The pounding green feet of the goblin pack tore down the trail ahead of Malagach.  At the front raced tall and agile Zakrog.  An eagle feather–a trophy from the first event he had won–bounced from his white topknot.

Malagach had no delusions about catching him, or any of the other whelps in the lead pack, but if he could at least finish the race in a respectable position, maybe there would be less teasing.  Maybe Ma would not shake her head in her usual glum disappointment.  Maybe Chief Loggok would look upon him with a glimmer of respect…

Pebbles flew under the pack’s feet as they pounded along the river toward the village.  The line of watching grownups cheered and hooted encouragement.  When Malagach ran past the blueberry bushes and filbert trees that edged the huts, his own ragged breaths drowned out the shouts of the onlookers.  Sweat dampened his buckskin tunic and plastered his short white hair to his temples.

The course left the pebble-strewn riverside for a third and final loop through the forest.  The trail narrowed, twisting around trees, boulders, and uneven terrain, and Malagach lost sight of the pack.

A log lay across the path ahead, its root mass upended during a recent storm.  On the first loop, he had cleared the obstacle easily, but on the second, his heel had clipped it, and he’d nearly pitched onto his face.  This time he coiled his tired legs for a generous leap.

When he was midair, a green body blurred out of hiding and crashed into him.

Malagach spun into a tree beside the trail.  Reflexively, he threw his hands up, but momentum smashed his face into the trunk.  Pain exploded across his nose, and he crumpled to the pine needles below.  Peals of laughter pierced his shocked body.  Through rapidly tearing eyes, Malagach glimpsed another goblin sprinting off down the trail–one with an eagle feather bobbing in his hair.

He slammed his fist into the pine needles.

Three younger whelps leaped over the log as Malagach was getting to his feet.  He swiped tears out of his eyes and blood from his nose.  His head throbbed in time with his pounding heart.  Four more contestants raced past before he recovered enough to get back on the trail.

Malagach was about to start running–or at least jogging–when a familiar voice came from behind.

“Hullo, Mal.”

“Gortok.”  He greeted his younger brother while wiping more blood from his nose. “You last?”

“Yup.”  Gortok went around the root mass instead of over the log and huffed to a stop.  Though sweat gleamed on his forehead–moisture which did nothing to tamp down his wild thatch of white hair–he did not look as exhausted as Malagach.  In fact…

“Did you stop to forage?” Malagach eyed a fresh red stain on his brother’s tunic.

Gortok grinned sheepishly.  “I might have grabbed a couple raspberries on my way past the patch.”

Malagach rolled his eyes.  Running wouldn’t make a difference now, so they walked the rest of the way back to the village.   With luck, the crowd would be gone if they arrived late enough.

Alas, luck did not favor them.  When they came in long last, the adults merely shook their heads, hardly surprised.  Ma’s eyes widened when she spotted Malagach’s bloody nose, but she stopped herself after a step in his direction, for which he was thankful.  He was eleven now, too old for babying in front of everyone else.  Besides it made the teasing worse.

He tried not to look when they walked past Zakrog and the eight or nine whelps surrounding him.  They snickered and pointed at Malagach while nudging their leader.

“What happened, Book Face?”  Zakrog asked.  “Get your nose caught between the pages?”  Zakrog casually flicked a second eagle feather now twined in his hair.

Malagach missed a step, hardly able to believe the bully had not only caught back up, but won.  Malagach gritted his teeth.  No response at all would be best, but a retort spilled from his lips unbidden.

“I didn’t, but it’s a practice you should try.  If you were thumped on the head with a book, some knowledge might spill out and leak into that empty vessel on your shoulders.”

With all the adults in the village nearby, Malagach did not fear for his life just then, but the steely gaze Zakrog shot him did promise pain later on.  No, make that now.  The start of the “Log King” event was called, and the grownups headed for the river.  Zakrog led his cronies not around but through Malagach and Gortok.  Elbows ‘accidently’ jabbed their ribs, callused heels stepped on their feet, and someone kicked Malagach in the shin.   Finally the group had passed, and walked toward the beach laughing and muttering such classic goblin insults as “snot suckers,” “troll dung eaters,” and the ever witty, “orc lips.”

“I hate him.” Malagach rubbed his shin.

“Yeah,” Gortok said.  “Berry?”  He had pulled a handful of squashed raspberries from a pocket and was chomping them.  He offered Malagach one that was only slightly mutilated.  “At least this is the last event.”

“Why do parents inflict these competitions on us?  It’s not as if athleticism is all that important for goblins.  We make our livings foraging, scavenging, and fishing.”

“Spear fishing takes athleticism,” Gortok said.  “Which is probably why you’re horrible at it.”

“You’re not any good either.”

“I’ve never stabbed myself in the foot,” Gortok said.  “Twice.”

“You’re young.”

“Only a year younger than you,” Gortok said.

“A year and three months.”

Heading for the river, they wound through the mud-and-stick huts that made up the village.  Apple, pear, and plum trees sheltered the reed roofs, and berry bushes lined the paths.  Medicinal herbs and edible ground covers filled in the gaps.  The practical camouflage filled bellies and meant those who did not know what to look for rarely found goblin villages.

On the river side of the village, everyone was preparing for the last event.  Contestants stripped off their buckskins while two large male goblins stood hip deep in the backwater, readying a log that had escaped from a beaver dam upriver.

“Glad I’m not in this one,” Gortok said cheerfully.

Malagach would be cheerful too if he had already finished the mandatory three events.  He had chosen Log King because it would be over quickly.  And on a warm summer day, a dunk in the river was not too unpleasant.  But when Uncle Tyok called the contestants for the first challenge, a deep grimace pulled down Malagach’s face.

“Round One, Malagach and Zakrog.”

The smug grin Zakrog had been wearing all afternoon turned into a cackle of delight.

Malagach tried not to groan too loudly.

“At least it’ll be over quickly,” Gortok said.

“I guess.”  Malagach sighed.  “I’d really like to beat him at something.”

“You can beat him at lots of things,” Gortok said.  “You can read and write.  You can add and subtract.  And you’ve got the Elvish-to-Kingdom dictionary memorized–which is odder than a one-horned deer, by the way.  Zakrog… I don’t have proof, but I think he ate my arithmetic book last winter.”

“I’d like to beat him at something that matters to our people,” Malagach clarified.

“Oh.”  Gortok squinted at the log.  “You could beat him at this.”

Malagach snorted.

“Really.  Just keep your center of balance lower than his.  You’ll be harder to knock off the log and less likely to fall off on your own.  And if he pushes you, he’ll be expecting you to push back.  Pull him instead.”

Malagach slanted a dubious look at his brother.  That sounded like a lot to think about while balancing on a floating log.  Then it was time for the event to start.

The two grownups held the log steady while Malagach and Zakrog waded out and climbed onto opposite ends.  Other whelps waited for their matches on the bank.  If by some chance, Malagach won here, he would have to compete against more opponents, but that didn’t matter.  Just this.  If he could just beat Zakrog this one time…

He forced himself to concentrate on the now.

As soon as Malagach and Zakrog squared off, the grownups let go of the log.  The damp perch wobbled, promising a pitch into the river sooner or later.   Later, Malagach thought.  Let’s make mine later.  He sank low and dug his toes into the bark.

Uncle Tyok yelled, “Start!”

Without hesitating, Zakrog lunged across the log.

Just as the bigger goblin was about to crash into him, Malagach dropped even lower, his knee banging into the trunk.  He sank his weight into the log and willed himself to be as heavy as possible.

Probably expecting his target to be higher, Zakrog only managed to plant one hand on Malagach’s shoulder.  Gortok’s advice sailed through Malagach’s mind.  Instead of tensing and trying to stay rigid, he grabbed Zakrog’s tunic, leaned back, and pulled.

Zakrog let out a surprised shout and toppled past Malagach and into the river.  The log jerked at the weight shift, and Malagach soon lost his own grip and fell in too.  But it didn’t matter.  Zakrog had gone in first.

Zakrog came up slapping the water and cursing. “Friga’s hairy–”

“Language, whelp,” Chief Loggok, Zakrog’s father, warned from the bank.  That, he corrected his son for.  The bullying he never seemed to notice.

When Malagach glimpsed the fury in Zakrog’s eyes, he hustled to get out of the water.  Gortok winked at him.

Using his brother’s tactics, Malagach won three more matches before losing to an adaptable whelp in the final round.  That was fine.  Watching Zakrog stalk around, glaring, and muttering about his missing third feather, was victory enough.  In fact, Malagach grinned all the way through a dinner of fox tail stew and acorn flour dumplings, and was still feeling quite satisfied when he strolled down to the river that evening.  He sat on the bank and dangled his toes in, enjoying the last bird songs of the day.

“You still have that gloating smile on your face?”  Gortok asked when he came up behind.

Malagach fixed his upturned lips into a neutral position.  “Of course not.”

“Uh hunh.”  Gortok flopped down beside him and unrolled a piece of parchment to reveal a muddled charcoal diagram.  Pens and paper were hard to come by in the mountains, and Gortok had used this parchment several times.  While he had done his best to wipe away old charcoal lines, the image was still hard to read, and Malagach squinted uncertainly.

“Plans for a machine to squirt the trunk of the tree hut with something slick–I’m still working on the recipe–to make it unclimbable.  Old Zakrog is madder’n a badger who got her kits stole, so I’m planning extra defenses.”

Gortok sounded much more excited than concerned.  Any excuse to build more contraptions tickled him.

“Wise,” Malagach said.  “He’ll probably hold a grudge.”

“Probably?”

“All right, he will, and he’s doubtlessly plotting revenge by now.”

“It’s scary imagining him as chief some day.”

“We’ll be long gone from the village by then,” Malagach said.

“Oh?”

“Can you actually imagine staying here one day longer than our coming-of-age ceremony?  I’m already tired of trying to explain why I’d rather read than fish, why I want to learn languages, history, and of other cultures, why playing Log Hop, Tackle the Rabbit, and Pod Kick are torture.  I’m tired of feeling guilty because we get involved in some adventure far more interesting than village chores and forget to make it home for dinner or collect all the mushrooms Ma wanted, or whatever mundane goblin thing we’re supposed to be doing.”

“At least Ma doesn’t seem to get as upset about the stuff we forget any more,” Gortok said.  “Chief Loggok even said it’s all right for us to play at the tree hut when we get all our chores done first.  We’ve got a fair heap more freedom than we did when we were littler.”

“Because they’ve given up on us turning into respectable goblins.”  Malagach plucked a weed from the crack between two rocks.  “Is it still freedom if it’s given out of apathy instead of love and understanding?”

The screwed up expression on Gortok’s face reminded Malagach that his brother thought a lot less about what others were saying or thinking about them than he always did.  Half the time Gortok was so inwardly focused on plans for some new project that he did not even hear insults.  For that and other reasons, Malagach often had to remind himself not to envy–or resent–his little brother.  Gortok was the only true ally he had in the world.

“I dunno,” Gortok finally said.  “You worry too much.  Like a grownup.”

“Shaman Otik did say I have an old soul.”

“I thought he said you smelled like old sole,” Gortok said.

“No… he said that about you.  A comment he followed with a suggestion for a bath.”  Malagach swatted at his brother’s unruly hair, which was sticking out in more directions than canes in a blackberry patch.  “And a haircut.”

“He did not–”

Clink!

Startled, Malagach jerked his feet out of the water.  A small clay bottle had landed on the stones between them.  Gooey brown liquid oozed out of the mouth, and gray-blue smoke wafted from it.

“What’s that?” Gortok asked.

As soon as the odor reached his nostrils, Malagach was overwhelmed with grogginess.

“Get back!”  At least that’s what he tried to say–and do–but the words came out garbled.  His leaden limbs would not respond.  He fell backward, losing consciousness before his head hit the ground.

#

Awareness returned slowly, along with pain at the back of his head.  Blurry vision focused, and Malagach saw stars moving in and out through branches.  He was on his back, and slowly he realized the stars were not moving, he was.  Someone was dragging him along a bumpy trail on a travois.  Several someones.  He glimpsed goblin-sized figures walking in front of and behind him.

“Hurry,” someone said.  “That potion we filched from Shaman Otik could wear off any time.”

“If they wake up, we’ll just club them over the head until they’re sleeping again.”  That was Zakrog’s voice.

Malagach decided to close his eyes and stay ‘sleeping.’  There were too many to escape at that moment, and he hadn’t had a chance to confer with Gortok.  He wasn’t even sure Gortok was along, though Zakrog had said ‘they.’

“How much farther?” a new voice whined from the back.

That was one of Zakrog’s cousins.  It seemed the whole annoying posse was along for this trek.

“Not far.  We’re meeting Trapper Arik at Black Stump Rock for the trade off.”

Trade off?  Malagach’s heart quickened.

“Why couldn’t we just have the slavers come pick them up direct?” a different voice asked.

“And let them know where our village is?”  Zakrog asked.  “You dolt, they’d take all our people, including us.”

Malagach swallowed.  Slavers.  They were selling him to slavers?

A half moon had risen on the horizon when the group came out of the trees at the meeting point, a field of stumps where a fire had burned through a few years back.  In the center rose a jagged rock that young goblins often climbed for sport and less young goblins met at for romantic trysts.

“Boys,” greeted a gruff male voice.

From his back, Malagach could not see the speaker though he glimpsed the top of a small wooden structure.  A wagon, he realized, when a horse snorted nearby.

“Trapper Arik, sir,” Zakrog said in a respectful tone he usually saved for his father.

“Two of them?  That’s it?  Well, here’s your two silver.”

When Malagach heard the number two, his first reaction was relief; Gortok was here as well.  Then he felt indignation tighten his chest.  One tiny silver coin a piece?  That’s all a goblin life was worth?  His life?

Malagach forced himself to play limp when big calloused arms grabbed his ankles.  He had to bite his lip to keep from yelping when he was slung, like a sack of acorns, into the back of an enclosed wagon.  Fortunately he landed on a pile of furs.  A moment later, Gortok landed beside him.  Then the door creaked closed, and the clank of a metal lock snapping shut came through the wood.

“Gor?” Malagach reached out and touched his brother.

Though Gortok made no reply, he was warm and breathing steadily.  Actually, he was snoring.  He must have inhaled a bigger whiff of that concoction.

The wagon lurched into motion, and Malagach tumbled off the pile of furs.  He pitched down the side and clunked his temple against the wall.  Groaning, he grabbed his head with both hands.  This had been a bad day for his cranial anatomy.

“Mal?” came Gortok’s shaken voice from atop the fur pile.

“I’m here.”  Malagach doubted the trapper would hear them through the wooden wagon walls and over the clopping of hooves, but he kept his voice low.  “Zakrog and his cronies… sold us.”

“Sold?  How do you sell someone?”  In a softer voice, he added, “And to who?”

“To whom,” Malagach said.

“Yeah, that.”

“Some trapper, though a slaving outfit is apparently our final destination.  Maybe the gods are punishing me for being unappreciative of the freedoms we have at home.”  Malagach cleared his throat.  “Uhm, Gor… It’s possible… well, it’s probable…”

His brother was rustling his clothing and rummaging around for something.

Malagach cleared his throat again.  “I wanted to beat Zakrog so badly.  He’s been tormenting us so long.”

Rustle, rustle.

“I didn’t think… I mean, I guess… this is my fault.  You shouldn’t be here, Gor.  I’m sorry–”

Pat, pat, pat.

“Cursed green gods, what are you doing?”  Malagach demanded.

Gortok sighed like a father mourning a lost child.  “They took all my tools.”

“Tools!  I’m trying to apologize to you, and all you can think of is your tools?”

“How else are we going to escape?”  Gortok asked.

Malagach rubbed his temples.  His whole head ached.  He tried to focus on more pressing problems.  That Zakrog had thought to search Gortok’s pockets and steal whatever tools he had on him showed surprising foresight.  Maybe he had just been looking for more things to sell, Malagach thought bitterly.  Or perhaps the trapper himself had searched Gortok and taken them.

“We better see if there’s anything in here we can use then,” Malagach said.

“Right.”  Gortok rattled the door latch.

“It’s locked from the outside,” Malagach said dryly.

“Just checking.  No point in building a fancy get-out-of-a-locked-wagon invention if the door is unlocked.”

“Oh, please.  You’d spend an hour building a gadget to jump into a tree when it’d take you 30 seconds to climb to the same branch.  In fact, you’ve done that.”

“Yes,” Gortok said in a tone of fond remembrance.  “But I had tools.”

They groped around the windowless black interior of the wagon, seeking anything useful.  While goblins had superior night vision to humans, they still needed ambient light–moonlight or at least some starlight–for their eyes to work in the dark.

Furs were the dominant cargo, and Malagach’s fingers brushed against coarse bear, silky fox, and soft rabbit.  He found a cask he could not open, though it was secured to the corner with metal wire, and he was able to pry off about a foot’s length.  On the gritty floorboards, his toes brushed against a four-inch-long nail, which he also pocketed.

“Oh,” Gortok said.

“Find something good?”

“Rubber bands!”   This announcement was followed by the thwank of a rubber band being shot across the wagon and into the wall.  Malagach rolled his eyes.

“Find something useful?” he corrected.

“I’ve also got a rock… and some moldy twine.”

“So… no,” Malagach answered his own question.

“What’d you find that’s so useful?” Gortok asked.

Malagach was about to share, but the wagon slowed to a stop, and voices sounded outside.

“Given the feebleness of the prison-break aids we’ve found,” Malagach said, “I suggest we try to surprise them by jumping out the door and running.”  If they could get into the trees, they might have a chance.  Goblins might not be warriors, but they could hide well, especially in the dark.

“Running?”  Gortok asked.  “That wasn’t our best event this afternoon, and humans have longer legs than Zakrog.”

“We have to try.”  Malagach crept to the door, ready to leap out as soon as it opened.  “You go left, I’ll go right, and we’ll meet…” He realized he had no idea where they were.

“In the middle?”  Gortok scooted up beside him.

Malagach shrugged.  “Yes.”

The scent of wood smoke penetrated the wagon.  As late as it was, perhaps they were being delivered straight to the slavers’ camp instead of another trade off point.  He was not sure how that knowledge helped him.

“Mal?” Gortok asked.

“What?”

“I don’t blame you for getting us stuck here.”

“Thanks.”

“Though if you get us killed or enslaved for life, I might blame you a little bit for that.”

In the dark, Malagach could only sense Gortok’s grin.

“Let’s see the goods,” a male voice came from right outside the door.

A clank and scrape of metal on wood announced the removal of the lock.  The door opened.  Time for their escape attempt.

Malagach shoved the door open farther and launched to the right.

While he was still airborne, burly arms caught him about the middle, abruptly ending his flight.  Gortok made it to the ground, but a booted foot stuck out and tripped him after two steps.  Another set of burly arms picked him up and let him dangle upside down.  Malagach found himself stuffed under someone’s armpit.

“How… embarrassing,” he muttered, referring both to the ease of their capture and their current positions.

“A little bit, yeah,” Gortok said.

By craning his neck awkwardly, Malagach could count six human men in addition to the trapper.  Everyone carried a musket, a pistol, or both.  Some of the slavers also bore swords and coiled whips at their belts.

Malagach’s guess had been right, and they were in a camp located next to a wide river.  Parallel to the waterway was a train of eight wagons, each with an iron cage mounted on the back.  The horses had been unhitched and were tethered at the edge of the camp.  Bedrolls surrounded a crackling cook fire, and a handful of scattered whale oil lamps spread illumination amongst the wagons.  Three of the cages already had occupants: an elven boy and five human children, three girls and two boys.  Many bore bruises on their faces.  All of them huddled in corners and stared out with wide fearful eyes.

“Check them,” said a tall lanky man with gray hair and a beard trying to swallow his face.

Malagach jerked when his lips were peeled back so someone could examine his teeth.  Next fingers poked into his ears, hair, and pulled up his tunic.  He squirmed at this indignity, but his captor held him firmly.

“No lice, good teeth,” came back the verdict.

Gortok received the same dubious accolade.  The slavers patted them down, searching for weapons.  Apparently none of the scraps they had purloined from the trapper’s wagon were big enough to notice.

“Fine goblin specimens,” the trapper said.  “They’re easily worth 10 silver each.”  He wore a cutlass and pistol at his waist and cradled a musket in his arms.  Old scars marked his face and the backs of his hands.  Though the trapper was outnumbered, he did not seem concerned, certainly not enough to fail to demand the price he wanted.

The fellow with the expansive beard–Malagach decided he must be the leader–said, “Three silver.  They’re short and spindly.”

“You just described ninety-nine percent of the goblins in the mountains,” the trapper said.  “Their meager stature and compliant natures are what make them versatile slaves.  These two are young and pliable, easily trainable to muck out stables or serve tea to the master.  Nine silver.”

“Pliable?” Malagach murmured.

“Who’re they calling spindly?” Gortok demanded.

“Silence!”  The trapper glared at them.

Apparently it looked bad when the supposedly compliant and pliable wares mouthed off.  Malagach was not inclined to curry favor with the trapper though.

It seemed Gortok was of the same mind, for he stuck his tongue out at the trapper and then told the lead slaver, “He only paid one silver for us.”

“And barely toted us fifteen minutes,” Malagach added.

The slavers guffawed at the consternation on the trapper’s face.

“Five silver,” the leader offered magnanimously.

After another glare at Malagach and Gortok, the trapper agreed to the price.  A fellow next to Gortok’s keeper pulled a book, quill, and inkwell out of a wagon.  Once the money exchanged hands, he propped the book on a rock and dipped the quill.  He painstakingly penned something at the bottom of a column of numbers, but then peered uncertainly at his calculation.

“You forgot to take one away from the tens column,” Gortok, still dangling upside down, said helpfully.

“Oh, yeah.”

The putative bookkeeper made the correction before realizing the source and staring at Gortok with a startled expression.  The leader too eyeballed Gortok with narrowed eyes.  Goblins who could read were rare.  One who could do math–upside down–was probably not something any of them had seen before.

“Put ‘em in that cage,” he said finally.

Their keepers hurled Malagach and Gortok into their new prison without the gentleness one might hope for from men planning to sell the ‘goods’ later.  Malagach’s shoulder thudded hard into one of the steel bars, but at least his head was spared another bashing.  Gortok recovered quickly enough to peer out and see the metal key turn in the door lock.

Once their prisoners had been locked in, the slavers returned to the fire and their bedtime preparations.  Two men were set to guard, one near the wagons and another roving the perimeter of the camp.

For a goblin, the cages were just tall enough to stand in, and Malagach and Gortok immediately examined every corner and tested each bar.  Gortok stuck his hand out and probed the hinges and door lock.  Malagach lifted the straw bedding and checked the integrity of the floorboards.  Unfortunately their prison was sound.

A couple of the men had removed their boots and shimmied into their bedrolls already, but Malagach noticed the leader sitting with his arm on his knee, head turned toward his newest acquisitions.

How long had he been watching?  The man rose and walked over to their cage.  Malagach clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look innocent, or at least suitably subdued by the situation.

“You two are going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“No, sir,” Malagach said.

“Yup,” Gortok drawled at the same time.

The man snorted.  “I’ve been in this business a long time.  I can spot troublesome slaves right quick.”

“Perhaps you could release us now then,” Malagach said, “in order to preclude the possibility of us causing future damage.”

“There’s two ways to deal with troublesome slaves,” the leader said.  “You can break ‘em.”  He patted his whip and nodded toward the elven boy, who, though sitting, did not rest his back against the bars.  “Or you can make a deal with them, give them something they want in exchange for their cooperation.”

“We like deals,” Gortok said.

Malagach kept his mouth shut.  While the whip made Ma’s switch seem a paltry punishment, he doubted any deal this man might offer would be any less undesirable.

“As you can see,” the slaver said, “we have a number of empty cages.  We’d thought to obtain at least 10 young goblins on our way across the mountains, but your people seem quite adept at hiding their villages.  We’ll barely break even with this lot.”

Across the mountains, Malagach thought.  According to maps he had seen, the desert lay over there, a stark place he had only read about.  If they were taken that far, he was not certain they could get back.  Dragons dwelled in the high mountains, and stories said the desert monsters made trolls seem friendlier than bear cubs in comparison.

“Perhaps,” the slaver said, “you two could earn your freedom.”

“How?” Gortok asked.

“Yes, how, considering you just parted with ten silver coins for our lice-free hides,” Malagach said.

“And good teeth,” Gortok said.

“If we could trade two goblins for ten or twelve, it’d be worth it,” the slave leader said.  “You wouldn’t want to share the whereabouts of a rival clan’s village, would you?”

Malagach snorted.  He would rather take his chances with Gortok’s rubber bands than have some goblin ballad composed about how he had been the greatest betrayer of his own kind since the Wizard Wars.

“Or perhaps some rivals within your own clan?” the slaver suggested.

This time Malagach froze before he could utter the snort.

Zakrog’s face floated before his mind’s eye, and for a moment, Malagach couldn’t catch his breath.  And, yes, there were at least ten of Zakrog’s followers that Malagach would be relieved never to see again.

He licked his lips.  Why was his heart suddenly pounding in his chest as if he were back in that race?  And his palms were damp with sweat.  He couldn’t actually think of betraying…. Who?  Those who betrayed him not two hours earlier?  Wouldn’t it be some sort of grand justice to send them off to the very fate they had tried to seal for him?  To have Zakrog and his crowd trapped in a life of whippings and drudgery in a harsh land?

“Think about it tonight,” the leader said.  “If you won’t deal, we’ll start with the breaking in the morning.”

“We’re not interested,” Gortok said and then glanced at Malagach after the slaver had walked back to his bedroll. “Are we?”

“I…” Malagach said.  “I… need to sit down.”  Actually he laid down and stared up at the wooden boards of the cage ceiling.

“Zakrog?” Gortok asked.

Malagach’s lips flattened in grim acknowledgement.  “Him.  The others.”  He knew Gortok wouldn’t have to ask what others.  “They’ve been tormenting us every day for as long as I can remember.  Can you imagine them just being gone tomorrow?  And every day after that?  They’d never be there to bother us again.”

“Eh,” Gortok said, “Us being us, we’d probably just attract a new flock of bullies.”

Malagach barked a short laugh.  “Maybe, but there’s no one left of Zakrog’s cruelty caliber in the village, not amongst our peers anyway.  We’d be practically grownups before any of the younger whelps got big enough to be a problem.”

Gortok sat in the straw next to Malagach.  “Even supposing life would be heaps better without them, how would we send them off to the slavers without risking the whole village?  We can’t lead these troll kissers home.”

“Dead Rock Cave,” Malagach said.  “We’ve got our tree hut, and Zakrog’s crew has their ugly little fort out at Dead Rock.  They go out there nearly every day.  It’d be easy to set up their capture.”

“You’ve certainly got this all worked out.”  Gortok’s white eyebrows wriggled beneath his bushy bangs.

“It would be… easy,” Malagach said.  “Slavery is rampant east of the mountains.  Goblins over here get abducted.  It happens.  No one in the clan would ever know we had anything to do it.”

“I reckon that’s just what Zakrog said.” Gortok paused and added, “Without using words like rampant and abducted.”

Malagach rolled his head to the side and considered his brother.  Just what Zakrog said. What was Gortok implying?  That if they did this, they’d be just like the bullies they wanted to get rid of?  That couldn’t be true, could it?  One admittedly vengeful action couldn’t possibly be measured against a lifetime of vengeful actions.

Gortok’s face was impassive.  Had he meant to imply anything at all, or had Malagach only imagined it because his head was already wrestling with itself?  Maybe this was just something Malagach could not do.  And could he not do it because he was strong… or because he was weak?  Or because it was just an evil thing to do no matter who was at the other end of the deed?

Growling, he threw a clump of straw between the bars.

“That mean we’re turning down Big Beard’s offer?” Gortok asked.

“Correct,” Malagach said and wondered how often he might regret the missed opportunity in the future.

After Malagach had sulked for a while, Gortok asked, “You know what’d be really fun?”

“Escaping?”

“Escaping and strolling back into the village in the morning, walking right by Zakrog as if nothing had ever happened.”

At first Malagach did not answer.  The words did create the image in his mind though, and he allowed a “Hm,” to escape.  And then, “The expression that would put on Zakrog’s face would be… delightful to observe.”  Another moment passed.  “We’d really have to hustle with our escape if we mean to get home by morning.”

“Naturally.”  Gortok smiled.  “Show your pockets.”

Malagach did so while casting his gaze around the camp.  By now, the leader and all except two of the slavers were snoring in their bedrolls.  Malagach could hear the steady footfalls of the roving guard, and the other man sat on a rock a few meters away.  The leader had pointed specifically to that spot, which offered a clear view of Malagach and Gortok’s cage, perhaps determined to thwart any escape attempts by his new prisoners.  Malagach was used to humans underestimating him and his brother and was not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that this one did not.  At least the guard did not share his leader’s vigilant mindset.  He was sliding around pieces in a handheld wooden puzzle.

“Ah!”  Gortok’s fingers latched onto the scrap of rusty metal wire Malagach had taken from the cask.  Gortok lowered his voice and breathed, “This is perfect.  In fact, it’ll almost be too easy.”  Using his teeth, he sawed the wire into two lengths of about five inches.

Malagach sat with his back to the bars, to block the guard’s view of Gortok.  He watched his brother add a right angle to the end of one and quietly hazarded, “Lock pick?”

“That’ll be the pick.”  Gortok pointed to the as yet unmodified piece.  He lifted the one he was shaping.  “This is the, uhm… I don’t have any books on thievery, and locks aren’t covered in my engineering text, so I don’t know what it’s called.  It holds the picked pins in place while you work on the rest.”

Gortok had begun his career of inventing and building contraptions by disassembling everything he could get his hands on–including many things his hands ought not to have been on–so it did not surprise Malagach that he knew how a lock worked.  But having never seen the inside of one himself, he had no idea what Gortok was talking about.  He said only, “Perhaps if we’re going to find ourselves in many locked cells, we should find a professional to train you up on the terminology.”

“As long as I’m with you, cages and cells are probably going to be a given.”

Malagach huffed but did not refute the statement.  This was not the first time they had been incarcerated together.  And while this wasn’t his fault, exactly, the blame for the incident with the troll cage over the fire pit might possibly be attributed to one of his plans…

“Not that great.”  Gortok eyed his two new tools critically.  The second one he had left largely alone aside from giving the end a slight hook.  “Kind of flimsy, but did you see the key?  That’s a simple lock.”

“Right, but it’s going to be hard to pick it, open the gate, and stroll out with that large fellow sitting right over there,” Malagach murmured.  While the guard was not looking directly at them, their cage was in his peripheral vision, and his eyes were alert enough to ensure he wouldn’t miss something so obvious as prisoners hopping out and running away.  “We’ll need a distraction.”

“Probably,” Gortok said.  “Got anything in mind?”

“Let’s see your pockets.”

Gortok laid out his rubber bands, the rock, and a couple meters of twine next to Malagach’s nail.

Malagach pointed to the rock.  “That’s flint, isn’t it?  And my nail, any chance it’s made from steel?”  He did not know how to tell the difference between iron and steel, but he was sure Gortok did.  “Maybe we could start a fire.”  He fingered the dry straw bedding on the floor.

“You want to start a fire in our cage?”  Gortok asked.  “With us locked inside?”

“Well, it’d be distracting.”

“To me, sure.  Picking a lock with flames warming my backside is more of a distraction than I was figuring on.”

“You did say something about the wire making things too easy,” Malagach murmured.

“Uh hunh.  Anyway, the point of a distraction is to get them fellers to look away from you, not at you–and your flaming cage.”  Gortok handed Malagach the nail.  “Maybe you can stab someone in the foot with it later.”

“Gee.”  Still, Malagach returned the nail to his pocket.  “What’s your brilliant idea?  To shoot rubber bands at the guard?”

“Naw.”  But a smile did stretch Gortok’s lips as he picked up a couple of the rubber bands.  “Remember the time I tried burning a rubber band to see if I could reshape the rubber into something else?  It smelled right icky.”

“For three days,” Malagach said.  “Ma was quite displeased that you’d undertaken this experiment inside the hut.”

“If I combined that with…”  Gortok grabbed a clump of the hair dangling next to his cheek and nodded to himself.  “I’ll need to cut off some of this.”

Using his teeth again, Gortok began sawing off locks.

“This method of haircutting explains much.”  Malagach gestured at Gortok’s perennially wild thatch of hair.

Tongue stuck between his teeth now, Gortok did not respond.  He wrapped the rubber bands around the chunks of hair and secured the bundles with pieces of twine that he cut up using the same tooth-sawing method.

“I’m not sure why you were lamenting the loss of your tools,” Malagach said, “given your dental aptitude.”

“All right.”  Gortok laid six rubber band and hair bundles out before him.  “If you’re done making snippy comments, we can start tossing these onto the campfire and lamps when no one is looking.”

“And that will do what?” Malagach asked.

“Distract.”  Gortok winked.  “Trust me.  We just have to make sure they burn.”

“With our throwing skills, what are the odds we can land one in the fire?”  Malagach peered over his shoulder.  It was about fifteen feet to the campfire.  A couple of the lamps on the wagons were closer, but they offered smaller targets.

Gortok offered a lopsided grin.  “I’m hoping no worse than one in six.”

Malagach picked up one of the bundles.  “I’ll throw them.  This will need to be done subtly, and you’re not subtle.”

“Subtle.” Gortok sniffed.  “Odd claim from the goblin who wanted to set his own cage on fire a few minutes ago.”

“Just pretend to be asleep until it’s time to do your part,” Malagach said.

Gortok shrugged and leaned his head and shoulder against the bars.  All except one of the bundles went into Malagach’s pocket, and then he stood and took up a position as close to the fire as the cage allowed.  He yawned and casually draped his arms through the bars.  The big guard looked his way, but Malagach fixed a beaten forlorn expression on his face and gazed unseeingly toward the river.  He tried very hard not to look like ‘trouble.’

After a moment, the guard’s gaze dropped back down to his puzzle.  Malagach listened to the footsteps of the roving guard, trying to time the route so he could throw the bundles when the man’s back was to him and the fire.  Malagach glanced around at the other cages.  Most of the other slaves–prisoners–were asleep, though firelight glinted off a human boy’s eyes.  Everyone seemed to be as young, or younger than, Malagach and Gortok.

“If there’s time,” Malagach whispered, “Unlock the others too.”

Without opening his eyes, Gortok made a noncommittal grunt.

When no one was looking, Malagach tossed the first bundle.  He winced as it went wide, bounced off a rock next to the fire, and skidded to a stop against the leader’s bedroll.

“Subtle,” Gortok muttered, one eye half open.

Malagach held his breath, afraid one of the men would react.  Fortunately, the guard had not noticed, and the leader remained asleep.

Malagach let several minutes pass before he tried again.  This time the bundle fell just short of the fire.  He sighed and waited for the roving guard to circle again.

“I’m not going to have to feign sleep before long,” Gortok whispered.

“Didn’t you decide that the time for snippy comments had passed?” Malagach said.

“No, just that it was my turn to make them.”

Malagach lobbed the third bundle… and clenched his fist in triumph when it landed on red embers.  As he watched, the materials sizzled, but there was no plume of smoke, roaring explosion, or anything particularly distracting that he noticed.

Then the guard’s nose crinkled.  And as soon as it did, Gortok deemed him distracted enough and started working on the lock.

Soon the smell of burning rubber and hair–somehow combining to create a more noxious odor than either alone-wafted to Malagach, and he too crinkled his nose.  The guard coughed.  He stood up, walked to the fire, and peered around the area.  He lifted a frying pan, looked in and under it, and the began sniffing at his comrades.

Gortok lowered his arms and slid the unlocked gate open just far enough for two goblin whelps to slip through.

“Ralf, you smell that?” the guard called lowly into the woods.

“Yeah, what’re you burning?”

Gortok slipped through the shadows to the next occupied cage.  Malagach crept the other direction, using a wagon for cover, and placed a hair bundle in one of the oil lamps.  While the guard was sniffing at one of his comrade’s boots, Malagach lobbed another bundle into the campfire.

“It’s not me,” the guard answered.

“Eee, it stinks all the way out here.”

“Is it coming from out there?”

Working with the key hole in front of him now, Gortok navigated the second lock more quickly.  He soon opened the gate and moved to another cage.  Malagach tossed the last bundle into a different lamp and then edged toward the river, the most obvious escape route.  Darkness and the current would help them elude recapture–he hoped.

“How should I know?”

“It’s getting worse.  I’m going to wake everyone up.”

Uh oh.  Malagach waved, trying to get Gortok’s attention.  When the leader woke up, his first look would probably be toward the prisoners.  Intent on unlocking the last cage, Gortok did not notice Malagach, and he probably didn’t hear the conversation either.  Malagach abandoned his headway toward the river and crept back toward his brother.

“You dolts!”  That was the leader.  “The slaves!”

“Time go to!”  Now Malagach ran to Gortok.

A metal cage door clanged open, and the elf boy darted into the woods.  It was the last of the occupied cages.  Malagach shoved his brother toward the river, all too aware of footsteps thundering toward them.

He tripped over a rock, and Gortok pulled out ahead.  Thankfully Malagach did not fall, but the bobble cost him seconds.  Gortok made the water first, plunged in several steps, and dove.  Malagach too plowed into the river but was tackled from behind.  He landed in a foot of water, a human more than twice his size on top of him.

Barely able to keep his wits, Malagach found the pocket with the nail in it.  Even as he thrashed to keep the man from getting a good grip on him, he twisted and thrust upward.   The nail pierced flesh, and the man yowled, releasing Malagach.

Malagach scrambled away on hands and knees.  As soon as the water was deep enough, he inhaled a great gulp of air and yanked his head below the surface.  Though he could not yet be certain of his safety, a grin spread across his face.  The nail was still clutched in his hand.

Staying underwater, he stroked for the center of the river.  Once he was a few meters from the shore, the current picked up and swept him along.  Only when his lungs began to burn did he dare lift his head.  The slavers’ campfire was a reassuring distance back upstream.

Despite a growing awareness of the cold water, Malagach stayed in the river for many minutes, letting the current carry him a couple miles from the slavers.  A few times he glimpsed Gortok’s white head bobbing farther downriver.  When hills closed in, and the towering trees gave way to a recent rockslide, Malagach paddled for the shore.  If the slavers were inclined to track their runaways, following prints across stones would be nearly impossible.

Apparently of the same mind, Gortok reached the rocky shore first and greeted Malagach with a thump on the shoulder.   Together they found their bearings and headed home.

“By the way…”  Malagach held up the nail.  “I found a use for this.”

Gortok chuckled.

“Maybe I can honor it by hammering into a pivotal spot in the tree hut,” Malagach said.

“Hammering? On the tree hut?” Gortok asked.  “Er, you?”

“A non-pivotal spot?” Malagach suggested.

“Maybe you could just frame it and hang it on a wall.”

“That works.”

They walked in amiable silence for a while, and the water sloughing off their buckskins gradually subsided.  A strange part of Malagach wondered what life might have been like across the mountains.  Being a slave did not hold any appeal, but perhaps someday he would travel to the east on his own terms.  Ideally with some looming bodyguards to protect him, he mused dryly as he remembered how easily the humans had slung him around.

The night was peaceful, and it seemed he was not the only one mulling as they walked.

“You know that question you asked about freedom?” Gortok asked.

“The one you so articulately answered with ‘I dunno’?”

“That’s the one, and I’ve been thinking… Your question doesn’t matter.”

“Oh?” Malagach raised an eyebrow.

“Yup,” Gortok said.  “Freedom isn’t something other people give you.  It’s something you make for yourself.”

Malagach fiddled with the nail in his pocket.  “Maybe so.”

Though they were exhausted by the time they reached their own river and the village nestled beside it, they did indeed make it by morning.  Only an hour past dawn, Malagach and Gortok strolled toward Ma’s hut, deliberately passing Chief Loggok’s home on the way.  Perched on log seats outside, Zakrog and a couple friends were crafting new fishing spears.  Gortok had been right: watching the gawking expressions on the whelps’ faces was fun.  Even better was when Zakrog, eyes bulging, fell off the log and snapped the tip off his spear.

THE END

Malagach sprinted down the forest path with a bag of herbs clenched in his green hands.  Would he make it in time?  Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped to change out of his fish-gut-spattered buckskins.

He raced around mushroom-covered stumps, over gnarled roots, and under grasping evergreen branches draped with moss.  Mud squished between his green toes, and brambles tugged at his clothes.  When Malagach burst out of the trees and onto the rutted road, he gasped with relief when he spotted the trader.

Standing next to two pack mules, the human male leaned against a musket.  He wore sturdy brown trousers and a white cotton shirt, both factory-stitched in some distant city.  A knot of goblins clustered around a blanket displaying his goods.  There were metal pots, tools, knives, spices, sugar and coffee tins, musket balls and small kegs of black powder, and of course purely impractical treats.  A grownup from Malagach’s village ambled by wearing a top hat and munching from a bag of candy.  Two books in an open sack still loaded on a mule caught Malagach’s eye.

He paused to comb his fingers through his hair and straighten his tunic.  His little brother, Gortok, was already in the goblin cluster–he had not bothered to wash or change.  Malagach could smell fish guts from several paces away.

Gortok was negotiating with the trader when Malagach reached his side.

“Look it spins.  It’s great.”  Gortok wound up something that looked vaguely like a foot-high mushroom with a flat top.  He had constructed it from empty food tins scavenged from abandoned human campsites.  Gortok set the contraption on the ground, and the flat circular top rotated slowly.

The trader crossed his arms over his chest.  “What is it?”

“A rotating lamp holder,” Gortok said.  “Or you could put candles on it.  Or you could put it on the ground with all your food dishes on it, and at dinner people could take what they want when it rotates to their side.”

Malagach smiled a bit at his brother’s pitch and the way Gortok’s gaze kept sliding toward the tool section of the blanket.

“Humans don’t eat on the ground,” the trader said, “and they don’t want their lamps to rotate.”

“Even so, there are tons of uses for this handy device,” Gortok said.  “Every hut should have one.  You could take it to a human city and patent it.  I’m not asking for much.  I reckon my invention is worth… that wrench set there.”

“I reckon your piece of junk isn’t worth the time I’ve wasted looking at it.”

“How about just one tool?” Gortok tried.  “That little alligator wrench–look, there’s a rust spot on it.”

“Get out of here.”  The trader kicked Gortok’s gadget across the road.

Malagach blinked in surprise at the man’s hostility.  Gortok squawked and scrambled after his contraption.

“Come back when you’ve got furs or coin or something valuable to trade for my goods,” the trader grumbled.

Malagach had told his brother that thing would never sell, but he still felt a twinge of sympathy as Gortok, with pointed ears drooping, picked it up and clutched it to his chest.  He spotted Malagach and offered a little shrug, which Malagach returned in kind.

“What do you want?”  The trader’s gaze landed on Malagach, who felt very small next to the towering human, and indeed only came midway up the fellow’s chest.

He realized he was the last goblin holding anything to offer.  The others were drifting away, disappearing into the forest.  After watching the trader’s treatment of Gortok, Malagach hesitated to hand over his bag.  The dried herbs had taken a long time to pick, and they were fragile.

“Have you got anything or not?” the trader demanded.  “I’ve got someplace to be, and it ain’t on this forsaken mountain road all day.”

Alarmed by the man’s shortness, Malagach thrust out his sack.  “Medicinal herbs: Lion’s Ear, Scarlet Sage, and Orc Tusk.  They’re hard to find if you don’t know the forest well.  They’ll bring a good price at an apothecary.”  Or so he had been told by the last trader he’d met.  Malagach had never seen an apothecary shop, nor did his interests lie along those lines, but if picking herbs could get him some new books to read…

The trader riffled through the bag.  “Enh, what do you want for ‘em?”

Malagach pointed at the bag on the mule and dared pull out the books so he could read the titles: The Original & True Tales of Ogfried Ogre Slayer and Early Modern History of the Kingdom and Its Seas.

The trader slapped his hands away.  “Don’t get them dirty!”

“I washed before coming, sir,” Malagach said stiffly.

“A reading goblin, hunh?  That’s odd.”

“Yes, sir.  I’d be willing to trade for either book…” Both! his mind cried out, but he was afraid to bargain with the volatile fellow.  “Though the history book would be more practical.”

“Sorry, whelp.  Those are hand-copied books, not printing-press produced.  They’re worth a couple gold a piece.  How about some candy?”

“I’m not interested in candy,” Malagach said.

“I’d be middling interested in some,” Gortok said, edging closer though keeping his contraption well out of reach of the trader’s boots.

“How much are my herbs worth?” Malagach asked.

“A couple silver tops.  Tell you what.  I’ll take these herbs with me as an advance.  You bring me some more next time I’m through, and maybe you’ll have earned a book by then.”

Shaking his head, Malagach reached for his sack.  “No, thank you.  I’d rather wait for the next–”

The man lifted his musket and pointed the muzzle in Malagach’s direction.  “Deal’s done.  I’m taking them.”

“What deal?” Malagach looked around for help, but only he and Gortok remained.

“The deal where you run off to your village before I put some holes in your face.”

Palms held out, Malagach backed away.  He had no weapons, and a sack of herbs wasn’t worth getting hurt–or killed–over.

The trader dropped the herbs on top of his blanket, bundled everything up, and tied it to a mule.  He mounted his horse and rode down the muddy road without a backward look, knowing full well a couple of goblins weren’t a threat.

Malagach glowered, but tried to make light of the situation for his brother’s sake.  “He wasn’t the friendliest trader to come through these parts.”

“He was nastier than a troll’s left cheek,” Gortok said, dusting off his rotating gizmo.  “He could have at least left the candy.”

“Indeed.”  Malagach sighed glumly as they headed back to the village, and cleaning fish.

 

#

 

“This is tedious.”

Malagach sneered at the eighty-first trout he had cleaned.  He tossed the fillets into one waterproof basket and the head, bone, and guts into a garden tub.  The contents of the latter would go into making fish meal fertilizer for the fruit trees, berry bushes, and perennial herbs planted in and around the village.  The edible camouflage made it hard for outsiders to spot goblin villages, and many a canoe had skimmed down the river with its owner never knowing a couple hundred goblins lived a stone’s throw away.

“You’re only mad because you didn’t get a book,” Gortok said.  “You’d already be done if you knew you had something new to read waiting in the hut.”

“I’d already be done if you were helping a little more.”

“I’m helping.”  Gortok held up a handful of guts.

Malagach pointed to his brother’s other hand, the one holding a stick and doodling in the sand.  “You’re drawing pictures!”

“Not pictures, schematics,” Gortok said.  “I was wondering if I could make a clockwork fish de-gutter.”

“While you’re wondering I’m cleaning everything.”

“An arrangement that works right well for me.”  Gortok winked.  “Please continue.”

“If you want to eat tonight, you need to–”

“What’s that?” Gortok asked.

Suspicious of the interruption, Malagach merely glared at his brother at first.  But Gortok dropped his stick and stood, gaze toward the water.

Malagach finally looked and spotted an oilskin tube bumping against overhanging roots and deadwood as it bobbed downstream along the bank.

“Hm.”  Malagach waded into the shallows and grabbed the tube.

A tight lid sealed its contents.  After unsuccessfully prying at it for a moment, Malagach handed the tube to Gortok, who wordlessly produced a file from one of his tool-filled pockets.  He wedged it under the lid and popped the tube open.  A rolled piece of light brown paper slid out.  Malagach grabbed it before it could fall into the water.

“It’s a map,” he said after a quick perusal.  “A treasure map.”

“How do you know?” Gortok asked.

“All the traditional indicators are here: topographical representation of terrain features, a dashed line depicting a route, and a black X marking the final destination.”

Gortok leaned over Malagach’s shoulder to look.  “And it says TREASURE MAP at the top.”

“Yes, that was a helpful clue as well.”

Gortok dropped his file back into his pocket where it clanked against whatever other tools he had in there.  “I wonder what the treasure is.”

“Nothing, I’m sure,” Malagach said.

“Nothing?  That’d be a lousy treasure.”

“This is obviously fake.  If you had buried riches, why would you make a map telling anyone who found it how to locate said riches?”

“Maybe the person got troll-mauled and was bleeding out of all sorts of holes.  Maybe he barely escaped and knew he was dying and had only enough time to bury his riches and make the map before drawing his last breath.”

“Oh, certainly,” Malagach said.  “Because if I were bleeding to death and in unimaginable pain, I’d take the time to bury my belongings and draw this detailed map without even getting a single drop of blood on it.”

Gortok shrugged.  “That’s just one scenario.”

“There’s no treasure,” Malagach said firmly.

“Right.” Gortok reached for the map.  “Then we’ll just stuff this in its tube and toss it back in the river.”

“No!” Malagach jerked the map away.

“I thought so.” Gortok grinned.  “You’re not entirely certain there’s no treasure, are you?”

“No, I’m certain there’s no treasure, but…”  Malagach studied the map again.  “Someone made this for a reason, and I am curious what that is.”

“And if there were a treasure,” Gortok said, “we’d have all sorts of coin for buying books and tools and, and books about tools!”

“I suppose so.”  Despite Malagach’s pragmatism, an excited flutter bounced through his stomach.  What if the map wasn’t fake?  “The X appears to be almost straight south of us, on the Dragon Tears River.  Our own Cedar Rapids flows into that downstream a few miles.  In between lie the Powderhorn Pines.”

“Thanks for the geography lesson,” Gortok said.  “Being born and raised two feet away from you, I’m not real experienced with the area.”

Malagach ignored him.  “If we cut across the Pines, we could be at the spot in a few hours.  I do believe your favorite mushroom picking area is at the southern end of that forest.”

Gortok’s sarcasm evaporated.  “Oh, that’s where those blue boletes are!  Those are so good.  I love them fresh, dried, dipped in slug slime…”

“As do we all,” Malagach said patiently, knowing food excited his brother almost as much as tools.  “If we told Ma we wanted to go on a foraging trip…”

“She’d let us stay out over night, and we could treasure hunt,” Gortok said.

“Yes, we just have to remember to stop and actually pick some mushrooms to bring home this time.”

“Yeah.” Gortok rubbed his backside at the reminder of a recent switching.  Malagach’s own cheeks flinched in sympathy.

 

#

 

Clank, clank, clank.

“Must you make so much noise?” Malagach asked.

“I must.”  Gortok… clanked.

Despite the forest being named the Powderhorn Pines, just as many hemlocks, cedars, and firs towered overhead, their needle-laden branches blocking out most the sky.  Still, enough rain filtered through the canopy to drip insistently down Malagach’s neck.  Beneath his bare feet, soggy fallen needles carpeted the deer trail.  The heavy air muted the clanking a bit, but Malagach still felt they were being too noisy.  Trolls and orcs as well as plenty of goblin-munching predators shared this mountain.

“If we get eaten, I’m blaming you,” he grumbled.

“I had to bring extra tools.”  Not only did Gortok have his usual stuffed pockets, but he also wore a patchwork satchel Ma had made him from scraps of hide.  “Suppose we have to go down a deep hole and get the treasure out?  Then you’ll want these handy pulleys and some rope, of course.  Or, what if we have to climb the side of a mountain?  Then–”

“All right.”  Malagach stopped and lifted a hand to curtail the flow of enthusiasm.  “Sorry, I complained.  It’s just… I’m not sure what we’re walking into here.  Let’s try to be quiet as we get close to the river.”

“Sure.” Gortok shrugged amiably.

As they walked, Malagach wondered if maybe, just maybe the map was real.  Might someone have slain a dragon, or unearthed a prosperous ore vein?  And might there have been too much wealth to haul down the mountain alone?  Thus this treasure-finder had made the map for himself, figuring he’d return later with help.  But maybe that map had slipped from his saddlebags as he crossed a stream somewhere upriver….

If there were a treasure, what might it consist of?  Gold and jewels?  Priceless artifacts?  Malagach’s lips curved up with an even more pleasant thought.  Books?  While the prospect of the last excited him most, he would not reject other valuables.  With wealth, he could buy books.  More than that, he could finance a real education, maybe even move to a city where there were schools on every corner.

A snap came from the trail ahead of them.

Malagach jerked to a stop.  Gortok’s head, too, came up, and wordlessly, they slid off the trail.

Goblins were neither warriors nor great hunters, but there was one thing even the youngest did well: hide.

Only a few steps from the trail, Malagach eased back into a fern, dropping into a crouch amongst its fronds.  Near him, Gortok pulled on a coonskin cap to hide his wild white hair and bent his body to match the gnarled roots of an ancient cedar.  They lowered their faces, so light would not reflect off their eyes.  Once in place, they froze.  A soft breeze whispered through, ensuring their scent would blow away from the trail not toward it.

Next came the rustle of foliage being thrust aside, and then voices.

“We’re lost, Pa, admit it.”

“We’re, fine.  We’ve got a map.”

“Yeah, but we don’t know where we are in relation to anything on the map.  We haven’t seen the sun for days, and these cursed trees confound your sense of direction.”

“We’re close.  I heard the river a while back.  The weather will dry up, and we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

Two pairs of weary legs trod into view, the mud-spattered boots torn and faded.  Malagach did not yet lift his head to look higher.

“Luck, we’ve got rotten luck,” the younger of the two voices said.  “Just look at our orchard.  Cursed lightning, cursed fire.  It’ll be years before the new trees start producing.  This isn’t going to work, and we won’t be able to pay the taxes.”

“Curb your cynicism, son.  If your ma were alive, she’d cry to hear you speak thus.  We’ve rations enough for several days, and your younger brothers are tending the trees.  We’ll find the treasure and make sure taxes won’t be a concern ever again.”

Once the pair had moved past his hiding spot, Malagach looked up.  He glimpsed packs, shovels, and pickaxes on the humans’ backs before the trail bent, and the men moved out of sight.

“Sounds like they’re hunting for our treasure,” Gortok said.

“Sounds like there are multiple copies of this supposed treasure map,” Malagach said.

“At least they’re going the wrong way,” Gortok said.  “We’ll get there first.”

Malagach was beginning to wonder if that was a good thing or not.

They continued walking, and by evening a constant rumble permeated the forest.  Soon a wide river came into view, at the point where it dropped over a cliff.  Malagach reached the edge and peered down.  Water rushed over its granite shelf and poured a hundred feet, dumping into a dark pool framed by rocky beaches on either side. The sheer cliff featured only a few meager perches where scraggily bushes and stunted trees attempted to grow, half of their roots dangling exposed.  Moisture and moss gleamed on the rocks, promising a precarious climb.

Malagach handed his brother the map to put in his satchel.  “This is the spot.”

“Glad I brought my rope,” Gortok said over the roar.

“Look.” Malagach pointed to the beach at the base of the waterfall.  An old road, mostly covered with weeds and pine needles, wound out of the forest, approached the river, and then turned to follow the waterway.  Tied to a young fir at the curve stood a horse and two mules, none wearing saddles or packs.

“Those critters look familiar,” Gortok said.

“That’s because we saw them this morning,” Malagach said.  “Loaded with the trader’s goods.”

“Kinda funny that the trader’s camp site is just where the X on our map is,” Gortok said.

“Maybe the trader came treasure hunting too,” Malagach said.  “Remember how impatient he was?  A trader makes his living buying and selling stuff, so he ought to have been more interested in establishing a good reputation with people and trading honestly for my herbs.”

“And he should have been interested my rotating candle holder,” Gortok said.

“Hm,” Malagach said noncommittally.  Then he grew thoughtful.  He knelt down on the mossy rock overlooking the waterfall.  “It’s beginning to look like there were multiple maps that were distributed in multiple rivers.”

“Why?” Gortok asked.

Malagach sighed.  “Because it’s a trap.”

From the beginning, his rational mind had known the map could not lead to any real treasure.  And yet… the irrational part had surely hoped it was real.

“Get down,” he said, catching movement below.

Halfway down the cliff, on a narrow ledge well camouflaged by evening shadows, two men appeared from behind the waterfall.  Each wore powder horns, ammo pouches, and had muskets and swords strapped to their backs.  Facial features were hard to distinguish from above, but Malagach did not think either one was the trader.

The men uncoiled a rope tied to something Malagach could not see and tossed the end down the rock face.  Displaying easy athleticism, they shimmied to the bottom where they untied the pack animals and led them into the forest.  A short time later, they reappeared without the animals.  Hiding them so future trap victims would not sense anything out of the ordinary?

Malagach and Gortok ducked away from the edge to avoid being seen when the men reached the cliff and climbed back up to their hideout.

“You reckon they’re fooling people into coming here, ambushing ‘em, and stealing their stuff?” Gortok asked.

“Something along those lines, yes.” Malagach sighed again.  “This is the time when intelligent goblins who value their lives go home.”

“Absolutely,” Gortok said.  “What will we do?”

Malagach smiled but did not answer right away.  He put his hands in his pockets and looked out over the waterfall.  “If we went home and told Chief Loggok, he’d tell everyone to avoid the place.  Hide from bandits, don’t confront them.  That’s the goblin way.  I suppose it’s the smart thing to do if your only goal is survival.  But… I want more than that, Gor.  I don’t want to just survive, I want to matter.”  Malagach nodded to himself.  “So what we will do is use our wits to put an end to this deception.”

“Mattering is good, yes.” Gortok rubbed his hands together. “And if the stingy trader is gone and his tools and books just happen to be on the booty pile, well, that’s just a perk, right?”

Malagach flickered an eyebrow at his brother.  “That’d be stealing.”

“It can’t be stealing if it’s already been stolen.  Then it’s just… finding.”

“We’ll debate word definitions later,” Malagach said.  “Let’s worry first about the well-armed men hiding behind the waterfall along with any other well-armed accomplices they might have.  We need a plan.”

“Right, whatcha got?”

“I could go in and distract them… somehow, and you could sneak after and do… something.”

“That’s a bit vague,” Gortok said.

“I like vague.  It frees you up for improvisation.”

“All right.” Gortok stood.  “You improvise.  I’m gonna go get my something.”

Gortok disappeared into the pines for a while, returning with clumps of pitch matting the fur on his cap.  He peeled back the flap of his satchel to show Malagach a number of pine cones stuffed inside.  The oilskin tube that had held the map was now packed with pitch.

“Planning to start a fire?” Malagach asked.

“You never know.”

“The last time you were playing with pitch, you caught the tree hut on fire,” Malagach said.

“I wasn’t playing, I was making pitch glue to stick the fur on my windup rats.  And I merely singed some bark.”

“It took two months for your eyebrows to grow back,” Malagach noted.

“Yes, but now they’re fluffier than ever.”  Gortok wriggled his white brows and tucked the tube into the satchel.  “I’m ready.”

“We’ll wait until full nightfall,” Malagach said.  That would give him time to come up with some ideas of his own.

 

#

 

A quarter moon peered between evergreen branches and spilled silver light onto the pool below.  Malagach nodded to his brother.  Gortok had tied his rope around a nearby stump and now lowered the rest to the ledge below.  The tip scraped lightly against the damp rock.

“How long should I wait?” Gortok asked.

“Not long.  I just need enough time to–”

“Get captured?”

“Survey the interior and finalize my plan.” Malagach gave his brother a slitty-eyed glare before grabbing the rope from him.

Spray from the falls made the rock treacherous and denied footholds.  Even with the rope, and the aid of gravity, the descent was difficult, and his knees banged often against the cliff face.  Climbing back up would not be easy, which meant escape would be difficult if someone were chasing them.

Malagach’s arms were quivering when his toes met the ledge.   Whether from muscle fatigue or nerves he was not sure.  Puddles and moss made the footing sketchy, and he inched carefully toward the waterfall.  The power of the river pouring down so close awed him.  It would be easy to slip on the wet stone and be borne away.

Fortunately, the ledge widened as it neared the waterfall.  The cliff wall veered inward, leading Malagach behind the gushing curtain.

A dimly lit cave spread before him, the walls decorated with a faded panorama of paintings.  In the closest one, a goblin stood in a river with a fishing spear held aloft.  Malagach touched the picture thoughtfully, then continued deeper.

He rounded a natural stone pillar and spotted the light source: a fire pit with a few glowing embers burning low.  Three piles of occupied sleeping furs surrounded it and kept Malagach from advancing farther.

Yellowed bones and a couple of skulls rested here and there.  Behind the fire pit, the cave floor slanted upward toward another pillar and the back wall.  A pile of items were heaped goblin-tall there.  In the dimness and the jumble, it was hard to identify much, but Malagach made out several shovels, a fishing pole, a crate, numerous sets of saddlebags, several tools, and the two books from the trader’s inventory.  Next to the pile squatted an open sack of apples and a couple of small kegs that probably held black powder or perhaps some alcoholic human beverage.  All stolen goods, Malagach wagered.  The maps lured people in, some well provisioned for treasure-hunting trips, and they were attacked and robbed when they showed up.

Upon closer inspection of the sleeping area, he realized human-sized forms occupied only two of the sets of furs.  The third camp bed lay empty.  Likely the owner stood watch someplace.  But where?  Malagach had not seen anyone outside.

He peered about the grotto again and then–with a feeling of dread creeping into his gut–he turned around.  The black hole of a pistol’s muzzle pointed at his face, so close his eyes crossed when he tried to focus on it.

“Hello,” Malagach croaked.

He looked up into the cool face of a human woman.  At first he was surprised, for she wore a white dress and makeup, hardly what one expected from a bandit, but perhaps she was part of the ruse.  Her job might be to distract the mostly male treasure hunters while her comrades employed an ambush.

“Over there.” The woman jerked the pistol toward the fire pit.  “Wake up lads, we’ve got company.  Ugly little green company.”

The furs by the fire pit stirred.  “It got money?”

“It’s a goblin.  Of course not.”

“It has a name,” Malagach said.  “And a gender.”

Two bearded faces turned toward him.  One man yawned, and a gold buck tooth glinted.  When the other fellow sat up, sans shirt, Malagach stared at the tree-trunk sized arms.  They were bigger around than his whole body.

“My name is Malagach,” he said.

Gold-Tooth kicked the fire to life and added a couple branches.  “Lippy for a greenie, isn’t it?”

“Got that right,” said Tree-Trunk-Arms.

“You here for the treasure, gobber?”

Snickers came from all three.  While the woman kept her pistol aimed at Malagach, Tree-Trunk-Arms patted him down, a rough act that dropped Malagach to his knees three times before it was done.

“He hasn’t got a map.”

No, Gortok had it in his tool bag.  That thought reminded Malagach that it was time to get the improvisation show going.

He raised his eyebrows and blinked innocently.  “Treasure?  Map?  I am here because the goblin gods wish me to deliver a message.”

This drew snorts from the men and cool silence from the woman.

“We’re not interested in goblin messages,” Gold-Tooth said.

“Besides,” the woman said, “aren’t you a little young to be a divine oracle?”

She was smarter than the others, Malagach sensed.  He would have to be careful.

“Indeed,” he said.  “I am merely an apprentice to a shaman who speaks for the gods.  I’ve been instructed to inform you that this grotto is a sacred ceremonial place for our people, as you can see from the generations of shamans’ paintings on the walls.”  He pointed to the faded illustrations, more noticeable now that the flames had kicked up.  “The goblin pantheon is not pleased with your intrusion here, especially since your purpose is stealing people’s belongings.”

“I’m about as afraid of greenie gods as I am of a roach droppings,” Tree-Trunk-Arms said.

“The goblin gods are just as powerful as their human counterparts and some say more dangerous because of their… whimsy.  They’ve been known to strike non-goblins down simply to play tricks on each other.  Imagine what they might do to those who truly displease them.”

At that moment, the fire surged to life with a dramatic whoosh.  The three bandits jumped.  Malagach, too, flinched but hid his surprise before the humans looked back to him.  He nodded as if he had expected the flair up.

He hid a smile when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gortok dart from the first pillar to a hiding spot behind the booty pile.  Malagach was careful not to look directly at his brother, lest he draw the humans’ attention, for the two men were now regarding Malagach with new wariness.  Arms crossed over her bodice, the woman looked significantly less impressed.

“No, the gods are not pleased by your blasphemous presence,” Malagach said.  “They require you to halt this operation and leave goblin country for good.”

He hardly expected them to flee based on a poof of firelight and his words, but he trusted Gortok to come up with something to make his story more convincing.

Gold-Tooth nudged his cohort.  “He talks like that bookish fellow we robbed last week, doesn’t he?”

“The one that screamed all the way down the river after we tossed him in the waterfall?” Tree-Trunk-Arms asked.

“Yup, that one.  I figure we should do the same with this little toad.”

“I shall not scream.”  Malagach tried to look like a zealot who whole-heartedly believes his gods will save him. In truth, he knew he’d probably start screaming before the bandits even lifted his toes off the ground.  “The gods will protect me even as they punish you.”

Fwoomph!

The fire flared up again, briefly throwing its orange light all the way to the rocky ceiling.

Come on, Gor, Malagach thought.  It would take more than pitch balls thrown at the fire to scare these folks into repentance.

“Nice trick,” the woman said, “but we’ve been here a while and nobody has punished us yet.”  She tilted her chin toward the pile of accumulated booty.

“You will be,” Malagach said, hurrying to speak and draw their gazes from the ‘treasure’ mound before anyone could spot Gortok.  “The gods are eternal and have no need to work quickly.  But they have grown weary of your foul presence, and you’ll be punished tonight.”

Fwoomph!

At least Gold-Tooth looked a little nervous at the fire-pit flare-ups.  “Nobody needs to punish us,” he said.  “Times are tough, and we’re just earning a living–nothing wrong with that.”

“You’re preying on the dreams of those who can least afford to lose what little they have in this world,” Malagach said, thinking of the farmers he and Gortok had overheard earlier.  If they had better luck reading the map in the morning, they’d likely be the bandits’ next victims.  “It’s deplorable, and my gods forbid you to continue your foul work in this sacred goblin cave.”

For a moment, all three bandits were facing him with their backs to the treasure pile.  Gortok darted out, not from behind the pile, but from the second pillar.  He seemed to be holding something, but Malagach could not see what.  Gortok ran back behind the stack of booty.

“Enough of this nonsense,” the woman said.  “Toss him into the falls, lads.  If the goblin gods want to talk to us that badly, I’m sure they’ll send a sign.”

“Erp.”  Malagach tried to step away, but Tree-Trunk-Arms stopped him with an easy grab.

Hurry, Gor, he thought as his feet were yanked from the ground.

A heartbeat later, a skull of fire appeared out of the darkness, floating in the center of the cave.  Flames burned the aged bone and leapt from the gaping eye holes.

The bandits cried out and stumbled away from the skull.  Malagach’s captor dropped him.  Even the woman edged backward, toward the waterfall.

Fortunately none were looking at Malagach now, for they would have caught surprise on his face.  How was Gortok doing that?  The flaming skull wasn’t anywhere near the pile where he was hiding, and the thing was floating–moving slowly across the cave.  Flames dripped off it like wax from a candle.  They landed on the ground and continuing to burn.

“What in the demons-cursed hells is that?” Gold-Tooth blurted.

“I believe you requested a sign,” Malagach said blandly.

He eased to the side to let the bandits edge farther backward.

“An illusion,” the woman suggested, though she didn’t sound certain.  “Or a magic trick.  The whelp has an accomplice hiding in the cave.”

She aimed her pistol at the skull.  Malagach cursed silently, trying to think of a way to stop her, but of her own volition she apparently decided firing a projectile in the closed confines of the cave might be stupid.  Instead she picked up a pebble to throw at the skull.  The stone clanged off without damaging the flaming bone.

“No illusion,” Malagach said, quick to speak again before they could come back to the idea of an accomplice.  “A sign from the gods.  Soon it’ll be your skulls burning.”

Indeed, the skull shifted its direction, moving closer to the center of the cave again.  The bandits backed farther, stopping only when they felt splatters of water on their necks.

Next one of the kegs wobbled and tipped over.  Malagach’s heart lurched.  If those wooden containers were full of alcohol or black powder and they came in contact with fire…

The keg rolled down the slanted cavern floor toward the bandits.  It left a trail of liquid behind it.  Alcohol!  Gortok wouldn’t be that foolish.  Would he?

Shaking his head, Malagach scooted toward the side of the cavern.

A burning pine cone spun out from behind the treasure pile and landed in the liquid.  The alcohol trail burst into flames, which raced toward the keg.

“The whiskey!” shouted one man.

“It’ll explode!” shouted the woman.

The flame reached the keg.

“Jump!”

The bandits threw themselves over the edge and into the waterfall.  If he had been closer, Malagach might have done the same.  All he could do was leap farther sideways, landing on the rock floor with his arms over his head.

He held his breath.  His galloping heartbeats reverberated through his body.

Silent seconds passed and nothing happened.

Finally, Malagach dared lift his head to look over his shoulder.  Gortok leaned against the treasure pile, munching on an apple.  The barrel had come to a stop at the fire pit, and flames were indeed consuming the wood, but nothing had exploded.

“Hunh.”  Malagach pushed himself to his feet, wincing.  Now that the threat of danger had past, his body protested the mighty leap and crash to the hard rock floor.  Already he could feel a bruise swelling on his knee.

Malagach looked around.  The bandits were gone.  The fiery skull had burned out, though flames roared heartily from the barrel.  Gortok winked at him.

“Not a keg of whiskey?”  Malagach straightened his tunic and combed his hair with his fingers.

“Not one of the full ones,” Gortok said.  “There was a mostly drained one behind the other stuff.  I just scooted it out front while you all were skull gazing, pulled the bung, and let it roll.  I knew it wouldn’t explode.  Probably.  Maybe.”  He shrugged and took another bite.

“How did you manage the skull?” Malagach asked.  “I get that you put your pitch stash to liberal use, but, uhm, floating?”

Gortok hopped up and twanged an invisible line, and the skull shuddered.  Not invisible, Malagach realized as he walked closer.  Just very thin and, in the dark cave, impossible to see from more than a couple feet away.

Gortok went behind the pile and hefted the fishing pole Malagach had noticed earlier.  Now that Malagach knew what to look for, he spotted a pulley tied about each pillar.  Fishing line ran from the pole to each pulley, allowing the reel of the pole to move the skull along its track.

“Good work,” Malagach said.

“Yup.”  Gortok tossed him an apple.  “And now for our reward.  Come look.  There’s all sorts of good stuff back here.  I could make passels of things–mechanical constructs, alarms, booby traps, new features for the tree hut.  Oh, there’s the wrench set I was trying to buy from the trader!”

“We can’t take these things,” Malagach said.  “They were stolen from people who, if they’re still alive, may come back looking for them.  Besides it wouldn’t be right to take what we didn’t earn through honest means.”

“What?” Gortok stared at him.  “We found a treasure map, worked to earn the treasure, and now it’s rightfully ours.”

“No, we’re not thieves,” Malagach said, looking toward the falls where the bandits had thrown themselves.  “We’re better than people like that.”

He folded his arms and lifted his chin nobly, but then his gaze happened upon those two books.  He waffled for a moment.  His fingers reached toward them, clenched and went in his pockets, and then slipped out to reach again.  Finally Malagach grabbed the books.

Gortok lifted his eyebrows.

“We’re mostly better than people like that,” Malagach said.

Gortok gave Malagach a knowing nod, picked up the wrench set, and they strolled out of the cave together.

THE END

A greenish-blue liquid simmered in a cauldron hanging above the largest fire pit in the village. A wind-up contraption fastened to the pot’s lip propelled a long metal spoon in continuous circles. The breeze stirred the sweet scent of the punch, and it wafted amongst the mud-and-thatch huts, delighting the noses of nearby goblins.

Malagach stuffed his hands into the pockets of his buckskins to keep from slipping a green finger into the gurgling cauldron. Others had already tried–and failed–to steal a taste.

Though Shaman Otik was busy dancing and chanting his way around the fire, he was capable of whacking whelps on the knuckles with his gods-stick without breaking rhythm. Malagach’s brother, Gortok, was still sucking on the welt on the back of his hand.

“He ought to let me have a taste,” Gortok said. “After all, that’s my pot stirrer that’s keeping it from burning while he jumps around godsifying it.”

Malagach rolled his eyes at his brother’s penchant for making up words. “We can wait. It’ll be tastiest when the peppers are added, a tantalizing blend of sweet and spicy.”

“That wakes you up like a troll kick between the cheeks.”

“Lovely description. You should write cookbooks for humans.”

“Really?”

“No.” Malagach smiled to take the edge off his teasing. His brother’s description was actually accurate. Pepper slime punch was designed to keep everyone awake through the coming night of dancing and eating at the Plenty-Picked Fest.

Shaman Otik froze, one bare green foot in the air, one hand stretched toward the heavens. The beads and fringes on his buckskins still clacked and swayed, but his body was statue still for a long moment. Silence descended on the village, and even the grown-ups who were busy fishing in the river, tanning hides, and weaving grass baskets, sensed the moment and paused.

“It is time to add the peppers,” Shaman Otik intoned.

Then he clapped, breaking the silence, and darted into his hut with the spryness of a ten year old instead of a council elder.

“The peppers!” came an unexpected cry.

Malagach arched his eyebrows. This line wasn’t part of the annual ceremony.

Thumps, clashes, and frantic rustlings came from the shaman’s hut, and then Otik burst outside, his eyes wide. “The peppers are missing!”

Amidst the horrified gasps of his people, Malagach frowned at his brother. “You didn’t take them, did you?”

“Of course, not,” Gortok said. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you have a history of eating his spell components.”

“It’s not my fault about the Eyes of Newt. They were in a jar next to a bunch of pickled fox toes. How was I supposed to know they weren’t snacks? And those drying elderberries… I thought he’d laid them out for everyone to sample. I wouldn’t touch the pepper slime punch peppers though.”

Even as he finished speaking, Shaman Otik stomped over and jabbed a finger at Gortok’s nose.

“You!” Otik accused. “You ate them, didn’t you?”

“What?” Gortok stepped back, hands raised. “It wasn’t me. Why does everyone think–ouch!”

Shaman Otik’s fingers had found Gortok’s pointed ear. The old goblin dragged Gortok toward the hut. Malagach trailed after uncertainly.

“I didn’t take them,” Gortok promised. “I wouldn’t–”

“No Plenty-Picked Fest for you,” Otik said. “You’ll stay in my hut until tomorrow.”

“But I’ll miss the dancing,” Gortok said. “And the eating!”

“Yes, that’s the lesson I’m fixing to give you.”

Malagach stopped at the door flap, watching as his brother disappeared inside. Missing the festival would devastate Gortok, and Chief Loggok would also dole out punishment for something like this. If Gortok ended up with extra chores for the rest of the fall, who would Malagach go adventuring with?

“Someone else took them,” Malagach muttered.

He spun about, eyeballing the rest of the goblins. Drawn by the shouts, the crowd around the fire pit had grown. Young and old looked forward to the pepper slime punch, and crestfallen expressions turned down faces all around.

Zakrog, a large whelp who often bullied Malagach and Gortok, stood against the shaman’s hut with a couple of his flunky cousins. They had their ears to the wall, grinning as they listened to Shaman Otik berating Gortok.

Malagach glared at the pack suspiciously. “Did you take the peppers? To get my brother in trouble?”

“Not me.” Zakrog snickered. “But I reckon I should’ve. If I’d known you bookfaces would get blamed, I’d have swiped ‘em years ago.”

“I’m glad he’s in trouble,” one of the cousins said. “Last year Gortok scared everyone at the Plenty-Picked with that stupid mechanical snake.”

“You were the only one scared by that, dolt.” Zakrog swatted his cousin on the head. “That snake was middling fine, actually, considering a book face made it.”

Malagach tugged at the fringes on his sleeve, not certain whether to believe the bullies or not. If Zakrog had pilfered the peppers, he would never admit it. Still, taking them to get Gortok in trouble was a stretch of sophistication for Zakrog, whose bullying tended to be more blunt–like a fist to the nose.

“Nogarf!” Shaman Otik called from hut. “Get in here. I need you to guard this whelp while I search the store caves for dried peppers.”

“Dried peppers,” a grownup moaned. “The punch won’t be the same.”

“Don’t think we even have any dried peppers,” another said. “We hardly get a handful a year up in these rainy mountains.”

Nogarf, a spindly eleven-year-old goblin, slipped through the crowd. A smug smile crooked his lips, and his yellow eyes twinkled as he entered Otik’s hut.

That look surprised Malagach. No one else was happy right now; why was this whelp?

Nogarf had only been in the village a few days, so Malagach hardly knew him. A shaman’s son, Nogarf had been sent from another village to study potion making with Otik. Nogarf was a born critter caller and could communicate with all sorts of animals. Unlike the loutish Zakrog types common in the village, the gifted youth had struck Malagach as someone worth befriending. That glance aroused Malagach’s suspicions though.

He slipped through the swaying door flap. Inside the one-room hut, shelves full of baskets, bottles, and clay pots rose from the river-stone floor to the thatch ceiling. Bundles of herbs and shamanic charms dangled from rafters. Gortok sat in the corner, arms hugging knees pulled to his chest.

“I didn’t do it,” he muttered.

“Just when I thought you were growing up.” Shaman Otik shook his head. “When you made me that pot doodad, I was right pleased. I said, Gortok ain’t always wandering through eating my spell somethings any more. I even told Nogarf you had smarts, but then you went and got stomach stupid again.”

“But I didn’t,” Gortok said.

Shaman Otik only shook his head. “I can’t trust your word, Gortok. Not after all the things you’ve eaten of mine.”

“Sir,” Malagach said, drawing Otik’s notice for the first time. “Please, think about it. Gortok has always been tempted by tasty treats in the past. Like drying berries, and…”

“And honey spider crunchies,” Gortok said, “and apple-core custard, and, oh, the baked lizard tongues you set out to sun-dry that one day, and–”

“My lizard tongues!” Shaman Otik blurted. “That was you? I thought crows filched ‘em!”

Glaring at his brother, Malagach tapped his finger to his lips. “Don’t help.” He turned back to Otik. “What I’m saying is that Gortok wouldn’t take hot peppers. They’re too spicy to snack on.”

“That’s right,” Gortok said. “They’ll make you tear up faster than Zakrog punching you in the nose.”

“You’re not helping, remember?” Malagach said.

“Sorry.” Gortok prodded a crack between the stones in the floor.

“Peppers are only good in little amounts,” Malagach said, “like in the pepper slime punch, which my brother loves, and which he would never deprive the village of enjoying.”

“Enough of this.” Shaman Otik had been glaring at Gortok since the lizard-tongue admission and did not seem to have heard Malagach’s argument. “I need to find something spicy for the punch, or the Plenty-Picked will be ruined.

“What should I do?” Nogarf asked, bouncing a bit on his toes.

Malagach watched him through slitted eyes. Nogarf sure looked pleased with himself.

“Don’t let him go,” Otik told Nogarf and stalked toward the door flap. He paused to jerk a thumb at Malagach. “And you get out of here. Sure ‘nough you got chores that need doing, and your brother’s being punished, so he don’t need you entertaining him with yarns.”

Malagach plodded outside and dropped his chin in his palm. Nogarf was too pleased about this whole situation. He ought to be annoyed at the idea of babysitting Gortok for the day. Why wasn’t he? Because he was responsible, that was why. Malagach was willing to bet all of his books on it. Well, maybe half of his books. All right, Gortok’s books.

If Nogarf had taken the peppers, he’d probably hidden them somewhere. If Malagach could find them and return them, then Gortok need not be punished and miss the festival. And–a smile tugged at Malagach’s lips–he could be the one to rescue his little brother from trouble for a change. Gortok was always building some contraption or another to help in their adventures, and, more times than Malagach could count, his brother had planned some ingenious scheme to get Malagach out of trouble. Yes, now it would be his turn.

His step lighter, Malagach headed to Aunt Migga’s hut. Nogarf was staying with her and her two young whelps for the summer.

“Hullo, Aunt Migga,” Malagach greeted when she let him inside. “Ma is making chinquapin pie for tonight, and I think she could use more nut flour for the crust.” The former was true, and while she had made no mention of the latter, Malagach did not think it too much of a stretch.

“Sure, Malagach,” Aunt Migga said. “Reckon I’ve got plenty.”

While she rummaged through her cooking area, Malagach settled on Nogarf’s sleeping furs. He subtly poked through the beaver and bear pelts, but did not find any hidden food. Nor did the two personal baskets hold anything other than clothing, shamanic trinkets, and a couple of wooden puzzle games.

“Here you are.” Aunt Migga handed him the flour.

“Thank you.”

Malagach left with a bowl of flour but nothing he had wanted. Well, he hadn’t expected rescuing Gortok would be easy.

Intending to give Ma the flour, Malagach headed home. While he walked, he contemplated hiding places Nogarf may have chosen. Junco birds trilled from the evergreens, reminding him that an entire forest surrounded the village. Not only could Nogarf have stashed the peppers anywhere, but he was a critter caller too. That meant he could have convinced some innocent squirrel to stash the peppers in a tree, well out of a goblin’s reach.

Someone bumped Malagach’s arm, and the bowl flew out of his hands. Beige flour clouded the air.

“Oops!” Zakrog trotted past, his delighted grin proving the shove had been no accident.

For a moment, Malagach stood still amongst the raining flour and wondered if he was laying traps in the wrong fishing hole. What if Nogarf had nothing to do with the peppers, and Zakrog had indeed been the one to swipe them?

Shaking his head, Malagach returned to Shaman Otik’s hut. He had to trust his original hunch. Besides, that jolt had surprised an idea into his head. Maybe he could get Nogarf to show Malagach where the peppers were hidden.

He thrust the door flap aside, and hopped into the hut, feigning cheerfulness. “I know where the peppers are!”

He pretended to look only at Gortok, but watched Nogarf out of the corners of his eyes. Yes, that was a startled expression that flickered across the other goblin’s face.

Gortok’s pointed ears perked. “Yeah?”

“Yes, but I need help getting to them.” Malagach hoped that was true. He guessed Nogarf would have put the peppers somewhere tricky so a foraging goblin wouldn’t stumble upon them. “I’m going to the tree hut to get that one thing you made last week.”

The beginning of a perplexed expression started on Gortok’s face. Malagach widened his eyes a bit, willing his brother to understand–and play along with–the ruse.

“Sure, that’ll do the job,” Gortok said, a slight smile tugging his lips. “It’s in the crate under the rock launcher.”

“Thanks!” Malagach waved and ran outside again.

There was, of course, no ‘one thing’ that Malagach had in mind. Instead of trotting off to the tree hut, he slipped into an elderberry bush beside Shaman Otik’s hut. Sure enough, Nogarf jogged out a couple moments later. He made a beeline for the river.

Malagach clenched his fist in triumph and followed. Keeping to the undergrowth bordering the pebbly beach, he trailed at a distance. The couple times Nogarf glanced back, Malagach froze, and his green skin and tan buckskins helped him blend into the background.

The river dropped away, roaring as it entered a canyon. Trees and brambles choked the ground here, and staying out of sight was no problem. Keeping up with his target became tougher, though, and more than once Malagach feared he would lose Nogarf. Fortunately there was only one trail running through the dense foliage. To stray to the left would be to walk off a cliff and to go right would mean fighting through dense blackberry brambles.

Then Malagach spotted the other goblin. A few meters ahead, Nogarf stood, gazing up at an ancient blue spruce that towered above other trees on the cliff tops. An eagle’s nest was anchored in the tallest boughs.

Malagach stifled a groan, guessing where the peppers were hidden even before the great bird soared out of the canyon. Eagles would be migrating south soon, but for now, they remained in the area, repairing their nests for the next spring.

Malagach eased behind a lightning-scarred log. Only his eyes remained above the top as he watched.

Eyes closed, Nogarf stretched his arms toward the sky. The eagle flapped to the top of the spruce and alighted in its nest. One yellow talon reached in and lifted a beautiful red chili pepper.

Malagach held his breath. If Nogarf believed his hiding spot had been found and some contraption could be used to retrieve the peppers, maybe he would move them. If he didn’t… Malagach had no idea how he would climb to the top of that tree to get them. The branches might support an eagle, but goblins were heavier–and not particularly adroit at feats of agility.

Nogarf’s fingers twitched. The eagle tossed the pepper like it might the bones of a fish. It landed in Nogarf’s cupped hands. Five more peppers followed, the extent of the crop that had ripened in time for the Plenty-Picked. Its task complete, the eagle launched into the air, tilting a wing toward Nogarf before sailing away.

Still as a rock, Malagach waited in his hiding place. For a moment, he thought about tackling the other goblin, but what of Nogarf could call that eagle back to help? Or some other creature from the forest? Better to wait, see where Nogarf stashed the peppers next, and fetch them once he was gone.

But Nogarf turned around and looked right at Malagach’s log.

Too late, Malagach ducked his head.

“The eagle saw you Malagach,” Nogarf said, “and she shared the vision with me.”

Malagach stood up, smoothed his buckskin shirt, and straightened the fringes while he groped for a new plan. “That’s a first for me. I’ve been foiled by bullies and grownups before, but rarely wildlife.”

Nogarf looked down at the peppers in his hands. He was close to the cliff. Malagach hoped the other goblin wouldn’t throw them in the river or something drastic. Surely, if he’d meant to destroy them, he wouldn’t have hidden them to start with. Though that argument sounded reasonable to Malagach, he eased out from behind the log and took a couple steps forward.

Seeing his movement, Nogarf leaped sideways and held the peppers over the edge.

Malagach froze. He was going to have to talk those peppers to safety.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked.

“I knew it’d get your brother in trouble,” Nogarf said.

“I see,” Malagach said, though he didn’t see at all. The bullies usually picked on him, not Gortok, who–despite being just as much an oddity among goblins as Malagach–was amiable enough that he rarely rubbed folks the wrong way. “So, why’d you do it?”

Nogarf snorted. “Shaman Otik kept talking about him, praising him after he made that stupid pot stirrer. Said how maybe he’d misjudged Gortok, how he was brighter than he acted. How he’d probably even be a good shaman. And then I couldn’t get my potion to work, and…”

Now, Malagach started to see where this was going. “I bet you’re a good critter caller, huh?” There wasn’t one in their village and he didn’t know a lot about them, except that the gift was rare among goblins.

“Since I was three.” Nogarf lifted his chin. “Youngest ever goblin on the mountain to show the talent.”

“You’re kind of a genius then,” Malagach said, “and you’re probably used to being treated like one. So it’s pretty annoying when the attention you’re used to getting starts going to someone else.”

“Gortok isn’t even… I mean, who needs a gadget to stir pots?” Betrayal and anguish contorted Nogarf’s face.

“Nobody,” Malagach said. “Gor makes a lot of creative but useless stuff because… well, he’s ten. But he makes some handy contraptions too. And he’s saved me from trolls and cranky wizards and bullies–usually bullies–more times than I can count with his inventiveness. You should come visit our tree hut sometime. He designed it and built the whole thing from scratch. It’s great, too. He even made an elevator for it this spring.”

“Yeah? What’d you do?”

“I, ah, carried things,” Malagach said. “I held things, and, oh, I handed him things.”

Nogarf snorted. It might have been a short laugh.

Encouraged, Malagach added, “See, I’m used to being the less gifted one. Gortok grasps everything first. While I’m still trying to define the problem, he’s already built the solution. While I have to read something again and again to understand, he starts skimming because it’s too simple. Everything he cares about comes easily for him. And, yes, being around someone like that can be frustrating.” Malagach grimaced. “Really frustrating.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to help me toss the peppers into the river?” Nogarf asked. “We could go to the Plenty-Picked together while your brother spends the night in a corner of Shaman Otik’s hut.”

Malagach chuckled. “No, tossing the peppers would ruin the night for everyone, including me. Pepper slime punch is so delicious.” His mouth started salivating, and he had to remind himself to finish talking those peppers to safety. “Look, everyone knows cougars are powerful, graceful, agile hunters that can take a buck down alone, right? And, sure, we goblins could be envious, but we’re not. Because we know how to forage like nothing else in the forest, and we hardly ever go hungry. There’s plenty of food for everyone, regardless of their talents.”

“Just to be clear, you’re saying Gortok is like a cougar?”

“Well… it’s not a perfect analogy.”

Nogarf snorted, but he withdrew his arm, which had to be getting tired from holding those peppers over the cliff. “I talked to a cougar once and even commanded it not to eat me.”

“Really? It must have worked, since you’re here today in an uneaten state.”

“I’ll tell you more about the critters I’ve called if you show me your tree hut.”

“Deal,” Malagach said. “But let’s get those peppers back to Shaman Otik first, all right?”

#

Otik was back in the hut when Malagach and Nogarf entered. His eyes widened, and his whole face radiated pleasure when he spotted the peppers.

“You found them,” Shaman Otik said. “Where were they?”

“Uhm,” Nogarf started.

“A raccoon took them,” Malagach said.

Shaman Otik and Nogarf looked at Malagach in disbelief. Gortok, who was tinkering with something in the corner, raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Malagach said. “You know how those darned ‘coons are always filching things. It must have sneaked in last night and taken these. Fortunately, Nogarf used his critter caller powers and told that raccoon to bring the peppers out of its tree and give them to us.”

“Hunh.” Otik took the chilis from Nogarf’s hands and peered at them. “Well, look at that, they even have little claw marks on them.”

They did? Malagach stared blankly, but then realized the eagle must have scratched them with its talons.

Nogarf mouthed, “Thanks,” while Otik was busy looking at the peppers.

Malagach returned a you’re-welcome nod.

A grin split the old goblin’s weathered face. “I reckon it’s time to finish off that pepper slime punch, my young whelps.”

“Does that mean I can go to the Plenty-Picked?” Gortok popped to his feet.

“Yes.” Otik walked over, an apologetic hand extended. “I should’ve believed you. It’s just that–what did you do to my medicine basket!”

“I just improved it a bit,” Gortok said. “See that handle. When you press down on it with your foot, the lid will come up and–”

“Get out!” Shaman Otik roared.

Gortok scooted between Malagach and Nogarf and darted through the door flap.

At a more leisurely pace, Malagach and Nogarf walked outside. Gortok was skidding out of sight behind the next hut.

“Hard to believe I was envious of him, isn’t it?” Nogarf shook his head.

Malagach grinned. “His genius–and his favor with Shaman Otik–does come and go.”

THE END

“Help! Heeeeeelp!”

Malagach dropped his handful of salmonberries and perked his pointed green ears toward the shout. Tall brambles stretching across the gully blocked his view.

“It sounds like someone’s in trouble,” his brother, Gortok, said around a mouthful of berries. Pink juice ran down his chin, splotched his buckskin shirt, and even stained clumps of his rambunctious white hair.

“Thanks for decoding that cryptic call,” Malagach said.

“No problem.” Gortok grinned.

Malagach grabbed the fringes on his brother’s sleeve and dragged him toward a nearby stream. He hoped they could follow it up the gully toward the cries.

“Heeeeel–” The shout ended with a muffled grunt.

Soon they reached an open beach along the water. They crept upstream, sun-warmed pebbles pressing into their bare feet.

Not far ahead, wood snapped. The wind shifted and brought the scent of smoke.

Malagach almost stepped on a cracked clay pitcher half buried in the rocks. It seemed this was a popular camping area, for the beach was littered with broken pots and frying pans, rusted bear and beaver traps, empty tin food cans, torn and moldy sacks, and scraps of twine.

Ahead, something shook the salmonberry canes. Malagach slipped behind a rotting log. His brother flattened to the ground, camouflaged by a patch of chickweed poking through the pebbles.

Not twenty feet in front of them, a burly orc strode to the stream. It wore multiple daggers, a cutlass, and a flintlock pistol. Standing more than eight feet, the orc loomed twice the height of a goblin. Muscles bulged beneath the yellow skin of its bare arms. Finger bones dangled from the end of the orc’s long, greasy braids, and they clacked with each step. Goblin finger bones, Malagach suspected, though human and dwarf might be mixed in.

After collecting an armload of driftwood, the orc headed back toward the fire–the smoke from it was now visible over the brambles.

“Looks like he’s making lunch,” Gortok whispered.

“Probably out of whoever was yelling,” Malagach muttered.

“Think that ‘whoever’ is still alive?”

“We’ll find out.”

Malagach chose a path near the brambles, using the canes as overhead cover. The campsite came into view, a cleared area where the foliage had been slashed back. In the center, a fledgling fire burned. A massive wooden spit stood over it with a human boy tied to the center. A gag across his mouth kept him from crying out as he had before. The boy’s shoulders flexed as he struggled, but coils of rope secured him.

“Uh oh,” Gortok whispered.

The orc piled branches onto the fire, building up the flames. Malagach swallowed and backed away so he could talk to his brother.

“We have to rescue him,” he said. “Or that orc is going to roast him alive. And–” Malagach brightened, “–this is our chance to be heroes, not just lowly goblin whelps foraging for food and doing chores for Ma. Real heroes, like Jamseth the Bold.”

“And Doroth the Wicked,” Gortok said.

Malagach frowned. “Doroth is the villain.”

“Yeah, but he’s a scientist and an engineer, and he builds really neat things. In their last story, he made black powder out of charcoal and sulfur and his own urine and blasted his way out of the cave Jamseth trapped him in. How brilliant is that?”

“That explosion blew up several innocent miners. Really, Gor, you concern me at times.”

“Jamseth just stabs bad guys with swords,” Gortok said. “That’s boring.”

“All right, let’s save the boy before we get into this debate again. You go make a distraction, and I’ll run in and untie him.”

“The kind of distraction where the orc ends up chasing me all over the forest, throwing knives and shooting at me with his pistol, and you don’t get so much as a scrape?”

“Yes, that’ll work,” Malagach said.

Gortok snorted. “Give me a couple minutes, and I’ll make a distraction that goes off by itself.”

“Oh, very well.”

Gortok picked up trash along the beach. The cracked pitcher, tin cans, a rusted-out beaver trap, and the frying pan all went into his arms.

With no idea what his brother meant to do, Malagach could only wait. He checked the bone knife he carried. Meant only for day-to-day utility use, it was no weapon, but it was sharp enough to cut rope without trouble. As long as he had a few minutes. There was a lot of rope binding that boy.

Gortok placed a rotten board across a log and waved for Malagach to come over.

“Fill the pitcher,” Gortok said.

He was piling the debris he had gathered on one end of the board.

“It’s cracked,” Malagach said. “It’ll leak.”

“I know.”

Shrugging, Malagach toted the large pitcher to the stream and filled it to the brim. Before he returned to the log, water was already dribbling from the base.

Gortok placed it on the opposite end of the board. He adjusted the weight on the side piled with trash until he had created a balanced teeter totter.

“Ah.” Now Malagach understood.

When enough water leaked out of the pitcher, the weight would become heavier on the loaded side, and the pan and tins would topple to the ground. The racket ought to be enough to encourage the orc to investigate.

“Ready,” Gortok whispered.

He and Malagach took a roundabout way back to the camp, sneaking in on the side opposite the stream. They crouched behind the brambles to wait, the fire partially visible through the leaves and berries.

The orc had piled more wood and brambles onto the fire, and the flames were licking higher now. Plumes of smoke rose from green canes. The boy wasn’t moving, and Malagach’s stomach sank. What if he was already…

The boy coughed. It was a weak sound, muffled by the gag, but at least he was alive.

“When will your distraction topple?” Malagach whispered.

A crash came from the beach.

“About now,” Gortok said.

The orc’s head jerked up. It grabbed its pistol and ran toward the stream.

Malagach and Gortok sprinted into the camp. Malagach sawed at the ropes, while Gortok kicked the logs to disrupt the fire, and soon they were dragging the boy away. Smoke-teared eyes blinked blearily as the human focused on his saviors. Fortunately, he had his wits enough to get his feet beneath him and run.

They darted through the brambles, eventually coming out upstream. Malagach led the others into the water to hide their tracks. A distant roar, echoing through the gully, promised the orc had discovered his empty dinner spit. Malagach did not slow until they climbed a rocky hill that took them out of the gully and gave them a view to the rear. They left the water and gathered under a pine tree, all three leaning over and panting.

“I’m Malagach,” he introduced himself, “And this is Gortok.”

The boy scowled and kicked a pinecone. Then he whirled and rammed his shoulder into the tree.

“Our names don’t usually inspire such vehemence,” Malagach said.

“Though sometimes our actions do,” Gortok said. “What’s your name Tall and Furious?”

At an inch or two above five feet, the boy probably wouldn’t be considered tall by human standards, but even slouching and surly, he stood more than a foot over Malagach and Gortok.

“Robhart,” he muttered. “And I failed.”

“You failed to get eaten,” Malagach said, a little disgruntled that the boy had not thanked them. The folks Jamseth the Bold rescued always gushed gratitude all over him. Of course, he was tall, muscular, dashing, and human. Maybe it was hard to gush over someone short and green? “You’re welcome,” he said anyway.

“Thanks,” Robhart muttered, apparently guilted into the word. Then he blurted, “I lost my sword, I didn’t defeat the orc, and now I’m not going to be trained as a blade master.” Another pinecone succumbed to the boy’s angry foot.

Malagach was debating on walking away and leaving the human to sulk, but Robhart wasn’t done talking.

“There’s four of us, see, all competing to become Errath Dragondancer’s apprentice. In his youth, he was the best swordsman in the Kingdom, a great hero! Now he’s the best trainer in Harborview, but he only takes on one apprentice at a time. If I don’t come back with a lock of hair to prove I can kill an orc, I don’t have a chance. It’s a test, you see.”

“Kill an orc?” Gortok asked. “How long have you been training?”

“Since the beginning of summer.”

“Two months?” Malagach’s eyebrows rose.

“Technically, six and a half weeks.”

“And you’re supposed to kill an orc?” Gortok’s eyebrows climbed even higher than Malagach’s.

“Orcs are some of the best fighters, mercenaries, and bounty hunters in the mountains,” Malagach said. “They’re not that smart, but I saw one shoot a troll in the eye at two hundred paces.”

“I have to kill one,” Robhart said. “Otherwise, I’ll never be a sword master and I’ll never be a hero.”

“You can be a hero without being a sword master,” Gortok said. “Me and Mal are gonna be heroes.”

“You’re goblins,” Robhart said.

“So? We rescued you.”

“Goblins can’t be heroes. They’re short and green and, and… goblins.”

“So?” Gortok said again.

“Maybe you could be a sidekick,” Robhart said.

“Gee,” Malagach said, exchanging eye rolls with his brother when the boy wasn’t looking.

“I have to get this apprenticeship,” Robhart said. “My grandma died this spring, and I’ve got no one left to live with. I have to do this, and I can. I know it. I’m one of four left of the thirty who started with Errath at the beginning of the summer. This is the final test. Be the first to defeat an orc, and win a three-year apprenticeship.”

“Wait,” Malagach said, “do you have to kill an orc, defeat it, or just find some hair?”

“Yeah,” Gortok said, “because I reckon you can get some hair without plunging a sword into anyone’s heart.”

Robhart’s eyes shifted up and to the side as he recited from memory: “The first of you to defeat an orc and return to camp with a clump of its hair shall become my apprentice.”

“Defeat doesn’t mean kill necessarily,” Malagach said. “It just means to win victory over. To outmaneuver. To get the better of. To–”

“We got it,” Gortok said. “My brother reads dictionaries,” he added for Robhart’s benefit.

Robhart tilted his head and seemed to truly look at Malagach and Gortok for the first time. “You’re not like city goblins I’ve met.”

“Actually,” Malagach said, “we’re not particularly like mountain goblins either.”

“Ma says we’re especial,” Gortok said.

Malagach looked at his brother. “When did she say that?”

“Last month, when I added that extendable door-flap opener to the hut.”

“The thing she tripped over in the middle of the night?” Malagach asked. “I believe what she said was we were especially trying.”

Gortok shrugged blithely.

“Maybe…” Robhart said, “maybe you’re right. I assumed we had to kill an orc, but it does sound a tad challenging for a new student. Maybe I just have to prove I can get the best of an orc. But how would I get a clump of hair without fighting for it?”

“Lots of ways,” Gortok said. “You could wait until it’s asleep, you could–”

Malagach jabbed an elbow into his brother’s side. “This is Robhart’s test. Let him come up with a solution.”

“Defeating a sleeping orc doesn’t sound very sportsman like,” Robhart said. “But maybe if something was distracting the orc, I could snip off a piece of its hair without it knowing.”

Gortok nodded approval. “Now you’re thinking like a goblin!”

Judging by the expression Robhart made, it wasn’t clear he felt that a compliment.

 

#

 

“How did I end up as bait?” Malagach muttered as he decided how best to accidentally stumble into view of the orc’s camp. “I’m not the one trying to become a sword master’s apprentice.”

He refused to admit that maybe he had been disgruntled by Robhart’s insistence that goblins couldn’t be heroes, and maybe he was trying to prove he was just as capable as a human. Or maybe he was just being foolish.

The campfire still burned, and the orc was cleaning his musket, perhaps preparing to hunt for another meal. Wouldn’t he just love a tasty bit of goblin flesh?

Malagach jogged down the beach and tripped, falling in front of the camp. The orc lunged to its feet, musket in hand.

“Oh, no!” Malagach cried, pretending to have just seen the orc.

He skittered back, eyes wide, and took off back upstream. As soon as he was sure the orc was following, he darted into the salmonberry brambles. Heavy footfalls sounded behind, and his foe scattered pebbles with each long stride.

Canes grasped at Malagach’s buckskins, and the small thorns dragged across his face and hands, drawing blood. Still, his size was an advantage in the brambles. He wormed his way along small animal trails, while the orc had to plow through, hacking a path with its cutlass.

When Malagach escaped the thicket, he paused a few feet away to make sure the orc was not far behind. Rattling canes announced its approach. Malagach forced himself to wait until the orc was almost out. He started running again, now on an oft-used dirt trail winding through fir trees.

A roar sounded–the orc had spotted him.

Even though Malagach knew he was playing a role, and Gortok and Robhart were ready to help, there was still a chance this could go woefully wrong. He did not have to feign the sweat dripping down his face nor the rapid heartbeat battering his ribcage.

Soon Malagach rounded a bend and came to a mulberry tree with branches arching over the trail. He glanced up. At first, he did not spot any goblin-toned green in the branches, but then Gortok waved.

When Malagach passed a certain rock, he leapt, skipping over a meter of normal-looking trail. Mulberries squished under his bare feet when he landed. All he had to do was keep running, and the others would do the rest.

Then he tripped.

It was not a fake fall this time. His toe caught a root, and he pitched to the ground hard, twisting his ankle.

“Ayke!” he cried as pain shot up his leg.

The pounding footsteps of the orc sounded right behind. Malagach looked back. It was rushing at him, cutlass raised. If the trap didn’t work…

Malagach got his knees under him and forced weight onto his ankle. Agony flared. The orc was practically on top of him. Gritting his teeth, Malagach hobbled forward. Too slow, he thought, too slow.

He glanced back again.

Just before the orc reached the rock marker, Gortok dropped a moldy, leaf-filled sack dangling from twine. It bounced in front of the orc’s face.

The cutlass slashed, cleaving the sack in two, but it was their enemy’s legs that Malagach watched. The distraction startled the orc into a stutter step that broke its long strides. Its lead foot landed on one of the concealed bear traps.

Iron jaws snapped shut, entrapping the orc’s ankle.

It howled with surprise and whipped the cutlass across in front of it, swatting ineffectively at the air. Robhart slid in from behind, reached up, and slashed a braid.

“Let’s go!” Malagach barked.

Gortok leapt from the tree, Robhart dodged the orc’s backward flail, and Malagach hobbled after the others as fast as he could. They tore off toward the water, slogging upstream to hide their tracks again.

That old trap, with its rusted and missing teeth, would not hold the orc long. Luckily, it seemed to have lost its will to deal with the youngsters, for they neither heard nor spotted pursuit.

Well away from the gully, they stopped to rest.

“That was right convincing, Mal,” Gortok said.

“Yeah, nice trip.” Robhart grinned. “That wasn’t part of the plan, but it really fooled the orc. You could see the blood hunger in his eyes when he thought he was going to get you.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Malagach hid his shudder. “I knew it would add realism.”

The others had been running ahead of him, and it seemed they had not noticed his limping gait. He pretended to lean casually against the tree, which let him take most of the weight off that leg. He was pretty sure heroes weren’t supposed to trip and fall.

Smiling, Robhart held the greasy braid aloft, two knucklebones clacking.

“What a lovely trophy,” Malagach murmured.

“Thanks, greenies,” Robhart said. “When I finish my sword training and I’m ready to go out adventuring, maybe I’ll come find you.”

“Recruiting sidekicks already?” Gortok asked.

“Nah, you two are all right. Heroic even. We can have some adventures together.”

Malagach and Gortok shared a look. Not bad. They had convinced one human boy that goblins could be heroes. Just the rest of the world to go.

“Of course, the stories told about us would have to be named after me, and I’d be the star,” Robhart said. “The hero, the main hero, can’t be a goblin.”

“Why not?” Gortok asked.

Robhart chuckled. “Who’d want to hear stories just about goblins?” He waved a quick goodbye and hustled off to turn in his orc hair.

Malagach and Gortok stared after the human.

“I’m middling sure people wouldn’t mind stories about us,” Gortok said. “Me, for sure.”

“Why you?” Malagach asked.

“I’m the cute, lovable, especial one.”

“That was especially trying,” Malagach reminded his brother.

“Close enough.” Gortok winked.

THE END