by Ellis Knox
Goblins at the Gates
Goblins at the Gates
by E.L. Knox
Copyright 2017 by E.L. Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, whether by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
This novel is a work of historical fiction.
Foreword
This is a work of fiction inspired by an historical event, the Gothic invasion of the Empire in 378 AD. I have kept some elements but much of it is pure invention. I say this to reassure my ancient history professor.
There was no XII Legion, though there was indeed a II Herculia, posted at Troesmis.
Valens rebuilt Constantine’s Bridge, but for my purposes I have left it broken.
I have reversed Maximus and Lupicinus for largely arbitrary reasons, but the scholar of late Antiquity should know that this was deliberate, not a mistake.
The most important deviation concerns Christianity. In Altearth, Constantine did indeed convert to Christianity, but he regarded his conversion as a private affair and never either favored the Church nor hindered the Roman religion. This is a huge change, of course, but for the larger history of Altearth I wanted to keep Christianity a purely local religion, confined to Palestine and parts of Syria. Thus, my characters invoke the gods, whereas by the late 4th century, most everyone in the real Empire would have been Christian.
Other Altearth Tales
“The Carrotfinger Man” - short story at Aphelion Magazine
“The Roadmaster” - short story at Bewildering Stories
Mad House - a novelette, available at Amazon
The Garden of Hugo Vuerloz - a novelette available only to subscribers of the Altearth Chronicle
Acknowledgments
An author is always indebted to more people than he supposes. I can thank here only a few.
First, years worth of thanks to my wife for her years worth of patience on this first novel. There were times, I’m sure, when it was not at all clear that I would finish it. Without her support and encouragement, it’s not likely I would have.
Thanks to the Library Group! We don’t even have a name, but Heidi and Lorie organized us and kept us going, and the entire group provided invaluable commentary as Goblins developed. Thanks, too, to the fantasy-specific group that spun off the Library: Brandi, Jei, Ken and Patrik. You’re the best.
Thanks, also, to Charles Odahl, my ancient history professor at Boise State University for reading the manuscript and keeping me from making some bone-head mistakes. Any mistakes remaining are entirely my own craftsmanship.
A shout out and a big thanks to Mythic Scribes, the best community on the Net for fantasy writers.
Finally, thanks to Fiona Jayde for her fine work on the book cover, and to Zach Bodenner for the excellent map.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE - A Hill in Dacia
CHAPTER TWO - The New General
CHAPTER THREE - We Are Take You
CHAPTER FOUR - The King of All Tribes
CHAPTER FIVE - Cobbel Cobbel
CHAPTER SIX - Gambling With the Fourth
CHAPTER SEVEN - Trees and Fog
CHAPTER EIGHT - Healers
CHAPTER NINE - Rixen
CHAPTER TEN - All Are Needed
CHAPTER ELEVEN - A Lion in the Sky
CHAPTER TWELVE - They's Theirs
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Encounter on the Siret
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Allies
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Water Magic
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Broken
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Put to the Test
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Canal
CHAPTER NINETEEN - The Song of the Lake
CHAPTER TWENTY - Ad Tykonos
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Tribune on the Hill
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Goblinfire
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - On the Move
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - You Cannot Have Them
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Fist and the Flying Tree
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - The Elevation of Lupicinus
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Roses and Kings
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - In the Vermilion Tent
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - Not Enough Goblins
CHAPTER THIRTY - Hills of Dead
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - How Romans Die
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - The Dog of War
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - All Are Dead
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - Two Bodies
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - Favored by the Gods
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - A Thousand Wounds
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - Beneath the Willow
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - The Villa of Rullianus
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - To the City
CHAPTER FORTY - The Tower of Saturn
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - They Wash Away
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - Ladder of Dead
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - A Coracle in the Reeds
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR - Thunder
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE - Forum of the Ox
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - A Plan Without Hope
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN - The Sixth Hill
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT - Dawn
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE - Say the Words
CHAPTER FIFTY - The Iron Gates
CHAPTER ONE
A Hill in Dacia
Serapion led his horse away from the ridge top into a little grove of scrub oak where, he hoped, she would not catch the scent of the creatures.
“Easy, my great heart,” he said as he slipped to the ground. He stroked her neck and held his head close to hers, feeling her muscles quiver with nervousness. She was dangerously close to bolting.
He felt the same way. Even the brief glimpse of what was in the valley had chilled him. As a scout for the XII Legion, his job was to observe and report, not to panic like some palace serving girl.
He tied the mare to a sturdy branch, then crept back to the edge of the hill and laid down. Whatever was down there, he did not want to be seen.
At the bottom of the valley flowed a wide, shallow river, its waters white with minerals and sediment washing down from distant mountains. Stunted trees ran along both sides, barely visible now, for the valley was covered by a flood of dark creatures that moved slowly downstream.
Everywhere in the surging mass, individual shapes leaped suddenly into the air, then fell back again. The bounding shapes were like a herd of antelope on the run. Or, he thought with a shudder, locusts.
They were far too big for locusts, but their hopping motion evoked those terrible insects. A childhood memory swept over him, of his village covered by clouds of whirring wings. His fists clenched and he blinked hard to push the memory away. These were not locusts.
Whatever they were, they were unlike anything he’d ever seen or heard of. What they were, though, was not important. The only question for a Roman scout was their number.
He scanned the scene below, trying to come up with an estimate. Thousands, that much was sure, but Captain Ennius would have him skinned if he returned with so vague a report. His keen eyes carved the valley into sections. Ten thousand, at least. Probably more. It was hard to tell because bands of them swirled away, scattering like black snowdrifts up the sides of the valley. Cold dread crawled into his belly as he realized those bands could also be up in the hills behind him. A whinny from his mare sent him scuttling backward.
“Forty thousand,” he muttered as he untied the horse, “and the Captain will have to be content with that.”
Forty thousand, he thought as he mounted, but forty thousand what?
They had been too far away for
him to see their features, but that hardly mattered. The barbarians in this land had no end of descriptions for them. A single glance at the valley was enough to know that the stories of the past winter were not mere rumors. There was no need to see if they truly had claws that could gut a man at a blow. The legends were real. He could now confirm that; the rest was details.
He reined his horse, turning her back down the slope. Stillness covered the brown earth and filled the gray sky. He leaned forward.
“Go,” he whispered.
The mare snorted as she sprang into a full gallop. Her hoof beats pounded, and he smelled fear on her. He let her run for a while. She was scared and he was scared, and a good gallop might steady the nerves of both.
After a few minutes of this, he slowed her to a trot, a pace he knew she could maintain for hours. She was still flighty, and shied from time to time, as if scenting something on the wind, except there was no wind, only the cold, damp, motionless air. He rode south along the western slope, keeping the hills between himself and the valley. When he judged he'd put in enough distance, he turned west.
The mare whinnied, dancing sideways. Serapion cast a quick look back. His breath caught. Dark, loping creatures were after him, a dozen or so, moving quickly. He didn't have to urge his horse; she broke at once into a gallop.
The creatures pursued like wolves, with a pack of three gaining on the left and another pack on the right, while the others ran directly behind. They matched his mare’s speed and he wondered if she could outrun them.
His habits as scout stayed with him as he noted everything he could about them, even as his horse thundered beneath him and the air thundered in his ears.
The beasts were the color of mud, mottled with dark greens and grays and deep crimson. They were smaller than a man, by a head or more, and were oddly shaped. Their legs were powerful, with thighs and hips almost like those of a bear. Their arms were long, and from time to time were used as if they were front legs. Their heads had a snout rather than a nose. Their eyes seemed to be small; it was hard to tell, at a full gallop. When one of them leaped, it covered twenty or thirty feet at a time. With every backward glance, they were suddenly closer.
He leaned into his horse and let her run. He had no doubt the creatures intended to kill him; they were running him the way a wolf pack runs a stag. Only the brown mare and her great heart could save him now.
He slipped into the horse's rhythm, letting her muscles take the lead, fitting his own motion to hers. The ground blurred beneath him. He did not try to guide her, did not even look where they were going, trusting the mare's instincts.
The creatures uttered no cry, and that silent hunting was as unnerving as their speed. At least wolves howled. You could get a sense of where they were. These things were like ghosts. He cursed the barbarians and their grim tales. He cursed the gray, unmoving sky above and the hard brown earth beneath. He kept imagining the slash of claws just above his shoulders. Finally, he could bear it no longer. He looked left quickly.
No creatures.
He rode a little further, then dared a glance to the right.
No creatures.
He looked back, over his right shoulder, and saw them, but they were some distance back and fading.
He knew his horse's strengths. She had run hard, but she had some distance left in her yet. He let her run at full gallop, agreeing with her that they should put all the ground they could between themselves and those bounding monstrosities.
He looked back again.
The creatures were far behind now—they were fast, but only for short distances. Something to remember for his report.
He eased the mare's pace, backing off slowly but steadily. He wanted to ride far today, and she would need her reserves. Two carrots tonight. And half the remaining oats.
After several minutes, he had slowed her to a traveling trot. Sweat slicked her coat; he would need to cool her down carefully. He checked the position of the sun, as best he could through the low clouds. Three hours of daylight, at least.
He crested another rise. He couldn't see much through the pine trees covering the hilltop, but behind him the ground was clear and there was no sign of pursuit.
On the westward slope they slowed even further, their progress impeded by underbrush and rowan trees. He chafed; the horse was having to work too hard to press through. He might have to rest her. The thought made his skin crawl.
Toward the bottom the underbrush became still heavier and it took much longer than he had hoped to work his way through. Willow trees lined the bank of a small stream at the bottom, and he let the mare have a brief drink.
She snorted and balked as they moved across the stream, then they plunged into heavy underbrush that grew higher than his head. Thorns reached out, catching at his clothing.
They zig-zagged back and forth through the scrub, not able to see any distance, hearing only the sound of their own passage. Every rustle or sigh became the sound of an approaching enemy. He knew this feeling of closing dread—he had made his way through enemy lines before, fearing every noise and movement not of his own making. This was worse, though, and the mare seemed to agree. Twice she refused to go along a clear path, dancing aside when he tried to urge her forward. He chose to let her have her way. Dark shapes kept appearing at the edge of his vision.
The heavy growth gave way abruptly, and they were again climbing. He looked behind, but there was no sign of the creatures. He pulled up and sat for a moment, looking carefully in every direction, listening in every direction, even sniffing the air. Still no sign. The muscles in his shoulders, fist-tight, gradually eased.
“Hup, my heart,” he said, and the mare resumed at a walk. Three nights in the open, if we push hard, he thought, and then we'll be back. He wondered if Captain Ennius would believe him, or if anyone would. The Captain might not even pass the report on to the Old Man.
He rode slowly, alert, his nerves still jagged as a shattered pot. He was about halfway up the big hill when his horse whinnied loudly and pulled up short. Coming over the crest to the north was a ragged line of creatures, many more than before. Hundreds more.
For one instant horse and rider froze in place, staring at the dark line. Then one of the creatures jumped, and Serapion turned back down the hill.
It was unjust, he thought. His brown mare could outrun them, she had proved that. But not at such close quarters. Not taken unaware. He leaned down, close to her neck, almost weeping for what was about to happen. “Run, great heart,” he whispered softly, knowing she needed no encouragement, knowing it would do no good. He said the words as a kind of apology. A farewell.
The monsters were already on both sides, but Serapion looked only ahead. The horse ran and the ground flew below. The only sound he heard was a great thundering of hooves and breath. Her body strained, tearing at the hard earth. He leaned far forward, wanting to feel her run, to feel heart and flank, for that to be the last thing he felt.
No one saw him die on the mile-long hills of Dacia. No one saw the dark shapes leap, nor heard the screams of horse and man. And no one knew the monsters ate the horse first.
CHAPTER TWO
The New General
A cold rain had driven in from the southeast, making the dark afternoon even darker. Two guards stood at the western gate of a Roman military camp, cloaks pulled tight against the wind. Only their eyes showed between folds of brown cloth.
“Who do you figure that is?” said one.
“Don't know,” said the other as he peered through the gloom. A man was riding on a donkey that plodded down the track that passed for a road in this part of Dacia. “He don't look barbarian. Nor local neither.”
“No,” agreed the first, “he don't.”
“Nope.”
The man drew closer and began to wave.
“What's he want?”
“Couldn’t say. Might be trouble, though. Swords ready.” The one pulled his sword from its scabbard, but the other merely rested his hand on
the hilt.
The figure was closer now. He was urging his donkey with threats and imprecations, but the animal ignored him and kept its own pace.
They could hear him now, in fragments broken by the wind. “Is this the … Legion?”
One guard looked at the other and shrugged. Is this the Legion? No, this is the imperial baths and we're a couple of senators. They let the man get closer.
“Is … this … the … Legio … XII …,” the man was shouting into the wind, “… Heraclea?”
One of the guards said, “It is,” and again they exchanged looks. They were a hundred miles north of the Great River. What the hell other Legion would they be?
The donkey finally brought the man within conversation distance. He was enveloped in layers of cloaks, not one of them oiled. He was soaked through and shivering. The soldiers figured he deserved it.
“P-please announce the arrival of L-L-Lucius J-Julianus Metellus, the new c-c-commander.”
A third time the guards exchanged glances.
“That be you, then, fellow?” said one. The other one snickered.
“No, I am Avitus. I'll b-bring him.”
“You do that.”
The man turned his donkey around, which set off again at a dispirited walk, with the man urging and cursing the beast. After watching him for a few minutes as he disappeared into the gusting rain, the first guard waved a hand.
“Eh,” he said. “Better tell the Old Man. Who knows, maybe it really is the new General.”
Avitus was trying to wake up his master. The morning light coming through the commander’s tent had not done the job, nor had the noise from the soldiers outside. He had tried whispering in Julian’s ear and gently shaking the sleeping form, but he had not really expected either to work. Normally the next step would be shouting, followed by banging on metal, but these were not normal circumstances, and his master had to get up. He had a Legion to command.