He passed into the main cavern, a roughly circular, high-ceilinged cave of hard obsidian. The walls felt greasy to the touch, the polish of the rock hidden beneath years of grime. While the muck fires gave off very little smoke, several centuries of “very little” had led to a blackened, soot-covered ceiling. The sweaty odor of five hundred goblins mixed with the powerful scent of Golaka’s cooking. Jig’s mouth began to water as he smelled a batch of pickled toadstools boiling in Golaka’s great cauldron.

Jig kept close to the wall as he worked. The faster he could finish his duties, the sooner he could eat.

But the other goblins weren’t going to make things easy. Five or six large goblins stood bunched around the closest fire bowl, watching him. Jig’s pointed ears twitched. He was too nearsighted to make out who was waiting there, but he could hear their amused whispers. Porak and his friends. This was going to hurt.

He thought about starting with the other side of the cavern. If he worked his way around to Porak’s spot, which would take at least an hour, maybe they would get bored and go away.

“And maybe Porak will make me honorary captain of his patrol,” Jig muttered. More likely they would circle around to meet him, and whatever they planned would be worse for having to make the effort.

Jig hunched lower and walked toward the group. Most of them were still eating, he noticed, and he tried to ignore his hunger. Porak grinned as Jig approached. Long fangs curved up toward his eyes, and his ears quivered with amusement. Several of his friends chuckled. Nobody moved out of the way.

“Cousin Jig. Muck duty, is it?” Porak asked. He scratched his bulbous nose with a clawed finger. “How long before you’re ready for real work?”

“Real work?” He kept out of their reach, ready at any moment to continue the long goblin tradition of running away.

“Glory, fighting, and bloodshed.” The goblins puffed up like rock lizards competing for a mate. Porak smiled, a warning sign if ever there was one. “We want you to come along on patrol.”

“I can’t.” He held up the muck bucket. “I’ve barely started.”

Porak laughed. “That can wait until they mix up a new batch of muck, one that hasn’t been contaminated.”

Jig watched Porak closely, trying to guess what that laugh meant. “The muck is fine,” he said cautiously.

Fingers seized Jig’s arms from behind. He squealed and twisted, but that only made the claws dig deeper. Stupid! He had been so intent on Porak that he ignored the others. “What are you doing?”

Porak held up a black rat by the tail. “Look at that,” he said. “I don’t know who’s more frightened, the rat or the runt.”