Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  The citizenry fled into their shops and houses. Men shouted to their wives. Women screamed for their children. Children wailed for their parents. Dogs barked wildly; some charged and were killed, while others fled and were killed. And everywhere, doors and shutters slammed shut.

  Some people fought back. From upper windows they hurled vases, stones, furniture, anything they could grab and throw. Quick, terrible fights broke out on the respectable, middle-class streets of the Third Hill.

  At the home of a rug merchant and his sons tangled an entire pack of goblins in carpets and cloth. The merchant lost the better part of his better inventory, but after a half-ton of furnishings and stones, his family could claim credit for slaying an entire pack of monsters.

  One street over, a friend of the rug merchant, who lived alone with his parents, was no more than one step too slow. A goblin crashed through the shop window a mere moment before Gideas was able to bar the wooden shutters. It drove the frail youth to the floor of the shoemaker’s shop, scattering tools and cut leather everywhere. The rest of the pack followed and in less than a minute the shoemaker’s shop was in ruins, no human was left alive, and the blood of the last son of the Sica family bespattered the walls.

  These scenes repeated up and down the streets. Even more they played out on the flanks of the Third Hill, among the fine, respectable homes of tradesmen and merchants. Booths, stalls, handcarts, baskets, stools, barrels and pots, all the hundred pieces of city life and business, all shattered and scattered under goblin talons. People screamed in sheer, mindless terror as they saw their familiar world gutted and destroyed.

  Individually, the fighting was ineffective. Cumulatively, though, the citizens gradually forced the goblins onto the main roads, where there were fewer people, fewer attacks, and the goblins could charge with less hindrance.

  Along those main roads, the Mese, the flood of goblins channeled into thicker torrents. Guards sealed up the Senate House, where the two Mese joined, and the goblins rushed onto the Third Hill, their advance somewhat slowed by increasing opposition. Goblin blood began to splatter the sides of white buildings and stain the wood of stalls.

  The flood washed into the Cattle Market, and there came to a churning halt, for the market was rich with live meat. The hour was mid-day.

  Inglena watched the chaos through an opening in one of the shops that lined every side of the Forum. Livestock was out there—pigs, cows, goats, chickens—and the goblins spent some time consuming what must have seemed to them an easy feast. Early on, screaming indicated a few humans had been trapped in there as well.

  She had arrived with her rixen, her Roman magicians, and her Therving warriors about the same time as Tykonos had come from the other direction with his street gangs. With help from citizens, they had quickly blocked every exit save the one from the Mese. They barely had time to finish before the first goblins fell upon the sheep and cattle. Once most were in, Thervings blocked the final exit with their own spears and swords until that way too could be blockaded.

  She kept everyone in check as the goblins slaughtered the livestock and fed, but now the monsters were beginning to move again. Now the blockades would be tested. Now all stood on the knife’s edge.

  A pack swept outward and slammed into a blockade, fell back, and raced away. Elsewhere, packs jumped at the buildings themselves. Every once in a while, one made it through a window or onto a balcony. Warriors were posted for that chance. Mostly, the goblins raced wildly from one side to the other of the Forum, aimless. Could they be in panic? The clatter of their feet mingled with the crack and shatter of crates and fences and stalls.

  Her fighters were comparatively safe within the shops, for the shops themselves were separated from the open space of the Forum by a colonnade. The low ceiling of the porticoes made it impossible for the goblins to leap to their attack. As ever, the monsters instinctively chose the easier path.

  Inglena turned to Thrasimund.

  “Ten at a time,” she said, not trying to explain. “Put them at every street and stagger the attacks. Watch me.”

  He could not have fully understood her intent, but he nodded. She tapped Thrasimund on the shoulder.

  “Eight others. We go in, kill, and get out quickly. Then do it again.”

  Thrasimund never hesitated. He picked out eight warriors. Inglena noted them, then charged without giving further orders.

  She ran into the Forum and got no more than ten steps before she nearly fell. The street was slick with blood and rain. She slowed her pace then chose her target—a pack of goblins feasting upon the carcass of a white bull.

  The sword cooled in her grip, sending a wave of calm through her. She chose her victim. Her feet seemed not to touch the ground, yet she felt sure of her tread. She swung and there was the familiar sensation of cutting through fog. She saw her comrades crash into the other three goblins and in moments four goblins lay dead. One of them had lost its arm at the shoulder.

  She fought the urge to continue. She ground her teeth and shouted for the others to follow. Then she turned away and sprinted back to the comparative safety of the portico. A few moments later, a dozen Thervings darted out from an alley across the way.

  It took only a few forays like this to spread the idea. Soon, bands of armed men, many Thervingian but Romans as well, sallied out from side streets, attacked and withdrew. Not every assault was victorious, not every attacker returned, but the scattered attacks prevented the goblins from gathering into a swarm. They seemed to perceive each attack as an isolated threat. Now and then, other packs might notice and fall upon the attackers, but rarely were they in time.

  The grim work went on into the afternoon. Bodies stacked upon bodies, especially in the spaces between stalls, but steadily the numbers of goblins dwindled. It was two hours before Inglena launched the final assault, as much because she was exhausted and could not keep going much longer, as it was because the numbers of goblins were sufficiently reduced. In the final attack she let the blade sing, knowing it was draining her all the while, but reaping goblins by the handful.

  The citizens took heart. They grabbed what they could and threw missiles down into the throng. The bravest, or the most foolish, among them actually came out of their houses and shops, to join the soldiers and warriors in the Forum itself. A hundred goblins died, then twice that number. The monsters became merely the enemy. More died, and they became prey.

  The citizens of Constantinople rushed to the Forum. They bathed their fear in blood, taking vengeance for the horror and dread visited upon them. Some killed to avenge a fallen kin. Others killed without purpose, driven by blood lust. A thousand goblins became eight hundred, became five hundred. Human bodies littered the Market, lying alongside the eviscerated bodies of horses and cows and goats.

  The breach had held for hours. Men still worked on it, joined by masons who were the ones directing the effort now. Marcus Salvius paced the wall, feeling both trapped and useless. The setting sun threw long rays over the Sixth Hill, illuminating the tatters of the imperial tent and the tall form of the Gniva. Marcus glared at the red monster, which stood motionless. He could swear the thing was glaring back.

  The instant the sun touched the western horizon, Marcus raced down the Tower steps, having long since given orders for the night. All he could think about was Inglena.

  Down on the street, he tried to run, but his legs shook and he kept stumbling until he slowed down. All around him was a mayhem of broken doors, broken balconies, broken bodies. He scarcely saw it. I cannot lose her.

  As he neared the Cattle Market, he saw tired faces, but heard triumph in the voices. The whole market was filled with the fallen—human, goblin, and livestock—and coated in blood. Amid the bodies stood men and women clustered in small groups. Some talked among themselves, some examined the corpses looking for fallen comrades. A few cried out, some in joy, some in grief. For a moment, Marcus was unsure whether to look among the living or the dead for Inglena. He forced himself forward. Peopl
e spoke to him, hailed him, but he found he could only speak one word. Inglena.

  At the further end, near a shamble of torn-up sheds, gathered a large group of people. And there she was, white sword on her back, seeing to her wounded. Blood stained her clothes and matted her hair. Blood smeared her cheeks and neck. But she stood and she breathed, and that was sweet victory.

  She saw him and waved. She spoke to one of her Thervings, then ran toward Marcus through the carnage as lightly as if she were running through flowers. She threw herself into his arms, almost knocking them both to the ground.

  For a time, all Marcus knew was a storm of embraces and kisses, nor did he wish to know more. Gradually, he heard voices. The reek of the dead penetrated. At last he relinquished his hold on her, and it was like leaving the last island of hope in an ocean of despair.

  Still, he kept hold of her hand.

  “The wall—does it stand?”

  “Have the gates fallen?”

  “Are there more goblins?”

  “What shall we do now?”

  Questions came from all around, but he picked out two: Thrasimund, standing just ahead, so soaked in blood Marcus recognized him more by voice than by sight; and Tykonos, face flushed—or was that blood?—his fine clothes filthy and torn, standing just at Thrasimund’s side. He raised his voice, speaking to them, answering to all.

  “The wall holds, for now,” he said, then paused as everyone hushed everyone else. “We have sealed up the breach.”

  Cheers from the crowd.

  “I don’t know if there are goblins elsewhere in the City. We will have to search. Be careful. Goblins sleep at night, but not if they are in danger. If you see a body, don’t assume it’s dead. Be careful.”

  The advice was weak, and it was not made stronger for repeating it, but he could think of nothing else to say. Or, rather, he did have something to say, but he could say it only to a few.

  “I shall meet with our leaders to plan tomorrow’s defense.”

  Weak, he thought, angry with himself. Limp. Julian would have given them a speech. He walked over to Thrasimund and Tykonos. Voices and movement told him the rest of the fighters were leaving, to go home, or to search for goblins. Both, he thought, are good ideas.

  “Greetings, Marcus Salvius,” the big innkeeper said. He wiped at his face. The red had been from blood after all. “The wall stands, you said, but … I suspect there is more?”

  Marcus nodded to the question in the statement.

  “But we cannot discuss it here. The Capitol is not far from here, is it?”

  “Just down to the Mese,” Tykonos said. He must have seen the look of incomprehension on Inglena’s face, because he added, “That is the main street leading out of the Forum of the Ox.” Where he pointed was nothing but a jumble of carts and beams thrown together to barricade the Forum. “I know another way through.”

  “With the City Prefect gone, who is next in command?” Marcus asked.

  Tykonos considered. “That is difficult to say. You are the one in command, Tribune.”

  “I’m a soldier and an outsider. I need someone with official authority.”

  “Hm. In theory, that would be the Chancellor. Alas, he fled with the Prefect. There is the Grand Chamberlain, but he is an old man and rather timid.”

  “It will do. Please fetch him.”

  “Gladly, nor will I waste time asking what you intend. Follow me. I’ll take you to the Capitolium and leave you there, then go find the Chamberlain. He should still be on the First Hill.”

  “Fast as you can,” Marcus said.

  “Is it that urgent?” Tykonos asked, setting off at a brisk pace.

  “As urgent as death,” Marcus said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  A Plan Without Hope

  The Capitolium served as the Senate House in Constantinople. It was small and severe, only a poor echo of the Senate House back in the city of Rome. It had been decades since the Senate had any real power anyway. This was hardly more than a playhouse for the high nobility of the East.

  Marcus took one look inside at the narrow room with its narrow benches, lit only by the torch he held in his own hand.

  “We will meet out here on the steps,” he declared. Six wide steps led from the paved courtyard up to the Capitolium. Thrasimund and Inglena sat on the middle steps while Marcus paced back and forth on the ground in front. The last violets of sunset had faded to black before Tykonos returned with an old man in tow.

  “This is the Grand Chamberlain, Zosimus,” Tykonos said, his voice tired, and could manage no more introduction than that.

  Marcus looked them over slowly. They were all tired, even the Chamberlain—eyes hollow and dull, shoulders down, heads down, no conversation. Just six people trying to make it from one moment all the way over to the next moment. Six people living in the jowls of terror.

  Start with the bad news.

  “The wall cannot hold,” Marcus said, trying to make his voice sound calm and firm. “My engineers have found cracks elsewhere, not just at the pyre, probably from the combination of assault plus goblinfire. Fire destroys marble, you know. We should keep that in mind when we rebuild.”

  He knew this last was sheer bravado.

  “Other sections will collapse—tonight, tomorrow, soon. But it doesn’t matter. The monsters climb over their own dead. One way or the other, they will be in the City tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. The thought struck him like a hammer blow. I lose her tomorrow. He blinked back despair.

  “We have two choices,” Marcus said. “We can fight in the streets and die there, scattered and piecemeal. Or we can go out from the City and attack the enemy and die in the open field.”

  “I choose the second,” Thrasimund said. His voice was hoarse and gravelly.

  “Is there not a third?” Zosimus said. “We have ships. We could abandon the City.”

  Marcus looked at him and Zosimus hung his head.

  “I do not suggest this lightly. I am not a coward … well, I am, really, but I am ready to stand and die if need be. But there is some sense in saving what we can, to fight elsewhere, another day.”

  “Yes, we could run,” Marcus said. The others looked at him in surprise. “We have ships; enough to carry a few thousand. How many would you say live in Constantinople?”

  Zosimus turned his head aside. “More,” he said meekly.

  “Hundreds of thousands,” Marcus said. “Which will you save, and which will you condemn to the slaughter? Choose quickly; we die tomorrow.”

  Zosimus turned his head further. Marcus pressed relentlessly.

  “If this were any other city, Grand Chamberlain,” Marcus said, reminding him of the title, “I would agree. But this is Constantinople. If we abandon it, we abandon the Empire itself. Not only would we be forever remembered as cowards and traitors, our example would dishearten the very people who need to continue the fight.”

  Marcus moved until he was directly in front of Zosimus. He is an old man, Marcus thought, he cannot bear this. He stood until Zosimus looked at him again. None of us can.

  “If we faced an army, we might surrender, but these goblins, they don’t even speak. We cannot negotiate with monsters. And if we stay, those monsters will come over the walls. We are not deciding how to save the City. We are deciding how to die.”

  “We go out to die,” Thrasimund said, his voice like gravel. “This is good. I had feared I would die inside this place, like a bird in a trap. Tomorrow I will ride at the head of my people and die a good death.”

  “I’d rather not die at all, thank you,” Tykonos said, then added after a pause, “but I will die defending Constantine’s city. It is a good death.”

  “I will kill the Gniva,” Inglena said, “and I will not die.”

  Zosimus uttered a moan, then said, “Who are we few, to decide the fate of so many?”

  “The gods decide fates,” Marcus said. “All we are deciding is what to do tomorrow. It is all we can ever decide.”
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  The Chamberlain coughed. His eyes were puffy, but he set his jaw firmly. “So,” he said, “what is it you want from me?”

  “Defend the City. Tonight I take the XII Legion down to the Greater Docks. We still have galleys there, don’t we?”

  Tykonos said, “We do. Three.”

  “That’s enough. I will take these ships up the Golden Horn and land on the left flank of the Horde as it sleeps.

  “Inglena and Thrasimund will go to the Lesser Docks and board ships there. They will land on the right flank, out of sight. In the morning, we attack together. Our only objective is to drive through the Horde to the Gniva and kill it.”

  He turned to Tykonos.

  “I need you to man the wall. This is crucial. As long as the wall is defended, the Horde will keep attacking.”

  “That’s comforting,” Tykonos remarked dryly.

  “Zosimus, I need you to make a decree, a proclamation, whatever is proper. You are the government now.”

  “I have not the authority,” the old man said.

  “I know,” Marcus said. “I am not a General, yet here I am in command. The situation is your authority. You must do this. Spend the night rallying the people. The wall must hold.”

  “I will do as you ask. Tomorrow’s sun will find me atop the wall with the rest. Pro patria.”

  Marcus made a face, but he ignored the appeal to patriotism.

  “Timing is key,” he said. “We must hold our attack until the Horde is busy at the wall, but not a moment longer. A half hour, no more than an hour after sunrise should do the job. Put every bugler you have on the towers. Chamberlain, Tykonos, you two must choose the moment. We will not attack until we hear the horns. After that … well.” Marcus trailed off as he felt his heart betraying him.

  “After that,” Inglena said, stepping into the moment, “you and I will meet over the corpse of the Gniva.” She sounded so much like someone trying to be brave, Marcus had to turn away. He disguised it by pacing.