The men around the central hearth—the most senior sprawling on the platform itself, on furs, youngsters sitting on its edge or squatting on the floor—were all busily rubbing grease on themselves or on one another, combing and greasing their hair.
The goblin chief was a middle-aged man, potbellied and thinshanked, but bearing himself like one who accepts no questions. His facial tattoos were richer and more complex than anyone else’s, his rope of hair was streaked in silver, and he wore a necklace of many strands of bear claws, which clicked and clacked when he moved. He reclined beside Darad and the two of them monopolized the conversation.
Darad was a guest. No one offered Rap a drink, or even a fur. Was he guest or captive? He might even be a slave if Darad had given him to the chief. It was hardly flattering to be second choice to two horses, but perhaps that was a realistic evaluation.
Meanwhile he could only sit and shiver in cold and fear and lonely silence. He ought to say a prayer or two, but he wasn’t much of a praying man and it seemed shameful to change now, when he was in trouble, after so seldom offering thanks for the good life he had enjoyed back in Krasnegar. The Gods might feel that his ingratitude was being well rewarded. If he’d done some serious praying sooner, he might have known that stealing the king’s horses was very wrong behavior.
In the end he decided it would be all right to ask the God of Courage to send him strength to endure whatever was coming.
Darad was holding forth, waving his beaker with one hand and pointing to his various scars and tattoos with the other. The goblins listened intently, seeming impressed. Rap began to catch some of the language, especially Darad’s words, and the name Wolf Tooth kept recurring. He concluded that this must be Darad’s goblin name and he was talking of himself, telling of Wolf Tooth’s triumphs and all the various tribes he belonged to worldwide, as evidenced by his tattoos. Sysanasso was mentioned.
So were murder and rape. Quite evidently Darad was a horror, as different from the gentle, sociable Andor as it was possible for man to be. Yet if a quarter of his tales were true he had traveled as widely as Andor had. He was also a braggart and probably stupid, but the goblins did not seem to mind that. After a while the women began to bring their menfolk dishes of food. Rap sat and watched them gorge. His mouth watered, hoping someone might think to throw it a bone.
The dogs snored and twitched in their dreams. Rap was weary, but fear and cold kept him alert. He wondered why women so greatly outnumbered the men. Scanning the other buildings with farsight, he saw that there the numbers were more even; girls in one, boys in the other. The difference was the adult men, therefore, and a reasonable guess would be that a war party was out raiding somewhere.
From time to time women would slip out the door and come back with more wood for the two monstrous fires. They at least wore robes, but men wandering out to relieve themselves did not bother to dress, although even the thought of going out unclothed into that unbelievable cold made Rap shudder. The buckskins that the goblins had worn earlier were much flimsier than his furs, so obviously goblins felt cold much less than faun-jotunn halfbreeds did, and the hearth was a place of honor, rather than of comfort.
The meal was finished. The drinking continued. After an hour or two, the chief looked across toward Rap and asked Darad something. Darad grinned and beckoned. Reluctant, feeling horribly embarrassed and vulnerable in his state of undress, Rap rose and advanced to the edge of the ring of junior goblins sprawled around the hearth.
His hosts inspected him with curiosity, with amusement, then with contemptuous comments that he could not catch. There was laughter. He knew he must look strange to them—the reverse of the way they looked to him. He would seem a very pale brown, very stringy, and too tall. His tussock of unruly brown hair would be entertaining, also. The minstrel Jalon had told him that fauns had hairy legs, and certainly Rap’s legs had been busily growing hairy recently. They obviously amused the goblins.
But evidently he had overlooked the feature that amused them most. The chief said something that provoked especially loud laughter. Darad’s reply brought more.
He leered at Rap. “The chief offered to give me your nose, because mine is broken. I said mine was still prettier.” He laughed again and took another drink.
The goblins all had wide, plump faces, but their noses were thin and very long. They also had big ears.
“When do I get to eat?” Rap asked.
Darad showed his tooth gap in another leer. “Why waste good food?”
“What’s going to happen, then?” Even if courage was important, Rap just could not feel courageous, but now anger was coming to his aid. If they were going to kill him, he would rather they got started than just left him in suspense.
Again that wolfish grin. “Wait and see! I wouldn’t want to spoil your surprise.”
The chief turned and grunted an order. One of the youngest men sprang up and ran along the big room and out the door. As Rap watched with farsight, he hurried to the smallest building, the one where the boys and youths of the tribe were sitting or lying around a fireplace. There seemed to be one grown man there, perhaps a supervisor, and he now rose to follow the chief’s messenger. Yet, while the messenger ran back, the newcomer took his time, idly kicking snow with his bare feet, brazenly strolling through that deadly arctic cold while clad in nothing but a strip of deer hide.
He sauntered into the hall and up to the fireplace, folded his arms, and looked expectantly at the chief. He was not a grown man, but not far off it; about Rap’s age, almost as tall and twice the depth, a barrel-chested, powerful youth; as big as any goblin in the room. He already had more moustache than most, and the black rope of his hair hung almost to his waist. There were no tattoos on his wide, ugly face, but there was much arrogance.
The chief said something. The youth looked Rap over and then grinned hugely with his oversized teeth. He held a meaty arm against one of Rap’s to allow a comparison. The audience exploded in appreciative laughter.
“This is Little Chicken,” Darad explained helpfully. “High Raven’s son. You’ll be seeing more of him in future. More than you want, I fancy!” He laughed and then translated his joke for the benefit of the audience. They found it equally amusing.
High Raven must be the chief. That and his size explained this youngster’s superior air.
“Do I have to fight him?” Rap demanded, uneasily studying Little Chicken’s impressively thick limbs and chest.
“Just hold your end up!” Darad said, laughing again.
The chief snapped an order. Little Chicken nodded and grabbed Rap’s wrist. The goblins respected courage; Rap felt pushed beyond all endurance by this mockery and ill treatment. He jerked his arm away and swung a fast punch with his other hand.
He hit nothing. He had no time to register the horrifying implications of that failure before Little Chicken doubled him over with a left hook in the belly and then flattened him to the floor with a thump on the back of his head. Dimly he heard the audience erupt in screams of mirth.
Little Chicken might be shorter, but obviously his greater weight was combined with much greater speed. He kicked at Rap to drive home the point and his father shouted what sounded like a warning. So Little Chicken casually knelt, tucked Rap under one arm, and rose to wander away while the spectators were still bellowing and hooting and rolling around on the platform.
Hands and feet trailing on the gritty snow, Rap was borne ignominiously over to the boys' building and dumped in a corner. The boys clustered around to inspect the dazed and still nauseated captive. They found him just as entertaining as their elders had done.