Goblins on the Prowl

  “So is Helagon the evil wizard who got turned into the stone toad?” I asked.

  John shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t have had goblins out looking for the Black Stone if he was made of stone himself. Besides, he’s too smart to be caught that way. Can you think of anything else that might be a clue, Fauna?”

  “Yes. The toad has gone underground, possibly to Nilbog.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Werdolphus demanded.

  “Because I had a visit from William last night.”

  The others gasped, and realized I had made a huge mistake by not mentioning this earlier. Bwoonhiwda pounded the butt of her spear on the floor, and the fury in her eyes made me think the warrior woman was about to pick me up and squash me.

  Fortunately, just then a bell rang.

  “Ah,” said John. “A message!”

  Darkness has a special beauty all its own. However, keeping your friends in the dark about things can lead to bad feelings and crankiness.

  —Stanklo the Scribbler

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DOWN WE GO

  The interruption was enough to keep Bwoonhiwda from throttling me. But as she took a step back, Igor said, “Why Fauna not tell Igor about William?” and the hurt in his voice made me feel even worse than I did already.

  What made me feel worst of all was that I realized it was a good question for which I had no good answer. I suppose it was just that I had for so long trained myself to keep my secret that now I kept almost everything to myself. But I couldn’t explain that to the others without making them want to know what my secret was. And I couldn’t make up a reason, because the collar would strangle me. So I just shook my head and ­mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Bwoonhiwda thumped her spear on the cave floor again but seemed at a loss for words.

  “I don’t understand,” Werdolphus said. “If William came back, why didn’t he stay? Why are we still looking for him?”

  So I had to explain about the Sleep Walk potion, and tell them everything William had said. When I finished, Herky tugged at the edge of my coat and asked in a small, frightened voice, “Butterhead boy all right?”

  “He’s safe for now, but frightened.” Hoping to turn attention elsewhere, I said, “Didn’t you say you had a message, John?”

  “Yes! I got so distracted by your story, I forgot. I’d better see what it is.”

  He went to the cave’s back wall and opened a small wooden door set in the stone. He reached in and pulled out a lizard. It was fairly big as lizards go, but still smaller than John’s little finger. I wondered if the lizard was going to talk to him, then noticed it was wearing a harness. Wrapped in the harness was a roll of paper.

  “Fauna, would you take out the message, please?” John said, handing the lizard to me.

  I placed the lizard on a footstool. Well, it was a footstool for John. It came up almost to my chin.

  “Are you all right?” I asked the lizard as I set it down.

  “I’m fine. But I’m glad you’ll be taking the message off my back. John is very gentle, but his hands are so big they scare me.”

  “Fauna, are you talking to that lizard?” asked John.

  He didn’t sound startled, simply curious.

  “Fauna got special collar!” Igor said. “It let her talk to animalses and things.”

  “How did the lizard get here?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.

  “Grapevine,” John replied.

  “I beg yoah pahdon?” said Bwoonhiwda.

  “It’s a direct connection to Nilbog. One of the ­goblins—they’re very clever, you know—laced together an enormous number of grapevines to make something like a rope. He ran it through a series of flaws in the rock, then looped it back. Now when King Nidrash wants to send me a message, he straps it to a lizard’s back, and a pair of goblins turn the cranks that move the vine.”

  “He makes it sound easier than it is,” the lizard muttered. “Those vines go through some pretty tight spots. I was lucky not to lose any skin.”

  “Perhaps you should look at the message,” Werdolphus said. “Just a suggestion, mind you. But who knows . . . might be important.”

  I unfolded the message and handed it to John. He raised it far above my head to bring it close to his eyes.

  “Oh, my,” he murmured as he read. “Oh, my. Oh, my!”

  Bwoonhiwda thumped the butt of her spear on the cave floor again. “Wet us know what it says!”

  “Oh! Oh, yes, of course,” said John, sounding flustered. “Here, I’ll read it to you.

  ‘My Dear Friend,

  The king has asked me to update you regarding new developments in Nilbog. As you may have heard, the stone toad that once rested in the Great Hall of the castle where we were held captive (cursed forever be its name) has come to life. I have shocking new information about the creature but no time to write it down now. Mostly what I want you to know is that if our friends who are seeking the toad come your way, you should speed them on their journey. ( Yes, this means you may allow them access to the tunnel in your cave.) There is someone here they need to meet. I will not use her name, for it would be dangerous right now.

  In other news, our concern about the scamps grows worse—’”

  “What are scamps?” I asked.

  John lowered the paper. “That’s the word goblins use for those who are no longer children but are neither fully adult. It’s a difficult age, both for the scamps and for those around them.”

  He returned his eyes to the letter and continued reading.

  “In the last week another ten have gone missing. Families are in a state of shock and panic and are demanding the king do something. But what can he do when young goblins simply up and depart? Also, there have been odd reports of scamps wearing red headbands being spotted in the outer regions of ­Nilbog. We do not know who or what is luring them away.

  These are perilous times.

  Your friend,

  Stanklo”

  “We’ve run into some of those red headband goblins,” I said. “It wasn’t pleasant. But who’s Stanklo?”

  “The king’s scribe and record keeper. He is an old friend of mine. Now, though you must indeed head for Nilbog, I am concerned that the trip may be more dangerous than I expected. Who knows what these prowling scamps are up to?”

  “Makes no diffewence!” Bwoonhiwda said. “Wheah the toad has gone, we must go. And pwomptwy!”

  John wrinkled his brow. “Pwomptwy?”

  “Fast! Soon! Wight away!”

  Bwoonhiwda was right. Little as I wanted to return to Nilbog, especially with rogue bands of scamps on the loose, that was where we had to go, and as quickly as possible.

  Everyone started talking, a jumble of words that John stopped by using what I can only call his giant voice.

  “Cease this babble!”

  We fell silent.

  Lowering his voice, John said, “Happily, you can make your way to Nilbog from my cave. That should shorten your journey.”

  Werdolphus said, “I should go back to tell Karl what’s going on, and find out if he’s learned anything. I’ll see you soon.”

  With that he vanished, though I was the only one who saw it happen, of course.

  I turned to John. “How do we get to Nilbog from your cave?”

  He went to the back of the cave and slid aside a bookshelf. Behind it was a dark opening.

  “This tunnel leads to an entrance to the goblin world. You’ll need torches for the first part of the journey, as there will be no light at all until you draw close to Nilbog. It shouldn’t take long to make them. Get some branches and I’ll let you have an old sock to cut up. You can soak the strips of sock in lamp oil and wrap them around the branches. A few of those should be enough to get you to where the glowing ­fungus beg
ins.”

  Igor and I hurried down the slope to gather branches. When we returned, John brought out the sock he had promised. It was so big, I could have fit inside it and the smell made me stagger back. I wasn’t sure we needed to soak the thing in oil . . . I was afraid it might explode the moment we tried to light it!

  Holding my breath, I took out my knife and began to slice the sock into long strips.

  “Here’s the oil,” said John, setting down a cup so big I could have taken a bath in. I dipped the pieces of sock into the oil, then wound them around the branches.

  When the torches were ready, we assembled at the entrance to the tunnel. I handed a torch to Bwoon­hiwda, kept one for myself, and passed the rest to Igor. The plan was to use two torches at a time. I had wanted to use only one, to make them last longer, but Bwoonhiwda pointed out that if that one died unexpectedly, we would have no way to light another.

  John said he was “fairly sure” we had enough torches to reach Nilbog. I wasn’t happy about that. I would have preferred “absolutely positive.”

  When we were ready, the giant used a candle the size of my leg to light our first two torches. Bending down, his enormous face wrinkled with concern, he said, “I wish you good fortune on your journey, for all our sakes.”

  “Does the tunnel go straight to Nilbog?” I asked, looking at the opening ahead of us. The light from our torches reached only twenty or thirty feet in. After that, all was darkness.

  “No, you will find many turns and twists. However, they should all be marked.”

  “Don’t matter!” cried Herky, bouncing up and down. “Herky can find the way! Herky will show! Herky good little goblin!”

  I wasn’t sure how long the little menace could manage to be good, but I kept my mouth shut except to say good-bye to John.

  Entering the earth is both fascinating and frightening. I like being in a place that so few people have seen. I like the coolness. I like the moist-rock scent of the air. I like the way the walls of the tunnels are sometimes smooth, sometimes rough and jagged, sometimes slick with dripping water.

  What I don’t like is coming to places where a tunnel opens to become a cavern so enormous that the light of a torch can’t reach the far side, or even the roof above you. Those spots are even worse when you reach a split in the cavern floor and have to cross it on a narrow stone bridge. Usually you can’t see how deep the gap is, or how sturdy the bridge might be. The only good thing about the big caverns was that the smoke from our torches could float away. In the low, narrow tunnels it was trapped and made us cough.

  I don’t know how long we had been traveling when Bwoonhiwda’s torch sputtered and went out.

  Igor handed me a fresh torch. I lit it from mine and passed it to Bwoonhiwda.

  We walked on.

  About five minutes later my own torch went out.

  I lit a new one from Bwoonhiwda’s.

  Occasionally I would check my watch, which I had decided was more useful than I had first expected.

  Each torch was lasting about half an hour. When we were down to our last four, Bwoonhiwda said, “Wet’s onwy use one now.”

  “But you said we’d be in trouble if it goes out,” I objected.

  “Twue. But even biggeh twubble if we use them up befoah we weach the gwowing fungus!”

  That was true enough.

  “All right,” I agreed. “One torch.”

  Now that Bwoonhiwda had put the worry in my mind, I began to fret that the last torch would go to ash too soon and leave us in the dark.

  On the surface world I don’t mind darkness that much. Up there you know that sooner or later the sun will rise. Underground, darkness is forever. And being caught in that total darkness was starting to seem more likely—and more terrifying.

  I glanced at the others. Igor and Bwoonhiwda looked as grim as I felt. The only one who didn’t seem concerned was Herky, who kept bounding ahead, then scampering back. The fourth or fifth time he did this, he scurried to me and clambered into my arms. “Herky scared!” he whispered.

  “Because of the dark?” I asked.

  He shook his head, causing his ears to flap against my face. “Not the dark. The noises!”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “All ssssss, ssssss, ssssss!”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Is there any other way to Nilbog from here?” I asked.

  He shook his head again and pressed his face to my neck.

  Tightening her grip on her spear, Bwoonhiwda whispered, “Move quietwy and be weady for anything!”

  I knew that whatever was ahead, Bwoonhiwda would be the first to face it. I knew Igor would fight like a madman to protect us. However, I also knew that we were deep underground, in a narrow tunnel, with only a single torch for light.

  It was not the happiest moment of my life.

  We moved on as silently as possible.

  Soon I heard it too . . . a constant low hissing. I started to speak, but my words were drowned out by a burst of fluttering.

  Bwoonhiwda shouted in anger as she dropped her torch.

  The flame died, plunging us into complete darkness.

  That was when I felt tiny claws dig into my neck.

  Though it made life safer when they left, I have always felt the world was poorer for the loss of the dragons.

  —Stanklo the Scribbler

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  STERNGRIM

  A breeze made by the flapping of small wings rustled my hair.

  Bats! I thought. We’ve disturbed a colony of bats!

  I was wrong. Whatever had landed on my neck had a long, twisting, snakelike body. It began to climb my head, needle-sharp claws piercing my scalp as it went.

  “Stop!” I cried, grabbing for it.

  “Why?” asked a soft voice.

  I pulled my hand back, startled, then realized I had understood the creature because of Solomon’s Collar.

  “Your claws are hurting me,” I cried, yelling to be heard above the shouts, screams, and bellows of my companions.

  “But I need to explore you,” it replied, head so close to my ear I felt its hot tongue flick against me. “Need to know what you are.”

  “I’m a people! What are you?”

  “Winged lindling.”

  Around me I heard my friends struggling to fight off the creatures.

  “Yike, yike, yike!” That was Herky, shrieking in dismay.

  “Don’t know what to bop! Don’t know what to bop!” That was Igor, roaring his fury.

  “Hoya hoya ho!” That was Bwoonhiwda, trumpeting her battle cry.

  Raising my own voice, I yelled, “Lindlings, stop!”

  Nothing happened. I didn’t know if it was because they were ignoring me or if they simply couldn’t hear me above the clamor.

  “I’ll stop them,” said the lindling who had been on my head. It fluttered away, and I heard it calling to the others to pull back.

  A minute or so later the shouting died down. In the near-silence that followed I heard Herky whimper, “Bad things. Bad, bad things!”

  “I talked to one,” I said. “I think they might be friendly.”

  “What ah they?” Bwoonhiwda asked.

  “Winged lindlings.”

  “Winged windwings?”

  Just then the lindling I had spoken to returned to my shoulder. “Cannot keep them quiet much longer. They need to investigate you. Will start soon whether or not you want them to.”

  “Will they hurt us?”

  “Claws might scratch, but do as I say, and I promise no bites.”

  I wondered what the promise of a winged lindling was worth, but figured they were going to start again whether or not we agreed.

  “What do you want us to do?” I asked.

  “Hold still. We
must climb on you. Need to learn your shape, find out what you smell like.”

  I told the others what the lindlings wanted.

  “Won’t bite?” Herky asked nervously.

  “They didn’t bite before, did they?”

  Herky sighed, but I could tell he wasn’t going to argue.

  “Everybody ready?” I asked.

  When they had all answered, I said to the lindling, “Go ahead.”

  The creature let out a shrill cry. I felt three more lindlings land on me. Having those clawed feet and cool, snaky bodies move over me in the darkness made my flesh creep. Without intending to, I squealed. Igor, on the other hand, began to laugh. “That tickle!” he cried. “Stop, things! Don’t tickle Igor!”

  “Be quiet, you big wug,” boomed Bwoonhiwda.

  Her great voice echoed around the stony walls: “Wug . . . wug . . . wug.”

  I tried to hold absolutely still myself, but it wasn’t easy. It was only the fear that if I did move, it might make the lindlings bite or scratch that kept me from trying to yank them off.

  I guess Herky was not able to manage holding still, because I heard him cry, “Ow ow ow ow owiee! Bad critters! Bad, bad critters!”

  This was followed by a flutter of wings and some angry hissing. Another of the creatures landed on my shoulder and said, “Little one is a small goblin.”

  I realized it was talking to the other lindlings, not me.

  “Well, we expect goblins down here,” said “my” lindling.

  “Are you done yet?” I asked.

  “I will be back,” said my lindling. It made a shrill sound that I understood to mean “Lindlings, gather!” and fluttered away.

  I’m not sure how much time went by before the ­lindling returned. When you’re standing in a pitch-black cave and have just had snakelike creatures crawling all over you, a minute seems to last forever. But finally the lindling returned to my shoulder and said, “We want to know why you are here.”

  I explained that we were heading for Nilbog to search for a friend who had been kidnapped by a giant toad.

  The lindling made a hissing laugh.

  “It’s not funny!” I said angrily. “My friend is in danger.”