Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  “Is that your surgeon?” Marcus asked.

  “Healer. His name is Peraxis.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “What he can,” Inglena said.

  Marcus spent long moments watching Peraxis work, but the healer only crouched, moving his hands slowly over Ennius’ wounds. The other soldiers, standing nearby, moved a few steps away, whispering to one another. Marcus ignored them. If it works, it works.

  “What can I do?” Marcus asked at last.

  “Are you a healer?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Then you can only wait.”

  He looked at her and nodded.

  “Marcus,” she said, “I need to speak with your general.”

  “As do I,” Marcus said, “but first I need to tend to the Legion.”

  “May I go to him?”

  Marcus shrugged. “You can try. Pheidon may not let you anywhere near him, but there he is, by that tree.”

  He watched the barbarian healer tend to Ennius for a long minute, and whispered a prayer to Vejovis for a quick healing.

  “Soldier,” he called to one of the men, “send greetings to Aetos Makris. Tell him I’ll meet with him in the clearing over there. At his earliest convenience.”

  He turned away from his fallen friend. The first steps were harder than he imagined they could be.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rixen

  Inglena left Peraxis to his work. Her other warriors she sent away with tasks, but Stavanos trailed after her. She worried about the healer, for he was already weakened from tending their own wounded fighters, but saving this Ennius might be worth it, if it meant winning the favor of the Romans. In rapid succession she thought of the Horde, of King Athanaric and the slaughter on the Pyretus River, then of her own people. So much depended on this next conversation!

  Resolute, she turned away from the cavalry officer, went around the six dead creatures—had the Roman General truly killed all of them? Romans were famous warriors, but to kill so many was truly impressive. She looked at him carefully as she approached.

  He was sitting down, leaning against a pine tree. A red cloak lay next to him, along with his breastplate and tunic. He was naked to the waist. She saw wounds in several places, each covered with a bandage.

  A small man in a gray robe squatted next to the General, talking to him, attending to one of the bandages. Her Latin was not enough to catch the rapid-fire words between them, but the small man’s tone was scolding.

  The surgeon Pheidon stood nearby. He saw Inglena approach and announced loudly he had other patients who needed attention, with the General’s permission. He glared at her, but she ignored him. She was interested in commanders, not surgeons.

  The General stood up to greet her. She could see pain in his face, but he uttered no groan.

  He was staring at her. She was accustomed to the stares of men, but this was different. He looked at her face, for one thing. Moreover, his eyes showed curiosity rather than lust.

  “Do you have a white dress?” he said.

  This question surprised her so much, she could not find her voice at first. She glanced down, pretending shyness as she tried to make sense of it.

  “In the vision,” he said, “you wore white. And you had blond hair. If the gods are going to send me visions, the least they can do is get the details right.”

  She did not understand what he was talking about. Her poor command of Latin was making her nervous. She could think of nothing better than to answer literally.

  “I have a white dress,” she said, looking up again to meet his gaze. “But such a dress is not for battle.”

  His eyes were a deep blue, the color of an evening sky. They were friendly enough, but they held a sparkle that hinted at mischief.

  “And the hair?”

  His eyes had distracted her.

  “My hair?”

  “Does it turn black for battle?”

  “No,” she said slowly, still unsure what this man meant, “this is the color, always.”

  He smiled, then grimaced.

  “Should we sit?” she said.

  “No, I’m fine.” He swatted away the gray-robe man, who was continuing to minister to the General. “Avitus, leave off!”

  The one called Avitus looked hurt, but stepped back.

  She took a breath. This was not going as she had planned.

  “I hope you are not too badly injured,” she said.

  “There is no such thing as well injured, I should think.” He was still inspecting her closely. “You keep appearing in my dreams.”

  She finally understood, but blond hair? She shot a dark look at Stavanos, who merely shrugged.

  “I Sent a message,” she said, now that she understood.

  “A strange sort of message. A bit vague on specifics.”

  He criticized the Sending? Did Romans know about such things?

  “We have never Sent so far, or to someone not of the People.”

  Julian said nothing to this.

  “This is why,” she continued, not sure if he had understood, “we had to use Timo. Stavanos needed someone to be close to you.” She waved a hand in his direction.

  The General looked puzzled for a moment, then responded. “Aha. The wolf pelt man. You see, Avitus, he was important after all. Plus, he was real.”

  “You have attained a new level of subtlety in your understanding, Master,” the small man said. Inglena frowned slightly. The word ‘master’ implied master of a slave, but no slave would ever speak that way to his master. Then again, the word ‘master’ could also mean an important man in a town, but that didn’t make any sense. The Latin tongue was such a muddle.

  She was at a loss how to go further. She—or rather, Stavanos with Timo’s help—had Sent a message. What more was there to say?

  “I apologize. I have not introduced myself,” the General said.

  “The First Marcus told me your name. Loojis Choolian … Metal … Hercal …” she stumbled to a halt. “I am sorry, it was many names long.”

  He laughed. The laugh quickly became a groan of pain, but the first part was full and pleasant. She wished she had known him before he was injured.

  “You may call me Julian,” he said.

  “I am Inglena.”

  “Princess Inglena,” Stavanos put in.

  She turned a cold smile to the boy. “Stavanos, please wait upon Peraxis. Fetch him anything he needs. And make sure he drinks some water.”

  Stavanos began to protest, but she held him with her eye. He nodded. “Yes, Princess,” he said, then left trying to pretend he had not been dismissed.

  “Princess, then,” Julian said. He looked thoughtful. “There’s more to your story, I think,” he said.

  “My story?” she asked.

  “I received a vision,” he said, “while seriously, deeply drunk.” He rubbed his head. “It was no proper sort of message, it was only images.”

  “It was a Sending,” she explained.

  “That doesn’t mean anything to me,” he said.

  She revised her opinion of what Romans knew of the rixen.

  “A Sending goes from the thoughts of one to the thoughts of another, without speech.”

  She was aware the other Romans were regarding her with … skepticism? Fear? The little man, the one called Avitus—that was suspicion in his eyes. But she could not read the General’s eyes. She did not like that. She usually could read a man easily.

  “It does not matter what word we use,” Julian said. “In the vision, I saw a woman in white surrounded by a mob of black creatures who threatened to overwhelm her. She stood alone, armed with a white sword. And she had golden hair, not that I quibble—your true hair is quite lovely.”

  That smirking smile, a little boy smile. Almost as distracting as the blue eyes.

  “That is like a Sending,” she said, “but also unlike. Did you not understand the message?”

  “I wasn’t understanding much, at the
time. In fact, I wasn’t standing at all, under or otherwise.”

  That statement baffled her.

  “But the next day I awoke with a singular urge to go north.”

  “You what?” the gray-robe man interjected.

  “North, Avitus. Opposite of south. We really need to work on your directions.”

  “You took an entire legion into the wilderness based on a drunken dream?” The little man was outraged. The other soldiers shifted their feet and looked uneasy.

  “That’s unfair, little bird.”

  Bird? These Romans had so many names!

  The General continued. “I was impelled, or more correctly, I was compelled. And with good reason, it appears.”

  He looked back at Inglena.

  “You are the one who risked my Legion,” he said. “Plus, you gave me nightmares. I rather think I should be told why.”

  Her stomach clenched. She felt like she was crossing a stream, jumping from rock to rock, each one of them tipping as she stepped.

  “I am truly sorry,” she said, “we had never tried at so great a distance.”

  “You might have simply sent a note.”

  “No. A messenger could not get through, and even then, would you have responded?” Her eyes narrowed. “No, you would have gone straight to King Athanaric. The Horde would have found you and you would now be as dead as Grimbeard.”

  “Why did you pick me?”

  “You are the General. A prince among the Romans.”

  The slave in the gray robe laughed harshly.

  “We had heard you were coming, but you were late. We almost gave up.” She stopped herself, for she was about to admit how badly she wanted the alliance. It would not do to look too needy.

  It was a risk to be so blunt, but it was all going wrong anyway. He blamed her for tricking him. He could hardly like her less—why else would he mock her so?

  To her surprise, he smiled.

  Avitus picked up a heavy robe of fox and rabbit and placed it around Julian. It broke the moment and saved her from finding some sort of reply.

  “Thank you, Avi,” Julian said. “I free you.”

  “Perhaps next week, Master,” the servant said, “when we are less busy.”

  The other continued arranging the robe, pulling it close with gentle care. She did not understand the exchange; it appeared to be a kind of joke between them.

  Julian visibly relaxed.

  “This is so much better. It’s extraordinary how uncomfortable a wound can be when one is cold.”

  Before the robe enveloped him, she caught a glimpse of blood already soaking through the bandages.

  “Could we help?” Inglena asked, hoping to take control of the conversation again.

  “I doubt it. The wise doctor says I’ll heal up, given time.”

  “We do not have time to give,” Inglena said. “The goblins will come again, soon. They will cover everything, from river to mountain.”

  Goblins … cobbelins … ghobellensi, Julian thought, silently trying out the sound of the word. Aloud, he said, “A Horde.”

  She blinked in surprise.

  “You know of this?”

  “I saw the valley, not long before we were attacked. A Therving warrior showed me and explained, at least a little.”

  She wondered who would be mad enough to go to the edge of a Horde.

  “Then you know why we Sent to you,” she said. If he had seen, he would understand.

  “How did you expect to find me in these empty hills?”

  “We meant to meet you on the river, once you were away from the Sacred City.”

  “You mean Oppidum?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were told the Horde was moving north, toward King Athanaric. I had to warn him.”

  She shuddered, remembering the awful message, the ride through night and day, only to arrive too late.

  “But why not just come to me and ask? Rome gives a fair hearing, or at least I do.”

  His odd, ironic chuckle confused her, but she ignored it. The matter was too close now. She wasn’t directing the talk, it was dragging her along. She felt uneasy. She had planned carefully, but she had not planned on this man.

  “I could not,” she said, searching for a way to deflect.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am rixen.”

  He did not look appalled or disgusted. Instead, he looked thoughtful.

  “Sorcerer,” she said. Maybe Latin would help.

  “Yes, yes, I remember. At Oppidum there were men, and a priest. They burned a tent. Rixen is the word they used.”

  He spoke the words as if they didn’t matter. She wondered if he truly understood them.

  “For a mere child,” he went on. “An entire family sent into exile because of a mere child. Sorcery!” he snorted in contempt.

  “We are all rixen,” she said. “We have all been exiled.”

  She struggled to keep her heart from breaking. Most of the time, she was simply Inglena, a woman who killed goblins. Sometimes, when others turned to her, she was Princess Inglena, and she had to lead because no one else would. Only rarely, in dark hours, alone, was she reminded she was before all else a king’s daughter, exiled for daring to use magic in the Great Hall itself. She was rixen. She was an exile.

  This Roman General appeared undisturbed by it. He noted the information and pressed on.

  “All of you are magicians?”

  “All these are. At our camps are family, exiled with us.”

  “How many?”

  She pursed her lips. “Two hundred or so, in the main camp. As many again in the smaller ones. No one knows how many others, living alone.” She did not try to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope for fifty thousand.”

  Was he being serious? Or was he mocking her again?

  “Not that many,” she said.

  “But more of the rixen can do … whatever it was I saw?”

  “Sorcery, in your tongue.”

  He frowned slightly. “I wonder. I never believed in sorcerers—all a bunch of charlatans. As a Roman noble, I know a thing or two about charlatans.”

  He must have seen the look on her face, because he waved a hand, which caused another grimace. “Never mind. What I saw today was real enough, though I don’t know what to make of it yet. What else can you do?”

  “Else?” She was having trouble following this man, whose words ran here and there, like a fox through the forest.

  “Can you … I don’t know … turn Avi here into a lion? No, wait, better make that a cat. I’m in no shape to fight lions.”

  “No,” she replied. “It is different from each of us.”

  “One of your other men, then?”

  “No, none.”

  Julian turned to the slave. “You’re safe for now, Avi.”

  “From her sorcery, perhaps,” the slave replied. “Never from your foolishness.”

  Julian looked nothing more than interested, but Inglena saw the look on other faces—the two guards who stood unmoving, and the dark-eyed servant. She had thought many times about this moment, how she would explain the history of her people and their tragic generations. Always her imaginary Roman had many questions. Always she had brilliant answers.

  But before she could speak, Julian gestured to someone behind her.

  “Salve, Marcus Salvius. How fares my Legion?”

  Inglena turned to see the First Tribune striding toward them.

  “Sir, the enemy is dead or driven off. I have given orders to build a vallum. I … your pardon, sir. I gave the orders; we didn’t know where you were.”

  “That’s all right, Marcus, good thinking. Let’s have the bill.”

  “Twenty-three dead, sir, mainly from the cavalry but also from three of the cohorts. Twice that injured, with ten hurt bad enough they shouldn’t be moved.”

  “I want the names of the dead. Name and cohort. Where
they’re from. My family will remember them.”

  Inglena wondered at this. She had an image of a Roman villa—she was not clear on the details—with great tombs erected in the memory of fallen soldiers.

  “You’ve secured the castra?” Julian asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Inglena was having difficulty keeping up, especially with all the military jargon. She listened as much to the tone as to the words.

  “Any word on Captain Ennius?”

  “The barbarian, or, um,” he glanced at Inglena, “doctor?” He shook his head. “Whatever he is, he’s with the Captain, who lives but has not awakened. He is badly torn up.”

  “That’s better news than it might have been.”

  “The troopers say you saved him, General.”

  Julian frowned at this. “Nonsense. If I had saved him, he’d be walking around now.”

  “It’s what they say,” Marcus insisted.

  “Pay no attention. It’s just soldier talk. Ennius lives; that is enough. Do we still have a cavalry wing?”

  “Losses were heaviest there, sir, but the worst is the horses. Most of them bolted or have been killed. We have only a few mounted in the First Wing. The troopers say they’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “There are a number of things we’ve never seen the like of,” Julian said. “Even Ennius was unhorsed, so I don’t feel so bad about losing mine. He was a wretched animal, but he did not deserve …. I hope he got away.”

  The slave tugged at Julian’s arm.

  “Please, Master, will you not rest? The doctor ….”

  “Fusses. Don’t you worry about me, little bird. I have no intention of dying anywhere but in a woman’s arms.”

  He grinned at Inglena as he said this. She could not help but blush, he was so direct. What a strange man. Arrogant one moment, humble the next. Moreover, he was humble where he had reason for pride, and was arrogant when there was call for tact. But he was the one Rome had sent, so he was the one to be her ally, if her people were to be saved. She rather wished it had been Marcus whom Rome had sent. He was kinder.

  “Princess,” Julian said, “I really do need to rest, if only to end Avi’s fussing. We should speak later about what to do from here. You must tell me about this enemy of ours. I really ought to know who I’ve come to rescue.”