Somehow Jig wasn’t reassured. He glanced behind, wondering if it was too late to flee.
The angry yaps of the returning kobolds answered that question.
‘‘Right,’’ said Jig. ‘‘The sooner we get to Silverfang, the better!’’
Growing up, Jig had learned to avoid the warriors whenever possible. The warriors were the goblins most eager to prove themselves. For some reason, proving themselves always seemed to involve tormenting Jig. Whether it was dropping rats in his muck pail or locking him in the garbage pit, they all took their frustrations out on Jig.
So he had learned to watch for the signs. If a band of adventurers slaughtered some goblins in passing, Jig would hide in the nursery or the distillery for a few days. If Golaka blackened a warrior’s eye for trying to steal a toad dumpling from her kitchen, Jig would do his best to stay on the opposite side of the lair, along with the rest of the weaker goblins.
Here in Billa’s army, there were no weaker goblins. Only Jig. He tried not to make eye contact, but he could feel them staring as he followed Gratz toward the walls of Pottersville. Slitted eyes peered out from crude tents. Mud-covered goblins working down by the river paused to look. Farther on, a line of goblins stopped stabbing stacks of hay to watch Jig. Why they were attacking hay was beyond Jig’s comprehension, but better hay than him.
Beside him, Trok was grinning and pointing and babbling like a child. ‘‘When can I get an ax like that?’’ he asked. ‘‘And that shield with the big spikes on the edge. I want one of those, too. And that helmet with the animal horns on the sides.’’
‘‘One thing at a time,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘Recruits start off with standard arms and armor. Regulations give you the right to claim better equipment from the enemy. Or from the bodies of your fellow goblins. Just make sure they’re dead first.’’ He pointed toward the wall, where several wide planks of wood had been lashed together and propped up to create a makeshift cave. ‘‘First you talk to Silverfang.’’
They passed a small cook fire, where two goblins were roasting one of the fluffy gray animals.
Relka stopped. ‘‘That’s not right.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ asked Gratz.
‘‘They’re not even saving the blood. How are they supposed to make the gravy?’’
Gratz laughed. ‘‘Gravy? With this lot, you’re lucky to know where the meat ends and the bones begin.’’
As if to prove his point, the spit holding the animal broke and fell into the fire. Both goblins immediately began to shout at one another. Neither bothered to try to get the meat out of the fire. The smell of burned fur made Jig’s eyes water.
‘‘That’s enough!’’ Both of the would-be chefs jumped. Neither one made a sound as the biggest, meanest-looking goblin Jig had ever seen ducked out of the wooden cave.
‘‘Lieutenant Silverfang, sir,’’ Gratz snapped, his body stiffening.
A scar on the left side of Silverfang’s face twisted his mouth into a grimace. His left fang had been replaced with a round steel spike, apparently held in place by the three small pins protruding from his jaw. He wore black plates of metal for armor, like the orcs Jig had seen in the town, and on his back he carried a curved sword that was almost as long as Jig was tall.
Silverfang’s heavy boots crunched through frozen mud. His sword slid free, and both chefs closed their eyes. Silverfang thrust his sword into the burning animal. With a grunt, he hauled it into the air and flung it to one side, nearly hitting another goblin. He turned to jab a thick finger at the nearer of the two chefs. ‘‘Fetch another goat. Ruin this one and I’ll make you eat the coals.’’
He beckoned the other chef closer, then grabbed him by the shirt. A whimper slipped from the goblin’s lips.
Turning that huge sword with one hand, Silverfang wiped the blade on the goblin’s collar. When he let go, the poor goblin fell on his backside in his eagerness to scramble away.
Silverfang turned to Gratz. ‘‘Fresh meat?’’
‘‘They want to enlist,’’ said Gratz.
Silverfang came closer. His left eye was cloudy and oozed blue-black crud from the corner. He fixed the right on Trok. He grunted, then turned to study Relka. This time, his grunt sounded amused. He poked Relka’s shoulder hard enough to knock her back a step.
Finally he turned to Jig.
‘‘
You
want to join Billa’s army?’’ He chuckled. ‘‘You’re not even worth feeding to the kobolds.’’
Relka had done nothing when Silverfang poked her. But now she stepped in front of Jig, standing so close she could have bitten Silverfang’s nose.
‘‘That’s Jig Dragonslayer. He’s smarter and stronger than any warrior in your—’’
Silverfang punched her in the jaw. She landed on the ground, spitting blood.
‘‘Stronger than me?’’ Silverfang asked.
Jig thought about the knife tucked through his belt. Should he kill himself and get it over with, or would it be better to stab Relka first?
Silverfang stabbed his sword into the ground. With one claw, he traced the scar on his face. ‘‘A dwarf’s ax did that. Took my tooth and my eye with one swing, and still I bested him. He forged this tooth before I tossed him to the wolves.’’ He raised his voice. ‘‘Gather round, men. Let the little dragonslayer show off
his
battle scars.’’
‘‘My what?’’ Jig tried to back away. He bumped into another goblin who had come up behind him. Jig turned to find himself ringed by goblin warriors, most of whom shared Silverfang’s disdainful smirk.
‘‘Your scars,’’ said Gratz. ‘‘To prove your experience and worth as a warrior. It’s how we measure the experience of new recruits. Regulations even allow you to enlist at a higher rank, if your scars meet certain criteria.’’
Silverfang rolled his eyes.
‘‘Jig
is
a warrior.’’ Relka still sat on the ground where she had fallen.
‘‘But wouldn’t the best warrior be the one who didn’t get stabbed?’’ Jig asked.
Utter silence told him exactly how big a mistake those words had been. He cringed as he turned back to Silverfang, who was rubbing the huge scar on his face. ‘‘I didn’t mean
you’re
not a good warrior. I only—’’
‘‘Show us your scars, or I’ll give you some,’’ said Silverfang.
Scars. Right. Jig’s hand shook as he pushed back his sleeve. ‘‘That’s a sword cut from a few years ago,’’ he said, pointing to a nasty gash on his forearm. He didn’t think anyone needed to know it was self-inflicted.
He pulled off his cloak. The cold wind made him shiver even harder. Tugging down the shoulder of his shirt, he pointed to a small hard circle of pale skin. ‘‘That’s from a wizard’s arrow.’’ He turned around to show them the matching spot on his back, beside the shoulder blade.
By now the goblins had stopped laughing.
Jig tugged his shirt up. ‘‘I can’t reach it, but there’s another stab wound in my back, below the ribs.’’ He reached to touch the wrinkled scar on his ear. ‘‘I tore that in a fight with another goblin, years ago.’’
He wondered if he should include the various burns Smudge had inflicted over the years.
‘‘How did a runt like you survive all that?’’ Gratz asked. Silverfang scowled, and Gratz’s face went pale. ‘‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to speak out of turn. Won’t happen again. My apologies. I’ll make sure—’’
‘‘Gratz talks too much,’’ Silverfang said. ‘‘But he has a point.’’ He grabbed Jig by the shoulder and spun him around, poking the arrow scar. ‘‘Most of this lot would have curled up and died from a wound like this.’’
‘‘That’s nothing!’’ Trok shouted. ‘‘A tunnel cat clawed half my leg off once.’’ He yanked his trousers down to his knees, revealing a row of scars crossing his thigh. ‘‘I still killed that beast with my bare hands.’’
Relka snickered. ‘‘I was in the kitchen when you brought that ‘beast’ in for Golaka. It was so old there was barely any meat. It was missing most of its teeth, not to mention a leg.’’ She sat up on the ground and pulled up her shirt, revealing the scar in the middle of her belly. ‘‘My wound was given to me by Jig Dragonslayer himself, for daring to challenge him. Not by some crippled old beast who gummed my leg a few times.’’
‘‘You shut up!’’ Trok drew back his leg to kick her.
Silverfang was faster. He punched Trok in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground beside Relka. Silverfang flexed his fingers. ‘‘Next one of you who acts up gets the sword. Got it?’’ He turned back to Jig. ‘‘If the best warrior is the one who doesn’t get stabbed, I guess you’re one lousy warrior.’’
‘‘Definitely,’’ Jig said.
‘‘And I suppose you expect me to believe her nonsense about you slaying a dragon?’’ Silverfang asked.
For once, Jig managed to keep his mouth shut. He doubted there was anything he could say that wouldn’t infuriate Silverfang even further.
‘‘So does he qualify for enlistment at a higher rank?’’ Gratz asked.
Silverfang closed his eyes. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and every goblin backed away.
‘‘First they ought to prove themselves, don’t you think?’’ Silverfang turned to Gratz. ‘‘Take them to the wolf pens.’’
The sound of goblins wagering on their survival did nothing to calm Jig as he followed Gratz through the camp. Nor did Trok’s babbling about Silverfang and the army.
‘‘Can you imagine if we had a chief like him?’’ Trok was saying. ‘‘We’d chase those hobgoblins right out of our mountain! The humans and elves wouldn’t dare set foot in our territory.’’ He paused to spit. His blood was bright blue against the snow. ‘‘Did you see how fast he hit me?’’
‘‘Do you think we could get him to do it again?’’ Relka muttered.
Gratz grinned. ‘‘I was the same way when Billa came to our lair. All those goblins and orcs, and even the kobolds. We had been living near a dwarven copper mine. They mostly left us alone unless we ventured near their tunnels. Those tunnels used to be ours, but the dwarves ran us off.’’ He punched the air with both hands. ‘‘The dwarves didn’t stand a chance against Billa the Bloody. They’ll never set foot in our territory again!’’
Relka grinned at Jig. ‘‘Ask him about our lair.’’
‘‘Me? Why can’t you—Oh, never mind.’’ Jig turned to Gratz. ‘‘The humans attacked our lair. They used magic to seal the entrance. Do you think Billa could beat them?’’
‘‘Nothing can stop Billa the Bloody,’’ Gratz said. He sounded as earnest as Relka when she talked about Shadowstar. ‘‘Armies, magic, even the gods.’’
Cocky little goblin, isn’t he?
Shadowstar asked.
‘‘Unfortunately,’’ Gratz went on, ‘‘regulations prohibit me from sharing our marching orders until Silverfang accepts you into his regiment.’’
‘‘What regulations?’’ Trok asked. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’
Gratz beamed and pulled out the folded pages he had shown them before. ‘‘I’ve written down everything Billa and her lieutenants have ordered since I joined up with her. Rules, punishments, every order from how to use your shield in combat to the best way to clean your fangs. These pages right here are what turn us into the most dangerous army in the world.’’
‘‘Where are we going?’’ asked Relka.
‘‘You get to clean up after the wolves.’’ Gratz pointed. Up ahead, the walking tree they had seen before was lifting logs into place to reinforce what appeared to be a long, roofless building outside the wall. Oakbottom, Gratz had called him. The tree’s branches creaked loudly as he worked. He had no joints, but the branches appeared to bend more where they forked into smaller branches. Jig saw no sign of eyes or a mouth, but the tree could clearly see what he was doing.
‘‘That’s enough, Oakbottom,’’ Gratz shouted. ‘‘Silverfang wants these three to feed the wolves today.’’ He turned to Trok. ‘‘Normally Oakbottom cleans the pens. He’s strong enough to take care of himself, and the wolves don’t like the taste of wood. Oakbottom tends to the wolves, and in exchange, Billa lets him toss as many humans as he likes when we go to war. Goblins and kobolds too, if anyone falls out of formation. It’s the one thing he actually seems to enjoy.’’
The tree tromped off, his roots digging deep, muddy grooves in the earth.
Gratz gathered up shovels and buckets from the base of the wall. ‘‘Say, did you really face a dragon?’’
‘‘Sort of,’’ Jig said. ‘‘I faced him, and then he smashed me into a wall. How big are these wolves?’’
‘‘Compared to a dragon, they’re not so bad,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘I’ve been riding for close to a year now, you know. A goblin warrior on one of these wolves can take out a human on horseback.’’
Jig glanced at Trok, who was practically drooling at the idea. Actually, he
was
drooling, but that was mostly due to his swollen lip.
‘‘And Silverfang wants us to clean up after them?’’ Relka asked.
Jig could hear snarls and the snapping of jaws coming from behind the walls. The nearest wall shook as something huge slammed into it. Snow and dirt sprinkled from the top of the wall.
‘‘Does Silverfang make everyone do this before they can join?’’ Jig asked.
‘‘Only the ones he doesn’t like.’’ Gratz frowned as he led them around to an iron-clad door. It looked like the door and wall had been ripped out of another building, then carried here. Probably by that walking tree. Ropes and planks secured the mismatched sections of wall. ‘‘He made me do it, actually.’’
The walls shook again, making Jig jump. Smudge was already uncomfortably warm in his pocket. ‘‘How did you survive?’’
‘‘Don’t know that I should say.’’ Gratz scratched his ear, then shrugged. ‘‘But there’s nothing in the regulations against it. There were three of us, just like you lot. I stabbed the others in the back, pushed them in, and then shoveled out the pens while the wolves were eating.’’
A typical goblin solution. Jig could see Trok nodding his approval. Both Jig and Relka moved away from him.
Gratz pressed his face to the crack at the edge of the door. ‘‘They’re beautiful animals. Take a look.’’