“You should probably talk to the warriors,” Jig stammered, searching for a way to back down. “You can prepare the lair against the pixies. I wouldn’t be much use. I barely escaped. They nearly killed me. Look what they did to my arm.”
He stepped forward, flourishing his arm so everyone would see the way the leather bindings bit into his skin. As he did, the sheath slipped free, flying from the blade and striking Kralk’s shoulder.
Jig’s throat tightened so quickly his breath squeaked. He now stood with a bare blade pointed directly at the goblin chief.
Kralk’s smile threatened to split her face. She flexed her arms, then switched to a two-handed grip on her weapon. The other goblins fell back like ants fleeing a muck spill. Kralk kicked the sheath away, out of Jig’s reach, so he had no way to cover his weapon. “I wondered when you’d finally summon the courage to challenge me, runt,” said Kralk.
Jig backed away. It appeared as though Pynne was going to succeed in getting him killed after all.
Kralk was stronger, larger, and faster than Jig. He didn’t need the warmth coming from Smudge’s pouch to tell him he was in trouble.
Help?
Jig, she might be stronger, but you’re smarter. You can defeat her.
Right. What was the smart thing to do? That would have been not going on this stupid mission in the first place!
Kralk stepped forward, swinging her morningstar in a wide arc. The spiked ball smashed Jig’s sword, spinning him in a full circle. Shock and pain tore through his arm, shaking his very bones. He staggered back, barely dodging a second blow.
Like most goblins, Kralk attacked with brute force but very little technique. Unfortunately, she had a great deal of brute force.
Her morningstar whooshed through the air, driving Jig toward the garbage cave. Her attacks were predictable enough for Jig to avoid getting hit, but he couldn’t attack without opening himself up at the same time.
If he timed it right, he might be able to dive through the door of the cave and crawl back down the waste crack before Kralk smashed his skull. He doubted that was what Shadowstar meant by “smarter,” though.
Kralk switched her grip, swinging at an angle that knocked Jig’s sword downward. Jig dropped to one knee. Kralk’s morningstar blurred in a circle, smashing Jig’s sword against the floor. A handsbreath of steel snapped off the end.
Jig stumbled into the doorway, staring at the broken end of his weapon. At least the blade was a little lighter now.
Kralk was still smiling. She was sweating a bit, but Jig was so tired he could barely keep his sword up. She didn’t even have to hit him with her morningstar. Much more of this, and he would drop from exhaustion.
“Your precious god isn’t going to save you this time, Jig,” said Kralk.
Jig snorted. His precious god was the one who had gotten him into this mess to begin with. He pushed sideways, trying to get to the doorway. The morningstar gouged the door frame near his head.
“See how he scampers,” Kralk shouted. “Jig Dragonslayer, cowering like a cornered rat.”
Jig tried to stab her while she gloated. He barely avoided having his elbow shattered as a reward for his clumsy lunge.
Kralk’s foot shot out, catching him in the shin. He rolled away as the morningstar rang against the floor next to his head. The next strike was even closer. He flattened his ears, trying to shut out the worst of the noise as he scrambled to his feet.
“They’ll sing a new song before this day is done,” Kralk yelled. “How Kralk the Chief triumphed over Jig the Coward.” She glanced around as she was speaking, but it wasn’t long enough for Jig to attack.
She was playing with him, stretching out the fight for the other goblins. She wanted to make a show of it, to prove beyond any doubt who was the strongest. To Kralk Jig was already dead. She fought now to defeat anyone else who might have considered trying to overthrow the chief.
If there was one thing Jig knew, it was fear. Kralk was afraid. Afraid of Jig, and afraid of the other goblins. She had seized control through treachery and deceit, which meant she had to live every day in fear that someone would do the same to her.
Fine. Treachery and deceit it would be. Jig raised his sword and shouted, “Now, Braf! Attack her now!”
Kralk never took her eyes from Jig. She smirked as she twirled her morningstar. “A poor choice for a bluff, Jig. Braf lacks the imagination for treachery.”
She raised her morningstar, and a wooden hook caught her wrist. She staggered sideways. A powerful jerk of her arm yanked her attacker to the ground.
Jig thrust as hard as he could. His shoulder nearly wrenched out of its socket as the broken tip of his sword skidded off her breastplate. Jig fell forward. He twisted to keep from squishing Smudge. As a result he landed off-balance, hitting his chin on the floor hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Kralk’s eyes were wide, her teeth bared. Jig didn’t know why she was so upset. His attack hadn’t even scratched her armor. She raised her morningstar to crush Jig’s skull . . . . . . and a yellow hand snaked out to catch her right fang. The other hand seized her by the hair. With a sharp twist, Slash broke Kralk’s neck.
Jig stared at Kralk, who lay twitching on the ground. Then he stared at Grell, who was climbing back to her feet, Braf’s hook-tooth in one hand. Then he stared at Slash. The hobgoblin was looking around at the stunned goblins with a wary expression that suggested he wasn’t sure whether to gloat or run away.
“Why did you do that?” asked Jig.
Slash wiped his hands on his vest. “No blood this way.”
That wasn’t what Jig meant, but before he could clarify, one of the goblins whispered, “Does this mean the hobgoblin is our new chief?”
“What’s that?” Slash looked like he had swallowed a rock serpent. “Me?”
“You did kill Kralk,” Jig said. From the muttering of the crowd, they didn’t like the idea any better than Slash did.
By now Braf had retrieved his hook-tooth, and was walking toward Jig. He nudged Kralk’s body with his foot. “That was great. Everything worked exactly the way you planned it, Jig.”
“The way I what?” Jig bit his lip. Throughout the cave goblins were whispering and pointing and generally wondering what was going on. Jig knew exactly how they felt.
“Yeah,” said Braf. “Jig knew Kralk would try to kill him, so he made a plan to kill Kralk instead.” He clapped Jig on the back, hard enough to stagger him. “Grell told me all about it when she borrowed my hook-tooth.”
Jig turned to stare at Grell, who shrugged and said, “Good plan. I guess that means you’re chief.”
“Me?” His voice squeaked.
Kralk’s body lay face-up, a grimace of rage frozen on her dead face.
I suppose it’s too late to heal her so she can be chief again?
Even if she wasn’t already dead, how long do you think you’d keep breathing if she could get her hands on you?
How long do you think I’ll keep breathing now?
Everyone was watching him. No matter which way he turned, half the goblins would have a clear shot at his unprotected back. What was a new chief supposed to do in a situation like this anyway? Usually they bellowed something loud and triumphant and scary, but Jig’s throat had constricted too tight for him to say anything at all.
Grell nudged Kralk’s body with her cane. “Hey Jig, if you don’t want to claim that malachite necklace, I’ll take it.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. With a bit of groaning and creaking, Grell hunched down and began untying the necklace. Braf picked up the morningstar and handed it to Jig.
The weapon was heavier than he had guessed, especially one-handed. The handle was still warm. He dug his claws in to keep it from slipping out of his sweat-slick grip. Should he tuck it through his belt, the way Kralk had always worn it? The weight would probably drag his trousers down to his knees.
“Feast!” shouted one of the goblins, a cry that swiftly echoed through the crowd.
Feast? What . . . oh. The chief was dead. Goblins usually marked the occasion with a feast. The choosing of a new chief always provided plenty of fresh meat.
They hadn’t feasted when Kralk became chief, but that was because the former chief’s body had already been eaten by hobgoblins, and nobody had been certain whether her other opponents’ bodies had been poisoned or not. “What about the pixies?” Jig asked weakly.
“You really want to deny this crowd their feast?” Grell asked, glancing up. The necklace hung nearly to her waist. Malachite clinked as she held the rough spikes to the light.
“What’s going on out here?” The voice thundered through the cavern, cutting a path through the goblins as Golaka the chef stormed from her kitchen. Even larger than Braf, and strong enough to give Slash a good fight, Golaka waved her huge stirring spoon like a sword as she approached. She stopped when she saw Kralk. “Who did this?”
Every set of eyes turned toward Jig.
Golaka shook her spoon. “I’ve been marinating a pan full of moles all day, and now you’re telling me I have to throw them out and cook her?” She tilted her head to one side, and her voice grew thoughtful. “Though the hobgoblin opens up some interesting possibilities. I could make skewers, alternate goblin meat with hobgoblin, add sliced mushrooms and rat livers, and garnish the whole thing with fried cockroaches for texture. Hobgoblin, do you drink a lot of alcohol?”
Slash stared. “Why do you want to know?”
“It affects the taste of the liver,” said Golaka. “Doesn’t matter, I can always baste you with—”
“No,” Jig said. Blast it, he was squeaking again. “No,” he repeated.
The lair fell silent, and Jig tried to remember if anyone had dared say no to Golaka before.
Golaka tilted her head. She was older than any goblin had a right to be, and her hearing was as poor as a human’s. “What did you say?”
“Slash—the hobgoblin, I mean, we—”
“Slash the hobgoblin!” yelled one of the younger goblins, raising a sword.
“No!” They didn’t understand. They hadn’t seen the entire lower cavern transformed. They hadn’t talked to the handful of ogres who had survived the invasion. They didn’t care about pixies.
This was a hobgoblin, a threat they knew. How many of them had endured the taunts of hobgoblin guards? How many bore scars from the hobgoblins’ “playful” jabs? And now Jig’s first act as chief would be to deny them their revenge?
Jig turned around, wondering if it was too late to retreat back into the garbage pit. Anywhere he could put a heavy door between himself and the rest of the goblins would do. But the only places that merited doors were the nursery, the distillery, the kitchen, the garbage pit, and Kralk’s quarters.
No,
his
quarters now. “The hobgoblin comes with me,” Jig said. He forced a smile, trying to appear as nasty as possible while he reached up to stroke Smudge’s head. “I’ve got something special planned for him, and my pet hasn’t eaten in far too long.”
Jig started to walk toward the brass-hinged door on the far side of the cave, only to draw up short when Golaka refused to budge. Jig held his breath as he stared into those greasy, dark-veined eyes.
Eventually Golaka shrugged. “Bring me the leftovers, chief. We haven’t had hobgoblin jerky in a long time.”
The goblins cheered, shaking their weapons and causing several injuries in the process. Golaka stepped aside.
Glancing back at Slash, Jig whispered, “You can either follow me, or you can stay with them.”
“Do you want us to help carve?” one of the goblins asked before Slash could respond.
Jig shook his head. “I think I can handle one hobgoblin by myself.” Slash cocked his head at that, but the only sign of annoyance was a convulsive twitch in his hands, his fingers curling much the way they had when he broke Kralk’s neck. Silently he followed Jig across the lair, glaring at any goblin who dared approach too closely.
The bottom of the door scraped the rock as Jig hauled it open. Inside, two muck pits sat to either side of the doorway. One was empty, the other nearly so. The lone flame flickered weakly, but it was enough. Gleaming metal lined the walls, like a miniature version of Straum’s old hoard. Swords, spears, knives, as well as more exotic weapons, were all stacked against the walls, some piled atop one another. To one side, a longbow with a broken string sat half buried in a rickety stack of yellow-fletched arrows. A spear so long it barely fit within the cave was propped against the opposite wall.
The door slammed shut behind him. Jig spun, nearly cutting Slash’s ankle with his sword. Slash stepped to one side, and his hand clapped Jig’s shoulder. The nails dug through Jig’s shirt. “I’ve killed one goblin chief today,” he said. “Do I need to kill a second?”
Jig shook his head. Slash was too close for him to stab with the sword, even if his arm hadn’t been useless after the fight with Kralk. “They would have killed you,” Jig said.
Slash stared at him for a long time. “Pah. You rat-eaters are too cowardly to take on a hobgoblin warrior.” But he made no further move against Jig. He picked up a peculiar-looking knife with two thin spikes angling out from the main blade. “They’re going to eat you alive, you know. You’re no chief.”
“I know.” Jig stepped away, rubbing his shoulder. Out in the lair, Jig could still hear the chant of “Feast, feast!” from the goblins, and then Golaka shouting, “If you don’t shut up, there’ll be more than one goblin on the cookfires!” The lair was much quieter after that.
Jig’s new quarters were relatively small, and the abundance of weapons made the place feel even more cramped. A mattress made from the skin of a giant bat sat against the far wall. Jig could smell the dried moss stuffed within the skin. His eyelids drooped at the mere thought of such luxury. He stepped toward the mattress, but Slash grabbed his ear and yanked him back. Jig yelped, then covered his mouth and hoped nobody outside had heard.