Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  “The Horde comes. You cannot fight it. Your people will lie gutted and torn under the wide sky, as dead as Grimbeard. The Romans will abandon you, they will drive you away with lance and sword.

  “This prideful girl will not give up her lover. I offer to all the rixen the chance to walk in the old ways. A chance to go to the West, follow King Fritigern—our only true ruler. I offer a chance to live!”

  She gestured as grandly as any Greek actor.

  “Go to your doom, prideful girl. Go with your Roman lover. Go across the Great River, if you can. Go all the way to the City of Constantine, it will not matter. The Horde pursues the richest prize. You will all die.”

  Inglena strode up the hillock and stood next to Leuva, who scowled at her. Inglena was taller than the old woman.

  “Leuva offers you a chance at life,” Inglena said, her voice strong. “It is a small chance, but take it if you will. I offer you better.” She let that hang in the air while she turned slowly to take in the whole crowd.

  Her chance is the chance to live in Exile, to be shunned by the People and hunted by the goblins. Why would you want that when you can have better?

  “Come with me. I offer you no worse a chance at life, and I offer something else besides.

  “Freedom!”

  She raised her arms and a shout from the crowd answered. She could feel Leuva’s glare, but she would not look at her.

  “I have declared an end to Exile, and Chief Thrasimund supports me in this. Follow me and live as one People again.”

  A voice called out, “Follow you to where?”

  “To Rome. Into the Empire, our only refuge. I have seen these Romans fight. I have fought beside them. With their legions and our warriors, the goblins will be crushed forever.”

  She drew out her sword. It shone piercing white, gilded by the afternoon sun. Leuva shrank away from it.

  “I swear by my father’s sword, I will make it so. I am Princess Inglena. I have sworn it.”

  A hundred voices responded. Among them, one shrilled, “Queen Inglena, Queen Inglena.”

  Stavanos. Crazy boy. But the crowd took up the chant.

  “Queen Inglena!”

  Leuva hissed at her, “Foolish girl,” then slunk away. Some from among the crowd followed her. Inglena wanted to chase her down, spit in her eye, tell her she was the fool, but the chanting held her. Lifted her up.

  “Queen Inglena!”

  The chant reverberated in her heart.

  Inglena sat alone on a bare tree trunk that had been left along the rocky flats by a flooded river years ago. It was bare of limbs, its bark gone, leaving only the trunk smoothed and weathered.

  She had come here directly from the confrontation with Leuva. The cheers had buoyed her, but she had lost Leuva. Her mentor. To lose just that one was a pain in her heart.

  The sun was gone. The moon shone well up in the east, three quarters full. Its light settled into her black hair, netting it in silver. Her white sword was at her side. Her right hand touched it now and again, as if for reassurance. She did not hear the First Tribune until he was only a few steps away. She sighed. The confrontation with Leuva had left her as bare and limbless as the tree.

  She spoke without turning around. “Greetings, Marcus Salvius.”

  “Salve, Princess Inglena.” His deep voice rumbled like a great bear. His footsteps stopped. She turned.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked. “Why do you smile so?”

  “Your pardon,” Marcus said. “I was looking at you.”

  She wanted to be angry that he should flirt with her. Was it not obvious she wanted to be alone? But when she looked at him, all she saw was his strong, honest face.

  “I will go away, if you wish,” he said.

  “No,” she said, so quickly she surprised herself. “I don’t mind.”

  That is what she said. What she wanted to say was, “Please stay.” The big Roman quieted her thoughts simply by being near.

  She gestured for him to sit, and his quick smile, only a little shy, warmed her. He sat next to her, smelling of leather and wool and male. Her worries did not fly away, but they retreated to dark corners.

  Neither spoke for a time. She continued to lean against the tree limb, away from him. Her left hand lay still in her lap while her right continued to toy idly with her sword. Her head bowed slightly. Marcus sat with his arms at his sides, hands resting on the weathered trunk. Moonlight pooled at his feet.

  “I hated being a princess.”

  She spoke quietly, almost to herself.

  “From my earliest memories, being princess only meant things I could not do. Or else things I must do. I longed to do what I wanted, which was mostly things I was not allowed.” She wanted to tell him how that felt, to be trapped not by the world but by your birth. The words eluded her.

  “When I inherited the sword, after my father’s death, it was days before I would touch it. Not because I was afraid.”

  She waved her left hand dismissively.

  “It was because I loved it so. I spent days by myself, imagining all the things I would do with it. I didn’t know its power yet, but its real power was the hope it gave me. Somewhere inside, I knew when I picked up the sword and it was only just a sword, and I was still just a girl, all the dreams would die. The sword would be heavy and I would be awkward and I would still be trapped.

  “So I kept dreaming. People left me alone, supposing I was mourning. When anyone came around I made sure to cry.”

  She laughed a little. Her hand fluttered.

  Marcus was as still as the tree. Her hand settled to her side, landing like a butterfly atop his.

  “But make-believe grows old, even when you are twelve, and one day I unwrapped the sword and picked it up and, oh Marcus it was light. So light! I couldn’t believe it; I thought I had grown strong.

  “I wrapped it again and sneaked away, into the woods. When I was sure I was alone, I took it out again, and it was still light. I swung it and sliced through tall grass. My heart pounded. I tried it on hawthorn branches and then on a limb—it was a young birch tree as thick as my arm. The sword passed through it like the grass.”

  Her hand squeezed his.

  “It was pure joy. I’ll never forget that day. It was like the world itself had opened. Like I was new born. Pure joy”

  She sighed.

  “I will tell you something now. It is a thing I could never say to my own people. I could not tell Julian. It’s not a secret, exactly, but … well….”

  She shifted her weight, sat upright. Her hand came off his and joined the right in her lap. She sat erect, head level, as if making a formal statement.

  “When the day came and the Council of Kings exiled me, I was glad. Glad! Do you believe it?”

  She turned slightly as if expecting an answer, but she kept on.

  “It sounds shameful to say it, but when I was sent away, they freed me from my prison. Oh, I was heartbroken to be called rixen, to be reviled. But I was glad to be free to make my own way. That very day, walking through those woods,” she pointed across the valley, “I decided what I would do. I would gather all the Exiled and make war upon the goblins. Together we would destroy our ancient enemy and be reconciled with our tribes.

  “But the Horde has broken the tribes. The People are almost destroyed, and the only surviving king is a mad drunkard.”

  Anger at Fritigern mixed with her anger at Leuva and she choked. Then she spoke again.

  “I know my choices,” she said, and her voice was steady. “They’re mine alone to make. It is what I always said I wanted, but now that I have it, it only makes me sad.”

  She turned toward him. Moonlight carved soft shadows on her face.

  “Julian gave me good Roman advice and told me what I should do. Thrasimund gave me good Thervingian advice and told me what I should do. Leuva did the same.

  “But you, Marcus, you just listen. Thank you for that. It is more valuable to me than all the rest.”
r />   She leaned against him. Her hands found his. When she slid her arms around his wide shoulders, it felt as if she embraced the whole world.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Put to the Test

  The XII Legion crossed the Siret River soon after daybreak the next morning. Julian sent the soldiers forward, but he himself stayed on the far bank with Captain Ennius to see the rest across. Bandylegs stood patiently, but Ennius had to keep a tight rein on his horse, who was agitated. It had read its master’s mood.

  “Look at them,” the cavalry captain said. “Look at the gap!”

  Scores of Therving riders approached, led by Thrasimund, his blond hair shining. There was indeed a gap between the last Roman cohort and the lead Thervingian rider.

  “No military sense at all,” Ennius complained. “I could fit an entire legion in here. Whoa now, easy.”

  The horse kept trying to turn.

  Thrasimund splashed across the Siret. The river’s waters ran deeper every day as the mountain snows melted. Water splashed high on his fur boots. It would not be long before the river was too high to cross. Not soon enough, Julian thought.

  Thrasimund gave a fair imitation of a Roman salute as he passed. Once across, his men broke into a gallop and spread out in ragged clumps with no hint of a line.

  “Look at them,” Ennius said again. “No discipline at all.”

  “They’re good warriors, Captain. You’ve seen them.”

  “Good enough,” Ennius allowed, “so long as they stay out of the way of proper cavalry.”

  Julian grimaced but did not let Ennius see it. Somehow all the mounted soldiers would need to work together. How that was to happen was more than Julian could figure at the moment.

  Then came the civilians, a forlorn and disorderly passage that took much too long. Ennius said nothing about this. Disorder among civilians was only to be expected. As the last of them crossed, Inglena and her rixen arrived. Julian sighed.

  They were fewer.

  Inglena joined him to see the last stragglers across. She looked tired.

  “Good morning, Princess,” he said. She managed a pale smile. Julian pointed to Oppidum. “Fritigern is leaving, too, I see.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Too many go with him.”

  “Will they fire the town?”

  She looked at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Will they set fire to it? To deny the plunder?”

  “No. They leave all for the goblins. It will slow them down.”

  “All?”

  She made a face. “Some cannot travel. They are too sick. Too old.”

  “Gods, he leaves them?”

  “Many will kill themselves.” She took a ragged breath. “They leave the animals, too.”

  “The king is a cold-hearted man.”

  Inglena continued to stare at the line of carts trailing away to the west. “Too many are with him,” she said.

  “And Leuva as well?”

  “Yes.” Inglena’s shoulders sagged. “I could not persuade her.”

  “You did all you could,” Julian said.

  “It was not enough. If this is all I can do, then perhaps someone else should lead. Someone who can do more.”

  Julian looked at her in alarm. “You can think such things, Princess, but you must never say them aloud. Your people need you to be strong, regardless of what you can or cannot do.”

  “My people? There goes half my people right now, into the mountains.”

  Julian found he had no reply to such bitterness. He glanced at Ennius, who only shook his head.

  “Do you think such things, General of the Legion?”

  “Me? Of course not.” He smiled for her benefit. “I never doubt.”

  “You do not cheer me.”

  “Very well. Perhaps I can make you too tired to be discouraged. We are six days from Mother River, or so my First Tribune assures me.” He glanced up at the gray clouds moving toward them. “Maybe seven. We have to move faster than goblins, so no more talk. Captain, you will guard our flank. We’ll keep the civilians between the Legion and the river. Inglena, your folk must guard the rear. Do try to keep up.”

  She was not looking at him, but she nodded. He let her be.

  Julian set a fast pace the first day out. He would have kept to it, but that night Inglena did not arrive until after dark. When he asked why, she said she was gathering up the stragglers.

  “I will not leave them,” she said, and he could not persuade her otherwise. The next day, the Legion moved a half step slower.

  Goblin packs began to appear. Not many, at first, but enough to be a danger to anyone who strayed too far from the cover of archers and cavalry.

  They traveled more slowly, too, because of the rain. It began before dawn on that second day, a fierce downpour accompanied by great crashes of thunder without lightning. More than either weather or goblins, though, two incidents caused Julian to worry about their march.

  The first was a complaint from Thrasimund. The big Therving came to Julian just as the day’s march began.

  “General, I have a complaint of honor.” He rode erect, jaw thrust forward, rain streaming over him in rivers. He took no notice. Julian had Avitus get out an oilskin, but Thrasimund refused it. Julian frowned. He was not in the mood for barbarian nonsense.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “You give honor to your own horse warriors, but none to my own. This causes a loss of respect for me.”

  Julian wiped water from his face. “What, exactly, is your complaint?”

  “Your men fight the goblins. Mine do not, for no goblins come to the front. We wish to fight also.”

  “Ah. Thrasimund, you are right. Your Thervings may ride flank tomorrow. Ennius will ride in the van. He will be glad of the chance.”

  “Glad?”

  “These little skirmishes are well enough,” Julian said, “but if there is to be a real battle it will come from the front, don’t you think?”

  Thrasimund considered this. Julian considered that wet fur has a remarkable smell.

  “Or even from behind,” Julian added. “It is a gamble. Ennius will want an equal chance on each front. Thank you, chief, for the idea.” He smiled pleasantly at the Therving.

  “I would like equal chance,” the chief said slowly.

  “Excellent. Today you are in the van, but tomorrow you will ride flank, then the rear, then back to the front. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Thrasimund said, even more slowly.

  “I must see to the Legion,” Julian said. “Good hunting.”

  He rode away, Avitus at his side.

  “Nicely handled,” Avitus said, “though the chief looked like you’d pulled a card trick on him.”

  “Gah. I have no patience for barbarian honor. If they are going to be jealous, there will likely be trouble down the road. They all need a dressing down.”

  “They are not your men.”

  “They should be. They need to be.”

  The second incident came later that same day. Julian called a meeting to go over tactics, at his tent after the evening meal. He summoned Marcus and Ennius, along with Inglena and Thrasimund. He knew some trouble was brewing by the way Thrasimund and Inglena positioned themselves on opposite sides of the tent. Julian went briskly through business, including the sending of both Therving and Roman scouts. It made him nervous that they had yet to spot the Horde. Ennius reported the loss of a forager. Julian had Avitus add the name to the list. Then there was no more business, and still the chief glared at the princess.

  Barbarians, Julian thought. As bad as senators.

  “I know I shall regret this, but does anyone have other matters to discuss?”

  Everyone looked from Inglena to Thrasimund and back again.

  Inglena raised her left arm and pointed at Thrasimund. She looked so much like an attorney making an accusation in court, Julian had to cover his mouth to hide the smile that crept there.

  “His Thervings slander us,” she de
clared.

  Thrasimund replied stoically. “This is untrue.”

  Julian lowered his hand. The smile had left.

  “They say my rixen are calling the goblins.”

  “It is untrue,” Thrasimund repeated.

  “I have heard it myself!” Inglena stamped her foot. Her left arm swung down like a sword stroke, hand clenched.

  “Those,” Thrasimund said calmly, “are not my men.”

  Avitus snickered. Julian glared at him. “Wine,” he commanded. He let the moment smolder until all had cups. He invited no one to sit. His mind raced, but his words came in measured steps.

  “Chief Thrasimund, these are indeed your men.”

  The barbarian’s eyebrows went up. “They are from the western clans, those who say this. Fritigern’s people. Not mine.”

  “You did not make that distinction this morning.”

  Thrasimund tugged at his braided beard.

  “Did not all the warriors ride together?”

  The chief scowled. “They did,” he muttered.

  “Then they are your men.”

  Thrasimund started to speak but Julian spoke first.

  “We must stop this sort of thing, all of us,” he said. “The Horde does not choose between Roman and Therving. To them, we are all prey.”

  He looked to Thrasimund and held his eye. “Do you believe this magicians summon demons from the earth?”

  Thrasimund returned the look. “I do not. It is a false belief.”

  “So. You cannot make your men believe other than they do. I don’t really care. But I do care what they say. Handle this however you think best, but let there be no more slander, not even in whispers. Am I clear?”

  Thrasimund did not blink. “I will make it so,” he said.

  Julian nodded, then turned to Inglena. She looked far too smug, he thought.

  “As for you, Princess, I am disappointed.”

  The smug look faded.

  “Did you hear your words? Your rixen? His Thervings? You speak to me of the People, how you wish to lead them, all together, all tribes, an end to exile. Yet, the first time you get angry, you speak of yours and his. What sort of queen speaks so?”