* * * * *
“This is tedious.”
Malagach sneered at the eighty-first trout he had cleaned. He tossed the fillets into one waterproof basket and the head, bone, and guts into a garden tub. The contents of the latter would go into making fish meal fertilizer for the fruit trees, berry bushes, and perennial herbs planted in and around the village. The edible camouflage made it hard for outsiders to spot goblin villages, and many a canoe had skimmed down the river with its owner never knowing a couple hundred goblins lived a stone’s throw away.
“You’re only mad because you didn’t get a book,” Gortok said. “You’d already be done if you knew you had something new to read waiting in the hut.”
“I’d already be done if you were helping a little more.”
“I’m helping.” Gortok held up a handful of guts.
Malagach pointed to his brother’s other hand, the one holding a stick and doodling in the sand. “You’re drawing pictures!”
“Not pictures, schematics,” Gortok said. “I was wondering if I could make a clockwork fish de-gutter.”
“While you’re wondering I’m cleaning everything.”
“An arrangement that works right well for me.” Gortok winked. “Please continue.”
“If you want to eat tonight, you need to—”
“What’s that?” Gortok asked.
Suspicious of the interruption, Malagach merely glared at his brother at first. But Gortok dropped his stick and stood, gaze toward the water.
Malagach finally looked and spotted an oilskin tube bumping against overhanging roots and deadwood as it bobbed downstream along the bank.
“Hm.” Malagach waded into the shallows and grabbed the tube.
A tight lid sealed its contents. After unsuccessfully prying at it for a moment, Malagach handed the tube to Gortok, who wordlessly produced a file from one of his tool-filled pockets. He wedged it under the lid and popped the tube open. A rolled piece of light brown paper slid out. Malagach grabbed it before it could fall into the water.
“It’s a map,” he said after a quick perusal. “A treasure map.”
“How do you know?” Gortok asked.
“All the traditional indicators are here: topographical representation of terrain features, a dashed line depicting a route, and a black X marking the final destination.”
Gortok leaned over Malagach’s shoulder to look. “And it says TREASURE MAP at the top.”
“Yes, that was a helpful clue as well.”
Gortok dropped his file back into his pocket where it clanked against whatever other tools he had in there. “I wonder what the treasure is.”
“Nothing, I’m sure,” Malagach said.
“Nothing? That’d be a lousy treasure.”
“This is obviously fake. If you had buried riches, why would you make a map telling anyone who found it how to locate said riches?”
“Maybe the person got troll-mauled and was bleeding out of all sorts of holes. Maybe he barely escaped and knew he was dying and had only enough time to bury his riches and make the map before drawing his last breath.”
“Oh, certainly,” Malagach said. “Because if I were bleeding to death and in unimaginable pain, I’d take the time to bury my belongings and draw this detailed map without even getting a single drop of blood on it.”
Gortok shrugged. “That’s just one scenario.”
“There’s no treasure,” Malagach said firmly.
“Right.” Gortok reached for the map. “Then we’ll just stuff this in its tube and toss it back in the river.”
“No!” Malagach jerked the map away.
“I thought so.” Gortok grinned. “You’re not entirely certain there’s no treasure, are you?”
“No, I’m certain there’s no treasure, but...” Malagach studied the map again. “Someone made this for a reason, and I am curious what that is.”
“And if there were a treasure,” Gortok said, “we’d have all sorts of coin for buying books and tools and, and books about tools!”
“I suppose so.” Despite Malagach’s pragmatism, an excited flutter bounced through his stomach. What if the map wasn’t fake? “The X appears to be almost straight south of us, on the Dragon Tears River. Our own Cedar Rapids flows into that downstream a few miles. In between lie the Powderhorn Pines.”
“Thanks for the geography lesson,” Gortok said. “Being born and raised two feet away from you, I’m not real experienced with the area.”
Malagach ignored him. “If we cut across the Pines, we could be at the spot in a few hours. I do believe your favorite mushroom-picking area is at the southern end of that forest.”
Gortok’s sarcasm evaporated. “Oh, that’s where those blue boletes are! Those are so good. I love them fresh, dried, dipped in slug slime...”
“As do we all,” Malagach said patiently, knowing food excited his brother almost as much as tools. “If we told Ma we wanted to go on a foraging trip...”
“She’d let us stay out overnight, and we could treasure hunt,” Gortok said.
“Yes, we just have to remember to stop and actually pick some mushrooms to bring home this time.”
“Yeah.” Gortok rubbed his backside at the reminder of a recent switching. Malagach’s own cheeks flinched in sympathy.
* * * * *
Clank, clank, clank.
“Must you make so much noise?” Malagach asked.
“I must.” Gortok...clanked.
Despite the forest being named the Powderhorn Pines, just as many hemlocks, cedars, and firs towered overhead, their needle-laden branches blocking out most the sky. Still, enough rain filtered through the canopy to drip insistently down Malagach’s neck. Beneath his bare feet, soggy fallen needles carpeted the deer trail. The heavy air muted the clanking a bit, but Malagach still felt they were being too noisy. Trolls and orcs as well as plenty of goblin-munching predators shared this mountain.
“If we get eaten, I’m blaming you,” he grumbled.
“I had to bring extra tools.” Not only did Gortok have his usual stuffed pockets, but he also wore a patchwork satchel Ma had made him from scraps of hide. “Suppose we have to go down a deep hole and get the treasure out? Then you’ll want these handy pulleys and some rope, of course. Or, what if we have to climb the side of a mountain? Then—”
“All right.” Malagach stopped and lifted a hand to curtail the flow of enthusiasm. “Sorry, I complained. It’s just... I’m not sure what we’re walking into here. Let’s try to be quiet as we get close to the river.”
“Sure.” Gortok shrugged amiably.
As they walked, Malagach wondered if maybe, just maybe the map was real. Might someone have slain a dragon, or unearthed a prosperous ore vein? And might there have been too much wealth to haul down the mountain alone? Thus this treasure-finder had made the map for himself, figuring he’d return later with help. But maybe that map had slipped from his saddlebags as he crossed a stream somewhere upriver....
If there were a treasure, what might it consist of? Gold and jewels? Priceless artifacts? Malagach’s lips curved up with an even more pleasant thought. Books? While the prospect of the last excited him most, he would not reject other valuables. With wealth, he could buy books. More than that, he could finance a real education, maybe even move to a city where there were schools on every corner.
A snap came from the trail ahead of them.
Malagach jerked to a stop. Gortok’s head, too, came up, and wordlessly, they slid off the trail.
Goblins were neither warriors nor great hunters, but there was one thing even the youngest did well: hide.
Only a few steps from the trail, Malagach eased back into a fern, dropping into a crouch amongst its fronds. Near him, Gortok pulled on a coonskin cap to hide his wild white hair and bent his body to match the gnarled roots of an ancient cedar. They lowered their faces, so light would not reflect off their eyes. Once in place, they froze. A soft breeze whispered through, ensuring their scent would blow away from the trail not towar
d it.
Next came the rustle of foliage being thrust aside, and then voices.
“We’re lost, Pa, admit it.”
“We’re, fine. We’ve got a map.”
“Yeah, but we don’t know where we are in relation to anything on the map. We haven’t seen the sun for days, and these cursed trees confound your sense of direction.”
“We’re close. I heard the river a while back. The weather will dry up, and we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
Two pairs of weary legs trod into view, the mud-spattered boots torn and faded. Malagach did not yet lift his head to look higher.
“Luck, we’ve got rotten luck,” the younger of the two voices said. “Just look at our orchard. Cursed lightning, cursed fire. It’ll be years before the new trees start producing. This isn’t going to work, and we won’t be able to pay the taxes.”
“Curb your cynicism, son. If your ma were alive, she’d cry to hear you speak thus. We’ve rations enough for several days, and your younger brothers are tending the trees. We’ll find the treasure and make sure taxes won’t be a concern ever again.”
Once the pair had moved past his hiding spot, Malagach looked up. He glimpsed packs, shovels, and pickaxes on the humans’ backs before the trail bent, and the men moved out of sight.
“Sounds like they’re hunting for our treasure,” Gortok said.
“Sounds like there are multiple copies of this supposed treasure map,” Malagach said.
“At least they’re going the wrong way,” Gortok said. “We’ll get there first.”
Malagach was beginning to wonder if that was a good thing or not.
They continued walking, and by evening a constant rumble permeated the forest. Soon a wide river came into view, at the point where it dropped over a cliff. Malagach reached the edge and peered down. Water rushed over its granite shelf and poured a hundred feet, dumping into a dark pool framed by rocky beaches on either side. The sheer cliff featured only a few meager perches where scraggily bushes and stunted trees attempted to grow, half of their roots dangling exposed. Moisture and moss gleamed on the rocks, promising a precarious climb.
Malagach handed his brother the map to put in his satchel. “This is the spot.”
“Glad I brought my rope,” Gortok said over the roar.
“Look.” Malagach pointed to the beach at the base of the waterfall. An old road, mostly covered with weeds and pine needles, wound out of the forest, approached the river, and then turned to follow the waterway. Tied to a young fir at the curve stood a horse and two mules, none wearing saddles or packs.
“Those critters look familiar,” Gortok said.
“That’s because we saw them this morning,” Malagach said. “Loaded with the trader’s goods.”
“Kinda funny that the trader’s camp site is just where the X on our map is,” Gortok said.
“Maybe the trader came treasure hunting too,” Malagach said. “Remember how impatient he was? A trader makes his living buying and selling stuff, so he ought to have been more interested in establishing a good reputation with people and trading honestly for my herbs.”
“And he should have been interested my rotating candle holder,” Gortok said.
“Hm,” Malagach said noncommittally. Then he grew thoughtful. He knelt down on the mossy rock overlooking the waterfall. “It’s beginning to look like there were multiple maps that were distributed in multiple rivers.”
“Why?” Gortok asked.
Malagach sighed. “Because it’s a trap.”
From the beginning, his rational mind had known the map could not lead to any real treasure. And yet... the irrational part had surely hoped it was real.
“Get down,” he said, catching movement below.
Halfway down the cliff, on a narrow ledge well camouflaged by evening shadows, two men appeared from behind the waterfall. Each wore powder horns, ammo pouches, and had muskets and swords strapped to their backs. Facial features were hard to distinguish from above, but Malagach did not think either one was the trader.
The men uncoiled a rope tied to something Malagach could not see and tossed the end down the rock face. Displaying easy athleticism, they shimmied to the bottom where they untied the pack animals and led them into the forest. A short time later, they reappeared without the animals. Hiding them so future trap victims would not sense anything out of the ordinary?
Malagach and Gortok ducked away from the edge to avoid being seen when the men reached the cliff and climbed back up to their hideout.
“You reckon they’re fooling people into coming here, ambushing ‘em, and stealing their stuff?” Gortok asked.
“Something along those lines, yes.” Malagach sighed again. “This is the time when intelligent goblins who value their lives go home.”
“Absolutely,” Gortok said. “What will we do?”
Malagach smiled but did not answer right away. He put his hands in his pockets and looked out over the waterfall. “If we went home and told Chief Loggok, he’d tell everyone to avoid the place. Hide from bandits, don’t confront them. That’s the goblin way. I suppose it’s the smart thing to do if your only goal is survival. But... I want more than that, Gor. I don’t want to just survive, I want to matter.” Malagach nodded to himself. “So what we will do is use our wits to put an end to this deception.”
“Mattering is good, yes.” Gortok rubbed his hands together. “And if the stingy trader is gone and his tools and books just happen to be on the booty pile, well, that’s just a perk, right?”
Malagach flickered an eyebrow at his brother. “That’d be stealing.”
“It can’t be stealing if it’s already been stolen. Then it’s just...finding.”
“We’ll debate word definitions later,” Malagach said. “Let’s worry first about the well-armed men hiding behind the waterfall along with any other well-armed accomplices they might have. We need a plan.”
“Right, whatcha got?”
“I could go in and distract them...somehow, and you could sneak after and do...something.”
“That’s a bit vague,” Gortok said.
“I like vague. It frees you up for improvisation.”
“All right.” Gortok stood. “You improvise. I’m gonna go get my something.”
Gortok disappeared into the pines for a while, returning with clumps of pitch matting the fur on his cap. He peeled back the flap of his satchel to show Malagach a number of pine cones stuffed inside. The oilskin tube that had held the map was now packed with pitch.
“Planning to start a fire?” Malagach asked.
“You never know.”
“The last time you were playing with pitch, you caught the tree hut on fire,” Malagach said.
“I wasn’t playing, I was making pitch glue to stick the fur on my windup rats. And I merely singed some bark.”
“It took two months for your eyebrows to grow back,” Malagach noted.
“Yes, but now they’re fluffier than ever.” Gortok wriggled his white brows and tucked the tube into the satchel. “I’m ready.”
“We’ll wait until full nightfall,” Malagach said. That would give him time to come up with some ideas of his own.
* * * * *
A quarter moon peered between evergreen branches and spilled silver light onto the pool below. Malagach nodded to his brother. Gortok had tied his rope around a nearby stump and now lowered the rest to the ledge below. The tip scraped lightly against the damp rock.
“How long should I wait?” Gortok asked.
“Not long. I just need enough time to—”
“Get captured?”
“Survey the interior and finalize my plan.” Malagach gave his brother a slitty-eyed glare before grabbing the rope from him.
Spray from the falls made the rock treacherous and denied footholds. Even with the rope, and the aid of gravity, the descent was difficult, and his knees banged often against the cliff face. Climbing back up would not be easy, which meant escape would be difficult if someon
e were chasing them.
Malagach’s arms were quivering when his toes met the ledge. Whether from muscle fatigue or nerves he was not sure. Puddles and moss made the footing sketchy, and he inched carefully toward the waterfall. The power of the river pouring down so close awed him. It would be easy to slip on the wet stone and be borne away.
Fortunately, the ledge widened as it neared the waterfall. The cliff wall veered inward, leading Malagach behind the gushing curtain.
A dimly lit cave spread before him, the walls decorated with a faded panorama of paintings. In the closest one, a goblin stood in a river with a fishing spear held aloft. Malagach touched the picture thoughtfully, then continued deeper.
He rounded a natural stone pillar and spotted the light source: a fire pit with a few glowing embers burning low. Three piles of occupied sleeping furs surrounded it and kept Malagach from advancing farther.
Yellowed bones and a couple of skulls rested here and there. Behind the fire pit, the cave floor slanted upward toward another pillar and the back wall. A pile of items were heaped goblin-tall there. In the dimness and the jumble, it was hard to identify much, but Malagach made out several shovels, a fishing pole, a crate, numerous sets of saddlebags, several tools, and the two books from the trader’s inventory. Next to the pile squatted an open sack of apples and a couple of small kegs that probably held black powder or perhaps some alcoholic human beverage. All stolen goods, Malagach wagered. The maps lured people in, some well provisioned for treasure-hunting trips, and they were attacked and robbed when they showed up.
Upon closer inspection of the sleeping area, he realized human-sized forms occupied only two of the sets of furs. The third camp bed lay empty. Likely the owner stood watch someplace. But where? Malagach had not seen anyone outside.
He peered about the grotto again and then—with a feeling of dread creeping into his gut—he turned around. The black hole of a pistol’s muzzle pointed at his face, so close his eyes crossed when he tried to focus on it.
“Hello,” Malagach croaked.
He looked up into the cool face of a human woman. At first he was surprised, for she wore a white dress and makeup, hardly what one expected from a bandit, but perhaps she was part of the ruse. Her job might be to distract the mostly male treasure hunters while her comrades employed an ambush.