by RG Long
“Is that why her forehead was so big?” Blume asked, picturing the girl with hair straighter than wheat and the same color, too. She also had quite the large area above her eyes before her hair began.
They both laughed at the thought.
“Maybe,” Abigail said. “I miss my sisters terribly. I missed them even before we came here. We were so close. What was your brother like, Blume?”
“Stubborn,” she replied before she even had time to think about how much she missed him. “He was always so stubborn. He'd never listen to mom or me. Only dad could convince him to do anything. When he got his mind on something, though, he'd work at it till he figured it out. He was...”
Blume had tried to talk through her tears, but her attempt was failing.
“He was so funny. He always had something silly to say to make us laugh. And I always tried to make him be serious. I'd... I'd really love to hear him tell me another story. I miss his laugh so much.”
She wasn't really in control of her words. Nor was she able to stem the flow of tears she now had gushing from her eyes.
Abigail put an arm around Blume and held her closely.
Blume buried her face in the arms of the elf who she just now realized was a friend. A close friend. One whom she could confide in and cry on. She had tried to be so tough for the last few weeks; she hadn’t realized how much she needed to let her tears come.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Blume cried softly and Abigail just held her.
Then she began to sing to Blume.
Over rolling ocean waves
Over misty mountains tall
Past the view beyond the seas
Lies the fairest one of all
Can you find her, if you try?
Will you search the meadows nigh?
Or under forest shade and breeze
Will you find her? Tell me please.
Oh where has gone my fairest maid?
Over rolling ocean waves.
Blume sniffled and moved her head so that she wasn't buried in Abigail's chest anymore. Rather, she just lay next to her and looked at the bunk above them.
“That was really pretty, Abigail. I didn't know you could sing,” she said, wiping her eyes and drying her cheeks.
Abigail blushed.
“Truthfully, I don't really like to. People look at you when you sing and it makes me forget the words or what part comes next. I could never sing for a crowd like you do. I heard you sing that song back at the Sly Pirate. Who do you think the maid is supposed to be? Is she a real girl or is she supposed to represent something else?”
Blume thought for a moment.
“I'm not sure,” she said. “I just thought it was about a girl. But maybe it could be about something else.”
Abigail sighed deeply.
“I think it's about trying to find something, not someone. Maybe like, trying to find out where you're supposed to live? Or what you're supposed to do. This person doesn't know, so they travel the seas to find out.”
That had never occurred to Blume.
Maybe Abigail was a little more intelligent than she had previously given her credit for.
“Blume?” she asked, still holding her in her arms.
“Hmm?” Blume replied.
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How did you get us here? I mean, during the goblin attack on Thoran. I thought for sure we were going to die from falling off that wall. But then there was that flash of light. And we showed up here. How did you do it?”
She had to think before she could put it into words.
Of course she had thought about how she had been able to transport from halfway across a continent. What a feat of magic that had been! But Blume truly had no clue what words she had said in her panic, nor how she had managed to get them to Sea Gate through Speaking.
She was as lost as a maid at sea.
“I don't know, Abi,” she said finally. “I've tried to remember the words I spoke. I can't. When we were falling through the air, I just panicked and said what I thought would get us to safety. I didn’t know it would get us to a different country. We're lucky we didn't land in the ocean. Or the top of some mountain somewhere.”
“Lucky,” Abigail repeated.
Blume agreed that might not have been the best choice of words. So far they had spent a week and a half at an inn, serving as the staff there, and then another week at the Home for the Helpless.
The latter was by far the worse experience.
Blume was about to ask a question of her own, when she was interrupted.
“Miss Abigail?” came a little voice from two bunks over.
They both propped themselves up so they could see.
A little girl, no older than six, was on her elbow, looking at them from her bunk. She had dark brown hair, shoulder length, and green eyes. Blume recalled her name. Jillian.
“Could you sing that song again please?” she said. “I liked it.”
Abigail and Blume lay back down on their beds and together, quietly, they sang the song of the girl who traveled over the oceans and the person who went to search for her.
***
ON THE MORNING THEY were to attempt their plan, Blume had that familiar coldness in her fingers. She was nervous. Sleep had evaded her for most of the night. Even though she lay in bed and told herself over and over again that she needed rest, her mind would not stop spinning.
Unaware of what time it was, she wiggled free of Abigail, who had no problem sleeping whatsoever, and slipped her shoes on. Having never been unable to sleep after working a full day’s labor, Blume took in the odd surroundings of the fifty or so girls who now slept peacefully on their bunks.
It was sure to be the only peaceful part of their day.
Sure she would be scolded for being out of bed, Blume continued to walk the bunks anyway.
No reprimands came.
Not a sound was heard save for the deep breathing of those who were able to cast off their cares and rest their tired bodies.
Blume walked, without thinking, to the door that led to the kitchen and dining area. She pushed against the heavy wooden door and, surprisingly, it was neither locked nor even closed tightly. It swung open on its old hinges with very little effort.
The usual candles that would light their morning and evening meal were extinguished, giving the room a ghostly appearance. Streaming from up above the tables and benches was a single light from Miss Greer's window.
Blume had never seen a light in that window. Not since arriving in the home. The door that slammed shut after every morning thanks was cracked open. A sliver of light bounced down the staircase. With it came the faint sound of voices. One was the familiar tone of Miss Greer. Two others mingled with it. Ones Blume didn't recognize right away.
Feeling it might have been best to turn back, Blume began to slowly back out of the kitchen. When she turned, however, she was horrified to see 'the boss' walking among the bunks, checking to see if all were sleeping.
Quickly, Blume stepped out of sight. She heard the click of his boots come closer and closer to the door that she had foolishly left open. Blume quickly and quietly moved a bench aside, hid under a table, and pulled the bench back as best as she could.
Not a moment had passed after she did when the boss walked through the door, shut it, and locked it behind him with a key.
Now Blume was in trouble.
Before she could think of a way to get back into the dormitory without being caught, she heard Miss Greer's door open and several sets of feet descending.
“Are all the brats quiet?” Blume heard Miss Greer ask the boss.
“Not permanently,” the boss responded, chuckling as he slapped his whip across his thigh.
“Now, now then, Festus, we need some of them alive to keep working,” Miss Greer responded.
Blume assumed Festus was the boss' proper name. It seemed appropriate.
“Not after this week is done,
I hear,” Festus countered. “That's why they're here, isn't it?”
They must be the other sets of feet Blume could see from under the table. Two pairs of well-polished black boots were all she could see.
“Yes, yes,” Miss Greer said. “They're here to take twenty boys and ten girls. A work detail for the army. Those sails will need mending at some point, and who knows them better than the hands that crafted them themselves?”
“Yes ma’am,” one voice said. It was distinctly male and very proper.
It sounded vaguely familiar to Blume, though she couldn't visualize its owner.
“When are we saying good riddance to the lucky rodents?” Festus asked.
“Before the sun rises,” came the reply from the familiar voice.
“And,” Miss Greer said in her too sweet voice, “my payment will be made when?”
“As soon as they're loaded up and ready,” the other voice said, another male.
“Good!” came her energetic reply. “Why wait any longer? Round them up right away!”
There was a pause from the others and then what sounded like a ruffling of papers.
“We just need you to sign this here,” came the first male voice.
Blume heard him step closer to her table and lay down what must have been a parchment of some sort. And to her horror, Miss Greer actually stepped over the bench Blume was next to and sat down at the table. Her foot hit Blume hard in the face.
Without meaning to or before she could think, a sharp squeal escaped her lips.
Chaos ensued. Miss Greer let out a shout and jumped back wildly. The two sets of boots scrambled. Blume tried to crawl her way out of the table, but it was too late.
Within a moment, Festus had overturned the bench on the other side and pulled Blume out by her hair. She was kicking and biting in all directions that she could, but was unable to get away from him. As she was pulled upright, she saw her necklace just within reach on Miss Greer.
If she could only grab it! She made a wild grab, but Festus pulled her back and Miss Greer stepped behind the owners of the boots Blume had seen.
Two men, whose faces she couldn't make out in the dim light wore the green and white of Androlion's army. Miss Greer wore that terrible dress and Blume's necklace still wrapped around her neck. She could barely raise her arms now. Festus had both of her hands in one. His other hand was firmly wrapped around her neck.
With every movement of her struggle, he put more and more pressure on her throat and hands, making it impossible for Blume to move. Breathing alone was becoming harder by the moment. She looked around, trying to take in the scene before it became all one big black spot in her vision. Trying to see if there was a way out, a way to escape.
It was hopeless.
She did hear, however, very clearly as she began to lose consciousness.
“Well, well gentlemen,” Miss Greer said evilly. “It looks like you have your first volunteer.”
Blackness consumed Blume, and she remembered nothing more.
23: Stupid Goblins
Another sneeze came from that abnormally large snout of Stinkrunt, leader of the goblins from the Maw. Of course, he was the leader of the goblins who had been smart enough (or dumb enough, depending on which goblin one talked to) to stick with him.
In reality, the goblins hadn't fared well since landing on the eastern and more civilized side of Ruyn a few months ago.
Three tribes had tried, without success, to raid a city or defeat an army. None had succeeded so far. One of those attempts had been thwarted due to a lack of enough numbers and bravery to withstand the army approaching it. Grayscar, the former leader of the biggest goblin tribe, The Sharp Claws, had been the leader of that force. He was dead now.
Another tribe, The Fanged Ones, had cursed Stinkrunt and made rude gestures when he had told them the plan was to stay put and grow in numbers for a while.
So they left without another word.
Too bad The Fanged Ones were still one of the smallest tribes amongst the goblins. Half of that was due to their constant infighting. The other half was due to a number of their ships that never made it to the eastern side of Ruyn.
Actually, thought Stinkrunt, that was because they sunk their own boats.
He had gleefully watched two ships ram into one another because of a disagreement about which was the biggest and longest. They would have to figure it out after they sank to the bottom of the gulf.
They had marched north and said they had big plans about taking down a castle for themselves and not leaving anything for the rest of the goblins.
When a measly hundred or so of them showed their faces back in the camp, Stinkrunt was glad to see that their leader, Crackedtooth, was not among the survivors.
“Maybe you stupid goblins will listen up now!” Stinkrunt had shouted at them as he assigned them to guard duty.
That was after having them all pounded by his own doyen underlings.
Now that he had followed the orders from the men who promised him land and a castle, Stinkrunt was discovering that the changing season was giving him uncontrollable sneezing fits. It was terribly frustrating. Nothing helped.
He had asked every goblin shaman they had. Both of them recommended shoving various herbs and twigs up his snout.
It was an ineffective solution.
So now, as Stinkrunt pondered why they had lost so many of the smart goblin shamans and why the mucus coming out of his nose had to be so thick and green, he looked eastward at the approaching horses and the soldiers riding them.
“What me to shoot 'em, boss?” asked Arrahead, one of Stinkrunt's new found underlings. The goblin wasn't the best shot in the whole goblin army. He wasn't the worst either. Stinkrunt kept him around for two reasons: the bow wielding soldier was twice as large as Stinkrunt was and had proved himself to be fiercely loyal to whoever was on top of the goblin leadership.
Currently, that was Stinkrunt.
It also helped to have someone at your side that could shoot any potential assassin with a dagger in the back. Even if it had to be from a few paces away to guarantee accuracy. He'd take any help he could get these days. His eyes were so watery half of the time, he couldn't see a threatening goblin if it stabbed him in the back. A scenario he'd like to avoid.
Stinkrunt grunted.
As much as he would have liked to see the soldiers from Andro-whatever-his-name-was twitching from the poisoned tip of a goblin arrow, he knew that his army was no match for the men of the south.
Yet.
“No, Arrahead,” he replied. “Wave that white flag there. Maybe it'll stop the Fanged Ones from rushing out to beat them up.”
It didn't.
Once the soldiers had reached Stinkrunt, who sat outside his tent on a throne like chair outside his tent, they had killed at least eight goblins that didn't get the message.
Neither party was all that upset about the loss.
“When will you filth learn to let us pass without difficulty?” the biggest soldier asked as he dismounted his horse and approached Stinkrunt. He wore all black armor made from small interlocking plates and carried a sword large enough to slice three goblins in half at once.
“Too long,” Stinkrunt replied. “I was hoping you'd kill a few more of those ones off for me. Stupid goblins, them.”
The look on the man's face stayed hard as he stared at Stinkrunt. He typically could look down on any goblin that approached him while he was on his wooden throne. The chair was littered with blades and shields from defeated enemies. This man, however, was so tall that he was right at eye level with Stinkrunt.
He'd address him by name, but he'd forgotten exactly what this one was called. Mad? Upset? Angry? Something like that.
“We've kept growing. Just like you wanted,” he said as he spread out his hand. Indeed, behind him was a sprawling encampment of goblins. Where there had once been trees and even a little city called Loran, there were now goblins as far as anyone cared to look.
The fact that Stinkrunt had been able to keep so many goblins in place without them all killing each other was impressive. Goblins had the bad habit of killing each other off, down to the last gray-skinned knife wielder.
It was more accident than good leadership. When he came upon a couple different goblins from various tribes fighting one another, Stinkrunt had told everyone else to watch, instead of breaking it up.
A daily competition had formed and two representatives from each tribe participated in a battle to the death, cheered on or booed at by their fellow goblins. A large betting circuit had grown around the event, as well as some training to get better as to participate. Every goblin who went into the fight gave up something valuable to two pots: a small collection of winnings for the current fight, and a bigger one for any goblin who managed to survive past four fights in a row.
The current record was one.
It kept the bloodlust of their race contained and most every goblin was content to cheer or pay to fight the next day.
Stinkrunt was currently trying to figure out how long they had to keep the fight going before The Fanged Ones were totally wiped out.
He could be patient enough for that.
“You've done well, for a goblin,” the man said. “Androlion will be pleased with your progress.”
He took a small bag from his hip and threw it at Stinkrunt's feet. It bust open and gold coins burst out from it.
“A small token of thanks for the leader of the goblins,” he said. “When the moon is full, take your army and sack the north. Anything you take, you keep. This was our bargain.”
Stinkrunt's mouth curled up in a greedy smile.
“Two weeks then,” he said in a low voice. “We'll do our part. But you keep your end too, human.”
The man was so quick, Stinkrunt didn't even have time to gurgle. He had drawn a small knife from his belt and jumped onto the throne of the little goblin. The blade pierced the very tip of Stinkrunt's ear, pinning him to the back of the throne.
He let out a howl of pain.
Stinkrunt saw a grim satisfaction in the man's face as he wriggled against the dagger stuck in his ear.