stared. “What’s she talking about? What’s a squid?”
Say yes. Shadowstar’s voice was calm and firm.
Jig’s was not. “What?” He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the rest of the cavern so he could concentrate on Tymalous Shadowstar. You want me to say yes?
I can’t see everything that’s happening, but I can tell you this much. Something about your ogre friend feels wrong. There’s a residue of some sort, almost a magical shadow. Whatever’s happening down there, it’s dangerous. You have a choice, Jig Dragonslayer. You can go with the ogre and discover what’s happening, or you can wait for the problem to come to you.
Waiting sounds good. Shadowstar didn’t answer. Jig sighed. The god always meant business when he used Jig’s full name. What do you expect me to do? They’re ogres! If they can’t fight this thing, how am I—
You’ve fought dragons and wizards and adventurers, and you survived. Veka is peculiar, even for a goblin, but she’s also correct. A Hero is one who finds a way.
Kralk is trying to get me killed! She—
Or you can refuse. Tell the ogre no, and see how he reacts.
Right. Jig looked at the ogre. “I’ll go,” he muttered.
“Excellent!” The ogre slapped him on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Whoops. Sorry about that. I forget how fragile you bugs are. Nothing broken, I hope?” He grabbed Jig’s arm and hauled him upright.
Jig stepped back, testing his arm. Fortunately, the ogre hadn’t struck the shoulder where Smudge was perched. The fire-spider was crouched into a hot ball, staring at the ogre. Smudge extended his legs. With a burst of speed, Smudge raced down Jig’s chest and burrowed into a pouch on his belt, leaving a trail of smoking dots down Jig’s shirt.
“Take Braf along for protection,” said Kralk, sneering. “Whoever’s hunting the ogres might not have heard ‘The Song of Jig.’ They might mistake you for a stunted coward and rip you apart before you have the chance to tell them of your great deeds.”
Jig glanced at Braf, who was busy picking the scabs on his nose. He couldn’t decide if bringing Braf would improve his chances of survival or make them worse. Braf grimaced and stretched his jaw, using the tip of his fang to scratch inside his freshly healed nostril. Definitely worse.
“Someone else volunteered to accompany you,” Kralk added.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said a goblin from the back of the cave, in a voice so old it creaked.
Kralk grinned again. “Jig will certainly need a nursemaid to look after him.”
Goblins snickered as Grell made her way through the group to join Jig. If there was any goblin who would be of less use than Braf, it was Grell.
The canes she used to support her weight were smooth sticks, dyed dark yellow with hobgoblin blood. Grell was older than any goblin Jig knew, with the possible exception of Golaka the chef. But where Golaka had gotten bigger and meaner with age, Grell had shrunk until she was almost as small as Jig himself. Her face reminded Jig of wrinkled rotten fruit. Grell had worked in the nursery for as long as Jig could remember, and generations of teething goblin babies had covered her hands and forearms in scars. Dark stains covered her sleeveless shirt. Jig tried not to think about the origins of those stains.
“Are you sure?” Jig asked. “It will be dangerous. The ogres—”
“Ogres, ha!” Grell said. One whiff of her breath made the rotten fruit comparison much more apt. One of her yellowed fangs was broken near the gums, and the smell of decay made Jig want to gag. “Spend a week with twenty-three goblin babies and another nine toddlers, then we’ll talk about danger.”
“But—”
Grell jabbed the end of one cane into Jig’s chest. “Listen, boy. If I spend one more day with those monsters, either I’m going to kill them or, more likely, they’re going to kill me. I refuse to die buried in sniveling, crying brats. Kralk agreed to give me a
Say yes. Shadowstar’s voice was calm and firm.
Jig’s was not. “What?” He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the rest of the cavern so he could concentrate on Tymalous Shadowstar. You want me to say yes?
I can’t see everything that’s happening, but I can tell you this much. Something about your ogre friend feels wrong. There’s a residue of some sort, almost a magical shadow. Whatever’s happening down there, it’s dangerous. You have a choice, Jig Dragonslayer. You can go with the ogre and discover what’s happening, or you can wait for the problem to come to you.
Waiting sounds good. Shadowstar didn’t answer. Jig sighed. The god always meant business when he used Jig’s full name. What do you expect me to do? They’re ogres! If they can’t fight this thing, how am I—
You’ve fought dragons and wizards and adventurers, and you survived. Veka is peculiar, even for a goblin, but she’s also correct. A Hero is one who finds a way.
Kralk is trying to get me killed! She—
Or you can refuse. Tell the ogre no, and see how he reacts.
Right. Jig looked at the ogre. “I’ll go,” he muttered.
“Excellent!” The ogre slapped him on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Whoops. Sorry about that. I forget how fragile you bugs are. Nothing broken, I hope?” He grabbed Jig’s arm and hauled him upright.
Jig stepped back, testing his arm. Fortunately, the ogre hadn’t struck the shoulder where Smudge was perched. The fire-spider was crouched into a hot ball, staring at the ogre. Smudge extended his legs. With a burst of speed, Smudge raced down Jig’s chest and burrowed into a pouch on his belt, leaving a trail of smoking dots down Jig’s shirt.
“Take Braf along for protection,” said Kralk, sneering. “Whoever’s hunting the ogres might not have heard ‘The Song of Jig.’ They might mistake you for a stunted coward and rip you apart before you have the chance to tell them of your great deeds.”
Jig glanced at Braf, who was busy picking the scabs on his nose. He couldn’t decide if bringing Braf would improve his chances of survival or make them worse. Braf grimaced and stretched his jaw, using the tip of his fang to scratch inside his freshly healed nostril. Definitely worse.
“Someone else volunteered to accompany you,” Kralk added.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said a goblin from the back of the cave, in a voice so old it creaked.
Kralk grinned again. “Jig will certainly need a nursemaid to look after him.”
Goblins snickered as Grell made her way through the group to join Jig. If there was any goblin who would be of less use than Braf, it was Grell.
The canes she used to support her weight were smooth sticks, dyed dark yellow with hobgoblin blood. Grell was older than any goblin Jig knew, with the possible exception of Golaka the chef. But where Golaka had gotten bigger and meaner with age, Grell had shrunk until she was almost as small as Jig himself. Her face reminded Jig of wrinkled rotten fruit. Grell had worked in the nursery for as long as Jig could remember, and generations of teething goblin babies had covered her hands and forearms in scars. Dark stains covered her sleeveless shirt. Jig tried not to think about the origins of those stains.
“Are you sure?” Jig asked. “It will be dangerous. The ogres—”
“Ogres, ha!” Grell said. One whiff of her breath made the rotten fruit comparison much more apt. One of her yellowed fangs was broken near the gums, and the smell of decay made Jig want to gag. “Spend a week with twenty-three goblin babies and another nine toddlers, then we’ll talk about danger.”
“But—”
Grell jabbed the end of one cane into Jig’s chest. “Listen, boy. If I spend one more day with those monsters, either I’m going to kill them or, more likely, they’re going to kill me. I refuse to die buried in sniveling, crying brats. Kralk agreed to give me a