35

The plan had seemed perfect, at first. According to Gildyr, all that Grey Fang had to do was channel stored manna, directing an empty side-passage into Junior's prison cell. Once the connection was made, nipping on in to snag his lordship would be less work than dropping a bone down the crap hole.

…Except that shifting a static tunnel took the massed force of at least seven goblins, and there were barely that many left he could call upon. Squinty, Black Gut and Dogbait were still unclaimed by the Mother, but three of his kin… Bad Leg, Scar Mouth and Tilly… had already died and gone gnoll.

That was trouble in more ways than one, as it meant that the Mother could sift through their minds and learn about Grey Fang's existence. Not of the plan, though; that he'd kept a close-guarded secret, waiting on Gildyr's arrival. So much for their grand scheme, as it would have worked out in their heads.

Real world, the plot went rancid a bit at a time, like meat left too long in the salt bag. First, Gildyr up and took off; vanished from ken like he'd never existed at all. No contact, no message, no help.

Then that murdering half-elf, Grim Beard, led a raid that killed Bogwump and four hands of others. They never got close to his lordship's cell. Wouldn't have known how to find and reach it, even if a slaughter of gnolls hadn't beaten them back… but there went more sharp teeth and good folk, lost forever.

Nearly a fortnight had passed, with no word and no Gildyr. Finally, Grey Fang could wait no longer. Counting himself, Pretty One, Dogbait, Black Gut and Squinty, that was a hand of goblins. Seven, if he included the littles, Twitchy and Snaggle… only, they weren't more than kitts and hadn't much magic; could barely toast fleas off a hide, working together.

Gildyr could have helped, but he wasn't nowheres the goblins could sense. Not even fungus or roots could sniff out their only real friend.

"Ee'll show," Grey Fang assured the others, as they huddled in his slow-rolling workroom. "Ee ain't like the rest o' them surface types. We'll just start with th' plan, an' let Gildyr come ter us, oncet 'ee be ready."

"What be th' plan, Uncle Fang?" asked Squinty, picking his teeth with a splinter of bone.

"Tis never-you-mind till we gets there," snapped the goblin mage, shaking his staff. "The fewer as knows, the fewer sings out under fire or fang. Now up, all o' yuns. Time ter be off."

They grumbled, being surly and cross-grained young goblins, but did as their elder bade them. The passage he had in mind was an unmoving stub that sometimes connected Grand Diggings and Slant Path. Not much used, because the two shifting corridors were not often both in position at once. Long enough to reach his goal, most likely. If not, if the stub fell short a few yards, Black Gut's void bombs would open some space in a hurry.

And hurry, they must. Being goblins, Grey Fang's small kin group weren't warriors. They wouldn't fight unless cornered or driven. Instead, they depended on ambush, stealth, poison and traps. Were no match at all for a hulking, bloodthirsty gnoll. Or even a wounded elf.

All depended on simple avoidance and maybe a little good luck. Fortune rarely showed her beautiful face to the goblins, but Gildyr was part of all this, along with Butcher's two kitts, Junior and Sparks. Perhaps the gods who cared nothing for small, squeaking prayers would listen to grand folk, and act.

Grey Fang led his small kin group (a mischief of goblins) through the back tunnels, using an ages-old feel for spaces in stone to guide him. No light, which would give them away and they didn't need, anyhow. Several potions and plenty of heal moss for packing in wounds, carried by Twitchy and Snaggle. Food, of course; some cached ahead, some in the packs, and plenty of good, fizzy mouf wien.

As the Dragon Tail corridor ground into place below the stub passage, Grey Fang called his group close around him, letting them bump up and sniff at each other, for comfort.

"'Ere, now," he whispered, pulling the Old Lady's rib from his gathering pouch. "'Ave a nibble, an' muster yer strength, kitts."

The tooth-marked and defleshed rib hadn't much savor left, but still glowered with manna. Grey Fang bit first, then handed the relic to Pretty One, who chewed with her eyes closed. She, too, passed the bone onward. In this way, all could partake of the strength of their Ancestress, the fabled Old Lady. Snaggle and Twitchy were last to chew, their needle teeth scraping and clicking on bone.

Grey Fang let them have a bit longer, then reclaimed the relic and put it away.

"'Ere's the plan, then," he told them. "Gildyr'll be 'ere. Said 'ees got Sparks in th' palm of 'is 'and, practically with us, already. In the meantime, we've got ter spring Junior, and get 'im ter safety somewheres them gnolls can't reach. Ter Sparks or Grim Beard, 'ud by my guess."

Pretty One's yellow-red eyes widened.

"Cor," she whispered. "Them's dangerous folk fer the likes of us ter be muckin' with, Grampa. What if Junior don't get that we're tryin' ter 'elp 'im?"

"What if Sparks blasts us clean down t' our ankle bones, like 'appened ter Ratchet?" fretted Dogbait, who'd been there in hiding and seen his friend burn.

"Grim Beard won't listen," whined Squinty, close to genuine panic. "Not if we served up Junior with mushrooms n' sauce, right ter 'is tent!"

"We ain't eatin' 'is lordship," snapped Grey Fang. "And Gildyr'll be there ter run th' negotiations. 'Ee won't let us down, an' we can't fail 'im… or else tis the gnoll curse fer all of us. Now, brace up, you lot. Sometimes, runnin' fer cover ain't enough. Sometimes, there's nuthin' fer it but sharp sticks n' teeth."

They shivered and gulped, but they nodded, bumping up against Grey Fang for comfort of kin-scent and warmth.

"All right, we're under the stub," Grey Fang whispered. "Black Gut, ready yer bombs. Squinty, we'll be needin' that rope. The rest o' yuns, up on Dogbait's shoulders. We're gonna need ter ladder n' reach, soon as th' way opens up." Then, "Shadows 'n luck, kitts. I'm that proud o' yuns, an' so's the Old Lady. 'Er line ain't dead yet, an' we 'as 'er blessin', fer certain."

When the Dragon Tail corridor reached its best position, Grey Fang nodded at Black Gut.

"Now!" he commanded.

The squat, pudgy goblin-lad gestured with both of his hands, generating a dark, chaos-shot orb. At Grey Fang's signal, the younger goblin lofted the void bomb up the ceiling, chirping,

"Boom!"

The orb poured up and flattened against the passage roof, eating a hole through the rock with a shuddering 'Crump'.

"Ladder!" whispered Grey Fang.

Obediently, Dogbait trotted into position under the hole; Pretty One, Twitchy and Snaggle teetering atop like a goblin trophy-head pole.

"Up!" Grey Fang commanded them, sending first Squinty, then Black Gut clambering over their fellows and up through the opening. A coil of glimmering rope snaked its way down moments later, anchored to something above in the stub.

"Break off an' climb!" ordered Grey Fang, boosting Pretty, Snaggle and Twitchy. Hands from above reached down, took hold and hauled, yanking the kitts out of sight.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Grey Fang came last, bidding his old carcass last just a little bit longer. Squinty magicked a seat at the rope's end, spelling a sort of step-into butt harness that Grey Fang was glad to let carry him.

Got up and into the twenty-foot stub with all the kitts hauling, just as the Dragon Tail passage moved on. For a long few heartbeats, all of them huddled together, counting, recounting and sniffing each other. Then,

"Kitt's first bat 'unt, that were," said the old mage. "Easy, fer such as you lot. Now, muster yer magic, fer we've gotta shift this bit into the path of 'is lordship's cell."

Distance of nearly a twelve span, that was; through stone as heavy and sullen as mountain-roots. A challenge, but having succeeded once, the kitts were more confident… and, surely, Gildyr was on his way. Would be there, soon.

"Right, then. All 'ands together, now," whispered Grey Fang. "Open yer minds an' let manna flow. Try not ter think. Just be."

Ought to have told them what to do next, in case something went wrong, but that would have crushed their hopes like a trod-upon cave beetle.

Six small, trusting hands came to rest upon Grey Fang's old, gnarled one. The manna of six kitts poured into the goblin mage, granting him power he hadn't wielded since pulling Gildyr away from the manticore.

Grey Fang inhaled sharply. Spoke words of command to the tunnel stub, which began to shudder and flex in response. LIke a reverse, hollow cave worm, the tunnel stub heeded him, oozing through rock one hard-fought yard at a time. Occasional whimpers and grunts could barely be heard over rumbling stone, but Grey Fang pressed onward.

Almost… almost… just a little bit further…

The elderly goblin could feel himself draining, emptying; pouring not just his own manna but all of the kitts' into shifting that lumbering stub.

So close…

And then it was done, the short passage in place to intersect Junior's traveling prison cell.

"Rest," Grey Fang whispered, as Dogbait, Pretty One, Black Gut, Squinty, Twitchy and Snaggle collapsed in a quivering heap. "There's the 'ard bit managed," he promised them. "Naught left now but ter rescue 'is lordship an' flee."

He handed the relic around, then, along with some mouf wien and jerky, same as they'd been leaving for Junior, all this time.

To calm them still further, the old goblin told stories. The sort that always began with "I remember when…". Best way to pass along memory, in a species that lived such a scant, frightened span.

Little by bit, they began to recover; complexions returning to tan from grey-white, manes and arm-strips regaining their luster, eyes glowing bright in the darkness.

"Cell's nearly 'ere," remarked Grey Fang, clambering back to his feet with the aid of his staff and Pretty One. "You lot get back ter th' other end o' th' stub, in case Junior puts up a fuss about leavin'."

The elderly goblin could feel the cell rolling toward them, slow as a bubble in mud. As the kitts scurried obediently off, Grey Fang hobbled out to the very front of the stub. Breathing deeply, marshaling all that remained of his magic, the old wizard tried out a smile; exposing his lone, rotted fang.

Light-spores rose from the end of his staff, setting the rat-skull and bones all aglow. Along with his welcome-squeak and the clatter and rattle of trophy bones, the spore lights showed that he meant no harm; wasn't attempting no sneakery.

Nevertheless, Grey Fang took a nervous pace backward. Elf lords was mighty dangerous folk, especially when they was wounded. As well try to net a tornado.

The stub end twisted and writhed as it made contact with Junior's cell, developing a sudden, spherical growth like a mushroom cap.

Grey Fang widened his comforting welcome grin, rattled the bones on his staff and took a step forward, sending spore lights dancing and spinning into the prison cell.

"Greetings, yer lordship," he quavered. "I be Grey Fang, of the Down-Cavern goblins, an'..."

Something moved in the shadows, hulking and fluid, reeking of carnivore. A gnoll. At least seven feet tall and muscled like an ogre, its spotted pelt netted with scars, the monster straightened from the bones it was scavenging.

It stared at Grey Fang through eyes maddened with hunger; glowing with greenish-pale corpse light. Bits of old marrow and tattered leather dripped from its fanged jaws, which blasted an odor like burnt, rotting meat.

It had weapons, was armed with a short sword and daggers, but seemed to forget all that; instead brandishing the snapped, splintered bone that it clutched in one massive fist. Sensing warmth, pulsing blood and a rabbity, terrified heart-beat, the beast slunk forward.

It stalked Grey Fang slowly, sounding a crazed and hideous laugh.

"Come, little flesh," it snarled. "Come and be eaten. Come serve the Mother in death!"

Screams. There were screams from behind him. The terrified kitts, who were trapped at the stub's other end. No escape spell. Couldn't just leave them. Instead, Grey Fang made ready to die.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Somewhere else in the tunnels, sometime earlier, Lerendar soon faced the trouble of food and drink… or, not enough of it. See, in the cell, he'd been fed. Out on his own, there was pretty much nothing to eat, even had he the speed and strength to go hunting.

Weapons? Well, maybe. Did not every elven toddler wield a sling, until they'd grown tall enough for a bow? Clever, half-wild little brutes, even the high-elves; capable of dropping a bird in flight.

Older taught younger, handing down the plane's simplest ranged weapon, along with old fey-games and the habit of stim-leaf chewing. All outgrown by the time they gained spirit and true name… but there was no doubt that an elven mother or nanny had her hands full… and that old skills remained to be called upon. Could be brought back, at need.

Constructing a sling was not hard at all. Just wanted reasonably flexible leather and cord. These, Lerendar could scavenge, as he cautiously wandered those shifting dark tunnels. Once being children, themselves, the shades understood, and pointed out useful detritus, making needed things glow. Better yet, ammunition was literally everywhere, as the caverns were littered with stones.

The crippled warrior soon gathered what he required and found himself a deserted burrow to work in. (No food that he trusted, but more of that fizzing pale wine, tucked away on a crooked shelf.)

Talking to Bony, Legless and Tendons, Lerendar described each step as he worked. From cutting and punching the leather with Snap, to braiding and splicing long cords; looping one end and knotting the other, with a sling pouch woven right in at the middle.

In a little bit over two candle marks, he had a fine sling. The shades were mere spirits, too weak to move physical objects unless they all worked together. United, they could ruffle paper to get his attention or simply attempt to possess him. All three at once meant enough extra strength to stand unassisted. At least, for a while.

This mattered a great deal, because Lerendar had forgotten how much balance and poise was required to sling a stone and hit anything but the floor or himself. He had to step forward, which… Right. Not on a crutch.

But with Legless, Bony and Tendons aboard, he could just about manage the footwork and stance. Used the trick for short bursts of sling practice, stopping each time when his breath started misting with cold and the world around him grew wavery-dark.

Practicing left him weary, needing periods of human-type sleep. Odd, that… and the first time he'd ever "dreamt"; experiencing strange, rambling, incoherent visions in which Bea and their child figured strongly. Which, you know, made him laugh a bit. Lerendar hadn't realized that he cared that much about his small, unofficial family.

Just… dreamt that dark-haired Beatriz was wrapping his wound for him, making light talk of her folk and lost village, while Zara played with the toys he'd brought for her. A strangely comforting vision, oft interrupted by flashes of hunting with Short-stuff and Dad. Also, wandering the halls of Starloft, utterly naked.

Well, enough of that. The first thing he brought down was a bat, which he wouldn't have eaten, no matter how hungry he was, but which made a fine moving target. The cavern he'd found was large, with a dim, fungal glow and a brackish pool at one end. There were blind, white fish in the pool, looking like slithery worms. Affixing Snap to an old broken spear shaft with cords and pine gum (which was meant to be chewed, but worked all right as adhesive) Lerendar caught a few fish and made his own half-raw, half burnt-up dinner. Best thing he'd ever tasted, bar that odd, bitter water, itself.

The second thing he brought down was a skittering goblin, part of a half-glimpsed troop which made haste to drag their squealing fellow away, no doubt to fetch reinforcements. Lerendar doused his fire, took several long gulps of water and then hobbled off as fast as he could, guided by shades and by map.

Later, in a safe, quiet spot, he marked the cavern on his chart: Water! Fish! But, also, Not private! He was about half a mile from the surface at that point, in a tunnel that whipped like a slow-moving rope's end.

Got the surprise of his life when daylight… actual sunglow… waked him from more of that healing sleep. The… he… There was a shallow, cliff-side cave through which a sliver of wintery twilight had crept.

Lerendar bolted half up and forward without thinking, not bothering to consult his scroll map. Just scrabbled across ten yards of litter and rock without even using his crutch. Nearly lost his left foot when the tunnel ground off and away, shutting that brief point of contact like a slammed door… but he made it out to the cave.

No need to tell that he lifted his face to the sunlight and cried. The cave was shallow and far too high up on the cliffside to use as an exit. Just a pockmark in stone, but Lerendar could not bring himself to leave it until the shades threatened mass possession.

"Please," he asked, as the tunnel went past, yet again. "Just until sunrise. Let me see stars and breathe free, until then. Promise, I'll go. Just… give me a little while longer, please."

Honestly would have taken his chances with the cliff, rather than plunging back into foul darkness and rat-stench, had concern for his people… and those implacable shades… not prevented stupidity.

Marked, underlined, circled LIGHT! on his map. Watched a sullen red dawn, then suffered himself to be led back within.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX