Gortok snatched his book back, stuck a finger in the air, and opened his mouth to protest. He paused though. He glanced at the book and the tool satchel, and then lowered his finger. “Yeah, I reckon that’s right.”
Meetop groaned.
“Something wrong, Uncle?” Malagach asked.
“First off, don’t be telling no humans about our fishing holes. We don’t want them tall pale-skins coming up here and taking all the fish. Second... If I give you one of my fish, will you go away?”
Malagach’s shoulders slumped. Why weren’t other goblins ever interested in the things he was?
“Depends,” Gortok said, “do they taste good?”
“Wouldn’t be out here otherwise,” Meetop said. “Best cussed fishes you’ve ever laid teeth on.”
“Really?” Malagach asked.
“Yup.”
Malagach eyed the basket. “I prefer my fish skinned, gutted, de-headed, and cooked.”
“Fussy titmouse, ain’t ya?” Meetop said.
“Yes, he is.” Gortok grinned, selected a fat specimen, and tossed it into his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he smacked his lips in pleasure. “Oh, yes, that’s mmm s’good, yes.”
Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Malagach wondered if his brother was trying to trick him. But all around the pool, goblins were sampling their catches as soon as the fish came out of the water, and only blissful expressions marked their green faces.
Malagach selected a small fish for himself. He chewed warily at first, but a mellow, fruity flavor caressed his tongue. The five-finner tasted like no other fish he had eaten, raw or cooked.
“Whoa,” he finally managed to say.
“Told you.” Gortok reached for another fish.
The still-reclining Uncle Meetop moved with startling speed to slap Gortok’s hand away. “I said try one. You want more, you catch your own.”
Gortok shrugged. “With my trap, I’ll catch hundreds.”
No doubt inspired by the taste, Gortok soon had his partially assembled trap in hand and was trotting along the shoreline. Hopping ferns, logs, and rocks, he led the way past numerous other fishing goblins to find an unclaimed pebbly beach.
Malagach followed thoughtfully and was frowning by the time his brother started working on the trap. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
“What?” Pliers in hand, Gortok did not look up.
“Don’t you find it odd that those funny-looking fish taste that good?”
“Nope, I find it right swell.”
“Most fish make a fine meal,” Malagach said, “but it’s not as if they ever taste like honey-crunchy spiders or something truly delicious.”
“There.” Gortok stood, nodding at the trap. “It’s ready.”
“Another thing,” Malagach said. “Goblins have been fishing the lakes, ponds, and rivers around here since the beginning of time. If these fish had always been here, wouldn’t we have caught one before?”
“Not if it’s like you said, a new mutation.” Gortok waded into the shallows, found a shaded overhang, and placed his trap.
“Would a new mutation so quickly take over the entire pond? Did you see all the baskets of fish we passed? This is the only thing folks are catching, and they’re catching a lot of it.”
“As long as we catch a lot too.” Gortok ambled back up to the shore and laid down on the sun-warmed pebbles. Stretching out, he pillowed his head with his hands.
Still frowning, Malagach sat down and perused the fish book. He stared at the pictures and read the descriptions. Not only was the five-finner a new fish, but there was nothing even remotely like it in the Kingdom.
He shut the book and gazed out across the water, watching as goblins caught fish and tossed them into their mouths. Laughter and camaraderie filled the scene. With so many fish, there was no competition, no hoarding of ‘best spots.’ It was almost as if...
“Someone stocked the pond,” Malagach said.
One of Gortok’s eyelids slid open. “Enh?”
“Get up.” Malagach jumped to his feet. “We’re going to split up and look for tracks. We have to see if any non-goblin footprints are around, or if we can find anything suspicious.”
“Non-goblin footprints?” Gortok groaned and stood with obvious reluctance. “Even if someone did stock the pond with these funky fish, how do you know it wasn’t a goblin that did it?”
“Because our people couldn’t keep from eating the fish long enough to throw them in the pool.”
“Oh, there’s that.”
Heading opposite directions, they circumnavigated the pond, heads bent low to search for odd tracks. Though goblins were forest-wise and knew how to find and follow trails, Malagach had trouble picking up anything. The pebbly shoreline did not hold tracks, and the paths leading to and around the pond had been trampled by countless goblin prints.
When he and Gortok met on the other side, Malagach could only shrug. “I saw nothing.”
“I saw more nothing,” Gortok said. “And I got yelled at.”
“Whose fish did you try to sample?”
“Nobody’s. I was only looking for tracks.”
“In someone’s fish basket?”
“Maybe.”
Malagach snorted. “I guess we could go for a swim and check underwater. This is a pond, right? We could see where the water is coming from and...”
“And see if something fishy is going on with the unfishy fish down there?”
“Unfishy isn’t a word.”
“Says who?” Gortok asked.
“Me, I read the dictionary, remember?”
“Four times, as I recall. Which, by the way, is quite ungoblinly.”
“That’s not a word either.”
“I’m glad you’re here to educate me in the ways of letter combining.” Gortok wriggled out of his buckskins, preparing for a swim.
“That’s my job as the older brother.” Malagach shucked his clothes too.
Gortok tapped his tool satchel thoughtfully.
“I’d leave it,” Malagach said. “It’ll be heavy to swim with, and you know how hissy you get when your tools get wet.”
“Hissy? Is that a word?”
“Of course.”
“How come my goofy words aren’t words, and yours are?”
“We don’t ask why the gods bless some of us with the gift of unerring vocabulary, only thank them for doing so.”
After a good, long eye rolling, Gortok splashed into the shallows. Malagach slid in after.
The sun had warmed the top few inches of water, but below that the pool was frigid. Moss-slick pebbles shifted beneath Malagach’s feet, and he almost lost his balance. Arms flailing, he recovered, but stubbed his toe against a rock.
“Thee discomforts we must endure to ensure the safety of our people,” he muttered.
“Don’t scare the fish, bookfaces!” a whelp from their village hollered from farther down the shoreline.
Gortok turned his naked rump toward the other goblin and delivered the full view before sucking in a deep breath and diving. Malagach, too, plunged beneath the surface, shuddering as the icy water enveloped him.
Thanks to the sun slanting into the pond and the mud-free pebble bottom, the water was clear. Dense schools of crimson finger fish flitted past, their tiny bodies brushing Malagach’s bare limbs before darting away. He didn’t see many other species. More so than ever, he had the impression of someone stocking the pond. He had heard of humans doing it to ponds in their cities, but who would load up some remote mountain pond with mutant fish? And why?
Malagach swam out to the center and floated, trying to identify where the current originated. It seemed to come from the rocky spur at the back of the pool.
Gortok popped up, close to the limestone wall. “Over here. There’s a tunnel with water coming out of it.”
Malagach paddled over. While Gortok treaded, he spat artistic streams of water into the air.
“Is it big enough for us to fit in?”
Malagach dodged the last of his brother’s mouth fountain.
“Think so.”
“Does it look like the fish are coming out of it?”
“Uh, maybe.”
“Will we be able to hold our breaths long enough to swim through the tunnel? Does it come out somewhere with air? Is it—”
“Time for you to swim your green goblin cheeks down there to look for yourself?” Gortok asked. “Yes, yes, it is.”
“All right.”
After inhaling deeply, Malagach kicked and paddled down to the bottom. A pronounced current flowed out of the rock wall, and he soon found the tunnel.
The two-foot-wide entrance offered barely enough space for a goblin to crawl through. The passage angled downward but soon turned a bend, so he could not see how far it went. Maybe it connected to some cave deep in the rock.
While Malagach hovered at the entrance, deciding if he should explore inside, a school of five-finned fish swam out. Then Gortok stroked past, slipped into the tunnel, and disappeared around the bend.
Malagach swam to the top to refresh his air supply, and then followed his brother. Unsure how long the tunnel might run, he kept his strokes steady and relaxed to conserve energy—and air.
As he swam deeper, the light dimmed. A thick gloom draped the passage, dark enough that even his night-seeing goblin eyes struggled to penetrate it.
Pushing against the current, and groping his way along slick rocks, he rounded more bends and began to have doubts about continuing on. His lungs announced an interest in air. He would have to turn back soon if he wanted to make it out. But Gortok was still ahead. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to swim so far that he couldn’t make his way back out before his breath ran out. Would he?
What if Gortok had already turned around and passed Malagach in one of the wider sections, and neither had noticed the other in the dark?
This thought began to consume Malagach’s mind until he was sure that was what had happened. His lungs protested every stroke he took that distanced him from the surface and air. He was about to turn around when his head bumped against flesh. Gortok’s foot.
Malagach surged past, and his head broke the water. He gasped. Gortok’s hand clamped over his mouth.
“Sssh,” Gortok whispered. “Breathe softly. There’s someone over there.”
Malagach wiped water out of his eyes and peered blearily around a limestone grotto. He inhaled as deeply—and quietly—as he could. He and Gortok treaded in a pool with a small stream flowing into it. Fungus-covered rocks edged the water, partially blocking the view of a fire burning on a level bit of the damp stone floor. A copper cauldron big enough to hold a couple goblins perched above burning charcoal. A portly human dressed in white stirred whatever liquid it contained.
“Looks like a cook,” Malagach said.
“Or a potion maker,” Gortok whispered. “Like Shaman Otik. Except taller. And fatter. And—”
“I get it.”
Three vats, which were even larger than the cauldron, rested against the stone wall beside the human. Crates, boxes, and a huge bag labeled charcoal also shared the space.
After referring to a large book with yellowed pages, the cook measured from the bags and poured a gray powder into the concoction. Then he delved into a tiny box, withdrew dried lichen, broke it between his hands, and dropped the crumbs on top.
“That’s purple-plum lichen,” Gortok whispered as the cook resumed stirring.
“How can you possibly tell from way over here?” Malagach asked.
“Because it’s rarer than gold and yummier than maple slug pie. I can spot anything yummy from fifty meters.”
Malagach snorted, but didn’t deny it. His brother was one of the best foragers in the village—for ‘yummy’ foods at least.
“We have to get closer and see what’s in those vats,” Malagach whispered, though he was not sure how.
While darkness shrouded their pool, the fire lit the grotto around the human. Even someone without keen night eyes would see short green shapes slinking along the wall.
They paddled to the edge and climbed out, hunkering behind one of the mushroom-dotted boulders.
Before they could creep forward, a second human entered from a recessed tunnel Malagach had not seen from the water.
“It’s working.” The newcomer pushed back a cowl, revealing greasy red hair and a matching beard. He dropped a sack of something at the cook’s feet. “Those gobbers are stuffing their gullets with our fish as fast as they can catch them.”
Malagach gulped and exchanged a fearful look with Gortok.
“My fish, Jeb McNoy,” the cook said, “and I told you the recipe would work. That the salt peter?” He nudged the bag with a booted toe.
“Yup.”
“Put it next to the hog’s wart and brimstone.”
One of Gortok’s pointed ears perked. Before Malagach could ask why, the cook spoke again.
“Have you tried a fish yourself? Goblins eat slugs, snails, moss, and rocks, so it’s no guarantee humans will find those fish palatable.”
“We do not eat rocks,” Gortok whispered.
“Sssh,” Malagach hissed.
“Oh, I tried a bunch. They’re delicious, them fish. You can add the final touch now.” McNoy rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait. Once I stock the pond on the Hathills’ property, them ign’ant swine are going to eat them up, and this feud will finally be over. My pa’s death will be avenged, and my family will claim back our land right and proper.”
“Ign’ant?” Gortok whispered. “Is that a word?”
“No,” Malagach said. “It’s a contraction, and an ignorant one at that.”
“Drat, nothing good is a real word.”
Malagach clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth, so he could listen to the rest of the humans’ conversation.
“I’m adding the final ingredients now,” the cook said. “We’ll keep using the goblins as test subjects. When they start dying, we’ll know the recipe is just as potent as when old Amergrith the Potion Master compiled his book. And then, I’ll take what’s left of your lichen to end my own feuds.” The cook chuckled ominously as he stirred.
Test subjects? Dying! Malagach gripped the cool, damp boulder so hard his knuckles whitened.
“Sure, take it all,” McNoy said. “Just be careful, on account of that’s all I got on my property. There’s got to be enough to kill them Hathills off down to the last slimy varmint.” McNoy ambled back into the tunnel.
Malagach released the boulder and looked at his brother. “It’s obvious what we have to do.”
“Get out of here and warn our people?” Gortok asked.
“Distract this fellow, destroy the lichen, destroy the potion book, and destroy whatever’s in the pot and the vats.”
“That’s a lot of destroying for two little goblin whelps.”
“We can do it,” Malagach said. “We have to do it. We’ll save our people and be heroes. That’ll be even better than having a fish named after us.”
“May I point out that if we’re captured or killed, our people are still in a passel of trouble, whereas if we skedaddle on out and warn them now, they might be safe?”
“Yes, you can point it out, but let me point out that we’re not all that respected in the village, and it’s questionable whether they’ll stop munching something so scrumptious on our say so.”
“All right, what’s your plot?” Gortok asked.
“Plan,” Malagach said. “Villains plot, I plan.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ll swim back out, go to the village, grab some of Shaman Otik’s withering creeper vine, find the tunnel these men are using to get in and out, get close to the cook and earn his trust, and then drop some of the creeper vine in the fire. A few inhalations of the vine smoke will make us fall asleep, and then you can destroy everything, and drag me to safety.”
“Sounds complicated—and I’m not in a hurry to drag your big green cheeks anywhe
re. What if you just run past him, lure him out of the cave, and I make—” Gortok’s eyes lit up, “—a big boom.”
“How do you propose—awwwrk!”
A hand landed on Malagach’s head and lifted him up by his hair. The cook, leaning over the boulder, reached for Gortok too.
With a little more time to react, Gortok flung himself backward. Rump leading, he flopped into the water with a noisy splash. Before the cook could grab him, Gortok flipped onto his belly, paddled away from the edge, and dove.
The cook waited.
Malagach tried to squirm away, but the human’s large hand gripped his hair firmly. Struggling only brought pain, since Malagach’s toes dangled above the stone floor and all his weight hung from his hair.
“He must have gone through the passage,” the cook muttered when Gortok did not resurface. “Well, one goblin test subject is better than none.” He shook Malagach. “I’ll try the poisonous version of the fish on you before releasing it for your people to catch.”
“Oh, that’s a bad idea,” Malagach said. “You see, I’m a mutant, not at all like other goblins or humans, so I might not react like them. In fact, I’m sure I would make an extremely lousy test subject.”
Ignoring his protests, the cook hauled Malagach back to the fire pit. The man dug into his supplies and pulled out a ball of twine.
Malagach’s gaze chanced on the small box. “That’s purple-plum lichen you’re using, isn’t it?”
“Might be.”
The cook forced Malagach face-down onto the cave floor, and rough stone ground into his cheek. His arms were yanked behind him, and the cook started wrapping twine about Malagach’s wrists.
“I know where you can get some more lichen,” Malagach said, voice muffled by the rock. “The purple-plum kind. It’s very close!”
The cook paused in his tying. “How close?”
“Just out by the lake.”
“Goblins are known to be excellent foragers...”
“That’s right, we know the edible flora and fungus of the mountain better than anyone else.” Malagach closed his mouth; he didn’t want to sound too desperate.
“And why would you help me?” the cook asked.
“Because I want to live. How about a deal? I’ll show you where the lichen is, and you don’t force poison fish down my throat.”