We made haste. As I gripped at a pair of leather straps criss-crossing Xy’lint’s back, my legs hugged his body in the most awkward piggy-back of my life. Goblin shouts echoed down the corridors behind us. I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder and catching a glimpse of one of the Rat Sniffers

Mastiff was an understatement.

Larendil led us, map in hand. Eira next, and Zareb took the rear. Despite zher size, Xy’lint was shockingly silent. Unfortunately, nothing made Zareb’s running in plate quiet. If it wasn’t for the goblin’s shouting and trying–and failing–to keep the chain-leashed Sniffer Rats from tangling around each other as they fought each other and their handlers to get through the door to their now frozen treats, we’d have been seen for sure.

One benefit of calling all the angry hunter rats to your previous location is there aren’t any around to track you to the next one. Clinging to Xy’lint’s wide, scaly neck, I was easily able to see ahead of us and behind.

We passed a pair of goblins in a corner, licking cinnamon off each other’s faces in an odd parody of a kiss. Though their ears twitched towards us, both were too focused on each other to look up even once.

As we ran, the walls grew lighter and dryer, revealing large clay blocks sealed together by a sandy grout. And the corridors straightened, the turns coming at perfect forty-give degree angles.

We approached another turn, and Larendil held her hand up, five fingers outspread. Eira did the same, slowing, and Xy’lint’s back and shoulder muscles shifted beneath me, and I rocked with them, like a lost sailor clinging to driftwood on the open sea. Zareb’s boots scraped, his mail clanking, as he stopped behind us.

Larendil gestured towards the corner and put her fingers to her lips, held two fingers to her eyes, pointed to Eira before tapping her own chest.

Eira nodded.

Then Larendil pointed at me.

I shook my head.

Larendil nodded and pointed to the ground. Before I could protest, Xy’lint lowered zherself and tilted, sliding me off. I glared at Xy’lint for a second, and then zhe met my gaze, and I remembered how many teeth zhe had peeking out through its oddly smiling snout and figured I’d better see what Larendil wanted.

The half-elf leaned towards me and whispered, “One guard. Hobgoblin. You can talk to them, right?”

I nodded.

“Good. Wait thirty seconds and follow me. We need to be sure this is the right portal and find out if there are any surprises.”

That was a terrible idea. I shook my head and opened my mouth, then closed it, pointed at the door, then mimed shouting and waving my arms.

Larendil handed me a small pouch. In it were two sticks of cinnamon. She pushed it into my hands.

This was a slightly less terrible idea. The hobgoblin would want to get the cinnamon from me before calling for backup. Of course, it would take three seconds for a hobgoblin to break me into tiny pieces.

Once again, I considered the sniffer rats and the goblin stewpot.

At least, theoretically, this should be a goblin I hadn’t pissed off yet. I could work with that.

Larendil stepped away from me and padded silently down the hall towards the turn. She seemed to fade into the shadows as she moved. It didn’t feel like a spell exactly, more that she had a sense of where and how to step to minimize her notice. And the shadows favored her, almost as though she carried a spirit talisman. Or maybe it was a gift of her fae blood. She was, by her hair and eyes, Autumn court aligned. Most songs and tales favored the other courts: Spring with its youthful blossoms, Summer’s bounty, and Winter’s hand of death. Perhaps Autumn was a court of secrets? If so, it made sense how even the great bards had mostly overlooked it.

Eira crouched, removing one glove as she peered around the corner, her entire body tense.

I counted to thirty in my mind, and then, pulling the lute in front of me, played as I walked. It was a goblin lullaby I’d picked up from visits to the grand nursery while Fireheart Korma slept. Goblin children were awfully cute, like hairless puppies with tadpole tails. The ones in Fireheart Korma’s nursery had loved music and games. I’d even tried some of my original songs on them, and unlike my long-suffering bardic master, they hadn’t sighed or clutched their guts like I’d given them sudden indigestion.

I wondered where they kept the nursery here. Hopefully they didn’t. As bad as cinnamon was for adult goblins, it really messed up their children.

It took about ten paces down the hall to an archway. I turned into it, still playing.

This room was larger than the one the warlock had dumped me in, with the cage and cauldron. The walls and floor were made of the same stone blocks, though the walls seemed cleaner and dryer. Dark scuffed ruts ran from the center of the room towards a larger archway beyond, patterned in mosaic tiles of green, yellow, and red.

In front of the larger archway stood the promised hobgoblin. She was nine feet tall with broad shoulders, broader hips and biceps made more for crushing ribs more than giving hugs. Her steel-gray hair hung in two braids on either side of an unravelling warrior’s topknot. One bare foot tapped the stone floor in time to my strumming. It stopped when she saw me. “Who you?” she asked, lowering thick brows like dirty caterpillars.

“Les,” I said, taking care to smile without showing my teeth. Hobgoblins, especially the warrior types, got touchy about teeth. “I music make.”

She squinted, the thoughts moving over her features like they were pushing through cold syrup. “You no Goblin? Food not food?”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Not food,” I said. “Friend.”

“Hnnn.”

I walked towards her, slow and steady, keeping my hands on the lute. “I visit. Gifts bring. I Les. Les.” I really didn’t like this ‘food-not-food’ nickname. “You name?”

Hurrgit twitched both ears at me. “What gifts?”

“You name ‘What Gifts’?” I widened my smile, still covering my teeth, and held it until my cheeks ached.

The hobgoblin leaned towards me, the movement rattling the twin spears strapped to her back. She blinked, and the line between her eyebrows deepened, and then, finally, she threw her head back and laughed. “Hurrgit name ‘What Gifts’!” she laughed harder, slapping her palm on her belly with a loud thwap.

I breathed a soft sigh of relief. It had been a risk to joke, but a laughing hobgoblin was far easier to handle than a suspicious one.

Now for the next part of plan ‘get information for the scary half-elf without getting eaten,’ I slipped Mischief some mana. The spirit took over the playing while I reached for the pouch with the cinnamon.

Behind the hobgoblin, a shadow on the floor shifted as though a part of the natural movement of flickering torchlight. But there weren’t torches here. Soft, steady magelight glowed from the walls and ceiling. The shadow moved again in what I realized was a deliberate motion, and my gaze resolved the movement to a shape: Larendil. She pointed at the hobgoblin and shrugged her shoulders while raising her palms in a question.

I shook my head, very slightly, and shifted my gaze back to Hurggit.

“Les Food-Not-Food funny!” Hurggit chortled.

I guess that was an improvement, though I’d have preferred she drop the ‘food-not-food’ thing altogether.

The hobgoblin shifted her weight, dropping a meaty hand towards the cudgel hanging from her belt. “But what gifts?”

“Gifts,” I reassured her, feeling for the cinnamon sticks. I pulled out one and held it out.

Hurggit flared her nostrils, and I felt the full focus of her gaze. I didn’t like it. “Hurggit want. Give. Now.” She stamped on the floor.

“First questions.”

Hurggit licked her lips. “Give. Or Hurggit take.”

That had been the weakness in the plan. Mischief hit a sour note and then added a trill from the Goblin reel I’d played earlier. Hurggit’s gaze flitted just a moment from my hand, and I took that distraction to slip the cinnamon into my sleeve.

Her mouth fell open as–to her eyes–the cinnamon stick vanished. “Questions first,” I said.

“Les Food-Not-Food-Really-Not-Food magic!” She stepped back, and I saw the shadow shift behind her again as Larendil danced out of the way. “Les servant Great Boss Leader. Hurggit slacking, Great Boss Leader think!” Her hand gripped the cudgel. “No slacking. Hurggit job do. Stupid goblins from big crystal room away keep. Hurggit do, orders follow!”

“Why?”

“Danger!” Hurggit stamped her foot. “Traps! Big traps! Goblin crushed. Goblin burned! Goblin spiked! Goblin in pit fall and fall! Goblin killed.” Another foot stomp, this one harder. “Now Hurggit cinnamon give.” She held out her hand.

I flipped the cinnamon stick from my sleeve back into my hand, and Hurggitt’s eyes widened, her gaze fixed as I flipped the cinnamon stick through my fingers. “Where traps?” I asked.

Hurggit shook her head. “Eyes. Floor. Walls. Stupid Les traps know. Stupid Les, stupid questions ask! Hurggit job know, see! You with Great Boss Leader?”

“Why with Great Boss Leader you think?”

“Music,” she said, pointing at my instrument. “Hurggit good guard. No cinnamon on duty, see! Follow Great Boss Leader rules. Now, give!”

The music part was troubling, and more troubling was how Hurggitt curled her lip, baring jagged, cinnamon stained teeth as she dropped into a crouch. I wasn’t getting any more out of the hobgoblin.

I held out the cinnamon stick, and Hurggit snatched it, cramming into her mouth. Crunch. Crunch. She closed her eyes and swayed, eyes falling shut.

“Aaaaah,” she breathed.

Heartbeats passed, and the cinnamon stick must have been pure enough to hold Hurggit’s attention because even her foot stopped tapping to the music. Her shoulders slumped, and her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor with a massive thud. Did cinnamon do that to Goblins? Maybe the purer stuff did. I wasn’t an expert, but this looked wrong. Hurggit paled, her skin going yellow-green, and her breathing got strange, each breath broken by an odd cough-gurgle. Then she started twitching.

Twitching?

Larendil stepped out from the shadow and stared down dispassionately at the now spasming hobgoblin. “You should have given her both,” she said with a sigh.

I stared in horror. “What did you put in that cinnamon?”

It was a stupid question, and I got the obvious answer. “Poison,” Larendil said and shrugged. “Why didn’t you give her the second one?”

“Negotiation.” My stomach churned. Sure, Hurggit would have broken me in half or chewed me down in a stew without a second thought. But I hadn’t wanted to kill her. Or at least, not like this.

“Right,” Larendil said. “Bards. Always want to do more talking. Did she tell you anything useful?”

“The room’s boobytrapped,” I said, reciting about the statues and spikes and the rest of it. I kept the part about the boss liking musicians to myself. I didn’t want Larendil seeing me as a threat. Even in the abstract.

Hurggit cough-gurgled again.

Larendil nodded. “Go get the others,” she ordered. “I’ll finish up here.”

That sounded ominous. I nodded, my mouth dry, and took a step back as Larendil walked around Hurggit to grab the hobgoblin’s topknot. She flicked a dagger into her hand in a movement so smooth, I didn’t even catch the trick.

As I turned, I saw the blade glint as it flicked over Hurggit’s throat.

I made a note to myself to always stay on Larendil’s good side. And never, ever get on the wrong side of the Autumn Court. Not that you wanted to get on the wrong side of any Fae court. Even their well-intentioned favors could leave you starving to death in a kingdom of gold.

When I got back to the others, Eira and Zareb had changed positions, with Eira crouched, facing the way we’d come, and Zareb in front, hand on his sword with easy grace. I waved them towards me, and after Xy’lint tapped Eira with the tip of zher tail, all three followed me.

When we’d returned, the hobgoblin lay in a growing pool of her own blood. I glanced at Larendil. She’d sheathed the dagger somewhere, and the only evidence of her work was the handkerchief she wiped over her fingers. The fabric was dark brown, and in the torchlight, the only betraying signs of blood was a splotch of darker brown stiffening up in the center.

Xy’lint knelt at the hobgoblin’s side and carefully rested the finger pads of zher clawed hands on the hobgoblin’s eyelids, shutting them. Zhe hissed something softly over the body and rose again to their full height. “I could haaaave healed her. Leffft her sleeping.”

“I know,” Larendil said with a shrug. “Too late now. You’re not going to get grumpy with me about it, are you?”

Xy’lint let out a long sigh. “I only honor life. Deathsss is betweeeen a soul and zheeer godssss. Or the voiiid.”

“Right.” Larendil knelt over the body and began rifling through its clothing. She found a leather purse, opened it, and wrinkled her nose. With quick efficiency, Larendil pulled out a thimble, a bone no one wanted to look at too closely, and four greenish copper pieces, which she slipped into her own belt pouch with no objections. “No keys,” she said with a sigh. “Guess we have to do this the hard way.”

“Would you give a hobgoblin the key to your magic portal?” Eira asked.

“Fair,” Larendil shook her head. “Les says the room’s booby-trapped. Pressure plates, spikes, the usual. Oh, and ‘eyes that burn’, so watch out for statues and jewels and such.”

“I hate statues,” Zareb said. “They’re murder on steel. What do we do with her?” He pointed to the hobgoblin.

“I’d say we could try to prop her up, but I don’t think--.”

The sound of footsteps and off-key humming came from behind us.

As Zareb whirled around, drawing his sword, Larendil turned to me. “Who’s that?” she hissed.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

From the hallway, a voice boomed, “Passcode Guard Change!”