It was also the only goblin reel I knew, and I hoped it was a good one. Goblin music used five notes for a scale instead of the six and seven I’d been trained on and tended to a lot of thumping at the belly of your instrument and stamping to punctuate the point. My skinny human feet weren’t up to the task, but Snikkle, upon hearing the melody, took up the stomping parts for me.

Nargle stopped halfway between the archway and the stewpot. Long-term cinnamon addiction stained his nose and lips a rust color. “Heel Stomp Higgle!” he shouted with booming delight as his fist-sized toes started twitching in time to the reel.

Zareb struggled between the cage bars which had wrapped themselves around the hard-plate armored torso. Microfractures feathered across the bones hugging him, and as he thrashed, the fractures slowly spread. Very slowly. Considering the amount of magic the cage had to have absorbed over the weeks or months, or all gods forbid, years of use, I couldn’t guess how long it would take for Zareb to weaken them enough to get the rest of himself through. Worse, his massive broadsword was stuck in its scabbard, mid-draw, pommel had caught on the wrong side of the bone.

I sped up the reel, and Snikkle and Nargle danced towards each other in the middle of the floor. Nargle’s vigorous stomping made the stool wobble as passed it, hands extended to Snikkle, who leaped towards him, giggling like a goblin half her age.

I slowly walked away from the bone cage, ignoring Zareb’s shouts to come back and condemnations that cowardice was the sin of a masterless dog. This oath made little sense to me, having run into a particularly vicious pack of stray terriers a few years back, after getting chased out of my inn by an angry blacksmith who thought I’d sweet-talked his swain from him. I hadn’t. But there were times for reason and there were times for running.

Once I was far enough away from the cage to call Mischief, I sent out a tendril of my limited mana to the spirit in offering. I’d found the spirit-bound lute in a shop a few years ago. The lute had a curse on it, the shopkeeper had warned me. Anyone who upset the spirit inside would come to a terrible end.

I understood then why the shopkeeper’s clothing and business were in such profound disrepair. We chatted. He’d inherited the place and desperately wanted to sell it, and after a few pints at the local inn, I found him a buyer, and he gave me the lute as a thank you. “It’s not that bad. Just be kind to it,” he said.

So I was, and me and the curious spirit inside, who I’d named Mischief, got on well. It probably helped that I never gave orders. As I played, I let my vision blur as I turned my attention inwards.

Mischief?

A nervous flurry of chimes sounded in my mind. Mischief, like most spirits, communicated through feelings and images–in its case, punctuated by musical notes–rather than words.

We’re out of that nasty cage. I sent it an image of the bars and the feeling of hunger.

Mischief chimed understanding and a recommendation we flee.

Need help. Fun! And I sent the next suggestion, showing the most helpful–and humorous–outcome.

Bells sounded in my mind as Mischief sounded agreement and amusement. I gave Mischief some mana, and the spirit rose through the strings of the lute, sending out tendrils of itself which formed into a hand.

The hand was only visible to the user of the lute and those with spirit eyes. There probably was a spell too for seeing it too, but I wasn’t a wizard. Even the handful of bardic spells my master had, grudgingly, drilled into my brain were trivial. Family connections more than talent had gotten me into the Bardic Academy, and even with my best effort, I wasn’t booksmart. Let alone spell smart. But when Mischief and I worked together, the spirit did the heavy lifting.

I sped up the reel again, and Snikkle and Nargle leapt, spun, stamped, and twirled. Nargle sucked in large gasps of air, shouting, “Hup! Hup! Hup!” as he threw Snikkle into the air.

Snikkle yelped, arms flailing, but Nargle caught her and, after whirling her around once more, set her with more care than I’d expected.

Still, Snikkle now looked a good deal yellower than was healthy for her kind, and she staggered, swallowing down hard. I hoped she didn’t spew.

Mischief floated towards the ring of keys half hanging out from the bulging pocket of Snikkle’s gown. Nargle grabbed Snikkle’s hands again. I slowed my playing. Snikkle rocked like she was clinging to the prow of a ship in choppy waters.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Nargle slipped two fat sausage fingers under her chin. “Snikkle sick?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Snikkle swallowed again. “Snikkle good,” she said, though the yellow pallor of her skin made me think this was a lie.

“This strange food,” Nargle said. “Almost person is.”

“Almost,” Snikkle said. “And skinny, small meat. I keep? Make fat first? He all for us play while wait get fat?” Her question trilled querulously.

“Snikkle big heart has,” Nargle said, draping an arm over her shoulder to pull her close.

I missed civilized goblins. Mischief pulled the keys free and floated them towards me. Unfortunately, Zareb didn’t speak Goblin, so I couldn’t just float the keys over to him and hope they worked without the keyword. I snatched the keys from the air. With only one hand fingering, the tune went sour, and Nargle turned to glare at me.

I smiled. “Sorry,” I said, hoping he was too addled to notice the giant ring of keys around my wrist.

His expression darkened–literally going from new-leaf to forest green–and he threw Snikkle aside to charge me.

“Ooooooow!” Snikkle screeched.

I dashed for the cage. One good thing about abject terror is it shrinks your bits right up and even tucks them in a little. Mischief did much the same, sucking the parts of its essence it has used to form the hand into the lute and curling up in its protective stone. When I reached the cage, I fumbled at the keys, grabbing the smallest bone one and shouting in Goblin “Stupid Door Make Open!”

Hopefully, the words were enough, and it didn’t need an actual goblin to work. I didn’t think I could get Nargle to go along with it. Or even Snikkle, as kindly as her offer was to keep me around as a musical cow until she’d fattened me up enough for the slaughter.

But thankfully, the bones on either side of Zareb started pulling apart. Zareb, freed, hit the ground with a clangy thunk. I ran along the side of the cage towards Eira, hoping to use the key to make a second opening. Zareb was unstuck, kneeling at the threshold, gripping his broadsword, but the opening wasn’t wide enough for Eira to squeeze around him easily.

And now that the fighting had started, I was about as useful as you’d expect of a naked bard. A naked journeying bard whose spells and skills mostly centered on wooing interesting women. And the occasional man. And some folks in between. The key to a good life is to keep your options open.

“Stupid Door Make Open!” I shouted, banging at the bone bars closest to Eira. They started shaking and pulling apart, just as more shouts sounded from behind me. Goblin shouting. An arrow whizzed past my shoulder, through the cage, to thunk against the wall on the other side. I dropped, sliding the key along the widening bar of the bone cage, keeping the contact up long enough for Eira to get through. Thankfully, she was smaller than Zareb, so when the next volley of arrows and spears flew towards us, she’d gotten around me, chanting, and making hand motions.

I crouched behind Eira, my lute knocking against my back. The young noblemen I’d grown up with, second sons and knight types mostly, got touchy about “hiding behind a woman’s skirts.” A lot of them are dead now. I, on the other hand, had managed a long, happy life with minimal scars and all my bits intact by hiding behind anyone or anything willing to take an arrow for me. Or a knife. Or a sword.

So, I huddled behind Eira with no shame as she yanked her glove off and swept her bare hand in front of us. A gust of frigid air blasted from it, sweeping away arrows, spears, and knocking Nargle off his feet. At the archway, five more goblins and another hobgoblin, staggered as icy wind shoved them back.

This close to Eira, I felt the chill coming from her. Ice crystals sprouted in her spiked hair as her skin, already pale, took on a blueish cast. The wind gust slid the cauldron aside and quelled the fire beneath. It sputtered, steaming, as the cauldron teetered.

Snikkle, leaning against the wall opposite the cauldron, shouted, “Soup!” She dashed towards the cauldron, but slipped, careening into Nargle. Ice crusted the hobgoblin’s body and face. Huge shivers wracked his body, and the sound of cracking ice was like a lake melting in spring. Zareb crossed to him in five strides, broadsword out, and slammed it into the hobgoblin’s throat.

Blood spurted from the wound. Unlike in tales, most creatures, except dragons and certain dryads, bleed red. And Zareb’s blade had clearly nicked the jugular as it crushed through the hobgoblin’s throat, splatting red over his gleaming silver helmet.

Nargle gargled, his last effort an abortive attempt to clutch at his bleeding neck as his eyes went blank.

Snikkle screamed Nargle’s name and a curse for her ruined stew, the words falling into an incoherent wail of mourning mixed with frustration.

Zareb said, “Let us go!” waving for Eira and me to follow. Well, it might have just been Eira, but we could argue about that later. If there was a later. My feet throbbed as I crossed the icy floor. I made it to the door just as Zareb started hacking through regular goblins. Eira threw a monstrous splinter of ice through another hobgoblin’s chest, felling him.

While Zareb and Eira finished off the last two goblins, I knelt beside the dead hobgoblin. He wore a leather skirt. It was ugly and smelled of rotten eggs, but a leather rope held it up at the waist. That would do. I didn’t bother with the weapons. The spear was as tall as I was, and its bow looked like it would take two Zarebs to pull. I was half a Zareb at best.

It took a little doing to get the skirt off the dead hobgoblin. Clearly it had died scared too, as its bits were shrunken. Either that or they were just that small. If so, that added a new perspective to my winter with Fireheart Korma.

Once I got the leather skirt tied around my waist, I stood. With the rope tied double, it stayed on, barely. The segmented leather strips hung just above my ankles.

With a grunt and swing, Zareb hacked through the last of the goblins. “Come on,” he said, and we took off through the archway.