Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  “Her name is Inglena,” the furs muttered.

  “The General is … busy,” Avitus said, scowling as fiercely as he knew how. The soldier seemed to think it was funny.

  “No, Avi,” Julian said, sitting up. His face emerged from the blanket. “The General is weary, not busy. Not at all the same thing.” He looked at the guard. “Tell the Princess,” he emphasized the word, “we can talk on the march tomorrow. Right now, everyone is to eat and then sleep. My orders.”

  “Aye, sir,” the soldier said, then he retreated.

  “These barbarians keep showing up, Avi,” Julian said when the soldier had gone.

  “That’s good, is it not? More swords?”

  “More people to manage, and my authority over them is, hmm, tenuous. Dacians, Therving warriors, exiled magicians, Roman soldiers, what makes you think they will all fight side by side?”

  Avitus handed Julian a plate of cold meat and a cup of warm wine. “Those monsters come charging over the plains again, I would fight alongside thieves and murderers. I’d even stand shoulder to shoulder with Alemanni.”

  Julian chuckled, then said, “Even so, it isn’t going to go smoothly and it’s all going to be my problem to solve.” He sighed dramatically. He managed to swallow two mouthfuls of food before he fell fast asleep among the skins of bear and wolf.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Water Magic

  The young man stood alone upon a wide, flat rock that jutted out into a large pond. Willow trees circled round, spreading their green skirts over the jumble of rocks and reeds, shielding the pond from the tents beyond. The sound of goats complaining of hunger came through the trees, mingling with the bright, busy sound of robins, but the young man did not hear them. He was concentrating.

  He wore the plain gray shift of a Thervingian commoner. It hung straight down over his lean frame, its hem darkened at the bottom, for the boy was standing with his feet in the cool water. His sandals lay on the shore nearby, next to the fishing spear.

  The boy stretched his arms out over the pond, his hands making small, sinuous motions. His brown eyes shone and his lips curled in a small smile as he worked.

  Six feet beyond the tips of his fingers the pond’s green waters rose into a pillar that shimmered in the late morning sun. The pillar was quickly taking on a shape: a head, a body, arms and legs.

  The boy’s hands moved gently, caressing the air. As they moved, the body slimmed, becoming feminine in form. The head acquired a mouth and eyes, cheekbones glimmered, and watery hair flowed over graceful shoulders. Sunlight fractured into rainbows that chased along her arms and down her back. The boy added details until she became a particular girl. His lips whispered her name.

  Alavia.

  His hands moved and the water-girl bent one leg, so she stood upon one slim foot. She raised up on her toes gracefully, and gazed at him with emerald eyes. The girl smiled.

  “Remmich!”

  A man’s voice called, demanding and harsh. The glimmering form collapsed in a quiet splash. The boy scrambled back to the shore. He had just enough time to snatch up the fishing spear when his father came crashing through the underbrush.

  The man strode forward, his bearded face warring between anger and worry.

  “What are you doing out here?

  “Just … um … fishing.” He waved the spear as evidence.

  The father knew his son well, and disbelief showed plainly on his face.

  Tibor, for this was the father’s name, glanced at the dry spear.

  “Catch anything?”

  “No. I was just … thinking … about things.” Remmich waved vaguely at the trees then hung his head.

  Tibor looked carefully at his son. He worried because Remmich had been going off by himself more and more often. He thought of his wife, how she had behaved toward the end. Surely the boy is not one, too, he thought. The gods would not be so cruel. He pushed the worry away, choosing to believe something else.

  “Thinking about that girl again?” He forced a laugh and clapped his son on the shoulder. He avoided his eyes, for the boy had his mother’s eyes and the memory was still too painful, even after eight years.

  Remmich couldn’t meet his father’s eyes, either. He knew he should not be playing with the water. He knew what others would call it, what would happen then. The priests would come, the council would say the words. Then the burning of the tent. Exile. His heart nearly cracked to imagine being away from Alavia forever. But the water sang in his blood and he had to follow it. He knew he was a disappointment to his father; worse, he was also a danger to the clan.

  Still, the water sang, and his mouth would not form words.

  “Never mind,” Tibor said. “Come along home. Something is happening.”

  A grim note in his father’s voice made Remmich look up again, but Tibor was already walking away.

  “And put on your shoes!”

  Remmich shivered; he was always cold after he shaped water. He put on his sandals quickly and hurried after his father. They emerged together from the willows and underbrush and there he saw not only the homes of his own family, but the tents of strangers.

  The camp lay two hundred yards distant, beyond a small meadow covered now with the clan’s goats. Herders looked at the man and boy with little curiosity, for everyone’s attention was focused on the newcomers.

  The camp stood with the rear of the black tents facing outward, like a herd of horses circled against a storm. Beyond the circle should have been the flat lands of the river valley, the green of spring grass appearing in clusters amid the gray stones, brown mud, and islands of melting snow.

  This was now obscured by horses and tents and red-cloaked strangers. Remmich stared, then looked wonderingly at his father.

  Tibor explained as he hurried forward. About the goblin Horde and the catastrophe on the Pyretus. About how they might gain refuge with the Romans. And about an even greater wonder.

  “There are rixen here, son,” Tibor said, his voice low as if whispering an obscenity. “The White Warrior herself, or so they say.”

  “Here? Exiles among the People?” It was too absurd to consider.

  “It’s true. So you see,” Tibor said, stopping abruptly to lean close to his son, “you see why you must be so very careful.”

  Remmich gulped. Did his father suspect? “I was only fishing,” he said, offering an excuse where none was asked.

  “Remmy.” A girl’s voice called out to him and his heart pirouetted within his chest. He turned and saw her.

  She was slender and graceful, as beautiful as a sunrise. When she walked it was like dancing. When she spoke it was like singing. Her eyes were more green, her hair more golden, her hands more graceful, than any living creature he had ever seen. That she existed was extraordinary. That she might speak to him was a gift. That she actually liked him elevated him to walk among the gods.

  He smiled and waved. She hurried over and joined them.

  “Have you heard?” she said.

  Remmich nodded. “Romans,” he said.

  “King Athanaric is dead,” she said, her tone solemn. At fifteen, she well understood the gravity of a royal death. “And King Thuric, our own king! They are calling it the Death of Tribes.”

  He repeated the phrase. It sounded like the tolling of iron bells in his head.

  “How did it happen?” he asked, though his father had already told him.

  “A Horde,” she whispered, as if saying the word out loud might summon the thing.

  “It is true,” Tibor said, then he stopped.

  They had crossed through the camp and had reached the other side. As they left the circle of tents, they entered almost into another world.

  Before them, a Roman military camp was being constructed. Red-cloaked soldiers moved with speed and precision, digging a trench, pounding in wicked-looking spikes they all seemed to carry. The orderliness was alien, even brutal to view.

  To the left, not too far away, Therving tents were go
ing up and the contrast could not have been greater. There, the men wore gray furs. They moved independently, almost chaotically, shouting at one another. Children ran under foot and horses mingled with the men at random. Even so, the tents went up as quickly as did the Roman fortification.

  On the right was a smaller scene. Fewer Thervings, fewer tents. It could have been just another clan, camping for the night, but for a single word.

  A Therving standing nearby nodded to Tibor. He pointed at the cluster of tents and people.

  “Rixen,” he said.

  Alavia leaned close to Remmich. He felt her shudder. He took her hand, marveling, even at that moment, at its softness.

  “Are we to go with the Romans, then?” Remmich asked his father, who nodded.

  “The clan council has decided. Took them only a few minutes, what with the Horde on its way. They say outrunners have been seen not a day distant.”

  Tibor sighed. He looked from the camp of Exiles to the Romans to the Thervingians. He shook his head.

  “So be it.” He turned to Alavia.

  “You’d best get back to your family, girl. There’s work for all of us now. The Romans have given us only one day to get ready.” He gave Alavia a stern look. “Run along now.”

  Alavia said, “Yes, sir,” gave Remmich’s hand a quick squeeze, and ran off. She glanced over her shoulder once. Remmich thought of a golden bird, glancing back as it swept low over the ground.

  The next hours were a whirl of activity for everyone, but for Remmich the whirl was almost a tornado. He had to get his work done, because he had to show Alavia his gift. Before they left. He could speak to the waters of the pond, but who knew what would happen elsewhere?

  By late afternoon the next day, he was able to steal an hour. Alavia had been sent to gather berries, the first of the season. Better yet, when he asked to accompany her, because he wanted to show her a surprise, she said yes with a smile that made him feel as if he might tip over. They set out at once, before the light should fail.

  Remmich was too happy for mere walking. He glided over the spring grass, stealing joyful glances at Alavia as she floated beside him. Somewhere, he supposed, real feet were touching solid ground, but here, where only they two existed, floating had to be the proper mode of travel.

  Behind his eagerness lay the marvelous news about the decree of amnesty granted to all rixen. There was to be no more shame in what he could do, no more threat of exile. No more secrets.

  “Where are we going, Remmy?” Alavia asked. Her voice was light and her eyes alight with anticipation.

  “Just ahead. Down to where the stream empties into that little lake.”

  “You don’t have to bring me all the way out here just to steal a kiss,” she said, ducking her head but still letting him see her smile.

  He squeezed her hand.

  “Careful now. It’s steep here.”

  The two scrambled down a short slope. At the bottom was a tumble of rocks that ended where the stream widened into a large pond. The water here was still and clear, reflecting the afternoon sun in long, golden ribbons. Remmich helped Alavia onto a rock near the water. He took off his shoes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just going to cool my feet,” he said. He smiled to himself, but he was also a little worried. Alavia loved surprises, but sometimes his surprises upset her. Then again, she had kissed him once, and that had forgiven all his missteps. He hoped.

  Remmich took her hand in his and looked at her.

  “I want you to close your eyes. I have a surprise. I hope you’ll like it.” His voice caught on those last words and he had to start again. He’d been rehearsing this all morning.

  “Please close your eyes and don’t open them again until I say.”

  She laughed. She had to force it a little.

  “All right,” she said, but she did not close her eyes.

  “No peeking.”

  “All right, silly,” she said. She couldn’t keep out a note of impatience. This had better not be something stupid.

  “Promise you won’t peek.”

  “I promise.”

  She rolled her eyes, but then she closed them.

  Remmich felt the water through his feet. As quietly as he could, he slid down into the stream until the languid waters rose over his knees. The water song filled him and he joined his heart to it. His hands began to move.

  Working quickly, fearing she would steal a glance after all, and ruin it, Remmich pulled the water upward, shaping it. His hands ran up and down, creating the form of a young man with shimmering hair and eyes of glass. Sunlight suffused the avatar with flecks of gold.

  “All right,” he said, “you can look.”

  Alavia opened her eyes to see before her a young man formed entirely of water and light. For several long moments she stared, for he was beautiful. Crystalline hair streamed over broad shoulders and down a wide chest. The sun lit him from within and he glowed golden. Muscles rippled down his arms and legs and across his flat stomach, showing power while suggesting grace.

  The form leaned toward her and it was as if a god had bent down. Diamonds sparkled in his eyes. The sound of flowing water whispered of secret ecstasies.

  He kissed her.

  The sudden cold on her lips brought her crashing back to reality. She smelled water and sedge and fish. She swung her arm in revulsion, shearing off the face. For a single breath, a faceless head of glass stared at her. She screamed and scrambled away.

  The liquid boy, now merely water, slid formless back into the pond.

  “Alavia, wait!” Remmich cried out. A cruel hand gripped his heart.

  The girl only screamed again. She clawed her way up the slope like a mouse fleeing an owl. Remmich went after her, but by the time he reached the top she was already sprinting through the trees. He started after her, but his feet felt like bricks and his legs despaired to run.

  Fool, he told himself, idiot … Rixen. He called himself the name, saying it out loud.

  Rixen.

  He would be hearing that again. Alavia would run back to her people, say what she had seen, say the word, then the whole clan would come after him, regardless of the amnesty. And they would come after Father.

  “Oh gods,” he whispered, then he called out loudly, “Stop, Alavia. Please wait!”

  He sprinted toward the black tents. He saw a man turn toward him, and wave. Remmich eyed him and ran on. Others glanced his way, showing little interest.

  He slowed to a walk. Could it be? No, it was impossible. The horror on Alavia’s face was burned into his eyes as if he had stared at the sun. These faces, still kind or indifferent, simply had not yet heard. Stay calm, he told himself, don’t act as if something’s wrong.

  The Therving encampment was ordered by tribes and clans: Getae here, Greuthungs there, the Taifali, his own tribe, straight ahead. There he would find the Ox Clan, the clan of his father. There too, the Clan of the Five Rivers. Alavia’s clan.

  He could see the sign on the black tents, five white rivers joining together, looking like a long, thin hand with five fingers. He wondered which five rivers they were, a strange, stray notion. That’s me, he thought. A strange, stray boy.

  “Where’re you going, Remmich?”

  He knew the voice. Bedrich. Alavia’s older brother.

  She told, she told, he wailed to himself.

  “Hey, boy, we’re talking to you,” another voice called. Harsh, disgusted and yet gloating in the disgust.

  “Going home,” Remmich said, not looking up. Then he ran into a chest.

  “No you’re not.” A hand shoved him and he stumbled backward. “You have no home, rixen.”

  He looked up as he caught his balance. Before him stood Bedrich and two others, blocking the way between two black tents.

  “I … I …” he couldn’t make his tongue work.

  “Filth.”

  An older voice. Remmich went cold. That voice belonged to Franek, Alavia’s father. Remmich glanced
from one side to the other. He was almost surrounded by men of the Five Rivers.

  “There has been amnesty …” he began.

  “The White Warrior can’t protect you here. Her words are dust. I spit on her, and her Roman dogs.”

  There was a sound to his left, then a voice.

  “You will want to temper your words there, fellow.”

  Remmich raised his head, and turned to see the scarlet of Roman cloaks. A stocky man with a close-cropped black beard stood with a dozen or so soldiers at his back, his hand near his sword, casually, as if it had stopped there by chance. The man glanced from Remmich to Franek, then back again.

  “You’d best run along home, son.”

  Remmich took a partial step, but Franek and his sons barred the way forward.

  The Roman gave a slight nod and the soldiers eased sideways until they flanked the men of the Five Rivers.

  “I am Marcus Salvius, Tribune of the First Cohort. The amnesty for magicians and sorcerers is proclaimed by Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the XII Legion.”

  He said this in a casual way, but his hand still rested on the small pommel of his sword. The scabbard angled forward. The Roman stepped directly in front of Franek, bringing his face close. The man’s eyes widened.

  “The decree,” Marcus Salvius said in a low tone that gained a sharp edge to it, “is confirmed by the Princess Inglena. You will be careful not to slander her again.”

  Franek’s eyes rolled in his head, rage and fear competing. Froth foamed his lips, but he neither moved nor spoke. Without turning, the Roman repeated his command to Remmich.

  “Run along home, son. Now.”

  At the word, Remmich took a step forward. The Five Rivers men moved aside and he bolted, running as hard as he could between tents. A hundred thoughts had boiled through his mind as the men confronted each other—thoughts of Alavia, Father, the song of the water, the appearance of the Roman soldiers, memories of his mother, hope and fear—but now they coalesced into a single resolution.

  He slowed his pace so he would not attract attention. He found the Taifali camp, the Ox Clan fires, his own tent. Father was gone, and he went inside.