The goblins came back at sunrise.
Not a metaphorical one. Not a beautiful one either. Just the kind of dungeon sunrise that happened when the bioluminescent root canopy dimmed at the same time as the eastward moss-lamps flared, which looked more like someone dropped a blanket on the sun and then poked holes in it.
They arrived in formation. Which is to say, no formation at all, just a jumbled trail of carts, runners, and one goblin riding what might have been a shaved dire mole.
The mole did not seem happy about its new job.
Neither did I.
Quicktongue had warned me. She said they'd come with gifts.
She did not say the gifts would include fermented root cheese in open baskets. Or that one of the barrels would smell like wet lichen and regrets.
Or that they'd brought me.
Or at least, a small wooden statue of what I guessed they thought was me. It had horns, no eyes, sharp claws, and seven rows of teeth. Also a crown. The crown was probably supposed to be flattering.
Probably.
