Jig stared at the medallion Genevieve had given him. Strange, to think that such an ugly little thing could stop the humans from killing them. From doing it openly, at least. This and his name on a piece of paper were all it took.
‘‘Where is this so-called baron?’’ That sounded like the hobgoblin chief. Jig turned to see him making his way down the path, followed by a clearly agitated Gratz. ‘‘Your idiot goblins have ruined three of our hunting traps!’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Lord,’’ Gratz shouted. ‘‘He didn’t want to stand in line, and—’’
The hobgoblin drew his sword, and Gratz shut up.
‘‘What did they do to your traps?’’ Jig asked.
The hobgoblin’s scarred, wrinkled face was a deep yellow, flushed with anger. ‘‘Well, one of them fell into our pit and broke his leg. Another tripped a rockslide Charak had been working on. The third . . . well, that wasn’t a trap, exactly. By that time, my hobgoblins were a bit annoyed. Your goblin kind of stumbled onto Renlok’s spear. Eleven times.’’
Before Jig could figure out how to respond, Trok came running down to join them. A hobgoblin with a scar along his face was with him. Jig recognized Charak, a trapmaker better known to the goblins by his nickname, Slash.
Trok stepped so close to the hobgoblin chief that their chests nearly touched. ‘‘One of your tunnel cats got into the wolf pens again! Killed two of my goblins in the process.’’
Gratz cleared his throat.
‘‘Right.’’ Trok jabbed a thumb at Jig. ‘‘Two of
his
goblins.’’
Jig groaned. His stomach was bad enough, but now his head was beginning to hurt as well. If there was one thing the hobgoblins wouldn’t tolerate, it was an attack against their trained tunnel cats. ‘‘Was there anything left of the cat?’’
Slash grinned. ‘‘What makes you think they were fighting?’’
Oh. Could tunnel cats and wolves interbreed? That was just what Jig needed, a litter of cross-breeds running loose in the mountain, eating anyone who got too close.
Jig grabbed Trok by the arm and shoved him toward Slash. ‘‘Go help the hobgoblins retrieve their tunnel cat.’’ If he was lucky, maybe the wolf would eat Trok, and he would have one less problem to worry about. ‘‘Gratz, sit down with the hobgoblin chief and come up with some regulations about hunting and traps.’’
As Jig had hoped, the goblins and hobgoblins immediately began to argue with one another, instead of with him. Only after they had gone did he realize the rest of the monsters had disappeared. The mountainside was actually quiet! He turned back to Relka. ‘‘Where did everybody go?’’
‘‘Golaka and I were working in the kitchens earlier, preparing a few roast hobgoblins. I guess they must have finished roasting.’’
Jig’s stomach rumbled at the thought. The hobgoblins might not be too happy about their dead warriors, but even they couldn’t turn down Golaka’s cooking. He wondered if barons were entitled to extra helpings.
He turned to head back, then hesitated.
‘‘What is it?’’
Jig perked his ears. The trees were empty. He heard nothing but the wind in the branches and the very distant sound of Trok and the hobgoblin chief shouting at one another.
‘‘Nothing,’’ he said. ‘‘I thought . . . nothing.’’ He must have imagined the faint sound of bells in the distance.
He shook his head. ‘‘Come on, Relka. Let’s go eat some hobgoblins.’’
Civilized, indeed.