A broad cave spread out around me and firelight flickered on the walls. Voices raised in song and laughter rose from below and, if my ears did not deceive me, I thought I caught the familiar clink of pewter mugs. Things were looking up.
Briefly. The moment I made my appearance on the stairs, a strange hush fell on the chamber. Faces turned toward me and the last patterings of speech trickled into nothing but the roar of the fire. Their gazes fell on me and held me, their eyes burning quietly and their mouths closed. Somewhere one of their immense bears growled.
I faltered, and then, seeing Mithos turn back toward me, continued my descent, slowly, watchfully.
“Come on, Will,” said Mithos, with a deliberation which refused to acknowledge the change in the assembly’s demeanor. “Let’s get you a drink.”
I looked at him expressionlessly and stepped down, half expecting the two of us to be overwhelmed in a rush of hostile goblins overturning tables and chairs, shrieking and raising heavy, cruel weapons.
Instead, the swell of conversation grew again, gradually at first, returning to normal in a matter of seconds. The goblins turned back to their food and to each other and soon after that there was singing and the sound of a small harp.
I gave Mithos a hard stare as soon as the last face was turned from us. “What the hell was that? Are you so sure these are the good guys? They look like the only reason they haven’t slit my throat yet is because they’re saving me for dessert.”
“Cut it out, Will,” said Mithos, stern now.
“They aren’t exactly rolling out the red carpet. .” I began.
“Do you know how many of them you killed when you came with Renthrette to the Falcon’s Nest?” said Mithos, his eyes glittering hard and black.
“We came to rescue you!”
“And did it never occur to you that we might not need rescuing?”
“No!” I said loudly. “No, it bloody didn’t. And you know why? Because these half-animal degenerates attacked us in the mountains and did their best to kill us all. You have a pretty damn funny way of picking friends. Is it part of your bloody adventurer’s code? Do I have to hack one of your legs off before you’ll consider me a buddy, too? With friends like this, who needs. .”
He stepped up close enough that I could feel his breath on my face when he whispered, “Do you remember how that fight started, Will?”
I said nothing.
“It started,” he said in the same scarily hushed tone, “when you assumed that the beasts that had come into the cave had come to attack us, and you threw a stone.”
“A pack of wolves and some grizzlies marched into the place we were bedding down! What did you expect me to do? Offer them tea?”
“I’m just saying that you started it, and it might have gone differently. If we hadn’t given Sorrail an excuse to ‘rescue’ us, we might have all gotten a clearer perspective on this thing. . ”
“Oh, of course!” I shouted suddenly. “It’s my fault! How very surprising. When in doubt, blame Hawthorne. Thanks for the encouragement, Mithos. I’ll tell you what; I’ll just go and drown myself in the swamp, save everyone the trouble.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“Fine. Go and drown yourself. You know where the stairs are.”
“What,” I stuttered, “now?”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Will,” said Mithos, walking away.
I had a good mind to go right back up, but it was damn cold outside and wandering around the swamp at night-or, more likely, sitting sulking just out of sight of the stairway-wasn’t what you might call a grand night out. If I didn’t manage to drown myself as threatened, I’d probably get eaten by something long and slippery. At least the goblins had a fire. I’d stay right where I was. That would show them.
It turned out they had a good deal more than just a fire. They had a banquet including roast pork, two kinds of wine, and three kinds of beer. Initially, of course, it was all dust and ashes in my mouth, torn as I was between doubt and misery, guilt and anger, but that passed fairly quickly for reasons that will become rapidly apparent. The pig was stuffed with rosemary and sage and was served with a thick fruit-based sauce. There were half a dozen different cheeses, all excellent, ranging from a firm-fleshed but delicate yellow smoked to a full-bodied blue that you could cut with your finger. There was some kind of venison pâté served with crusty bread, and mushrooms stuffed and sautéed with buckets of garlic. There was a pot of highly spiced beans that warmed me more than the fire.
And then there was the beer. After the gnat’s piss they drank in Phasdreille, this was like liquid divinity. One was a lager, golden and sharp with a hoppy aftertaste that woke you up and suggested another mug. There was also an ale: nut-brown and rich with a hint of spice, like afternoon light on a leather chair. Lastly, there was a stout, full bodied and velvet-smooth, black and opaque with a head like fresh cream. I had one of each, and by the time I had gone back for seconds, I was slipping my arm around the shoulders of the meanest-looking goblins and suggesting we play some cards. I took another mouthful of the herbed pork, swilled it down with a gulp of ale, and the idea that these good fellows around me could possibly be the enemy faded like a memory from childhood. And in my inebriated state, oscillating between sublime insight and rank stupidity, the quality of the goblins’ beer seemed like a perfectly good reason to switch sides in a war.
The following morning, I still wasn’t sure if that last thought had been genius or insanity. Last night I had felt at one with the goblins and with the cosmos generally, which is something good beer often does to me. Today, waking bleary-eyed with a dull ache in my temples, cold in my bones, and with a company of goblins about me, some of whom still shot me looks that would have skewered a horse, I wasn’t so sure. In my lowest moments, I reflected that climbing into a leaky stone pit under a marsh with a goblin army, complete with its bear mounts and wolf scouts, was rather like smearing myself with honey and then sitting on a wasps’ nest, though these wasps had stingers several feet long. This wouldn’t have bothered me so much if the goblin community as a whole had been busily extending the hand of friendship, but no one wished me good morning and suggested hangover remedies. Nobody brought me breakfast, showed me the way to a freshwater spring outside in the swamp-forest, or told me where I could best relieve myself without nettling my bum. Conversations would peter out as I walked by, and small, slanted eyes would follow my path with, if not actual hostility, then at least suspicion. Once one of them muttered to his companion and felt the edge of his knife thoughtfully. I found myself walking aimlessly around and staying out of the way, afraid that falling asleep or bumping into someone would give them the opportunity or motive to slit me some new orifices. In the circumstances, how I felt about them hardly seemed relevant.
Orgos thought otherwise, but rather than lecture me himself, he called over a gaunt-looking goblin with brownish skin and lively green eyes. “This is Toth,” said Orgos. “He is a worthy soldier and a respected bear-rider. Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, turning to the goblin, “wants to know why your people do not regard him favorably.”
The goblin turned to me and shrugged expressively. “They see the way you look at them,” he said, in a gruff voice that sounded like it should come from a larger frame, “and they remember your attack on the Falcon’s Nest. Some of them may have respect for what you were trying to do, but it is grudging at best. You fought for their enemy, an enemy that has stolen everything from them and set out to wipe them out utterly. You can see why they are a little leery of you. Let me see your sword.”