wiggling and squirming ever since the ogres pulled them into the tunnel. With a triumphant snarl, Braf yanked himself loose and dropped to the ground. Jig and the others floated slightly upward as Braf fell.
Unfortunately, Braf had left his weapon hooked through Slash’s belt. That didn’t seem to bother him. He spread his hands and snarled, “Set the others free, ogres, before I—”
The closer of the ogres, the female, tugged her rope. Jig yelped as he, Slash, and Grell were yanked forward, crashing into Braf from behind. Braf stumbled forward, directly into the path of the ogre’s fist. He slammed into the wall and slid to the floor. The female ogre grinned and scooped him up, tucking him under one arm. She hadn’t even bothered to release the rope.
The male ogre followed them into the darkness, dragging Veka and the bat along the ground behind him. Jig did his best to protect himself as he bounced off the walls and ceiling. He couldn’t use his arms, but he kept his feet out to absorb the impact when he could. He heard Veka spitting and cursing.
Jig wrinkled his nose. Wherever this tunnel led, it stank worse than any part of the mountain Jig was familiar with. The smell of rotting garbage and burned meat overpowered even the fungal scent wafting from Grell’s toes. Small brown-shelled insects scurried away, avoiding the light.
These ogres don’t seem to be possessed like Sashi or the ones with that pixie who were chasing you through the tunnels,
said Shadowstar.
That’s good.
Don’t get me wrong. They’re just as likely to kill you.
Jig didn’t answer. He closed his eyes, trying to orient himself. Every goblin learned to navigate the darkness, but as far as Jig knew, none of them had ever tried to do so after floating about in the darkness. If he had to guess, he’d put them thirty or forty feet below home. He wondered if they were out from below the Necromancer’s maze yet.
Once they had gone far enough from the pit for the wind to die down some, the ogres stopped. The female pushed Grell with one finger, rotating the group. Jig was starting to feel motion sick. The light from Slash’s nose illuminated moldy rock and ground so caked with mud and dust the stone beneath was invisible.
“Do something about that nose,” the ogre said. She tugged them closer, so Jig could see the pine-colored freckles on her leathery face. An emerald-studded loop of gold hung from one ear. Jig could have worn it as a bracelet.
“Unless you want to lead the pixies to us,” added the male. He was larger than his companion, a hulking brute whose hair hung in dirty braids past his shoulders. Spiked gauntlets covered his fists. A single blow from one of those gloves would leave the victim perforated in four places.
The female rolled her eyes. “I don’t need your help, Arnor.”
“Don’t be like that, cousin. I was—”
“Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you can—”
The male, Arnor, tossed Veka and the bat to one side and stepped toward his companion. “Look, Ramma, I’m only trying to help.”
Dumping Braf on the ground, Ramma used her free hand to draw an enormous blade from a curved leather sheath on her belt. There was no handle. Oversize finger holes pierced the base of the crescent blade. She slipped it on like a glove, so the edge covered her knuckles, and shoved the blade toward Slash’s face. Glancing at Arnor, she said, “Like I told you, I don’t need your help.”
“Threaten her, not me,” Slash said, frantically tilting his head toward Veka. “She’s the one who did this to me.”
Ramma handed the rope to her cousin. With one hand, she hauled both Veka and the bat into the air.
“Release us,” Veka said haughtily, or as haughtily as was possible considering she was still spitting bat fur from her mouth. “Then I’ll consider your request.”
Veka didn’t seem the least bit frightened. She stared defiantly at the ogre, silently daring her to proceed. If Jig had retained any doubts about Veka’s sanity, those doubts would have been dispelled.
Ramma pressed the edge of the blade against the knot of the rope. Both Veka and the bat dropped to the ground. Moments later Jig and the others had been cut free as well.
Jig didn’t know whether to feel grateful or worried. The ogres wouldn’t have freed them if they felt the slightest bit threatened. Given that their goblin warrior was currently snoring on the ground while the hobgoblin squirmed and swore from the ceiling, pinned by Veka’s spell, Jig really couldn’t argue with the ogres’ assessment.
Veka stood, brushing dirt and fur from her robes.
“End the spell,” said Ramma, tugging Slash down by the ankle. “Or I’ll slice the nose from his face.”
Veka grinned. She was actually thinking about defying two ogres.
She’s a goblin,
said Shadowstar.
Brains have never been your strong suit
.
“Stop fooling around, girl,” snapped Grell. “I’d bet my canes there are more ogres farther down this tunnel. All it will take is one with a crossbow to put an end to your wizarding nonsense.” She jabbed a cane into Veka’s belly. “If you’re so eager to die, run back and throw yourself in the pit. Don’t take the rest of us with you.”
Veka glared, her mouth still open. Jig held his breath, fully expecting to see Grell floating into the air and flung back to the pit. Eventually, Veka nodded. How did Grell do that?
Grell walked to the side of the tunnel and eased herself down, groaning as her joints cracked and popped. “Goblin trying to be a wizard. Never heard of anything so ridiculous.”
Veka’s face turned a darker blue, but she didn’t react. Had the comment come from Jig, he had no doubt Veka would even now be turning him into a carrion-worm, but something in Grell’s tone kept Veka from reacting. Jig really had to learn that trick.
“Well?” Ramma asked, waving her blade. “The longer he shines, the greater our danger.”
“I’m trying,” Veka snapped. She picked up her staff and pointed it at Slash. “I . . . the spell . . . I’m having a little trouble, that’s all.” She reached into her cloak and grabbed the ragged pages of her spellbook. “It’s not . . . the binding, it’s stronger than . . . I’m trying. Let me find the right page.”
Ramma shrugged and stepped forward. “No skin off my nose.” She raised her blade, adding, “So to speak.”
“No, wait!” Slash’s voice squeaked, almost unrecognizable. “Move me toward the goblin. Let me talk to her.”
The ogre gave him a shove, sending him floating toward Veka. She looked up, and her words dripped disdain. “What do you intend to do? You’re no wiz—”
Slash’s heel caught her square in the forehead, knocking her back into the wall. Her head smashed into the stone, and she slumped to the ground.
The light vanished. Slash squawked as his body came crashing down. A pained groan marked the hobgoblin’s location.
Jig rubbed his forehead. “If you’ll give us a little more time, we’d be happy to finish incapacitating ourselves, and then you can do with us whatever you’d like.”
He heard the ogres picking up Slash and the two unconscious goblins. “Follow,” said Ramma. “Try to escape, and I’ll beat you to death with your own wizard.”
That was good enough for Jig. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re taking you to meet my mother,” said Arnor.
Jig kept his good ear up, listening to the footsteps of the ogres and the tapping of Grell’s canes. The stench grew worse as they walked, despite the breeze. Jig shuddered to think how much worse it would be without the wind of the pit to circulate the air through the tunnels.
Despite the darkness, the ogres navigated the tunnel without a single misstep. They had been living here for a while then. The tunnel followed no pattern, veering left and right, upward and downward, all seemingly at random. Though the aches in Jig’s thighs and hamstrings suggested they were walking mostly uphill.
Several times he felt shifts and eddies in the air that marked other passages. From one came the sound of dripping water, and the heavy, sickly sweet smell of mold. Another breathed warm, dry air onto Jig’s skin, carrying a smell like charred bones. Smudge stirred as they passed that one, climbing halfway down Jig’s arm. Jig could feel the fire-spider quivering, as if he were ready to leap away and flee. Jig stroked the spider’s fuzzy back to reassure him.
“Hold,” said Ramma. She chuckled softly. “We don’t want our guests to die before they meet Aunt Trockle.”
Jig listened as Ramma jogged ahead, wondering what she meant. That they wanted him and the others alive was the best news he had heard in days.
The only sounds came from Ramma’s bare feet on the stone and the raspy breathing of the still-unconscious Braf. From the sound of it, his nose still wasn’t properly healed.
Tell him to keep his finger out of it, and maybe it will improve,
said Shadowstar.
A loud hiss and the dry scrape of scales on stone interrupted the ogre’s footsteps. Jig heard a muffled thump, like a fist striking a mattress.
“You little—” Ramma grunted. “Got you.”
The hissing grew louder and more frantic, then stopped abruptly with the sound of cracking bone.
“Are my ears failing me,” asked Grell, “or did your friend just tangle with a rock serpent?”
“They like to hunt these tunnels,” said Arnor. “They give one another space, but there’s always a few between here and camp.”
And ogres were immune to most poisons, which made the rock serpents ideal guardians . . . assuming you didn’t mind a few fang wounds. Rock serpents would eat just about anything, even carrion-worms. More than once Jig had been rushed to the garbage pit to heal some unsuspecting kitchen goblin who had dumped the spoiled remains of a meal and found himself face to face with an enraged, if somewhat greasy, rock serpent.
Now that he thought about it, the smell here was similar to the garbage pit back home. Stronger and fouler, but the same basic filth.
The ogres knocked two more rock serpents out of the way before they reached the end of the tunnel. Jig could see the orange flames of torches, and a voice called out, “Who’s there?”
Both ogres spoke their names at once, then glared at once another. They reminded him of young goblins competing for the chief’s favor. “Fetch my mother,” Arnor added.
They had stopped at a wide, arched opening before a cavern. For an instant Jig thought they had somehow returned to the goblin lair. But the smell alone was enough to dispel that idea. He turned to his left. Straum’s caverns should be in that direction, somewhere beneath them.
A few small fires brightened the cave, but the putrid smoke was enough to make him gag. Most of it pooled at the top of the cavern before flowing through a crack to Jig’s left.
Thick columns of obsidian were scattered throughout the cavern. The ogres had built crude shelters at several of the larger columns, stringing rag curtains for privacy. Jig guessed there couldn’t be more than a dozen ogres living here. The few he spotted appeared weary, dirty, and
hungry
. Jig comforted himself with the fact that Slash was a much meatier meal than he was, and the hobgoblin was already conveniently knocked out and ready to roast.
Braf coughed and gagged. Arnor dropped him, and he landed hard on the ground. “What is that stench?” Braf mumbled.
Ramma pointed to an open doorway at the far side of the cavern. Bits of wooden framing and rusted hinges still clung to the stone. “The pit you goblins use to dispose of your waste passes close to this cavern. Some of it is worth burning.”
“Even goblin dung burns, if it’s dried first.” The speaker was an older, hunchbacked ogre, presumably Arnor’s mother. Her knuckles were swollen and callused. A small, hooded lantern hung from a thick metal chain around her neck. With her spine so badly bent, the lantern never touched her body. The flames probably helped keep her warm. One whiff of the sweet-smelling smoke told Jig she had added something extra to the lantern fuel, something with a bit of a kick to it.
“Aunt Trockle—” said Ramma. That was as far as she got.
“We found these goblins fleeing the pixies,” said Arnor. “Ramma and I spotted them coming up the pit, and—”
“I said we should kill them,” Ramma piped up. “But he—”
“You told us you wanted to know of anything strange at the pit,” Arnor said, glaring at Ramma. “This—”
“Shut up, both of you.” Trockle stepped forward, scowling at the goblins. Her fingertips brushed the floor as she walked.