Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  Julian scowled, but it wasn’t the news that bothered him, it was something else. Something as yet unclear.

  “We stay here, Marcus. We slap the enemy on the nose and when he recoils, we run for it.” He looked around again and came to a decision. “Here is where we hit him, Marcus. Tomorrow we can move the civilians south, but every able-bodied man will stand here and fight.”

  He climbed back up the little embankment. From there he could see both lake and river. Marcus followed. Clouds covered the sky, but the clouds to the east were black, highlighted in dark orange and red.

  “Storm,” he said.

  “Aye.”

  “How far do you make it, First, from lake to river?”

  Marcus looked, first west, then east. He scratched his head.

  “Two hundred strides, sir, maybe a little more.”

  “We’ll never find a better front, provided the creatures aren’t going around the long way, which I doubt they are. They’re as direct as locusts. Give my compliments to the engineers, First.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said, his voice still holding a note of disappointment.

  “It was a happy thought, Marcus,” Julian said, as he began walking eastward along the embankment, “but it would never have worked. No boats will cross the Ister in the dark, and the ghobellensi are right behind us. They’d have us trapped against the river.”

  Julian was walking quickly now, and Marcus had to hurry to keep pace.

  “We can use the embankment for high ground. We can’t be flanked, and we’ll have enough men to cover from river to lake.”

  They reached the end. The embankment sloped down a foot or two to the lake, which was here much as it had been for the last fifteen miles. Its shoreline was thick with reeds that stretched a hundred feet or more into the lake. Beyond that was the wide expanse of water, miles across.

  Julian stared at it, scowling again. It was as good a plan as could be managed under the circumstances, but he didn’t like it.

  He turned around and strode back along the embankment toward the river. The Siret made its way toward the Ister, not very deep, but deep enough in its main channel to drown any goblin that tried to cross, and far too wide to jump. He gazed across its breadth. He realized his jaw was clenched and forced himself to release it.

  He turned abruptly and strode the entire length again, looking in all directions as if searching for something. Marcus was looking, too, placing the cohorts as they walked, calculating reserves and assignments and logistics. If they were going to stand and fight here then so be it. Marcus would make sure the Legion would run up a fine butcher’s bill.

  They were on the third pass when Julian stopped abruptly. “Marcus, about how far do you figure these beasts can jump?”

  Marcus had been deep in his own calculations and had nearly run into his General.

  “How far, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what I said.”

  The Tribune did not take offense.

  “Hard to say. Fifty feet. Maybe more.”

  “Certainly more,” Julian said. “Some of them, anyway. Sixty feet. Even seventy. Would you say as much as seventy, Marcus Salvius?”

  “Seventy. Could be a few could jump so far, sir.”

  “How about a hundred?”

  “A hundred feet, sir? No, I’ve not seen nor heard of that, General.”

  “Nor I,” Julian said. He stopped and pointed south. “And how far would you say it is to the opposite bank?”

  Marcus nodded, smiling a little.

  “A hundred feet, sir. Not an inch less.”

  “Marcus, we’re going to dig this channel out. Work in shifts, starting on the south side. I want it ten feet deep, starting there,” he pointed, “then moving toward the north bank. Have the engineers work on breaking through to the river and to the lake.

  “We’re going to flood the channel, Marcus. The creatures will have to go all the way around the lake to get at us, and by that time we’ll have everyone across the Ister.”

  Marcus grinned.

  “Off you go, then,” Julian said, and he allowed himself a small smile. Now it was a good plan.

  He went in search of Inglena. If this was going to work, they were going to need everyone to pitch in.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Song of the Lake

  At either end of the canal, engineers constructed wooden dams to hold back the waters until the work was done. Or the Horde arrived. The engineers complained about the poor materials, the lack of men, the shortness of time, but engineers always complained. Marcus drove them relentlessly until they began to complain about him, too.

  For her part, Inglena tasked her own people just as severely. Every able-bodied adult she sent into the ditch, overriding all objections that hauling dirt was for slaves. Those too old, too feeble, or too young she did not spare. These she set to work hauling handcarts and packs further south, to clear the way for a retreat. Others prepared food for the workers. The order of the day originated with her, but Julian adopted it for the Legion as well: if you are not sleeping, you’re working.

  The work began in the late afternoon and continued into the night, by torchlight. The soldiers had shovels, so they did most of the digging, while Thervings carried the muck to the southern embankment. The men were exhausted, but Marcus set them working in shifts so some could get at least a few hours sleep.

  Only once did Marcus and Inglena have a moment together. They had not stopped toiling since the work began, and the night was far gone. They found each other by accident, emerging through the dark, heads down with weariness, almost stumbling into one another. Both were filthy with mud. Marcus had left his armor in his tent and wore only a worker’s shift, soaked through. They looked at each other for a long moment.

  “You look terrible,” Inglena said.

  “You look tired,” Marcus said. “Where are you going?”

  She paused, then gave a weak smile. “I forgot. And you?”

  “Me too,” he lied.

  Inglena opened her arms and Marcus stepped forward into them. She eased him to the ground. They leaned against each other on the damp, trodden earth next to the embankment. Holding her felt as good as being held. His aches began to melt away. His exhaustion slipped into a delicious tiredness. Her head rested on his shoulder as she muttered, “just for a moment.” Her voice was like a soft lapping of waves at the edge of consciousness. They fell asleep at the same instant.

  A little while later, Ennius found them. He had come looking for the First Tribune, but stopped short when he saw the two. He wrapped his cavalry cloak around them both and appointed himself their guardian. He patrolled the vicinity, waving off anyone who came near. When the sky to the east turned gray, he took back his cloak, moved a few yards away, behind a tent, and called out orders in a loud voice. Inglena came past first, looking hurried and bleary. Marcus followed a minute later.

  “Oh!” he said. “Salve, Captain. I was …” Marcus fumbled, still too foggy to think up a decent lie.

  “Salve, First. I was just looking for you. The engineers have the river-side dam in place and would like you to inspect it.”

  Marcus nodded curtly, tried to look grim, and fell in behind Ennius. Climbing the embankment in file, neither man could help smiling, each for his own reasons.

  Goblin outrunners began arriving in the late morning. Julian set a screen of infantry on the north side, accompanied by three rixen. Memmius was among them, and so was Remmich.

  “You get out of here, kid.”

  “I stay,” Remmich said. He planted his feet firmly, to show he would not be moved. The centurion loomed over him.

  “You go. This is work for Roman soldiers. No one else.” He put his hand on his sword menacingly.

  A tuneless song pulled deep in Remmich’s stomach. He told himself he was not afraid of this soldier, nor of the goblins he saw drawing closer by the minute. His feet began to move before he told them to.

  “All right. I
’ll go. I’ll find some other way to fight.”

  “You do that. Get.” Memmius turned and trotted to catch up with his cohort.

  Remmich turned away. As he turned, the feeling inside him pulled harder, toward the lake. Feeling more than thinking, he took off his sandals, climbed down the low embankment, and slipped into the reeds.

  Two cohorts fought one band after another for nearly two hours, leaving the sodden ground to the north littered with bodies. But each band was larger than the last, and the intervals between became shorter, and still the lake-side dam was not complete. The ground on that side was too unstable, and every support driven into the mud eventually slid and fell.

  Julian gave the order to retreat when the main Horde was in sight. He sent most of his soldiers back across the dry canal, with orders to get everyone out, keeping the Third Cohort on the north side to cover them, for outrunners were attacking almost continually. A dark line moved toward them steadily, like flood waters. Only when the canal was clear did he pull the Third back. He himself waited until all had left.

  He scrambled down into the empty canal. Even at ten feet deep, the ground here was spongy and much torn-up from feet and shovels. Julian could almost feel the goblins charging. Every step he took might plunge into some mud hole. He would be stuck. He would die in a ditch. The phrase pulsed in his brain with every stride.

  After long seconds, he scrambled up the other side, and turned to look. No more outrunners; now, the Horde itself was charging forward, a dark mass stretching from water to water, figures rising into the air as if launched by catapults. Julian sent the man on to join his Cohort.

  “Open the river gate,” Julian shouted. Ursinus took up the call and trumpets soon repeated it. “Take your positions!”

  This last order caused much of the Legion to move back, away from the embankment. A single line of defenders stood on top, but the rest—Thervings, Dacians and Romans—began their trek south. Julian put Marcus Salvius in charge of them, along with Inglena to handle the barbarians. The clan chief Thrasimund remained with Julian, along with his personal guard.

  The dam was little more than a wall with a single panel that could be drawn back. As soon as the ropes tightened, the panel slid aside and water came rushing in. A few moments later, a loud crack sounded and the entire wall gave way. Water from the river swept down the length of the canal, snarling and hissing like some liquid animal.

  The Horde had arrived. Encountering the water, many pulled up short, but some plunged into the roiling waters, which were not yet deep enough to drown in. Goblins surged forward, trying to jump through water already hip or chest deep. A handful managed to reach the embankment. Some fell back. Those that clawed their way to the top were killed with Roman efficiency. The canal filled in moments.

  Goblins now tried to leap across, but the canal was too wide. After a dozen had tried only to die, the humans on the south side began to cheer. Julian put a stop to that.

  “Quiet, boys,” he said. “If we start cheering, our people might slow down, thinking they’re safe.”

  “But aren’t they?” Thrasimund asked. “The goblins cannot cross the water.”

  Julian started to reply, but Ursinus said, “What’s going on over there?”

  The goblins were drawing back from the canal, pushing each other, and an opening in their midst formed. From there emerged a small band of goblins unlike any Julian had ever seen. They were taller than the others, nearly as tall as humans, and they were a different color. Instead of mud brown and dirty orange, these were dark gray with streaks of red on their chests and flanks. Their muzzles were much shorter, making their heads more human-like. And they had no tails.

  Ten in all, Julian counted, plus one.

  The eleventh, in the center of the group, was taller yet. Its coloring was scarlet with charcoal markings, almost the reverse of the others. Its hide bore numerous scars. Julian did not need to hear Thrasimund utter the word to know the creature at once.

  The Gniva.

  The others were its bodyguard. Could animals have bodyguards? The implication chilled him.

  All the other goblins had fallen back as the Gniva came to the edge of the canal. It surveyed the situation as deliberately as any Roman General. Julian imagined—or was it imagination only?—the Gniva taking note of the goblin bodies floating. Its head swung right then left, as if measuring the canal’s length, then up as it measured the width. This brought its gaze to Julian.

  The Gniva stared at Julian. There could be no doubt, Julian thought, the thing knows I am the commander, its enemy. It is measuring me as well.

  After a long moment, the Gniva turned away. Its bodyguard closed around it and the Horde closed around them. A furious clacking arose, then the entire Horde surged as if a wind passed through it.

  Humans on the other bank muttered and shifted their feet and checked their weapons.

  “Hobs,” Thrasimund said. Fear edged his voice. “The Gniva and his hobs, just like in the legends.”

  Before Julian could ask for an explanation someone shouted, “Here they come!”

  That wind became a wave. The goblins, drawn back a few yards in the Gniva’s wake, now closed and rushed forward. At the canal’s edge they did not stop but hurled themselves forty feet and more, crashing into the water, far short of the southern shore. Where before they charged by twos and threes, now they came on by the score and the hundred. Along the entire front they leaped, fell, and drowned. The length of the canal was churned into froth by hundreds of flailing limbs. It took only a moment to realize what was happening.

  “They’re filling the canal with their own dead!” Thrasimund cried.

  “Ordered to do it,” Julian said to himself, and that fact was more dreadful still. He shouted, “Retreat! Everyone off!”

  He himself did not move, again waiting to make sure his orders were being obeyed. Avitus stayed as well. “You too, little bird,” Julian said, but Avitus merely shook his head. His eyes were very big. In the canal, death churned.

  It took only moments to clear the embankment, but goblins were already bounding across a layer of bodies further into the canal before jumping. Julian started to descend, then looked back once more, wanting to see the Gniva, his true enemy, one final time, but all he saw was a madness of goblins.

  “What’s that?” Avitus said, pointing toward the lake.

  Julian’s first thought was that another goblin army was advancing over the lake itself. Then he heard a deep, steady rumble.

  “Run, Avi,” he cried, scrambling down the embankment, “Run!”

  The song of the lake was stronger than ever, here in the water. It drowned all thoughts in Remmich’s mind, save for one.

  Time to be the hero.

  It made no sense to Remmich, to stand and fight. Goblins won by sheer numbers. One could not out-fox them, for they did not know how to be tricked. All the legends were clear on that point. If the Legion stayed, the Thervings would stay, and everyone, including Alavia, would die.

  He moved through reeds taller than himself, a thick forest of slender brown poles. Each time he put his foot down, it was like stepping into a warm bath. He relished in the sensation of mud enveloping him up to his ankles. The water promised to fulfill his dream of doing something grand. It sang to his heart and he heard his own blood reply saying, together. Together they could do it. He needed the lake’s waters, but the lake needed him as well. The lake would be freed of mud and reeds, to join the river and run to the sea. Not Roman swords nor Thervingian spears would turn back the Horde. He would do it. The lake would do it.

  He moved steadily, feeling his way. The water rose to his knees and the sounds of men fell away. He pushed the heavy reeds aside. He smiled. He was walking toward greatness.

  As the water reached his thighs, the heavy forest of reeds thinned and he entered an open space. When the water had covered his hips, he stopped and turned. Beyond the reeds he saw the goblins as they arrived, saw them leap and fall and die. The shouts
of men reached him, but they were muted. Away to the left, his own people were retreating, hurrying toward the Great River. Somewhere among them was his family. Somewhere among them, Alavia.

  Slowly he put his hands into the water. At once, the song of the lake grew louder, drowning all other sounds. He closed his eyes. His long hair hung in damp strands along his cheeks. He could feel the lake to its uttermost limits, the way one feels the depth of a forest or the distance of an echo. The size of it almost overwhelmed him; he had never felt a water of such breadth. All around him water spouts leaped ten, even twenty feet in the air, writhing like snakes.

  He embraced the miles of water, a vast power that had once known its own strength but that now drowsed upon mud and died amid reeds. He sighed and raised his hands from the water, and the columns of water collapsed back into the lake.

  The water of this wide, nameless lake was turgid and dark, filled with the sludge of a million decaying plants that sagged downward until the water became mud lying in darkness and suffocation—a water of forgotten grudges. He felt all of it. It suited his mood.

  The lake was a different kind of song. Rivulets, rain, puddles, lakes, each was its own type and each type had manifestations. Lakes were powerful but quiet, like a bear asleep, dangerous to disturb.

  He didn’t care. He plunged his hands deep, up to the elbow, and dug his toes into the mud. “Wake up, old devil,” he said without words, “let go of your reeds and mud, and come to me.”

  The lake stirred. It was miles across, and Remmich could not reach to the far shores. Instead, he dug deep, scooping the lake up by its roots, pulling it from its foundations. In places only the sturgeon and pike ever saw, a wave began to form.

  He reached across the lake, into the water, calling to it, feeling it stir begin to move, slowly at first, like a big cat stirring from sleep.