by Ellis Knox
She began climbing the twisting route that led to the surface. There were many passages and caves along the way, and some of them ended in very bad places, so you had to know the right path. It was one more reason why this Secret Place was the Best. Bucephalus followed close behind.
“No, dog. You stay. If it’s safe, I’ll bring you some food.” She motioned him to stay and he stood still.
She turned and continued to scramble over blocks and stones. The dog followed close behind.
“No! Bad dog!” She shook her finger, which was about the size of one of his teeth. “It might be dangerous up there. You sit. You stay.” She stamped her foot to show she was serious.
He sat, a little precariously, on a broken column.
Again she ascended and again he followed. She gave up and even smiled a little. They were friends, and it was hard to stay mad at a friend.
They reached a sub-floor. Up a set of stairs, unseen in the lightless space, was the ground floor and outside. Bucephalus sat and waited for the next move. Petra listened and heard nothing. The dog listened and heard the breathing of strangers. His nose detected a strange scent that reminded him of the smells of the armorer’s shop but also of an anthill. Over everything was the familiar reek of blood.
Petra moved up the stairs. There are few animals louder than a twelve-year-old girl, but likewise few are quieter when she wishes to be quiet. Just now, she wished to be very quiet indeed, for she knew that someone was depending on her.
At the stop of the stair, she saw her first goblin.
It was just a silhouette, framed through a window, erect but motionless. She looked around, her head just at floor level, and spotted two more. She did not see the claws, but she knew these beings were the cause of all the screaming. Her heart beat wildly and her breath came in short gasps. A warm, huge head pressed against the back of her legs and her breath quieted.
She eased back down the stairs and returned to the Best Secret Place. Her stomach complained, but she paid it no mind. She had been hungry before. She was only worried about the dog.
“We have to go the other way,” she told the dog. Her tone was serious. There was another way out, but it was a dangerous leap for the dog and the passage was narrow. More than once the dog slipped and nearly fell, but she held on to the big collar and pulled with all her small strength. Finally they squeezed through an opening in a collapsed wall. The sun was not yet up but the sky was beginning to pale in the east.
She could see a fire burning in the distance, but she saw no monsters.
There was no telling where food might be found. In one direction was the City Gate and outside and escape. In the other direction, though, were shops and markets and food. Her stomach made the obvious choice.
“Come on, doggie. Follow me.”
She tried not to see what her eyes showed her. Corpses littered the street, some whole, most not. The ground was mottled in a dark, ugly red. Some of the bodies weren’t human. Despite her resolve, her eyes strayed to look at the dead goblins, filling her mind with images of long claws, more frightening than a butcher’s blade. She saw the awful fangs, stained with blood; she saw the long insect-like head; she saw the eyes, open in death. She began to cry.
She kept walking as she cried, though. When you are poor and small and alone, you learn to keep walking, no matter what. Those are the only ones who survive. The ones who stop are the ones who die. Her tears blinded her somewhat, so that she saw only blurred shapes now, which was a kindness of a sort. But it kept her from seeing that the fire was spreading, and that she was walking into it.
Bucephalus’ furry head nuzzled her arm. She kept walking, not knowing what else to do, until she felt a careful tug, just enough to stop her. The dog whined.
Her vision cleared, and all she could see was flames, with the street hardly more than an alley between fires. She was suddenly aware of heat. She looked around and every building was going up in flames. Her skin felt like it would crack apart. There seemed nowhere to go and it was hard to breathe.
Bucephalus tugged at her again. She put one hand on his broad back. He took a couple steps and she followed. He took more steps and she followed again. He increased the pace, making sure she was alongside. He led her back up the street, but the fire was spreading fast. He started to trot, an easy pace for him but running at a good clip for the girl. She didn’t try to slow, though; she was sure he was leading her to safety. She gave up any thought of trying to find her own way and just followed the dog. He would lead her out. He would save her. The feeling of utter trust almost overwhelmed her.
Bucephalus retraced his steps hurriedly, for the fire was close. Even as he trotted, he stayed alert. Danger was everywhere and the girl seemed not to know it. He knew enemies were ahead, but he had no choice. Beyond the enemy was an opening and beyond that was open ground. He eased his gait somewhat, preparing.
She sensed the change. “What is it, boy?” Her wits were returning, little by little. Her hand on the dog’s wide back seemed to help. When she felt his hackles rise under her hand, something cold ran down her back.
He stopped and she stopped. Ahead was the City Gate, the one that led to Constantinople. It was clogged by a tangle of wagons and carts and dead oxen and horses and humans. In front were two goblins, eating some portion of a horse.
The goblins heard them, or smelled them. One turned from the carcass and regarded them without moving. She heard and felt Bucephalus’ low growl, and her heart sank. She knew what he was going to do, and knew she could not prevent it. She started to tell him to stay, but at that moment he sprang forward. He covered the intervening distance with surprising speed and caught the goblin as it was crouching to spring. He leaped and his massive jaws closed on the goblin’s forearm, and his bulk slammed the creature back into the wreckage, taking down the other goblin. For a moment, all Petra could see was a tangle of limbs flailing. Bucephalus snarled, something crunched, and the limbs stopped moving. He stood over the goblin, his mouth red with blood.
Petra shrieked. A fierce joy took hold of her as she raced forward and threw herself upon her hero. She ignored the stench, paid no mind to the gore, not even to the goblin blood on her own face where she had kissed the dog. She kicked the monster that had brought so much terror and had tried to hurt her friend.
Heat and smoke brought her to her senses.
“We gotta go,” she told Bucephalus, and looked around. The fire was almost to the walls. She turned and studied the carnage blocking the gate.
“Only one way to go, boy. Up and over. I’ll help you.”
Her heart surged at this. He had helped her, had saved her life. If she could help him, even a little, why that was the finest thing a person could do. She wondered why deeds such as this never made it into the stories.
Dog and girl scrambled onto the wreckage. Twice the dog got stuck and she had to help him get free. Only after they had scrambled down the further side did she think to look around her. No goblins were near, though she could see shapes in the far distance that were numerous and moving strangely.
“Come on, Bucephalus. We gotta find a new home.”
Behind them, the city of Hadrianopolis burned to ash.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
All Are Dead
Inglena rode into the camp of Therving non-combatants, followed closely by a knot of Therving warriors and a handful of rixen. This had been her final trip back to the battlefield; this time, she had found no survivors. Three trips in all. In the first had come most of those who could ride, plus Marcus Salvius, who was so badly wounded she had taken him straight to his tent and put a healer with him. In the second she had rounded up mainly those who were on foot.
She dismounted, giving her horse to a Therving girl. “Walk him,” she told the girl, “then a little water, then wipe him down.”
The girl bobbed her head. “Yes, my queen,” she said. “Did we win the battle?” Her eyes showed little hope.
“Go along now,” Inglena said.
“Tend to my horse first. There will be time for news later.”
Thrasimund dismounted as well and pulled off his helmet. His blond hair tumbled out in sweat-filled strands over his shoulders.
“Many are hurt,” he said, “but our losses could have been much worse. We were fortunate we were not on the other side of the valley.”
“Yes,” Inglena replied. She swayed and Thrasimund took her arm to steady her. She fought against the fatigue crashing down upon her. She looked out across the camp.
No fires were lit, but the moon revealed tents and horses, and a few human figures that moved like shadows. Somewhere on the other side were the Romans, those few who had survived the battle. She turned. Here were her rixen and their families, a few faces illumined by magical light. Voices were hushed, the way people speak in a graveyard, but now and then shrieks of pain cut the night.
Thrasimund spoke. “Your rixen saved many, Princess,” he said. She could hear the reluctance in his voice, “especially with that wall of trees.”
“Yes,” she said again. Words eluded her. She could almost feel her mind curl up for sleep.
But Thrasimund appeared to have more to say. He stepped to face her and drew himself up a little.
“Fortune was with us, but we have tempted her too often. Now is the time to gather our people and leave. Go into the mountains.”
“Go? We can’t go anywhere,” Inglena said. “We cannot stumble around in the dark.” She could not understand why he was talking. Nor why her left leg had begun to tremble.
“We are still whole,” Thrasimund said. He ran a hand through his hair. It was spattered with blood. “The Romans are finished. Their Emperor is dead, or so it is said. Their armies are smashed. This is their death of tribes, Inglena, don’t you see? Let us do the one thing that has always preserved the People.” He raised his hand and pointed a finger in her face. “We must flee. Fritigern was right, as was Leuva.”
The wagging finger got her attention, but the final word brought her fully aware, as if cold water had been dumped over her head. She turned away from Thrasimund, took two steps, then turned back. Her voice was clear and strong.
“Where will you run?” she asked. “You think to run is to live, but that is not the lesson of our ancestors. To run means to be hunted. The goblins always find us.”
Thrasimund lowered his hand.
“The Romans have lost a battle,” Inglena continued, “but Rome is huge. We have no more armies, but Rome does. Another Emperor, with another army, is on the way. The goblins have no more armies—the Horde is all they have. And the Romans will keep throwing armies at it until it is destroyed.”
“If you flee, Chief Thrasimund,” she spoke the word ironically, for a warm anger was growing inside her, “one day you will reach the end of the world, to the waters of the Great Ocean. What will you tell your people then? That you chose to die like a hunted deer?”
He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off. She stepped forward, bringing her face close to his.
“I choose to lead my people against their enemy, not away from it. Athanaric and Sigeric died a king’s death. Fritigern has run into the mountains. He will die like a bear in a tree. We all die, Thrasimund. What sort of death do you choose?”
She glared, breathing hard. Thrasimund took a step backward. She saw a fire rise in his eyes but it died away. He lowered his head slightly.
“All choices are bad,” he said, more to the ground than to her. “All roads lead to death. I will follow you, Inglena, whichever road you choose.”
She stood before him, eyes wide, panting. She was not looking at him, though.
“I heard Stavanos fell,” she said at last.
“Yes,” Thrasimund said, gently.
She had run out of words, out of feelings, out of ideas. She wanted to fall down and keep falling, forever.
“Princess?” said a new voice.
She turned. It was a Roman soldier, his left arm in a sling.
“First Tribune Marcus Salvius is awake, my lady. He asks for you.”
She found him leaning against a tree, talking to soldiers around him. Her heart smiled to see him upright, for they had carried him unconscious from the battlefield.
Not that he was unhurt. His chest plate and shirt were both off, and bandages covered nearly every inch of bare flesh. Her mind leaped across the months to another Roman, badly wounded, leaning against a tree, and for a single breath she saw Julian in place of Marcus.
But his was black hair, and a black beard, and a broader chest and stronger arms. Her heart skidded away for a moment. She scowled at herself.
Then Marcus spotted her and smiled, wincing as he did so, and her heart danced away again. She ignored it.
“Inglena,” he called out. Then, to the men, “Go. Don’t bother me, unless it’s to bring word of General Metellus.”
The men scattered.
“Marcus,” Inglena said as she approached, “you should be lying down.”
“I’m sitting. That will have to be enough. Are you hurt?”
“No. Only a few scratches.”
He eyed a large bandage on her left arm, just below where her deerskin sleeve ended in tatters. Most of the bandage was stained.
“It looks worse than it is,” she said as she half-hid it behind her. “Nothing, really.”
She sat next to him and put her arm around him.
“I didn’t know how badly you were hurt.”
“Hmph,” he said. “You sent your healers. I’m already mending.” He picked up a plate from the ground.
“Have you eaten? You should eat.”
She took an apricot from the plate. It was overripe and terribly sweet, but her stomach rumbled in gratitude.
“And drink,” he said, offering a cup.
“I am glad to see you are alive,” Inglena said.
“As am I,” he said. “But how did I get here?”
“What do you remember?”
His eyes lost focus. “I remember the fighting. Goblins everywhere. The fires. But we were holding our own. The General’s plan, it was working. Oh gods, he should have seen!
“We tried to keep formation, Julian’s formation. But there were too many. They pressed on us and pushed us back. I was hit and hit again. Menutius went down, his throat torn out. I killed that one, anyway. Then I fell. I remember that. I remember looking up and seeing goblins, then they were gone and you were there. Were you there?”
“Yes. I found you.”
“You shouldn’t have done that. Too dangerous.”
“Not too dangerous,” she said, “because we are here.”
He managed a small smile. “Thank you. But now tell me the rest. The parts I did not see.”
She did so. She told him how her own people kept the goblins from completing the encirclement, though at great cost. Then the horns sounded retreat and her people got as many Romans out as they could manage. “I know I left some still alive on the battlefield, Marcus. For that I am truly sorry.”
“I know. It is always hard to leave a soldier, but if you had stayed, we would have all died. You saved more than just me; you saved the Legion.”
He looked up at her intently.
“How many survived?”
“I cannot say. It has been too difficult to try to count them.”
He was silent for a long time, then said, softly, “Ennius is dead.”
“I was told that.”
“I saw it. I saw him charge, saw him fall.”
“I am sorry,” she said. “He died a soldier.”
“He died a cavalryman.”
He fell silent and Inglena let him. Stavanos. Ennius. And Julian?
“Everyone wants to know what’s next,” Inglena said. “Do we wait for Julian? Where does the army re-form?”
“Inglena,” he said slowly, “there is no army. We are crushed.”
Her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed.
“Crushed? But we live. We took losses, but we survived, f
ought our way out. It was as Julian said it would be.”
“Julian is dead.” He said the three words in hammer falls.
“It is a rumor,” she said quickly, signing away evil with her right hand. “No one has found him.”
“And why do you think that is?” he said, letting the grief make his words bitter.
“I don’t…”
“They eat the dead.” He was remorseless, cold as a grave. “Julian is dead. If he lived, he would be here. It was his plan. He would be here. If he was badly injured, they would kill him, then they would tear out his guts and leave him.”
Every sentence was a door slammed.
“The army itself was surrounded and destroyed. Your people have fought these monsters for generations. Do the goblins win tactical victories? Remember the slaughter on the Pyretus.”
His voice caught.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She put her hand on his arm and said, “I’m sorry too. Do you think there are no more survivors? No hope?”
“There is always hope, but we have to balance hope against risk. We cannot stay or the goblins will find us.”
“Another day? We have wounded…”
“Not even a day,” he said. He shook his head and shuddered. “Some will find us, along the way.”
“Where do we go?”
Soft red and pink lightened the eastern sky. The sun would rise soon.
He looked at her, then past her, seeming to see his surroundings for the first time. The Therving camp was busy, nearly full. Horses, not many, were tethered near the wide circle of black tents. He smelled cook fires.
Nearer were the brown tents of the Romans, in their careful lines. Too few soldiers moved among them, many casting glances in his direction. The closest made no secret they were trying to listen. He spoke clearly, his voice strong.
“To the City.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Two Bodies
Julian awoke to find a goblin staring at him. Its long, narrow snout was less than ten feet away, pointed directly at him. It was so close he could see a scar that ran along the left side of its face. It was rocking forward and backward slowly, as if contemplating. Its talons clicked softly.