With time, the memory of the dwarf blurred and began to fade.

Hogwyn’s naming day came and his father and uncle and Grampy brought him to the naming stone Granny Lagger had identified high on the mountain and there they sang the songs and his father, Gobbler, drew his knife and cut away the excess of his gobblekin ears.

With that, Hogwyn became a goblin. Afterward, Gobbler told the family he had done well and had not cried out in pain.

Hogwyn unwrapped his bandaged ears as the last of the snows trickled down to swell the mere and the river and he spent long hours admiring them in their waters. Hagger took to sending Dugg scampering down the mountain to leap into the mere, blasting his reflection into a hundred jagged distortions.

It was on one such fine spring day that the wizard came. Hogwyn crouched beside the mere, his knees squeaking from being ground into the pebbles, his eyes fixed on the tip of his right ear. He was horribly anxious that it was slightly askew. Which direction it pended toward, though, he could not tell, but the thought of it bending one way or the other brought cold sweat to his skin and made him prickly.

Am I ugly? He twisted his head around, regarding it in the water. His mother insisted he had a fine nose— his father’s, in fact. But he wasn’t quite certain about the slope of his forehead— was it too pronounced? He turned his head again the other way. There! He’d definitely seen it! It was twisted, right at the end, just the slightest turn—

“Are you going to hop in?”

The voice was a hundred timbres too deep.

Hogwyn leapt to his feet and slipped on the wet pebbles and rocketed to the side. He pawed upright again and saw, to his horror, a Man. He was twice as tall as Hogwyn, who had sprouted to be quite tall for a goblin, and wore a dark cloak over a brown robe. Leather shoes poked out from beneath the hem.

Hogwyn squawked with surprise and backed away, kicking up pebbles. His eyes darted back and forth. He was alone but for the Man. Hagger and Dugg had returned to the Burrow as the sun climbed. Hagger complained the light dried out her eyes and Dugg was always hungry.

“I said,” the Man said in perfect Gobble, “are you going to hop in?”

“Hop… in?” Hogwyn’s tongue was thick enough to plug a magma hole.

“Are you slow, gobblekin?” The Man’s eyebrows met briefly in the middle as it peered at Hogwyn.

“I’m not a gobble— what-are-you-do-here?” Hogwyn slurred. His tongue had sprung a heartbeat of its own.

“My apologies,” the Man said. It leaned on a tall walking stick and peered down at Hogwyn as if trying to discern a trap buried in foliage. “It has been quite a while since I’ve come across a young goblin such as yourself.”

The Man stroked its chin. It was hairless.

Hogwyn cocked his head. He’d never heard of a hairless Man. They were like dwarves— bearded and hairy as the mountains—or so Granny Lagger had told him. Though she’d been right about that dwarf, hadn’t she?

Hogwyn pushed himself up and looked closer. Orogoros! It wasn’t a—

“I did not know goblins lived in these parts,” the elf said, “or I might have better prepared myself. Where is your chieftain?”

The elf reached into its cloak.

Hogwyn tensed.

“I mean you no harm,” the elf said. “I bring gifts. Here.”

The elf loomed over before stooping, seemingly with great difficulty, to hand him the thing from its cloak. The thing rustled in Hogwyn’s palms. He could barely look at it. There was a thrumming in his ears and his vision was seizing. He had never been so close to one of the Big Folk, and now one of their deadly number had snuck up on him, spoken to him, and given him something. He fought the urge to fling it away.

“Go on, then, open it,” the elf said.

Hogwyn glanced up at it. Its face was catlike and Mannish but for the ears, which were thin and sharply pointed. Hogwyn fancied they looked rather like his, but for being twice as long. He looked back down at the package. It was wrapped in a thin sheaf of tuber root parchment. It was the same quality and crispness as that his Mother would make. His mouth watered— a sure sign of a good present. He glanced up at the elf suspiciously.

The elf waggled its brambly eyebrows.

Hogwyn tugged at the parchment. It crinkled and unraveled. He gasped.

The dagger was a hand longer than Grampy’s old dwarf-splitter, its leather sheath carved with serpentine elven runes. The curved cross guard made it a proper sword. Spittle started to leak from the corners of Hogwyn’s mouth. It was a princely present. His eyes narrowed.

What had Granny Lagger said? A poxy gift could crumble a burrow? He glanced back up at the elf.

The elf leaned on its walking stick. Its shoulders were sloped, like Grampy’s, and its skin looked wan and sallow, though Hogwyn could be no rightful judge. But it was old, that much was clear. It had the same gray hair as Grampy and Hogger, the boar who had carried Gobbler to these mountains.

He knew least of elves. Granny had taught him to fear dwarves and Men. For hobgoblins she bore only disdain, and for elves she’d not said one sunshine word. But this was Granny Lagger, and Granny Lagger never had a sunshine word for anybody, which is to say you knew you were on her good side if she didn’t mention you at all.

“Hadn’t you best warn your chief of my coming?” the elf said.

Hogwyn started.

“My name is Albanus,” the elf said, “though I am known among your kin as Hacker.”

Hacker. He’d never heard of a Hacker. Hogwyn didn’t think he could even pronounce the word Albanus.

“I shall wait here,” Hacker said. The elf lowered itself down on a stump, grimacing. “Oh, and I come in peace. Do tell your chieftain that.”

Hogwyn scampered up the slope at such speed his cropped ears flapped against the sides of his head.

—

“Hacker?” Hagger said. “It almost sounds like my name.”

“Hagger, Hackerer, Hagger!” Dugg chanted beneath the wooden table in the Burrow kitchen.

“What’s that you’ve got, Gwyn?” Mother said.

A pause. Hogwyn looked down at the gift, still partly wrapped in the crinkled tuber parchment. He loosened his grip on it and pulled back the wrapper to show her.

“Orogoros,” Mother muttered.

“Orogoros!” Dugg chirped. “Orogo—”

Hagger banged her fist on the scarred table.

Hogwyn heard Dugg thump his head on the underside. A whimper issued.

“Really, Hagger?” Mother said. Her ears twitched with anger.

“Where’s the compost?” Granny Lagger’s voice blared down the tuber hothouse stairs. “Did you stuff it under the burlap again?”

Mother hurried to the other end of the kitchen and yanked on the alarm bell.

Hogwyn heard a distant tinkle from deep in the mine. Despite the cool anxious sweat on his arms, he still felt a twinge of pride at the sound. He’d crawled down the shaft to help his father string the bell. It had saved Dugg’s life that time he’d fallen into one of the old water sluices that no longer flowed beneath the main tunnels. Father and Snatcher had come galloping down the tunnels and within moments his father had reached with his long arm down the crumbling sluice cover and scooped Dugg out by the wrist. That was the day Hogwyn had decided he wanted to become an Inventor.

Gobbler and Snatcher dashed down the tunnel toward them. Their long knives glinted.

“What is it?” Snatcher said. “This had better not be another gobblekin down the drain.”

“Down the drain, down the drain,” Dugg sang beneath the table.

“Ask your son,” Mother said to Gobbler.

Hogwyn felt his knees jangle momentarily together. Don’t be a jelly grub. He let the parchment wrapper fall to the floor.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Gobbler grasped it by the sheath and turned it handle down and jerked it once, twice. On the third jerk the sword slipped from its sheath and clattered on the packed earth floor.

“Wrap me up and vend me for a shit pie.” Granny Lagger’s voice was a shattering gong in the silence of the kitchen.

“Elf-make,” Gobbler said. He knelt by the sword and tipped it over with the edge of his knife.

Hogwyn couldn’t take his eyes off it. His mouth watered. Short and sharp with rigid edges, like something the dwarves might make, but scored with sinuous markings run through with silver. It was a sword fit for a goblin king. Someone with more than one name.

“Where did you get this?” Gobbler said. His eyes were dark, his ears twitching.

“The elf gave it to me. He says he comes in peace. He said his name was Alba- Hacker.”

“Albahacker?”

“Hacker. Or Alb- Alnoos,” Hogwyn said.

“Hacker?” Snatcher spat and he laughed his fake laugh. His ears shook. “Come in peace?”

“What did he look like?” Granny Lagger’s voice cut through Snatcher’s cackle like a sickle through boiled tuber.

“Tall,” Hogwyn said.

“I could have told you that,” Hagger said. “All the Big Folk are.”

“Hagger,” Mother warned, ears twitching.

“Gwyn always runs into the Big Folk,” Hagger said, undaunted. “Isn’t that odd?”

“Did he have a beard?” Gobbler said in his quiet way.

“No,” Hogwyn said. “He’s tall and gray haired like Grampy but he’s got no beard. And he’s got pointy ears and a walking stick that’s too tall for him but he leans on it like he needs it—”

“That’s Hacker,” Granny Lagger said.

“Orogoros,” Snatcher moaned. “Isn’t he dead? What is he doing here?”

“Seriously,” Hagger said. “Does nobody find it odd that Gwyn always finds these weirdos? First a dwarf, now a Big Dead—”

“Now let’s not loose our heads,” Granny snapped at Snatcher. “He ent a dwarf and that’s half the battle won these days. If he shows up at our door and offers a prize gift like this, he doesn’t mean to kill us. At least, not direct. So quit your groaning and go greet our guest. Show him we still keep the old ways, whatever hand he might have played in bringing them to an end. So go on now, git. And take Gwyn and Grampy with you. Boost your numbers.”

She flapped her hands at them and hustled back up the stairs to the tuber hothouse. Hogwyn heard her feet patter further along and knew she was headed for the Lookout, a knuckle of stone close to the peak the dwarves had hollowed out. His sister Hagger bolted after her.

Gobbler and Snatcher whispered worriedly to one another as they walked down the tunnel. Hogwyn noticed Snatcher had tucked the sheathed elf sword into his belt, though by rights it should have gone to Gobbler. Hogwyn frowned, his ears peeling back in irritation. Neither his father nor his uncle stopped their hurried whispers to notice him as they scuttled down the tunnel to the Back End. Swatches of tantalizing conversation drifted toward him down the passage.

“You don’t think… something to do with… droning…” Snatcher was hissing in Gobbler’s ear.

Hogwyn saw Gobbler shake his head so hard his ears flapped. His eyes darted back to glance at Hogwyn.

“What are you going to do, sir?” Hogwyn said.

No answer. Snatcher and Gobbler shoved open the stone dwarf door and they stepped through to the Grand Entrance.

“Orogoros,” Snatcher swore. He rounded on Hogwyn. “You said he was over by the—”

“Good afternoon,” the wizard called. “I am Albanus, son of Balamon, son of Thrand. I am known among your kin as Hacker, Tranquilizer, and Silver Spud.”

“Here they are,” Grampy said. He was slouched on a log with his hatchet buried in the wood. His pipe was lit and the smoke drifted about his ears. “This is Gobbler and Snatcher. Snatcher’s mine by blood, Gobbler’s mine by custom and sweat. And that there is Hogwyn, son of Gobbler.”

“Well met, Snatcher, son of Uggwart, and Gobbler, son of Biter, and Hogwyn, son of Gobbler, son of Biter.”

Hogwyn blinked. Had Grampy mentioned the name of his father’s father?

“What brings you here, wizard?” Snatcher said. “Have you not tired of meddling in goblin affairs?”

Hogwyn tensed.

“Shut your trap, Snatch,” Grampy said.

Snatcher’s ears shuddered but he said nothing.

“We welcome you, Hacker, to our camp,” Gobbler said. “Our fire is yours.”

“You have my blade,” Albanus replied, and gestured at Snatcher’s belt.

“Give it here,” Grampy said, clapping the fingers of his free hand against his palm.

Snatcher’s hand flew up and gripped the pommel.

“Hand it over to your father,” Gobbler said.

Gobbler had a quiet but sturdy voice. Hogwyn often thought of it as the calm part of the river, where the water trickled out of the mere before swelling downstream to fill the lake where the Men’s steadings lay. The surface of the water was serene and smooth but jagged black rock lurked just beneath it and if you went out swimming where you shouldn’t you’d get cuts on the bottom of your feet. Hogwyn’s father was like that.

Snatcher sighed and tugged the sword free of his belt and handed it to Grampy. Hogwyn watched with wide eyes as Grampy stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth and drew the blade halfway out, squinted at the squiggles, and slapped it by the pommel back into its sheath.

“Nice one,” he said, and tucked it into his own belt.

Hogwyn saw Snatcher was about to protest this but before he could, Gobbler said, “I hope your travels were swift and painless.”

What are you doing here? Hogwyn knew Gobbler couldn’t speak the impolite words aloud, but they were as clear as if he’d shouted them.

“My travels were anything but peaceful, alas,” Albanus said. Hogwyn thought the emotion bled through in the dip in his voice, despite the strange motionlessness of his ears. “Much has changed beyond your borders, and not for the better, I’m afraid.”

“The worse for who?” Snatcher said, crossing his arms.

“You mean whom,” Grampy Uggwart said to Snatcher. He poked his pipe at the wizard. “What news from Goblin Town?”

“Old Bungler is dead,” Albanus said.

“Bungler?” Grampy said. His ears shot up. “Dead?”

“Aye, there is no Chief Goblin in Goblin Town,” Albanus said, “and his sons squabble over the succession. I fear with his death Old Bungler may mark the end of the great goblin chiefs.”

“I don’t know what you’re so sorry for,” Snatcher said. “Seeing as you—”

“Shut yer trap,” Grampy said. Smoke shot from his mouth in furious bursts. “I fought in the summer wars when you weren’t even born. Don’t presume you know tuber from Tooter where the wars are concerned. In fact, why don’t you go concern yourself with the campfire, eh? The sun is sinking and our guest deserves his ‘freshments.”

Snatcher’s ears flapped. For one horrifying moment, Hogwyn thought he was going to say something else as he stood there, wavering. He sighed and slunk up the slope.

“Apologies for my son,” Grampy said. “I daresay he took my old war stories to heart and let them fester a while in the wrong way. He was always lurking with a bad lot when he was a gobblekin, mind, but I thought he’d come out of it. I sure did in the end. ‘Course, the summer wars helped with that. But you were sayin’ about Old Bungler?”

Hogwyn tugged at his ears with impatience. What is the wizard doing here? Why here? Why now? Why?

“Old Bungler and Goblin Town lie a hundred leagues from here,” Gobbler cut in. “You have traveled far.”

Hogwyn could not stand to hear such roundabout politenesses. Before them was a wizard, not some Greenfoot cousin from Bogsquat!

He steeled himself and said, as quickly as the words would come, “What are you doing here?”

“Gwyn,” Gobbler said. His voice was cold and stern and his ears were firmly tucked. “You shame me.”

Hogwyn dropped his gaze.

“No need for trouble,” Albanus said. His eyebrows crashed together for a moment before his face cleared. “Ah, I had forgotten goblin custom. My return to goblin society is long overdue. My purpose, young sir Hogwyn, is trifold. First, I have come on behalf of a mystery, one I hope to resolve. Second, I have come on wizard business, which I believe you may find somewhat rushed, as it is entirely impromptu.”

At this, Albanus rose. The motion was so sudden Hogwyn scampered back before halting and letting his ears droop with shame. His father did not seem to have noticed, however. He was watching the wizard reach once again into his cloak.

“Impromptu,” Gobbler muttered, quietly, as if to himself.

Hogwyn’s ears perked up. Impromptu. It sounded like magic. I strike thee down, vile Man Warrior! Impromptu! Impromptu! He would have to ask Granny Lagger what the word meant later. Gobbler respected a good vocabulary word. Hogwyn had a vague notion his father had always wanted to learn to read, but his toil in the mines and his prior ventures had never called nor allowed for it. Granny Lagger hadn’t taught Mother how to read the few words she could spell out, either. Goblin scratch isn’t worth the tuber parchment it’s written on. That had been the short and long of Granny’s judgment.

Albanus pulled a scroll of thick parchment and undid the leather tang which pinned it with a flick of his finger. Hogwyn sniffed the air. It smelled vaguely of hide, and a musty smell he could only assume was that of the wizard himself.

The wizard rumbled in his throat and began to read: “I, Albanus, son of Balamon, son of Thrand, do announce on behalf of the Western Council, under the authority of King Mord the Red, Lord of…”

The wizard’s voice became a single droning hum until it suddenly sharpened in pitch: “the lists for the University are hereby open for enrollment.”

“You-knee-whatty?” Grampy said.

“It is a school,” Gobbler said.

“A school for magic,” Albanus said. “So that we may pass on our knowledge before it fades entirely.”

“Not many of you lot left, is there?” Grampy said, squinting up at the elf.

“Not in the least,” Albanus said, lowering himself back down on the log and letting his walking stick fall into the crook of his elbow. He looked over the scroll again with what looked to Hogwyn like moroseness, though he might be wrong. The wizard was exceedingly hard to read. His ears hardly moved.

“Do you need letters to be a wizard?” Hogwyn said.

“Yes,” Albanus said. “Many.”

“And—“

Hogwyn shut his mouth at Gobbler’s glare.

“How come you down the waters?” Gobbler said.

Hogwyn screamed in the void of his head. The ritual questions posed to goblin guests were stultifying in their irrelevance. Granny rattled them off as jokes when their Greenfoot cousins came to call. The wizard had come about a mystery, a magical school, and all his father wanted to do was trade ancient politenesses with him. The situation was infuriating. It was intolerable.

“You mentioned a third purpose?” Hogwyn squeaked.

Albanus’s eye twinkled, or Hogwyn thought it did. Right before his father’s glare fulminated before him with such vehemence he thought he could feel the heat warping the air between them. He looked down at his feet. They were smeared brown with tunnel dirt and he scuffed them absently at the spring grasses.

“I did indeed,” Albanus said. His tone deepened and grew serious once again. The twinkle Hogwyn saw in his eye snuffed out. “I have come to deliver grave news, I’m afraid. A few winters ago, I heard a rumor that one of the lost sons of Rum had resurfaced in the east and was making his way west. His name, they said, was Sansum, son of Sumbor, and he sought fellow dwarves from across the Rust Mounts to rally to his cause.”

The wizard took a deep breath. Hogwyn was increasingly aware of how straight his father stood, how his ears were stilled at attention.

“Sansum claims he is heir to the mountain he calls Rumbaktum but which your forefathers called Druqvar.”

Gobblehouse, Hogwyn thought. They want to take Gobblehouse!