Authors: Jim C. Hines
Goblin War (43 page)
Orcs were weird. Or maybe the cold helped with the itching. During the attack at Avery, some of the orcs had circled around the town, searching for another way in that didn’t involve being flung by a tree. In the process they had trampled through the vines the humans called poison ivy. They said regular poison ivy was bad enough, but these vines grew on elven soil. . . .
The hobgoblins were already discussing how best to bring the vines back and incorporate them into their traps.
Goblins crowded by the cave, packed together like pickles in a barrel. Jig grimaced and tried to force that image from his mind.
A smaller group of hobgoblins stood nearby, scowling and testing their weapons. Apparently, with Jig gone and the goblin warriors all dragged away to Avery, the hobgoblins had run wild, looting the lair and slaughtering anyone who dared to challenge them. They had tried to do the same thing to Jig and his companions when they finally returned.
Oakbottom had tossed nine hobgoblins down the mountainside before the rest retreated. They retaliated by loosing some of their tunnel cats.
Bastard and the other wolves had solved that problem. Fortunately, Braf had managed to heal the stump of Bastard’s leg, and the three-legged wolf was still as mean as ever. Jig just hoped they hadn’t developed a taste for tunnel cats.
For now, the wolves were being kept at a smaller cave farther up the mountain. Jig still needed to figure out how to feed the beasts. Maybe the hobgoblin chief would donate a few of the warriors who had mocked Jig in the past.
Jig cocked his head, automatically silencing his thoughts while he waited for Tymalous Shadowstar to rebuke him for such a vindictive, goblinlike thought. There was no response. Jig had heard nothing from his god since leaving the king’s tent four days ago.
With a sigh, he reached down to stroke Smudge, who sat happily in his cage on Jig’s belt. At least the weather had improved since the battle the humans were calling ‘‘Billa’s Fall.’’ The snow was gone, and Jig could stand outside without shivering. Without shivering from the cold, at any rate. He pulled his cloak tighter, trying not to think about what was about to happen.
‘‘They’re coming,’’ said Relka.
Directly ahead, Princess Genevieve approached on foot, followed by Darnak and her retinue of human soldiers. Her face was flushed from the hike, but she was grinning.
Beside Relka, Gratz was frantically paging through his notes. Dark blue scabs covered his face and arms from being trapped beneath Bastard. He was lucky the wolf hadn’t killed him. Jig had worried that Gratz would try to punish Bastard for his injuries, but Gratz had been delighted. These days, the trick was to get him to stop showing off his ‘‘war scars.’’
‘‘Do you remember your lines, sir?’’ Gratz asked. ‘‘Protocol dictates that you speak first.’’
Jig glanced at Trok, who made a half-hearted grab for his sword, as if offering to shut Gratz up. Jig shook his head, then turned his attention to Genevieve and Darnak.
The princess wore a new black tabard, this one trimmed with gold. A thin silver band circled her forehead. Jig could hear some of the kobolds admiring the crown.
Darnak had brushed his beard into twin braids. He carried a new war club of gleaming black wood. If the kobolds liked Genevieve’s crown, they were practically falling out of the trees at the sight of Darnak’s armor. Gleaming steel covered his chest, thighs, and shoulders. Heavy links of mail protected his arms and legs. Combined with the bulging pack on his back, Jig was amazed the dwarf could walk at all.
Genevieve stopped. Goblins, orcs, and kobolds all began to whisper.
Oh, right. Jig took a step forward. ‘‘Welcome, Princess Genevieve, to—’’ He swallowed. The other monsters weren’t going to like this. ‘‘To Goblinshire.’’
Behind him, Braf whispered, ‘‘To where?’’
There was a sharp thud, like a wooden cane smacking a goblin skull. Jig relaxed slightly. He had worried Grell wouldn’t be able to make it.
‘‘Well met, goblin,’’ said Genevieve. With one hand, she slowly pulled her sword from its sheath.
Every monster went silent. Jig could see them reaching for their own weapons. Others searched the mountainside. Genevieve hadn’t brought enough soldiers to fight, unless this was some sort of trap.
Indeed, looking at the stern expression on the princess’ face, Jig was half tempted to draw his own weapon, even though they had warned him that this was coming.
Now was the part where Jig was supposed to kneel and let Genevieve finish a brief ceremony to seal the treaty. A ceremony that involved Genevieve resting her sword on Jig’s shoulder. Right beside his neck. Where a slight tug would slit his throat.
Gratz coughed and waved his hand, urging Jig forward.
Jig stared at the sword. ‘‘Grell’s the chief. Maybe she should be the one to—’’
‘‘Finish that sentence, and I’ll have Golaka feed you to your wolves,’’ Grell snapped.
Right. Jig dropped to one knee and held his breath. Genevieve had saved his life, back in the king’s tent. She wouldn’t kill him now.
The flat of the sword landed on his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
‘‘In the name of Wendel, King of Adenkar, in recognition for your—’’ Genevieve coughed. Her mouth was quivering, as if she were trying not to laugh. ‘‘Your service to the throne, I hereby grant thee the title of baron, Lord of Goblinshire and all who dwell in that land. Rise, Baron Jig of Goblinshire.’’
Jig waited until her sword was back in its scabbard to stand. As he did, Darnak stepped forward, holding a green ribbon with a silver medallion. As many times as he had mocked Relka’s necklace, this one was worse. The medallion had the same ridiculous crest as Genevieve’s armor. Darnak looped it over Jig’s head like a noose.
In the silence that followed, everyone heard Grell’s muttered, ‘‘If he thinks he can take my room, I’ll strangle him with his own ribbon.’’
Jig turned the medallion over in his hand, studying the boar on the crest. Well, it had nice fangs, if nothing else.
A few of the human guards clapped their hands together. The noise startled the closest monsters into drawing weapons.
‘‘They were applauding,’’ Darnak said hastily. ‘‘To congratulate you. Genevieve ordered them to applaud, or else she’d be leaving them here to serve you.’’
From the look on the humans’ faces, they were as unhappy about the whole process as Jig. In order for this treaty to be valid, apparently there had to be a baron to oversee the goblins’ lands. Jig didn’t know who had been more horrified, himself or the king. But according to the humans’ laws, this was the only way.
Even now, Jig suspected the king was hard at work rewriting those laws. Just as, from the sound of it, the other goblins were hard at work fighting not to laugh.
Darnak unrolled a heavy scroll of lambskin. Wax seals and ribbons decorated the bottom beside the king’s signature. Darnak pulled out a blue quill and dipped it into the pot of ink lashed to the strap of his backpack, then handed the quill to Jig.
Ink splattered the bottom of the treaty as Jig scrawled his name. He returned the quill to Darnak, then turned to face the other monsters.
‘‘That’s it?’’ Braf asked.
‘‘I think so,’’ Jig said. He glanced at Genevieve, then added, ‘‘They’ve officially given us our own mountain.’’
Genevieve was clearly losing her struggle to avoid laughing in Jig’s face. ‘‘I’ve convinced my father to forgo your first tax payment, so you won’t have to worry about that until midsummer.’’
And Jig had thought his stomach couldn’t hurt any worse. ‘‘Tax payment?’’
‘‘I’ll let you explain that one to the hobgoblin chief,’’ Grell said. She didn’t bother to hide her amusement.
‘‘You’re also responsible for maintaining order here in . . . Goblinshire,’’ Genevieve continued. ‘‘In the case of war, you can be summoned to lead your warriors to assist in the protection of Adenkar. A representative of my father’s court will be by in the next few days to review your other obligations and duties.’’
From her wicked grin, she was already selecting which human to punish with goblin duty.
Darnak squeezed Jig’s arm. ‘‘Good luck to you, Jig. Goblinshire has a fine protector. An unusual one, to be certain. But you’ve proven yourself a resourceful lad. Don’t let your newfound title worry you. Having lived among goblins and their backstabbing, treacherous ways, you’re far better prepared for politics than most.’’
Apparently that was the end of it. Genevieve pulled out her pipe as she turned to go.
Wheezing laughter turned to coughs behind him. Poor Grell was laughing so hard her canes barely supported her. Before Jig could say anything, Trok tugged his sleeve.
‘‘Grell doesn’t sound so good,’’ he said, his voice eager. He sounded like a child about to get his first taste of Golaka’s elf soufflé. ‘‘Remember what you promised me.’’
‘‘I remember,’’ Jig snapped. Already other monsters were closing in. Goblins, mostly. But there were hobgoblins, kobolds, even an orc, all shoving to be the first to talk to him. Jig had a sinking feeling that this would be his life for some time to come.
‘‘Gratz!’’
Gratz snapped to attention. ‘‘Yes, Lord General, sir?’’
Jig rolled his eyes. ‘‘Deal with them.’’ Before Gratz could answer, Jig scurried after Genevieve and Darnak. ‘‘Princess, wait!’’
Genevieve stopped a short distance down the trail.
Jig moved uncomfortably close to the human and lowered his voice. ‘‘You haven’t told your father the truth about Barius and Ryslind, have you?’’
Genevieve shook her head. ‘‘What truth? That they were idiots who never should have come here? Even if I wanted to tell him, it’s going to be a long time before he’s willing to listen to me again.’’
‘‘Don’t worry yourself too much,’’ said Darnak. ‘‘Once your mother goes to work, she’ll bring him around. She got him to rescind my banishment, didn’t she? The way I spoke to him, I half expected he’d be declaring war on all dwarfkind.’’
‘‘There are those who would say yours was a harsher punishment,’’ Genevieve said, pulling out her pipe. ‘‘Removed from the king’s service and given to his daughter.’’
‘‘A cruel sentence, to be sure,’’ Darnak said, grinning.
She turned her attention back to Jig and smiled. ‘‘Besides, as long as I’m the only human who knows the truth, it means I have you as a friend.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Jig asked.
‘‘My brothers are dead. That puts me directly in line for the throne, once my father passes on.’’ Her fingers tightened. ‘‘If the people learn that the Baron of Goblinshire murdered two human princes, they’ll go right back to hunting you goblins down. And that means you and I are going to be friends for a long time.’’ She flashed a smile. ‘‘My family isn’t terribly popular these days. I’ll need a few friends.’’
That was reasoning a goblin could understand. Jig smiled back. ‘‘Thanks!’’
Sure, she was manipulating him. But if she wanted to
keep
manipulating him, she also had to help keep him alive. What more could Jig ask?
keep
manipulating him, she also had to help keep him alive. What more could Jig ask?
He turned to Darnak and said, ‘‘Thanks for healing my tooth.’’
‘‘Thank Earthmaker,’’ Darnak said, touching his amulet.
Jig had tried and failed to heal the broken tooth himself, following his fight with the king. He was still adjusting to the everyday scrapes and cuts of life in the mountain. He hadn’t realized how spoiled he had become over the past few years.
Darnak poked a finger through Smudge’s cage. ‘‘You take care of your master now, you hear?’’
Genevieve shuddered. Apparently humans simply couldn’t appreciate a good spider. ‘‘Come, Darnak. We’ve a long ride home.’’
Jig waited among the trees and watched them leave. Partly he wanted to make sure none of the monsters tried to ambush them as they left. Mostly he simply wasn’t ready to go back and be a baron. This was worse than being chief.
‘‘You arranged all of this, didn’t you?’’ he asked, staring at the sky. He took off his spectacles and wiped them on his shirt. ‘‘I don’t know how, but this is all your fault.’’
‘‘Is he speaking to you again?’’
Jig yelled and fumbled for his sword. ‘‘Relka?’’
She bent to retrieve his spectacles from the mud. ‘‘He’s not dead, you know.’’
‘‘Billa the Bloody stabbed him with a god-killing sword,’’ Jig snapped, grabbing his spectacles. ‘‘And unlike you, Shadowstar didn’t have a dwarf priest around to finish healing him.’’
According to Braf, Shadowstar had simply . . . disappeared. Braf wasn’t sure, but he thought Shadowstar had said something like ‘‘It’s good to see you again,’’ before he died. Whatever that meant. Between the drums and the horns and the shouts, Jig suspected Braf had simply misheard.
‘‘Tymalous Shadowstar was one of the Forgotten Gods,’’ said Relka. ‘‘You saw how the humans and elves and other ‘civilized’ races couldn’t even remember his name.’’
‘‘So what?’’
Relka pointed back toward the lair. ‘‘Kobolds and hobgoblins and orcs and goblins, all living together without killing each other. Not much, at any rate. A treaty with the humans. A goblin baron.’’ She spread her arms. ‘‘Jig, Shadowstar was civilizing us. That’s why he stopped talking to you. It’s not enough that we’ve forgotten him. Not yet, anyway. But it’s enough that we can’t see or hear him anymore.’’
That was the dumbest theory Jig had ever heard. Though it did sound like something Shadowstar might do.
Could Shadowstar have somehow survived being run through with Isa’s sword? ‘‘You really believe that?’’
‘‘I know it.’’
Relka was an idiot. Yet the knots in Jig’s stomach eased a little. Shadowstar was a god, after all. Jig was only a goblin. Who was he to say what could or couldn’t have happened?
‘‘Relka, when Shadowstar was dying . . . or not dying. When he was back there in the valley. You could have stayed with him. Instead you came with me. Why—?’’ He hesitated, then decided he would need a few mugs of klak beer before he was ready to ask
that
question. ‘‘Never mind.’’
that
question. ‘‘Never mind.’’
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