Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  The night was filled with terrible sounds, and the Divine Valens crouched in a bush.

  “The way is clear,” a voice called softly. “It's a peasant hut, empty.”

  Valens stood. Quintus Murena pretended not to see his emperor emerge from hiding.

  “Food?”

  “Yes, a little. Enough for us, at least.”

  “Lead.”

  Quintus led. He was keenly aware that he was only an ordinary soldier, that he and Proclus were now the only remaining Imperial Guard because all the rest were dead or fled. The phrase rattled around in his mind: dead or fled, dead or fled. All the rest are dead or fled. He shook his head slightly. Better than weeping, he supposed. Or screaming. He'd seen plenty of both in the last couple of hours.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the isolated hut, through beech trees and underbrush, but every step raked at his nerves. Even now, hours after nightfall, the monsters were careening around the valley, butchering anyone they found. Screams shredded the air now and again; never a cry for help, for that only called the monsters to you. Quintus had seen more throats torn open this day than he could begin to think about, and he knew that bloody fate could leap upon him from the moonless black at every step.

  It made a fellow jumpy.

  Proclus hissed somewhere ahead and Quintus stopped. Waited for ten breaths, then came ahead. Goblins did not lay ambushes. If they were near, they attacked.

  The two guards led the Emperor into the hut. It was even blacker inside. A shielded lantern was opened to let out a single ray of light—enough that they could see to eat: hard bread, cold soup, very bad wine.

  They did not speak, of course. The enemy might be near, for one thing, but there was nothing to be said. Nothing worth the effort, and anyway they were all tired clear to the insides of their bones.

  Quintus thought he would fall asleep the moment he sat down, but all he could do was chew and stare. He was exhausted, and his muscles complained, but his brain would not stop spinning in circles. He kept telling himself to sleep, that Proclus took first shift, but he merely repeated the words like a crazy man, and stared into the darkness. The Emperor seemed possessed by the same demon. He could see the man sitting on the only bench, his hands working absently, mouth moving, uttering no sound.

  “Where did they come from?” Proclus said. His voice was so heavy and small, it sounded as if it came from under a boot.

  “A second army,” Valens said softly. “No one guessed. They came around the ridge, the one that bastard Lupicinus was supposed to watch.”

  “What does it matter?” Quintus said bitterly, and no one had an answer. All three men had run out of words.

  Slowly the black night passed, fading into gray.

  The hut had a window, hardly more than the width of two hands. Proclus was peering through it. Quintus saw the man tense. A moment more and he motioned. Both men drew their swords. Even the Emperor stood. Fine, Quintus thought, here we go then.

  Something struck the door, then the wall beside the door. Then several somethings. Then many. The door crashed inward in a tumble—it was only a peasant's door, after all, and not meant to keep out much more than the cold. Quintus and Proclus cut down one, two, and then three goblins in quick succession. Through the opening they could see shapes beyond.

  Fine.

  “Soldier, sound the horn,” Valens said. Proclus shot him a bleak look.

  “We've no horn,” Quintus said, not bothering to be properly respectful. He set himself: more were coming.

  At the same moment, a shape came crashing through the roof, legs churning. Valens killed it with a single thrust. And abruptly all three were very busy as the creatures launched an assault from every direction. The doorway piled with dead. More came through the crumbling roof, sending thatch down in showers. The place reeked of death and dripped with death and was stuffed deep with death.

  And then it stopped.

  The three Romans still stood, each drenched in gore, panting, wild-eyed. There was no fear in their eyes; likewise there was no hope, only tiredness, and muscles that refused to stop quivering.

  A sound began.

  A curious sort of drumming: slap, slap, thump, in patterns that kept shifting—a stamping of feet, a slapping of hands against flesh. Slap, slap, thump, slap.

  When men are afraid they are about to die, they do not look at each other. They cast their eyes downward, or they inspect their weapons, or simply close their eyes. They don't want to see another man's eyes lest their own fear be confirmed, as if fear could be caught, like a spell from an evil eye. When, however, men know they are about to die, they seek out each other's faces. It is an awful look: a bleak certainty that admits neither fear nor hope, but only shows a simple human yearning to look upon another human face a final time.

  Quintus looked at his emperor. Valens would not know about this drumming. He hadn't been close enough to hear it, when it sounded out there on the battlefield. He couldn't know what was coming.

  Quintus glanced at Proclus, who was now his final friend. He could see that he knew the sound, too. Neither spoke; both decided.

  They raised their swords and started forward even as a hideous liquid, spitting sound writhed through the air towards them. Quintus leaped for the door. Proclus covered his face with his arms. Both men died.

  And the Divine Valens was bathed in a fire that consumed him where he stood. It cascaded in multiple torrents of black and lurid red, made an inferno of the peasant's hut, made it roar as if in pain, until there was nothing left. Only a stench and a misshapen pile that was still smoking when the sun finally rose from behind the hills.

  It was going to be another hot day.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Dog of War

  Her name was Petra and she was twelve years old. She had no idea of her real age, but she wanted to be more than both-hands-old and when she asked Ratta how much was more than both hands, he had said ‘twelve’ so that’s how old she was. Petra was her real name because it was her only name and it’s what everyone called her, so that was her name. She had no parents. Someone must have fed her when she was very small—less than one hand old—but all she could remember was living in the streets, sleeping in dark corners of dark alleys.

  Petra stood atop the eastern walls of Hadrianopolis and watched the army leave. She chewed on her bread, freshly baked and freshly stolen, and looked for the Divine Valens. She was sure she would be able to see him, since he was a god incarnate, and she imagined him shining among the troops like a golden sun. She gazed upon the legions, but saw no living divinity. The men were much smaller than her imagination had made them out to be, and she hoped the enemy was just as small. The army itself was like a living thing. The individual legions moving out were like muscles rippling upon a body of red and white and gold, and the legions on the march were like a single, powerful arm reaching out to strike down the danger from the north. Her heart stirred and fluttered at the sight.

  She wanted to cheer and cry out, but she restrained herself by taking another bite of bread, for she dared not draw attention. She had no business being on the wall; that was for sentries and soldiers. This particular section, though, no one came near, for the wall here was crumbling and the footing was treacherous. For adults. Younger children lacked the strength needed to climb certain parts while adults were too heavy. One boy who had tried had fallen to his death. Only a Petra could fit into the crevice, work her way up, and perch on the narrow, hidden ledge formed by a block on the verge of falling. It was her refuge from the grim streets below, a precious place, to be used only on special occasions.

  She stood for nearly an hour, watching the Emperor’s legions form up and march away. She loved the standards, so grim and brave—eagles and wolves and lions—and the long banners in brilliant colors. She was disappointed that there was no wind because she wanted to see them wave in it, like they did in the stories.

  As the last soldiers of the last legion disappeared into the thic
kening dust, Petra decided that the Emperor must have left before she arrived, probably before dawn. He would be the bravest of all and therefore would go first. After the victory would be a triumph, or so she’d heard, and then everyone, even the poorest, would be able to see the Divine Valens. She had heard it said that triumphs were only held in the capital, but she hoped that was not true. Not for the first time, Petra wished her mother had abandoned her in Constantinople instead of Hadrianopolis.

  She sighed and pushed her black, curly hair away from her forehead. It was always falling down across her face, which was annoying. She used to have a ribbon she had found to tie it back but it had frayed last spring and come apart in her hands. She scrambled down the wall quick and nimble, and put aside thoughts of emperors and armies, turning her mind instead to begging coins and stealing food. It was late that afternoon, while engaged in the latter occupation, that she met Bucephalus, which is what saved her life.

  It was near sunset the same day, outside the City Gate and it was near sunset. Petra wasn’t worried that the gate would close, because the City Gate never closed. That way was the road to Constantinople, after all, and traffic on that road was known to travel even by moonlight. Besides, it was stuck open and nobody had repaired it.

  Etta the fishwife brought her rotting fish here, the ones that had not sold for three days, to throw them into the little stream that fed into the River Hebrus. This evening she had four whole fish that were mostly on the edible side of spoiled, and Petra had managed to grab two before they floated away. It was odd, she thought, that there were no cats around. There were always cats around Etta the fishwife.

  Then she saw why. A few yards away was the biggest dog she had ever seen. He was nearly as tall as she was, with massive jaws and big sagging jowls and an ugly spiked collar. No one would come near the animal, though a group of boys dared each other to throw a rock at it. She shrieked at them and ran to the dog, throwing her arms around him as if to protect him. Without thinking she tossed down the fish and the dog promptly gobbled them up.

  One of the boys cocked his arm as if to throw.

  “You throw that rock and I’ll set my dog on you,” Petra said in the most challenging voice she could manage.

  “That ain’t your dog, Petra,” the boy shouted, but he was considering the situation. Then he threw the rock, so he could say he had, but wildly so that the fierce little girl would not set her dog on him, and they all turned and ran without waiting to see if it hit. It went wide, and Petra chose not to respond.

  “Don’t worry, boy, I’ll take care of you.” And just like that, with the suddenness of youth, Petra adopted the dog, and the dog adopted her. She looked at him with large, gray eyes. He looked back with huge, deep-set, brown eyes and licked her hands because they tasted of fish but she called the licks kisses. Her entire forearm would fit in his mouth.

  “Are you still hungry?” she said, knowing well what real hunger meant. “You come with me, then. We’ll get us some more food.”

  She got up and began walking; the dog followed. The guards at the gate stepped carefully away, but no one was brave enough to challenge her.

  “Little girl, you be careful. That’s a war dog from one of the legions. He don’t eat you, his master will want him back.”

  “He’s my dog now,” she informed the guard. “His name is Bucephalus.” She chose the name in that very moment. She remembered a story she’d heard more than once, about a young king who had tamed a black stallion no one could ride. She loved the story, and in her own dreams she herself was the young princess who tamed the black horse. This dog was black, and so his name was Bucephalus.

  She walked through the darkening streets and noted how people scrambled out of her way. This was a new feeling for her. People either ignored her or tried to chase her. This was better.

  She went to Remus the baker. He was just closing up when he saw Petra and her new friend.

  “Cac!” he cried, and scrambled back inside his shop.

  “Remus, please!” Petra called, her face pressed against the wooden door. “I’ll take any old bread. I’m very hungry. But I need something for my dog too.”

  “Go away. Take that beast away!”

  Petra’s stomach rumbled. An idea came to her.

  “Be kind, Remus,” she called. “We are very hungry, and if we do not eat tonight, we’ll just have to come back in the morning and hope your customers will share.”

  There was silence inside, followed by banging mingled with curses. They were very colorful curses. Then the door opened just wide enough for a hand to put out a sack.

  “Now go away and don’t come back! If you bother my trade I’ll call the town guard and have you both beaten. I swear it!”

  The dog gave forth a low growl and the door slammed shut.

  “Look, Bucephalus,” she said as she peered into the bag, “something for both of us!”

  She took the dog to her Best Secret Place. The town had expanded greatly in the years of Constantine and Constantius, and its old water supply had been completely revamped, and some of the old cisterns had been abandoned. One of the aqueducts had collapsed, leaving a series of caves, accessible only to the small and desperate. Petra had learned the value of having a secret haven from a world that could hurt her with casual indifference. She had several Secret Places, including the one on the wall, but this was the Best Secret Place because two shafts let in light and air, while another shaft went down to some remnant of an old cistern. That was her toilet and garbage. It could be awfully cold sometimes in this Place, but cold was just part of life. Early this very summer she’d spent a week down here when the boys in Chickpea’s gang started making some ugly remarks to her and threatening her with things she did not understand. She stayed away from that part of town now.

  “But maybe I don’t got to be scared so much no more, eh doggie?”

  The Roman war dog looked at the little girl and cocked his head. Petra scratched him on the chest and kept scratching him as she told him the story of his name. Soon, the dog lay down and went to sleep. The girl curled up beside him, feeling the heat of his great body, and she too fell asleep. And in that Best Secret Place, for that one tranquil hour, no two creatures on earth knew a more perfect contentment.

  The first goblins began arriving as the sun was clearing the eastern horizon. Outside the town walls, in the makeshift shops that rimmed the castra of the legions, the bakers and butchers and fishmongers looked up and wondered. The soldiers who had been left to guard the encampment gazed northward and northeast, squinting against the sun and asking each other what was that approaching. By the time they had their answer, it was too late.

  The town guard, standing atop the town walls, saw the awful truth sooner, and they shouted down to close the gates. Men tried to obey, but were confronted with a mass of people all crowding into an opening now hopelessly too small. The goblins got closer and the people became desperate and, driven by panic, jammed themselves even more hopelessly, trampling one another, climbing over one another, until the gates were piled high with bodies and screams echoed through the arch. The guards watched in horror as the first outrunners struck, slashing and tearing. They saw blood spouting in all directions, drenching the screams in scarlet. They saw the horizon darken as the main body of the Horde approached and knew that they could count the number of their remaining breaths.

  The dog woke up first. The sounds he heard told him something bad was near. He growled softly, and Petra dreamed of thunder. The dream broke off and she awoke to see the dog sitting, looking upward. He stopped growling but did not stop looking up.

  “What is it, boy?” She listened hard to the still, cold air.

  A scream came rattling down the air shaft, like a stone down a well, followed by a cascade of noises. Petra didn’t need to understand the sounds as they flooded in; she had lived on the streets long enough to know they meant danger.

  “Stay quiet, boy,” she whispered. “They won’t find us if we stay quie
t.”

  Quiet. Stay. Bucephalus knew these words. This was part of his training. He was quiet. He stayed.

  He guarded.

  Above them the August sun rose over a slaughter twelve miles long. At one end lay the Army of the East, dismembered, with a few thousand goblins still chewing at the remains, watched by crows. From the battlefield stretched a trail of death a mile wide, dotted with clumps of human and animal remains, a few smoldering farmsteads (including one that housed the charred body of an emperor), and the goblin Horde, pouring like a torrent toward Hadrianopolis. The leading edge of that torrent was even now washing up against the walls, finding breaks and openings, streaming into the streets, into the buildings, into the rooms where people cowered. The feasting was unlike anything the creatures had ever experienced, and with every kill the Gniva’s hold over the packs grew, for it was he who had led them to this plenty.

  The people of Hadrianopolis died quickly, for the most part. They were not soldiers, they were not organized, they had no leader. They were sheep, bleating and pleading as they fell into red ruin. Here and there some barricaded themselves and fought. Here and there, some hid.

  Bucephalus listened to the carnage go on and on.

  No matter who or what does the work, it takes time to kill ninety thousand people. It cannot be done in a day, not even by a Horde, and even goblins eventually grow sated and tired. Silence descended with the fall of night, and Petra wondered if the world above had turned into a nightmare.

  “Maybe they’ve gone,” she said to Bucephalus, though she didn’t know who ‘they’ might be. Although she was afraid, she began thinking about going up, because her stomach was thinking about going up.

  “You’re bigger than I am, so I bet you’re even more hungry. Are you hungry, boy?”

  The dog’s thick, docked tail thumped on the stone.

  “Okay. I’m going to go up and have a look. You stay here.”