Goblin Quest (21 page)

“Anyway, out sprang Abriana the Gray in a flash of thunder. She was twin to Wodock the Black, God of the Deep Ocean.”

“If they were twins, did he come out of the tortoise too?” Jig asked, trying to keep up.

“Nah. He came later. Had something to do with a mortal who fell in love with an acorn.” Darnak frowned. “Human, naturally. Wouldn’t catch a dwarf pining over an acorn.” He burst into laughter and punched Jig on the arm. “Pining. Get it?”

Jig got back up and rubbed his arm. He didn’t get the joke, and he didn’t want to. His arm hurt, his head hurt, and he still hadn’t learned anything useful. Over nine hundred gods. How was Jig to choose which one would be best suited for him? All he knew was that he didn’t want any god who turned into an acorn or a turtle to have sex, fell in love with a campfire, trapped mortals with bits of dandelion fluff, or any of this other nonsense. Which seemed to eliminate almost all of those nine hundred gods. “Are there gods for goblins?”

Darnak snorted. “Nah. Gods aren’t much for the dark races—goblins, orcs, ogres, kobolds, and the like.”

The dark races. Jig liked the sound of that. Intimidating and mysterious. But it didn’t help his problem.

He listened with one ear as Darnak droned on and on. The dwarf must have studied for years to memorize all of this information. He knew the stories of origin for almost every god. How he managed to keep the divine family trees straight in his head was beyond Jig. Or perhaps family vines would be a better term for the way the relationships twisted and intertwined and looped back on themselves, as gods mated with their mothers’ sisters, and so on. Jig twisted his ears, trying to filter out the worst of it.

There was something Darnak had said before, back when he was healing Barius. Something about Earthmaker being busy with the prayers of an entire world. Too busy to spend all his time on one dwarf.

Jig chewed on his bread without tasting it. Not that there was much to taste. But his mind was elsewhere. He could see two ways to use the power of the gods to his advantage. One would be to become a follower of the most powerful god, one who could hurl thunderbolts and destroy worlds without breaking a sweat. Did gods sweat? It didn’t matter.

The problem was that such a god wouldn’t have much of a use for a mere goblin. Which brought Jig to the other option. He could follow a god who had grown unpopular. One with few worshipers, who wouldn’t be busy answering other prayers. One who could devote his full attention to people like Jig. One who might be grateful even for a goblin follower.

His ears shot up as a phrase caught his attention. “What was that?”

Darnak blinked. “Eh? Oh, the Fifteen Forgotten Gods of the War of Shadows?”

Forgotten Gods. That sounded perfect, if a bit misleading. If they really were forgotten, how would Darnak know about them?

“Who were they?”

The dwarf played with his beard. “Let me think . . . they fell out of favor for going up against the Two. You can’t kill a god, of course, but the Two showed them all that you
can
beat one within an inch of his or her life. Take the Shadowstar. They stripped his mind, flayed his body with blades of lightning, and cast him loose in the desert. May have turned him into a lizard for a while, I’m not sure. He wandered there for two hundred years, all but forgotten.”

“Tell me about him,” Jig said eagerly.

“Well, Tymalous Shadowstar was God of the Autumn Star. When his lady brought the snows of winter, Shadowstar lengthened the nights and danced in the darkness.”

There was more, but Jig had heard enough. A forgotten god, one with power over the darkness. He didn’t understand this idea of longer nights, and he knew nothing of the seasons, but it didn’t matter.

Jig the goblin would be a follower of Tymalous Shadowstar.

CHAPTER 10

Falling Short of Expectations

They might have stayed there forever, listening to Darnak’s endless recitation of divine history. He was determined to tell Jig about every wart on the frog-god’s back and every copper coin claimed by the god of gamblers. No matter how often Jig cleared his throat or glanced at the others, Darnak kept on talking. Jig could have done without this demonstration of dwarven stamina.

Finally Barius strolled around the fountain and tapped his boot for attention.

Darnak hesitated.

“You have not yet completed your map of this room, friend dwarf?” He waved at the fountain. “Such a creation deserves to be noted, would you not agree?”

“Aye.” He looked torn. “But I’ve not yet told the goblin of the godless years.”

The goblin had already taken the opportunity to scoot away, and now hid on the other side of the fountain. He wondered why Barius hadn’t intervened an hour ago.
Probably this was one more way to punish me
. If so, Jig hoped the prince would go back to hitting him next time. Still, he felt a strange sense of gratitude to Barius for having rescued him at all.

He remained hidden until Darnak finished his map. They moved on, again following Ryslind as he used his magic to track the Necromancer. While they walked, Jig pondered a new problem. How, precisely, did one go about worshiping a god? Maybe he would need a necklace like Darnak’s. Something with the starburst and lightning of Tymalous Shadowstar instead of Earthmaker’s hammer. But what else?

In his tale, Darnak had mentioned mortals who made sacrifices to the gods in exchange for divine help. Jig tried to remember the details. There had been something about giving up one’s firstborn son, and another who killed “lambs,” whatever they were. Jig had no son, no lamb, and he wasn’t about to try to sacrifice one of the adventurers. The best he could do was Smudge, and the little fire-spider wouldn’t make much of a sacrifice. Not that Jig would have given him up. Except for right after Smudge had burned off Jig’s hair, maybe.

That left prayers. What did you say when you prayed? How did you strike up a chat with a god? Jig wasn’t even very good at starting a conversation with other goblins. Did you have to say the words out loud, or would the god hear you in your head?

He decided that gods could hear your thoughts. If he had to speak the words, he’d be too embarrassed to try. He could already hear Barius’s reaction. “What god would tolerate a follower of your ilk?” he would say. And he might be right. To be honest, Jig didn’t expect much. Goblins and gods were like . . . well, like goblins and every other race. There wasn’t much in the way of mingling.

Still it couldn’t hurt. All things considered, it would be difficult for Jig’s situation to be any worse. So he began to talk in his mind as they crept through the corridors.

Tymalous Shadowstar?
What a clunky name. He wondered if he could get away with calling a god “Tym.” Probably not.
My name is Jig. Can you hear me?

He paused, but there was no answer. Then again, Darnak’s conversations with Earthmaker seemed pretty one-sided as well, so it might not mean anything.

I’m wandering around lost with a dwarf, an elven child, an arrogant prince, and a wizard teetering on the edge of madness. Well, not so much teetering. More bouncing back and forth between mad and
really
mad. I wondered if you could help keep me alive long enough to get home in one piece?

Still nothing. Jig sighed and started to hurry after the others when inspiration hit. No goblin helped another without getting something in return. Why should gods be any different?

That felt better. A fair deal, just like a human would make. Jig would help Tymalous Shadowstar, and the god would help Jig. He wondered what kind of favors a god might need. He hoped it would be nothing like that acorn story Darnak had told.

“Hold,” Barius said in a low voice. “A door. Thief, check for traps and locks and such.”

Riana grimaced. Remembering what had happened the last time, Jig couldn’t blame her. A few more traps, and she would have no fingers left.

“Wait,” he called.

He hurried up to the door with her, to Barius’s annoyance. There, he reached into his boot and retrieved the strip of meat he had been saving for later. He brushed off the dust and fuzz and tried to ignore the rumbling of his stomach.

“Tie your tools to this.” He handed the meat to Riana.

She nodded, apparently remembering how Jig had checked the other door. With a bit of Darnak’s twine, she secured her pick to the meat and probed at the keyhole. As before, there was a click, and a silver needle lodged in the meat. Dry and stiff the meat might be, but Jig swore he saw its color fade.

“Why do you delay?” Barius asked. “Disarm the trap and open the door.”

Riana muttered, “Disarm it yourself, you overdressed sheep-lover.”

She pulled out her knife and used the blade to bend the needle out of the way. That left only the lock itself. She stared angrily at her hands.

“I wasn’t very good at this even before I lost my finger,” she snapped. Jig took a step back, hoping she wouldn’t decide to punish the one who cost her that finger. She slid the lockpick into the keyhole and probed the mechanism of the lock. Her eyes narrowed with concentration, and her tongue tip stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked. “Come on, damn you.”

The pick slipped from her fingers. With an icy glare at Jig, she tried again. Then a third time. She tried using the pick in her left hand, but it was no use. “I can’t do it.”

“You did it before,” Barius said.

“That was an easier lock. This has two tumblers instead of one, and I think there’s some kind of button in the back that needs to be pressed.”

“Try again,” Barius said. He shook his head. “We’ve dragged you through half this accursed place, and on the two occasions we require your help, you fail us.”

“I’m sorry to interfere with your great quest. Next time bring a key instead.” She punctuated every third word with a vicious jab at the lock. When that still didn’t work, she grabbed Jig’s wrist. “Hold this.”

She pressed the stronger rod into his hand, keeping the slender pick for herself. “Place the bent end into the lock and twist toward me. There are two tumblers in there, and I can’t get both of them at once. I’m going to try to rip the lock.”

“What?” He had an image of Riana tearing the door loose with her bare hands. Darnak might be able to do it, but he couldn’t see Riana succeeding, no matter how strong elves might be.

“It’s a thieving trick. I’m going to yank the pick past the tumblers and hope it knocks them both up long enough for you to turn the lock.” She adjusted the rod in Jig’s hand. “There, like it’s a key. I’ve got the end pressed against the button in the lock. Hold it still, and keep pressing sideways. If this works, the tumblers will bounce up, and you need to turn the lock before they fall.”

He squinted, trying to bring the lock into focus in the dim light. The least Barius could do was bring the lantern closer.

“Not that tight,” Riana said. “Didn’t you see how I held it before?”

“I don’t see very well,” Jig muttered.

“Oh.” She grabbed another lockpick from her kit, this one with a smoother bump on the end. “The elves make lenses that would help. Jewelers use them a lot. Sometimes they sell them to old rich humans whose eyes are starting to fail.”

“Sure,” Jig said. “I’ll remember that the next time I pass through an elven jewelry shop.”

Riana ignored him. She slid the pick in past Jig’s fingers, took a deep breath, and jerked it free. Nothing happened. “Too hard,” she muttered. She tried again, and again.

The fourth time, it worked. The rod in Jig’s hand turned, surprising him so much he dropped it. He winced, waiting for Riana’s explosion. But that first quarter-turn was enough. She picked up her tools and finished opening the lock.

“Back up,” she said. Once Jig was clear, she yanked the door open and shot Barius a look comprised of equal smugness and annoyance. Blinking innocently, she asked, “Will there be anything more, Your Majesty?”

Barius didn’t answer. He stared in shock through the door into the room beyond. His lips moved without speaking. This from a man who had faced hobgoblins, lizard-fish, and even the Necromancer’s warriors.

Jig peeked around the door, half afraid to see what monster awaited them. But better to see what it was, so as to know if he had any hope of running away. His eyes widened.

The door opened into a large, empty room. The floor and walls were made of the same black marble they had seen all along, but the ceiling was a familiar mosaic of tiled glass. In case Jig had any doubts about where they were, a pillar of whirling water stood at the center of the room.

 

Of everyone in the party, Darnak appeared the most distraught. He shoved his way into the room and stared at the pillar, as if sheer indignation would make it disappear. He counted the tiles of the floor and walls and compared his figures to the notes on his map. He studied the patterns in the ceiling, trying to persuade himself that they hadn’t in fact come back to the very room where they first arrived.