Ryslind was the only one not disgusted by the worm. His eyes glowed red with excitement and he licked his thin lips as he stared after it. “That was a created creature. Like dragons were born of common lizards, that worm originated from its simpler cousins in the earth. The rod is here.”

Jig’s shoulders ached, and the rope had already scraped his wrists raw. He didn’t care about created creatures or Ellnorein’s rod. He was hungry and frustrated, and his fear had begun to wear off. There was only so long he could sustain that level of terror. After a while impatience took the place of fear. Sure, Death was going to find him sooner or later, but it seemed as though Death were taking the scenic route to get there.

Darnak dipped his quill in ink. He had secured the inkpot to the strap of his backpack in a tiny harness. A leather thong around the neck of the pot kept it from falling free.

Darnak scratched a few new lines on his parchment, presumably marking the spot they had found the worms. Though why that information was useful, Jig had no idea.

Perhaps Death delayed because he had decided to make a map along the way. If that were the case, Jig might live as long as an elf.

“Let us be on our way.” Barius tugged Jig’s rope, forcing him forward and wrenching his shoulder.

Fortunately, they encountered no goblins. Perhaps the other survivor of Porak’s patrol hadn’t made it back to the lair. More likely they waited safe in goblin territory, listening for the sounds of battle. They might even be wagering on how long the adventurers would last against the hobgoblins. Jig wondered who would be sent out at the end of the fight to count corpses. Often he got chosen for that thankless duty, earning a few coins from the goblins who won their bets and a few bruises from the losers. As a change of pace, this time Jig would be one of the corpses instead.

They passed the tall crack that led back to the goblin lair. A slight draft carried the smell of sizzling meat into the tunnel.

“What’s up that way?” Darnak asked. “What’s that awful stench?”

Jig looked longingly at the ragged crack. His mouth had watered so much that a trickle of drool ran down his chin. To think he had complained about muck duty. He would cheerfully keep the fire bowls lit for the rest of his days if it meant he could go home. He would do anything to be safe again. As Barius tugged at his rope, he added to that thought. He would also do anything if he could just free his hands and scratch the tip of his left ear.

“There’s nothing down there,” Jig said. “It’s a crack in the rock, a hundred-foot chimney to the hobgoblin kitchens below.”