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The
Shield of Shadowstar
Imagine a place where
every stray fear manifests before you.
Imagine Jig the goblin
stuck in this place.
I ended up cutting the
entire Shield of Shadowstar bit, but I'm quite fond
of Jig's struggles to survive as various terrors
from previous books come back to haunt him...
Jig was home. The muck fires cast a cheerful green
light through the empty lair. The smell of smoke
and goblin sweat mixed with the mouth-watering odor
of Golaka's cooking. All around him was good, solid
stone. No moon, no stars, no thrice-cursed trees.
"Hello?"
He didn't expect an answer. Everyone was either at
Avery or on their way back. What would Grell think
when she and the others arrived to find Jig had
beaten them here? She'd likely smack him
with her cane for making her take the long way.
It's not real, Jig.
"You pushed me!"
Not precisely. The temple, even the image of
Tymalous Shadowstar that shoved you off the edge,
those are little more than props. I needed you to
leave the reality I had constructed for you.
Jig scraped a claw along the wall. Tiny beetles
scurried away. "It looks real to me."
Jig, the temple where we spoke was an island from
your realm. We gods aren't mushrooms in the
universal layers of your ogre dessert. We are
the layers, shifting and floating and drifting past
one another. Only when you left my temple did you
truly enter--
"You ate me?" Jig shouted. "Is that what
you're telling me?"
To his
credit, Shadowstar sounded mildly embarrassed.
Something like that, yes.
Jig picked
up a rock and threw it across the lair. It hit the
far wall with a loud crack. "Did that hurt?"
It
doesn't work like that. You--
"Fine.
I'll find a bigger rock."
Find
the shield.
"It's
here? In the lair?" Jig picked up a larger rock
and slammed it against the floor.
Oh, the pain. The
agony. Do you feel better now?
Actually, he did, a
little. "Why does everyone hide their mystical
artifacts in my lair?"
It's not your lair.
This place responds to your mind. You exist among
the stuff of raw magic now. You can create the
shield, if your will is strong enough. Whatever you
most want, the deepest desires and fears of your
heart, they shape your reality.
Jig thought about that
for a while, then looked down. "I have new boots!"
They were even better than his old blue boots.
These were dark red, with silver swirls down the
sides, and a steel shell over the toes to protect
him when he was fighting the crowds at mealtime. Or
playing Toe-Peg, for that matter. Smudge scurried
onto his left boot and rubbed the shiny leather with
his forelegs.
Anything your heart
desires, and you conjured new boots?
"My feet have been
cold. And I have blisters." Only he didn't, not
anymore. He wiggled his toes and grinned. "Wait,
are you saying the only thing I have to do to get
this shield is to want it?"
It would be, if you
could truly believe it to be that easy. Remember,
this place responds to your heart and mind. Your
desire for . . . new boots was pure. Is your desire
for the shield the same? Concentrate, Jig.
Believe, and make it so.
Jig shook his head.
"It's never that easy. There are monsters to face,
warriors and dragons and--" He stopped talking as
Shadowstar's words truly began to sink in. "Uh oh."
You're an idiot,
Jig.
Loud, drunken laughter
echoed through the cave. At the same time, Smudge
seared the shoulder of Jig's cloak.
"Where is that miserable, lying runt?"
"Captain Porak?" Jig's
voice squeaked. Porak had been his first captain,
sending Jig out to guard against adventurers while
Porak and his friends got drunk and gambled. Porak
was dead now, but this place didn't seem to realize
that.
"There you are!" Porak
smashed through the door of Golaka's kitchen, and
Jig yelped. He was pretty sure Porak hadn't been
able to do that in real life.
Your fear makes him
stronger.
Bigger, too, from the
look of it. Porak stood taller than any goblin Jig
had known, large enough to best even a hobgoblin.
He carried a large axe in one hand, and a stick of
barbequed boar in the other. He took a huge bite of
boar, then flung the rest of the meat to one side.
Smudge darted after the
meat. "Coward," Jig muttered. He reached for his
sword, but found only that useless kitchen knife.
Porak's grin widened.
He ran a greasy hand through his ragged, dagger-cut
hair. Old blood stained his leather armor dark blue
around the belly and by the throat. "Come here,
Jig. I want to go fishing for lizard-fish, and I
need a scrawny worm like you for bait!"
"Now would be a good
time for me to find that shield," Jig whispered.
Nobody's stopping
you.
"He's stopping me!"
Jig stared at his knife. Maybe here, this might
actually work. He drew back and threw as hard as he
could.
The knife flew straight
and sure, striking Porak square in the chest . . .
at which point it broke into several pieces. Porak
started to laugh.
Jig ran. Out of the
lair, deeper into the tunnels, toward hobgoblin
territory. There wouldn't be any hobgoblins here.
They were all at Avery. Jig concentrated, trying as
hard as he could to believe that. No hobgoblins.
And somewhere in these tunnels was the shield that
would protect him, if he could get past whatever
other monsters protected it.
You don't learn, do you?
"Dung!" No, there
would be no more monsters!
It was too late. Water
splashed Jig's legs. To his delight, his new boots
appeared to be waterproof. Unfortunately, his
trousers weren't. Cold water soaked his thighs.
Where was he? He couldn't have reached the
lizard-fish lake so soon.
An orange glow
illuminated a huge mound in the water, and Jig's
innards turned to ice. He tried to turn and run,
but his legs wouldn't obey. "Straum."
The dragon's long,
sinuous neck slid through the water without a
sound. Golden eyes the size of Jig's head narrowed
as Straum drew close. "Jig Dragonslayer."
Jig cleared his
throat. "Just Jig, please," he squeaked.
The dragon's laugh sent
waves washing over Jig's boots. He tried again to
back away. This time he made it an entire step
before the wet sand shifted, and he fell on his
backside.
"I remember you, little
goblin."
Naturally. The dragon
was smart. He wouldn't forget what Jig had done to
him. Porak either didn't remember or didn't care.
He had always liked to torment Jig. But Straum, he
would want revenge.
Porak. . . . "I
brought you a gift, Straum."
A tongue like a red
serpent lashed out. "A gift? Is it a chamberpot?
I used to have such an exquisite collection."
Jig shook his head. He
swiveled his ears, listening to Porak's footsteps.
He would catch up any moment now. "No. It's a
snack."
"There you are, Jig!
I'm going to--" Porak skidded to a halt in the sand
and stared at Straum. "Where'd that dragon come
from?"
Jig's belief shaped
this place. Jig closed his eyes. No matter what
else, he had always believed, down to the very core
of his being, that Porak was an idiot.
"Jig's mine, dragon!" Porak shouted.
Jig flattened himself
to the wall as Porak charged. Moments later, Jig
was racing back up the tunnel. In the edge of his
vision, he saw the dragon's tail slip around to
smack Porak in the back. Porak staggered toward
Straum's mouth. There was a burst of flame, and
Porak's well-cooked body fell neatly into the
dragon's jaws.
Jig kept running. He
heard the clank of metal against rock. That would
be Straum spitting out Porak's axe. Would
Porak be
enough to satisfy a dragon? Maybe Straum wasn't
hungry.
Do you really
believe that? Shadowstar asked.
"Thank you, little
goblin." Straum's voice echoed through the tunnel.
"And now I find myself in the mood for dessert."
Jig was panting by the
time he made it back into the lair. He knew Straum
shouldn't be able to follow. Straum had been
trapped deep in the mountain, too large to escape
through these tunnels. There was no way for him to
reach Jig.
That was what he knew
in his mind. But his fear was another matter. If
Jig truly believed he was safe, he wouldn't now be
searching for a place to hide.
He had used the dragon
to destroy Porak, but what was powerful enough to
destroy a dragon? The pixies might have been able
to do it, but pixies came in swarms. If Jig
conjured them up, he would never be rid of them.
This would be so much
easier if he could find the shield first, and
then fight the monsters.
The air stilled as
Straum's body squeezed into the lair, blocking the
draft from the outside. His wings broke chunks of
obsidian from the entrance. The dragon opened his
mouth, and his belch reverberated through the lair.
"I may eat you raw,
goblin," Straum said. "You goblins lose too much
flavor when you're charred."
Flavor. As
Straum smashed the rest of the way into the lair,
Jig spun and raced toward the kitchen. A heavy
wooden door blocked the kitchen area, held in place
by a kind of black mold which clung equally well to
wood and stone. Jig slipped inside and yanked the
door shut behind him.
"Hey!" Golaka spun
away from her cauldron, her stirring spoon spraying
Jig's chest with gravy. "The only ones allowed in
my kitchen are those who make the food, or those who
are the food." She bared her teeth. "And I know
you can't cook, little Jig."
Jig slumped against an
old barrel full of smoked bat wings. Golaka was
here. Of course she was here. She had always been
here, for as long as Jig or anyone else could
remember. "There's a dragon in the lair."
Unfortunately, Golaka
was nowhere near as stupid as Porak had been. She
wiped her sweaty face on her apron, then glared at
Jig. "A dragon, you say? And who do you think
could have led a dragon to our lair?"
"Porak?" Jig bit his
cheek. He could tell she didn't believe him. The
bone-numbing whack of her spoon against his skull
confirmed it.
"Porak couldn't lead a
carrion worm to a corpse," Golaka snapped.
"Besides, Porak's dead."
Straum saved Jig from
having to answer. Huge claws punched through the
door and ripped it from the frame. Straum squeezed
his head inside.
Golaka smashed his nose
with her spoon. "I'm betting you're not here to
help cook, either. Does anyone appreciate how hard
I work, keeping this lot fed? The warriors always
want fresh meat, but how often do they get off their
bone blue behinds to go hunting? And Grell needs
her fire-spider eggs to help clear her sinuses. My
eyes are too old to be plucking spider eggs from a
web."
Every sentence was
punctuated with a hammer-blow to Straum's snout.
Jig crawled around behind the cauldron and peeked
over the top.
Straum's nostrils
widened, and Jig could see the glow of dragonfire.
But before Straum could burn Golaka the way he had
burnt Porak, Golaka shoved her spoon all the way up
his right nostril.
Rock exploded in the
entranceway as Straum yanked his head back.
Golaka followed him out
into the lair, still shouting. "Oh, they send me
the occasional assistant, but they never last.
They're always running off to do more 'interesting'
things. Excitement. Adventure. You want
adventure? Try cleaning a year's worth of ogre
grease out of my cauldron!"
Jig sat down and warmed
his hands on the fire beneath the cauldron. There
was nothing he could do. His beliefs ruled his
place, and he certainly knew better than to think he
could make any difference at all in a fight with a
dragon.
The real question was
whether he believed Golaka could. Straum was a five
thousand year old dragon, with huge teeth and claws
and firey breath, not to mention the magic he had
mastered over his long imprisonment below.
But Golaka was . . .
Golaka. And Straum had scattered rocks and dust
throughout her kitchen.
So Jig wasn't at all
surprised when, a few minutes later, he heard Golaka
shout, "Get out here, you worthless runt. And bring
the big knife. You led this beast to us, so you can
be the one to carve him up."
© 2008 by Jim C. Hines
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