First they stripped the humans bare, then they painted ’em all blue,

Said one goblin to his mate, “This one looks a bit like you.”

From a fighter’s leather shield, they carved ears with points so keen,

And moldy old potatoes made noses large and green.

When the humans all awoke, they were in for quite a fright.

The goblin-looking fools instantly began to fight.

The wizard who survived called upon his magic flame

To slaughter the real goblins, then he killed himself from shame.

For if you fall in battle, all your friends and family mourn,

But to fall against the goblins is a thing that can’t be borne.

As he sang, he jabbed the metal rod into the keyhole and wiggled it around. The finger itself felt strangely stiff, more like leather-wrapped wood than flesh. No trace of blood showed at the severed end, and a bit of bone protruded a half inch past the shrunken skin, giving Jig a convenient handle. The poisoned needle jabbed the fingertip repeatedly as he worked, but nothing else happened. He tried for several more minutes, not knowing what exactly might trigger the traps. He could feel the rod scrape the inner workings of the lock, and he poked those as well. Still nothing.

“I guess there are no more traps,” Jig said. He dropped the finger, still tied to the lockpick, and walked back to sit against the wall. If he had built this room, he definitely would have put a second trap there.

Riana stood. Her face was stone as she walked determinedly, if a little unsteadily, to the door. Pale as she was, she didn’t flinch when she picked up the finger and tugged her lockpick free. She used her knife to bend the needle aside, then began to work on the lock itself.

While she worked, Jig went over to claim the discarded twine. He returned to his spot by the wall, where he took his belt pouch and chewed at the leather cord, trying to remove it without damaging the pouch itself. After a few minutes, the old cord lost its fight against goblin teeth, and he slipped it free.

He used the cord to tie the pouch over his right shoulder. Bringing the end of the pouch to his mouth, he used his fangs to bore two holes in the bottom. The twine secured that end to his upper arm. Smudge still refused to crawl into the pouch, and Jig couldn’t blame him. But this would provide a perch where the fire-spider could sit without burning Jig whenever they walked into danger. Which seemed to happen every time Jig took a breath.

“Prepare yourselves,” Barius said. “We’ve dallied here long enough, and the gods only know what waits behind that door.” He grabbed the end of Jig’s rope, looped it once around his wrist, and tugged.