by Ellis Knox
She knew it was not fair, not really even true. They camped outside because there was no room inside the fort for much more than the Legion itself, but she was not in a mood to be fair. Her people had sacrificed too much to get here; friends had died so others could get here. They should have more to show for it. Yet, after all the struggles, the rixen were still kept apart, and it all rested on her shoulders. She had chosen to cast her lot with the Romans, but still their counsel was to wait. Wait for the Emperor. And wait some more. Was their Valens truly a divinity? With a name like Pot-Belly?
The fort stood atop a wide bluff. The sight of the Great River finally took her out of herself. She had never seen such wide water except in a lake. Julian had told her there were even greater waters near the capitol. She never knew when he was being serious.
She stopped at the edge of the steep drop and looked around. Below her sat the town of Noviodunum, busy with carts and boats, dirtier and busier than ever Oppidum had been, even at feast. Across the river lay Lower Dacia, the land dotted with brown lakes fringed in green, and laced with streams. Somewhere out there was the lake that had risen and saved them. Automatically she scanned the horizon for goblins, but no dark Horde marred the scene. Six days, and still no sign. Perhaps they had all perished in that terrifying wave. Even if just the Gniva were to die, it would be enough.
A hawk cried. She looked to find it, but saw a figure instead: Marcus Salvius. He was some distance away, but she recognized his form at once: bare arms, broad shoulders and chest, powerful legs, strong face, and that fine, red cloak that billowed with each stir of the wind. He was like a hawk himself, she thought, a predator considering his world.
She walked in his direction, craving his company, expecting something without really knowing what. Her soft boots made no sound as she came to stand a few feet behind him, silent. His black hair sparkled with slender threads of silver.
“Marcus Salvius, what are you doing all alone out here?”
He startled and turned.
“Salve, Inglena,” he said. He nodded toward the river. “Looking for goblins.”
He had responded to the wrong part of the question. She wanted him to notice they were alone.
“Oh,” she said, trying to keep disappointment out of her voice. “They should be here by now, shouldn’t they?”
“The watch reported no sign, but I had to see for myself.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” He shrugged. A smile appeared within his black beard. “And what are you doing out here?”
He was supposed to open up to her, not the other way round. “I just wanted to walk,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, and the smile faltered. “Alone?”
She looked at him directly. His brown eyes were dark and warm. “I would be glad of company,” she said.
Now came the full smile, white teeth showing. She loved that, not least because it was rare. She wished he would smile like that more often.
“You can help me watch for goblins. I keep thinking they should have been here by now.”
“They will come,” she said, “we do not need to look for them. There is enough to do on this side of the river.”
“That’s true,” Marcus said, nodding, but he kept his eye on the horizon. “Supplies, rest, healing. Need to buy horses for the cavalry. There’s enough work for ten quartermasters!”
He sounded pleased. Happy to return to the familiar work of a legion, while she faced only problems that scoffed at solutions.
“The townspeople do not care for us,” she said.
“I’ve noticed. So has General Metellus. If any laws are broken, be sure to tell us. We won’t stand for any nonsense.”
Roman generosity. His use of “we” felt like a wall between them. Romans here, Thervings there. And rixen still separate from both. His solicitude was another separation. Why could he not say, “Let us punish the wicked together?”
“Only,” Marcus went on after a moment, “your people really must stop stealing livestock. They’re in the Empire now. Rome has strict laws about theft.”
“And we do not?” She whirled on him. “We are Thervings. We are not without law!”
Marcus took a step back, turning at last away from the wide, flat lands across the river. That she had to become angry in order to get his attention only worsened her temper.
“I did not say you had no laws. But your people gather up every goat, sheep and horse not actually under the hand of another. You would not deny that, would you?”
She would, but she could not. It was no more than what she had just chided Thrasimund about. She scowled, and spoke through compressed lips.
“Do not try to turn the People into Romans,” she said.
“Inglena, I …” he began, then trailed off. He raised a hand toward her, then let it fall helplessly. “Come,” he said, proffering his hand again, “let us start over. It is a lovely day. There are no goblins to be seen. Tell me what has angered you, and I will listen.”
She looked at his hand without taking it. She did not want to be mollified; she wanted to lash out. But not at Marcus.
“Thrasimund is going to leave,” she said in a flat voice.
“And go where?”
Was he deliberately not understanding? She spoke quickly, before another surge of anger could overtake her.
“He’s going to leave camp. He speaks of going to Thessaly.” It was the only name she could remember.
“Gods above and below!” Marcus spun away, turned back. “He can’t do that. He’d be declared an outlaw. Him and all his people. Already some are saying his warriors are a danger, that they should go back to Dacia until Emperor Valens returns.”
Inglena tilted her chin up. “Are we prisoners, then?”
“No! Of course not. But you are guests, for now. A guest does not roam at will through the home of his host.”
“Among the People, a guest is treated with honor, with an open hand and an open tent.” She hated that she was continuing to speak of separate peoples, of them and us.
Marcus’ jaw tightened and his lips disappeared behind his beard. He nodded once.
“That is unfair,” he said.
She turned away from him, gazing across the river to the dour, empty land beyond. She felt just as dour. She was furious with Thrasimund for his arrogance, and now she was defending him. Why was she so helpless in this?
She knew the answer, though. She feared to confront Thrasimund because she might lose—her authority, the tribes—everything. The People might follow him instead of her. Marcus had to know that.
“I can see you are angry, Inglena, but I cannot see why.”
Evidently not, she thought bitterly.
“Thrasimund is no fool,” Marcus went on. “He is anxious. He worries about his people.”
My people!
“But we have been across the Great River for less than a week. Not even enough time for a letter to reach Constantinople. Give Lucius Julianus a chance, and he will put all to right. He’ll find a home for you, or he’ll make one himself. I’m sure of it.
“I had my doubts about him at first, I admit it. He was not promising material.” Marcus gave a low chuckle. “But he has risen to the challenge. His father would be … Inglena?”
He stopped. He moved to Inglena’s side. His eyes followed her gaze.
To the northwest, on the horizon, a dark line had appeared.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Goblinfire
Julian reached the edge of the bluff out of breath. The sun hung low and big on the western horizon, throwing long shadows across the poppy-covered bluff, and scattering diamonds along the river’s back. Marcus Salvius and Inglena stood near the edge where the bluff dropped steeply away to the river. They stood close together, hands clasped. Julian barely took time to greet them.
“Where is it?” he asked as he came next to them.
“There,” Marcus said, pointing. “Just to the left of the willow trees.”
> Goblins darkened the farther shore. Among them now stood a taller one, with red hide that stood out against the black and brown.
“I see the Gniva,” Julian said. “What’s that next to it?”
Flanking the Gniva were smaller creatures with pale skin. Shorter than goblins, they stood on hind legs.
Avitus came panting up, followed by Thrasimund and several of his warriors. Behind them, more figures approached. Word had spread rapidly. People were fanning out all along the banks to glimpse the dreaded monsters. Avitus positioned himself next to Julian.
“No one knows,” Marcus said.
Heavy footsteps marked the approach of Thrasimund. “I do,” he said as he came up and stood near Inglena. “So does she.”
“Inglena?” Marcus put a hand on her arm, as if to protect her.
“We cannot know,” she said. She looked over to Julian. “He is only guessing.”
“They are hobs,” Thrasimund declared firmly.
“Hobs?”
“We cannot know,” Inglena said again, but her voice trembled slightly.
“We will find out soon enough,” Thrasimund said.
“What are they talking about,” Avitus asked. “Would one of you explain, as a courtesy to ignorant Romans?”
Thrasimund scowled at Avitus but spoke to Julian.
“Hobs are the servants of the Gniva,” he said, then paused, looking at the river. “Or, at least, they are the chief warriors of the Horde.”
“No one has ever seen them, not even our grandfathers’ grandfathers,” Inglena said.
“The legends are clear enough.”
“Not ours,” Inglena said.
“Taifali legends are older,” Thrasimund said. “Yours is a younger clan.”
Inglena’s head came up at that, but she mastered her anger. “Pale creatures in the service of the Gniva. ‘See! They strike down the People with sweeping swords. All the champions are laid low.’”
“We have the same words,” Thrasimund said, “but ours say further. ‘The pale hob strikes through breath and sight. It has an impure power. It is bred with rixen.’”
“A lie!” Inglena struck Thrasimund across the face. He winced and stepped back, then nodded and spoke without anger.
“I say the words.” He rubbed at his cheek. “I do not say I believe them.”
“It would explain the pale skin and smaller size,” Avitus said.
“Don’t try to help, Avi,” Julian said. “It isn’t helping.”
“Why,” asked Marcus, “would legends say goblins mate with humans?”
“With rixen,” Inglena said, hissing the word. “It is one more lie to make us worthy of hate.”
“It also explains why hobs can do magic,” Thrasimund said. He raised a hand as if to ward off a blow. “But it is an unlikely explanation.”
“What sort of magic?” Marcus put his arm around Inglena, pulling her close against his side.
“It is hard to say,” Thrasimund answered instead. “The words I remember don’t make much sense, only the lines about long arms and terrible swords.”
“Black swords,” Inglena said softly.
“Yes, that’s right. ‘The hob stretches out his long arm and see! The black blade falls in the midst of our armies’.”
“I don’t know about legends,” Marcus said, “but I know those creatures cannot wield a blade, not with those claws. What do you say, General?”
“Yes,” Avitus said, “you’re being awfully quiet.”
Julian continued to stare across the river.
“Master?”
In a low voice, Julian said, “It studies me.”
Avitus gave a derisive snort.
“What do you mean, sir?” Marcus said, rather carefully.
“The big one. It knows I’m the commander. It studied the river, and now it studies me.”
“Nonsense,” Avitus said. “At this distance, how can you know that? You can’t even see its eyes.”
“It stands there. Hasn’t moved. Never turns its head. Just like it did back at the lake. Same stance, and I saw its eyes then. I tell you, it’s studying me.”
“These are beasts, not men,” Marcus said uneasily. “You said so yourself. You convinced me of that, remember?”
“I do,” Julian said. “I still hold that goblins are only beasts. But the Gniva? It calculates. It plans.”
“Do you think it is intelligent?” Avitus asked.
“Of course it’s intelligent,” Julian replied brusquely. “My horse is intelligent. Even some senators are intelligent. That’s not the issue.”
“I meant, …”
“I know what you meant. Are they men? Do they think like us? I don’t believe so. But just because they don’t think like us, doesn’t mean they aren’t clever. A wolf is clever. That’s what bothers me about that scarlet-skinned monster over there.”
“What if they can mate with humans after all?” Avitus said. “It could have inherited human intelligence.”
“That’s disgusting,” Inglena said.
“It’s leaving,” Julian announced.
Everyone fell silent and looked. The Gniva had turned away and disappeared behind the trees. The hobs remained, forming into a circle. A curious sound floated across the river.
The smooth water and still evening air brought the noise near. Julian cocked his head. “Is that drums?”
“I don’t think so,” Marcus said. “Doesn’t have the same resonance.”
“It sounds like slapping,” Thrasimund struck his own thigh with his fist. Then he stamped. “And this?”
“A little,” Marcus allowed.
Thrasimund was chanting again. “’Now they strike their skins with open hands, and now they stomp with their clawed feet into the earth’s flesh.’” He struck his fist against his chest.
“You people have grim songs,” Avitus said.
“I want to listen,” Julian said, and the others were quiet.
The line about stamping was true enough. He could see them jump about, like Dionysian revelers. The rhythm was inconstant, but neither was it random. He picked up a pattern, only to lose it again: four beats repeated four times, but then it was five beats, or was it three and two? It kept shifting. He wondered how they all managed to keep together.
And now it was spreading. Goblins gathered on all sides, falling into the weird rhythms, amplifying the sounds until slap and thud became crack and boom, as if the gods were using a storm for music.
“I hate the sound!” Inglena cried. Marcus murmured something comforting, but Julian felt the agitation as well. Was this a kind of goblin magic?
It was affecting others, too. Hundreds of Romans had gathered along the river, along with locals and a few Thervings. Cries of dismay and fear burst out here and there along the banks. A few moments later, a war song rose from the cries and was quickly taken up.
Julian’s mind roiled. His men were chanting in response to beasts across the river, a primal reply that made no sense but whose need was urgent.
The unrelenting drumming only grew louder. Thousands of goblins must be at it now. His brain recoiled from it like a trapped animal.
He opened his mouth and sang, shouting the war song’s words, striking his own chest with each repetition of “Roma!” His blood pounded in his ears. The song intoxicated him. He was barely aware of Marcus nearby, shouting the same song.
Across the river, silence fell like a hammer. Ten thousand goblins all stopped at once. On the Roman side, the war song trailed away. The sun had hidden itself, and the sky hung at the edge of stars.
From the pale hobs, something orange and black vaulted into the sky.
It twisted as it climbed, as tall as a barn, as thick as a man. It pulsed, colors within it boiling like a cauldron. It arced outward, over the river. A roaring, bubbling sound came from it. Julian thought madly that the goblins had conjured a dragon.
People all along the shore cried out and pulled away, but the thing did not reach even so fa
r as the middle of the river before it fell with a tremendous crash and hiss. Steam rose where it fell.
Across the river, the goblins leaped and struck the ground together, sending a deep boom into the evening, again and again.
Then they were silent, and the hobs faded into the Horde.
Julian realized his own heart still boomed. His mouth was open, panting like a dog.
“Great Jove and all the gods save us from the wrath of the goblins.” Avitus said, his voice shaking.
“Steady, Avi,” Julian said brusquely. He pulled Avitus to his feet. “If the gods were going to save us, they’d have done it by now. We are Romans. We save ourselves.” He looked to the others.
Marcus and Inglena were holding onto each other as if they stood in a high wind. Thrasimund was saying something, in strong words but in his own tongue, to his warriors, who looked terrified. He could not blame them. He took three breaths to steady his heart.
“Inglena,” he said, in what he hoped was a clear, firm voice, “you told me they sleep at night.”
Inglena looked up from Marcus’ shoulder. She took a step away and gathered herself before speaking.
“It is not yet dark,” she replied. “Besides, they will awaken if attacked or roused.” She glanced across the river, winced, and looked back. “I think they are roused.”
A smiled flashed across Julian’s face, only for an instant, but he let it remain inside. She was steady. Thrasimund was still scolding his men.
“Do your legends tell of this?” Julian asked. He waved a hand toward the river. Plums of steam rose where the fire had fallen.
She shook her head. “Never.”
“Thrasimund!” Julian raised his voice. The Therving chief turned around to face him. “How about you?”
“General?”
“I said, do your legends have anything to say about fiery snakes?”
“No.” Thrasimund shuddered visibly. “No, they do not.”
“Black swords,” Julian said to no one in particular. He gazed at the far bank for a time. It was getting dark, but there appeared to be no more movement from the Horde. He could not shake the memory of the Gniva standing on the shore. If that had been a human leader, he would swear this was like a warning shot, intended to strike fear. But this was not a human, and that struck an even deeper fear.