Jig turned to stare at the bigger goblin. That was more insightful than he expected, coming from Trok.
Darnak took a steel flask from inside his cloak. ‘‘His majesty the king sent Genevieve here at her own request. Restoring Avery is one of her pet projects. There’s not a lot for a princess to do around the palace, you understand.’’
The dwarf’s breath alone was enough to make Jig feel tipsy. He didn’t remember Darnak drinking so much before. This didn’t smell like dwarven ale, though. More like . . . old leaves.
‘‘Theodore talked about tidings of victory,’’ said Jig. ‘‘Victory against who?’’
‘‘Orcs,’’ said Relka. Everyone turned to stare. ‘‘When you dragged us from the lair, I heard Theodore boasting about how many he’d kill.’’
‘‘Idiot boy,’’ Darnak muttered, too low for human ears.
Jig and Trok stared at one another. How had Jig not heard about the orcs? Oh, wait, that would have been when Jig had been clutching his ears, wondering if the pain of ripping them off would be better than the pain of Relka’s hymns.
‘‘Aye,’’ said Darnak at last. ‘‘Not only orcs. Billa the Bloody has got goblins, too. Goblins and orcs and worse. Thousands of monsters, all marching this way. All of them after killing everyone in their path.’’
‘‘Is Genevieve going to make
us
fight Billa’s army?’’ Jig asked.
‘‘Avery’s a poor target.’’ Darnak took another drink, then waved his flask at the distant rise. ‘‘We’re right on the border of the king’s lands, and there’s no real strategic advantage to taking the town. The early snowfall would only make things messier for an attacking army. Wendel’s men would sweep down from the valley to crush her. Billa’s too smart to lead her forces into such a slaughter.’’ He stared at the ground. ‘‘In part, Wendel sent his daughter here because it’s likely safer than the palace itself. Not that the palace is in any true danger, mind you.’’
He had barely looked at Jig at all. How odd. Goblins never took their eyes off each other. The instant you stopped paying attention, that was when you’d take a knife to the gut.
‘‘Darnak, what’s going to happen to us when we finish the wall?’’ Jig asked, his voice soft.
‘‘Don’t you worry about that.’’ Darnak took another drink, then stood to go.
Jig grabbed his arm. It was like grabbing rock. Two years as a bird hadn’t softened Darnak at all. ‘‘Tell me.’’
Darnak sighed and tugged the end of his beard. He glanced back at the town, then nodded. ‘‘Aye, you’ve earned as much.’’ He dug into his shirt and pulled out his tiny silver hammer. He twisted free of Jig’s grip, and his own fingers clamped around Jig’s arm. Before Jig could break free, Darnak rapped the hammer on his forehead.
Jig yelped. It was as if his skull were a bell that wouldn’t stop clanging. He pressed his ears, but the sound came from within.
‘‘Earthmaker’s Hammer,’’ Darnak said. He tucked the necklace away, then nodded toward the other goblins. Every last one of them was scowling at Jig, ears flattened against their heads. ‘‘It’s a minor spell, but useful when you prefer a bit of privacy. They’ll hear nothing but the blows of his mighty hammer.’’
Relka’s mouth moved, but Jig couldn’t make out the words. Trok said something as well. He started to reach for Darnak, and then Relka pointed back toward the town. Probably reminding Trok of the elf and his bow.
‘‘You have to understand, Jig. King Wendel lost two sons to you goblins.’’ Darnak pulled a tin cup from a pouch at his waist and poured a drink for Jig. ‘‘He would have marched his whole army into your tunnels two years ago, but we couldn’t find the entrance.’’
Jig felt a moment’s smugness as he sipped his drink. He had been right to seal the entrance after all.
And then he felt nothing but a burning sensation on his tongue. He doubled over, dropping the cup as he coughed and scooped snow into his mouth.
‘‘Elf beer,’’ said Darnak. ‘‘Potent stuff, but it tastes like the trees’ own piss.’’
Jig shuddered. His tongue felt as if it had grown a layer of mold. ‘‘What’s going to happen to us?’’
‘‘Wendel decreed that any goblins found anywhere in the kingdom were to be executed on the spot. Genevieve managed to get around that law because she needed the extra muscle, but once the work is finished . . .’’
Earthmaker’s hammer pounded away as Jig stood there, staring. He wasn’t surprised, exactly. Rather, he was more surprised the humans hadn’t killed him and the other goblins already. ‘‘So if we come into their kingdom, they have permission to hunt and kill us like we’re nothing but animals?’’
‘‘Well, no.’’ Darnak took another drink. ‘‘The king has laws limiting the hunting of animals to certain places and times, and protecting—’’
‘‘But we didn’t
want
to come into your stupid kingdom! You tied us up and dragged us. You can’t kill us for being somewhere we never wanted to be. That’s—’’
‘‘Easy, Jig.’’ Darnak glanced at the other goblins. By now they had figured out that Darnak and Jig were the source of that awful noise. If it continued much longer, a few arrows wouldn’t be enough to stop them from ripping the dwarf apart. ‘‘It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, lad. That mountain you call home is a part of Wendel’s kingdom too.’’
‘‘Our mountain?’’ Jig stared.
‘‘Wendel’s, according to the treaty he signed with the elves.’’ Darnak pointed to the other side of the valley. ‘‘He rules everything up to the top of those hills.’’
That was too much. ‘‘No matter where we go, they’ll kill us.’’
‘‘That’s about the size of it. The story of Barius and Ryslind has spread. Everyone knows they were killed by goblins, and they’re none to happy about having you on their lands.’’ Darnak pressed the flask into Jig’s hand. It was surprisingly heavy. ‘‘Forged that flask myself, with Earthmaker’s help. You need it more than I do.’’
Jig nodded.
‘‘You killed Barius and Ryslind, but you also saved our lives. You spared me, and I’ve not forgotten that. I’ve done my best to convince Genevieve to be merciful. The real trick is persuading her father. The royal children have skulls of granite, it’s true, but they come by that honestly.’’
‘‘Can’t you let us go?’’
Darnak shook his head. ‘‘I’m sworn to obey. Besides, there’s no place to go. Theodore used the rod to seal your lair.’’
Jig could have wept. Without the rod, he could never go home again. And Theodore had taken the rod deep into the human kingdom, where everyone would kill Jig as soon as look at him. Though that really wasn’t anything new. He was a goblin, after all.
‘‘Grant me time to work on Genevieve,’’ Darnak said. ‘‘She’s a bit odd, that one, but she’s got more control over her passions than her father. A bit too much control, really. Takes after her mother that way. If I can convince her it’s in her best interest to keep you goblins alive—’’
‘‘Why would it be in her best interest?’’ Jig asked.
Darnak snorted. ‘‘If I knew, I’d be halfway there.’’ He clapped his hands, and the ringing of Earthmaker’s Hammer faded, to be replaced by the cursing of angry goblins.
‘‘—with his own beard,’’ Trok was saying.
‘‘What about Jig?’’ asked another.
‘‘Jig doesn’t have a beard,’’ said Braf. Trok and the other goblin both shook their heads.
Darnak raised his voice. ‘‘May the gods watch over you, Jig.’’
‘‘They do,’’ Jig whispered. ‘‘But it never seems to help.’’
I resent that,
said Shadowstar.
Jig didn’t answer. He turned around, studying the scattered farms, and the woods beyond.
So you plan to run away, do you?
Running away is a proud goblin tradition,
Jig said.
So is getting shot by elves.
Jig glanced at Rakell’s body, then looked back at the wall. Only one elf, but there were other humans there. Not to mention the soldiers and their spears and swords. The knife he had been given to cut flowers was better than the old kitchen knife he used to carry, but it still wouldn’t do much against trained warriors.
‘‘What did the dwarf say?’’ asked Relka. Trok and the other goblins crowded around him, curiosity overpowering their annoyance.
Jig took a drink from Darnak’s flask and forced himself to swallow. ‘‘He said we’re all going to die.’’
CHAPTER 3
Fleeing to the realm of the mortals was a desperate move, but it almost worked.
Almost.
Tymalous Autumnstar had made it halfway across the world before Noc’s attack struck him from behind, driving him to the ground. How long ago had it been? The black streaks of lightning that racked his body made it difficult to track the passage of time.
Surely when even the victim had grown bored of the torture, it was time to move on.
The desert sands where Autumnstar lay helpless had been transformed into irregular spikes and blobs of hot glass. Noc could have followed him and finished the job long ago, but to manifest in the real world would make him vulnerable, just as it had with Autumnstar. Noc was being cautious, mindful of another trick. Autumnstar approved, even though he was far too weak for tricks. Every time another streak of blackness shot down upon him, he grew weaker.
Noc was a boring killer. There was no banter, no gloating, nothing but lightning. Was it so much to ask that he at least vary his attacks? Pillars of fire would be a nice change, or maybe the sand could whirl in a blinding storm, each grain ripping at his skin. For a god of death, Noc showed very little imagination.
Between blasts, something tickled Autumnstar’s
awareness. A sand lizard, one of the tiny ancestors of the dragons, stood at the edge of the glass crater. The lizard’s crest and wings were raised aggressively. He was probably hoping for a precooked meal.
Autumnstar and his fellow gods had often contemplated whether they were truly immortal, but not once had they stopped to consider whether or not they were edible.
Pressure built in the air as Noc readied another assault. Autumnstar closed his eyes and dropped his defenses, gathering what little power he had.
Jagged blackness cracked the sky, and then all that remained was the burned, lifeless body that had been Tymalous Autumnstar . . . and a lone sand lizard that scurried away as quickly as its squat little legs would take him.
Another goblin died by the time Jig finished his pickle. This one had managed to loop the rope around a human’s throat.
The human leaned against the pickle barrel, shaking and touching his ear, as if to assure himself it was still there. Jig almost felt sorry for him. First a goblin had nearly killed him, and then an elf had shot an arrow past his face into that goblin’s throat.
On the other hand, this was the human who had helped Darnak inflict another round of pickles on the goblins, which did away with Jig’s sympathy.
Jig hooked a finger through the rope, tugging it away from his windpipe. The rope was thin and light, but not even Trok was strong enough to break it. Their knives did nothing. Trying to loosen the knot only resulted in broken claws. The elves could work the rope as if it were nothing but string. But Jig would have to cut off his own head to escape the bonds.
He had kept that last thought to himself, not wanting to give the others ideas.
‘‘What’s your fire-spider doing?’’ Relka asked.
Jig stared. Smudge despised the snow, but he had crept out of Jig’s pocket and crawled down to the ground, climbing onto the edge of the cup Jig had dropped, the one with the elf beer. Apparently the dwarf had forgotten about it.
Six of Smudge’s legs clung to the rim and handle. Smudge’s head and forelegs disappeared into the cup. ‘‘Maybe he’s thirsty?’’
Back at the lair, fire-spiders would sometimes drink the muck the goblins used to fuel their lanterns and fire pits. The only problem was if an unwary goblin happened to startle one of the spiders in midfeast. On the other hand, Golaka never complained about precooked meat.
Smudge was still drinking. Compared to muck, elf beer might be almost palatable. Better than pickles, at any rate.
‘‘Back to work,’’ shouted one of the humans. He waved his spear at the goblins, then grabbed the end of the rope from the snow. Several of the goblins snarled, but nobody tried to fight.
Jig grabbed the cup and reached in to brush the bristly hair on Smudge’s back.
A puff of blue flame shot from the cup, singeing Jig’s fingers. Smudge tried to turn around to see who had touched him, and ended up falling headfirst into the cup. Jig squatted long enough to stick his burned hand into the snow.
Smudge looked as sheepish as it was possible for a spider to look. He climbed slowly out of the cup and onto Jig’s wrist. There, all eight eyes stared up at Jig. Smudge continued to stare, even as he toppled slowly into the snow. Jig hastily scooped him up with the cup. ‘‘How much of that elf beer did you drink?’’
Smudge curled his legs to his body. Steam rose from his back.
The humans swapped their knives for rakes, and Jig joined the other goblins in dragging another pile of flowers away from the wall. He carefully returned Smudge to one of the larger pockets in his cloak, tossing the empty cup away.
Jig worked with the other goblins, falling into an easy rhythm. Rake, then sneeze. Another sweep of the rake, then wipe his nose on his shoulder. If he stayed much longer, these flowers would be the end of him.
The humans directed them to a different farmhouse on the opposite side of the road. From here, Jig could see other humans working on the wall beyond the gate.
Jig slowed his efforts as they neared the farm, raking with one hand.
‘‘No slacking, runt,’’ Trok snarled. To his other side, Relka gave him a curious glance, but said nothing.
With his other hand, Jig reached in to retrieve Darnak’s flask. Before he could do anything, Trok snatched it away and unscrewed the top. ‘‘You’ve been holding out on us!’’