Jig placed his hand over Braf’s nose and tried not to grimace. Goblins had never been known for their attractiveness, and Braf was a spectacular example of why. Old disease scars dotted his skin, and his misshapen nose looked a great deal like a pregnant frog that had settled in the center of his face.
Shadowstar started to snicker again.
Now it looks like a frog with a huge yellow fang up its—
“Hold still,” said Jig. He tilted Braf’s head back and slipped one finger beneath the bandage as he waited for the magic to start. The flow of Shadowstar’s power through Jig’s body always made him feel bloated, and he shifted uncomfortably as the magic warmed his hands.
Before he could do anything more, a glowing orange insect landed on his arm and began to creep forward. Jig yanked his hand back. The last thing he needed was for a bug to crawl up Braf’s nose. He swatted it, splattering glowing bug goo over his arm, even as two more of the pests buzzed around his head.
“What are they?” Braf asked.
“I don’t know. They started showing up a few weeks ago.” Jig waved his hands, trying to bat them toward the spiderweb in the corner of the temple. “And stop talking!”
The bugs drew back. Jig slapped his free hand over Braf’s swollen nose.
Slowly,
Shadowstar warned.
A hair’s breadth at a time, Jig slid the offending fang out of the nostril. He tried very hard to ignore the fluids that followed, coating Jig’s hands with blue slime. He also ignored the feel of the fang moving beneath the nostril, the way the tooth scraped against the bone.
Braf’s eyes crossed. The warmth in Jig’s hands increased. His fingers felt like swollen tubers, and the orange bugs were circling Braf’s head. Jig’s arms tingled.
Got it,
Shadowstar said.
Jig slid the tip of the fang free, and there was a loud popping sound as the jawbone slipped back into the socket. Jig swung one hand at the bugs. He missed, and the motion splattered blood across Shadowstar’s mosaic.
Braf sneezed. He touched his nose, and a broad grin split his blood-crusted face. “Thanks, Jig!”
Blood, spit, and snot had misted Jig’s spectacles. He slipped them off and wiped the lenses on his pants. “So how did you do this to yourself?”
“I was on guard duty,” Braf said. “My partner bet me I couldn’t touch my nose with my fang. When I won the bet, he punched me in the jaw.”
A shining example of the goblin race,
Shadowstar commented.
“I guess you showed him,” Jig said.
Braf laughed. “Yeah.” He scratched his chin and turned to go. As he stooped through the low doorway, he hesitated. “Hey, don’t tell anyone I came to you. Some of the other goblins don’t like you that much, and I don’t want them to—”
“To think you’ve been coming to the runt for help?” Jig asked, his voice tight. Nearly every goblin had needed Jig’s help at one time or another over the past year, but not one wanted to admit it.
“Yeah!” Braf beamed. “That’s right. Thanks!” He disappeared down the tunnel before Jig could find anything to throw at him. Some things never changed. No matter how many goblins he healed, no matter how many quests he survived, he was still Jig the scrawny, half-blind runt.
Jig sat down on the altar. A dark, red-spotted fire-spider the size of Jig’s hand crept up the side and scurried toward him. Jig straightened his arm so the spider could climb onto the singed leather pad Jig wore strapped to his right shoulder. Fire-spiders grew hot when threatened, and Jig had the burns to prove it. Despite the scars, Smudge still made a better companion than most goblins.
“It’s not that bad,” Jig said to Smudge. “They can’t afford to kill me. Who would fix their wounds?”
He glanced at the blood on his trousers and sighed. Another improvement from a year ago was the quality of Jig’s clothes. Jig had spent most of his adult life in a ratty old loincloth so stiff he could have used it for a shield. Now he wore soft gray trousers and a loose black shirt. His old sword hung at his side, and he had his favorite boots on. The leather was bright blue, with red flames painted down the side and white, furry fringe on top.
Most importantly, he had his spectacles. Large, amethyst lenses covered his eyes, letting him see the world as clearly as any goblin, except for his peripheral vision where the lenses didn’t quite cover. Steel frames kept them hooked over his pointed ears. They weren’t perfect, and the frames irritated his bad ear, which had been torn and scarred in a fight with another goblin. But being able to see the world around him was worth a little pain.
Recently Shadowstar had suggested another addition to his wardrobe: socks. It had taken a long time to persuade one of the children to weave a pair of cloth tubes, then sew them shut at one end, but the result was literally a gift from the gods. No more blisters, no more dark blue marks on his legs where the dye from his boots rubbed off, and best of all, his boots didn’t smell quite so horrid when he took them off.
“Jig?”
The voice came from the darkness of the tunnels, but Jig recognized it. “What do you want, Veka?”
Veka stepped into the temple, drawing her long black cloak tight around her considerable bulk. Broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, she had sent more than one goblin to Jig with missing teeth or a broken nose.
Veka worked in the distillery, turning rotted fungus, smashed glowworms, and pungent mushrooms into muck. As a result, she always smelled like decomposing plants. Her hands were covered in greenish stains, and the fumes of the muck room had left her eyes bloodshot.
“You didn’t cast a binding spell when you healed Braf’s nose. How did you do that?” She rapped the end of her staff on the floor for emphasis. Glass beads, bits of metal, and what looked like a mummified finger all clattered against the staff, tied there with scraps of leather and braided hair.
The staff, like her cloak, was part of Veka’s obsession with all things magical. An obsession that unfortunately included Jig.
“I don’t even know what a binding spell is,” Jig said, hopping down from the altar. He walked toward the tunnel and hoped she would move out of his way.
Veka didn’t budge. She raised a tight fist and slowly spread her fingers. Faint threads of light formed a dim, fragile web between her fingers. “The binding is the way the wizard taps into the magical powers that surround her. It is the first step of the journey toward—”
At that point, one of the orange bugs landed on Veka’s hand. The binding spell flickered out of existence. “Stupid bug!” She smooshed it flat.
“Veka, I can’t—”
She didn’t let him finish. Scowling, she set her staff against the wall and fished through her clothes. From a pocket within her cloak, she produced a stained brown book. The cover had been torn off and resewn, and many of the pages were coming loose from the binding. “Josca says in chapter two that the Hero will find a guide, a mentor to lead them to the path.” She waved the book at Jig like a sword. “You’re the only goblin who knows anything about magic, and you won’t even—”
“Who is Josca?” Jig asked, stepping back.
Veka tapped the cover. Oversize silver letters read
The Path of the Hero (Wizard’s ed.) by Josca
. “Josca says every Hero follows the same path. Only the details change. I need a mentor. By refusing to teach me magic, you’re blocking my way.”
Her teeth were bared, and the long lower fangs looked freshly sharpened. Jig took another step back. “Josca should write an edition for goblins. In the first chapter the hero sets out for adventure. In the second he dies a horrible, painful death.”
“You survived.” Her scowl turned the words into an accusation.
Heavy footsteps running up the tunnel saved Jig from having to answer. Braf shouldered his way past Veka and said, “I forgot. The chief said she wants to see you. It’s about the ogre.”
“What ogre?” Jig asked.
“The one who showed up right after my . . . problem,” Braf said, with a quick glance at Veka. “He smashed up a few other guards. He said he was looking for the Dragonslayer. The chief said to go right away.”
Jig covered one of the muck lanterns and scooped up the other by the handle. Green light reflected from the dark red obsidian of the walls as he followed Braf into the tunnels. The clomp of Veka’s staff followed close behind.
“What do you think the ogre wants?” Braf asked.
“I’m more worried about what the chief will do to me for taking so long to answer her.” Ever since Kralk took control of the goblins, she had been looking for a way to get rid of Jig. He frowned, thinking about the rest of Braf’s story. “Why didn’t the other guards come to me for healing?”
“What guards?”
“The ones the ogre injured.”
Braf laughed. “When I left, the older goblins were scrubbing what was left of them off the walls.”
Jig swallowed and began to run.
Two guards stood outside the entrance to the goblin cavern. Fire bowls provided a cheerful yellow-green light. Jig ignored the blue bloodstains on the wall and floor. He flattened his ears as he walked inside. He had been away most of the day, and even the subdued, nervous conversation of five hundred goblins was louder than he was used to.
Smudge shifted restlessly on Jig’s shoulder. The heat from the fire-spider’s body caused drops of sweat to trickle down Jig’s neck. Not that Jig needed the warning.
The ogre was easy to spot. He sat near the back of the cavern, surrounded by armed goblins. Steel blades and long wooden spears trembled as the goblins fought to control their fear. For his part, the ogre didn’t seem to notice.
Why should he? His leathery green skin was strong enough to turn away most attacks, and his hands were as big as Jig’s head. He sat on the floor . . . probably because if he stood, his head would scrape the ceiling. His teeth were smaller than goblin fangs, but still sharp enough to sever a limb. He could cut a swath through the cavern bare-handed. Shadowstar only knew what he could do with the huge, brass-studded club resting across his knees.
“Jig! It’s about time you got your scrawny arse down here,” shouted Kralk. The lanky goblin chief was smiling, which made Jig nervous. She wore a necklace of jagged malachite spikes and an ill-fitting dwarvish breastplate. Metal spikes adorned the shoulders and . . . chest area . . . of her armor. Kralk collected weapons, rarely carrying the same one two days in a row. Today a nasty-looking morningstar hung from her belt, clanking as she walked toward Jig.
Jig hadn’t been around when the last chief died. At the time, he had been around the fifth or sixth stanza of “The Song of Jig,” somewhere between fighting the Necromancer and cowering before the dragon. When Jig came back, many of the goblins had encouraged him to take over as chief, a prospect he found as appealing as dancing naked in front of tunnel cats.
Ultimately, three goblins had emerged as potential candidates, ready to fight for control of the lair. The morning of the fight, only one of those three showed up for breakfast. The other two were found curled up near the garbage pit with most of their blood on the outside of their bodies.
Kralk had been trying to get rid of Jig ever since. She never challenged him openly. No, it was always “Jig, could you slay that rock serpent that snuck into the distillery?” or “We need someone to lead a raiding party to steal food from the ogres,” or “Golaka is experimenting with a new soup, and she wants someone to taste it.”
Naturally, Jig always said no. Each refusal chipped away at his reputation, reinforcing Kralk’s power over the goblins and making his life miserable. Why couldn’t she see that he wasn’t a threat?
The ogre’s voice thundered through the cavern, making Jig jump. “This is the Dragonslayer?”
A path opened between Jig and the ogre. Goblins moved away like blood flowing from a wound. Jig reached up to stroke Smudge’s head. The fire-spider was warm, but not hot enough to burn. They weren’t in any immediate danger.
For an instant Jig considered lying. If he said Braf was Jig Dragonslayer, the ogre wouldn’t know any better. One look at the grin on Kralk’s face shattered that plan.
“I’m Jig,” he said. His voice sounded like a child’s squeak compared to the ogre’s.
“You’re the one who killed the dragon Straum?” The ogre picked up his club and made his way toward Jig, keeping his head and shoulders hunched.
Jig glanced at Kralk, then nodded.
“You put a spear through that monster’s eye?”
He nodded again.
“You? You’re the one they sing that song about, the one—”
“Yes, that’s me!” Jig snapped. His momentary anger ebbed as quickly as it had begun, leaving his legs so weak he thought he was going to collapse.
Brilliant
, he thought.
Shout at the ogre. Why not kick him in the groin next?
The ogre knelt, peering down at Jig, then back at Kralk. “He’s like a little goblin doll!”
Jig’s claws dug into his palms. Better a toy than a threat. “Braf said you wanted to talk to me.”
“That’s right.” The ogre took another step, putting him almost within arm’s reach. Almost within Jig’s reach, at least. The ogre could have grabbed Jig by the head and bounced him off the nearest wall without stretching. His green scalp wrinkled into a frown. “We need . . .” His voice grew quiet, muffling the last word.
“What was that?” Jig asked.
The ogre’s face turned a deeper green, almost exactly the same shade as the mold that grew on the privy walls. “Help. We need help.”
Jig stared, trying to put the pieces together. He understood the words, but his mind struggled with the idea that ogres would come to goblins for help. What next? The Necromancer returning from the dead to start a flower garden?
“What kind of help?” Jig asked.
“A few months ago something showed up in Straum’s cave and started hunting us. At first we thought it was those hobgoblin types, or maybe you goblins, so we came up and slaughtered a few of you.” He gave a sheepish half shrug. “Sorry about that.”