Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  The top of the hill was covered with goblins. Julian moved further, but it was like threading his way through a pine forest, or through a crowded marketplace with all the customers frozen in place. Every opening turned into a dead end. He did not like the sound of that phrase. He got in to one place so tight, he had to back up in order to get out again. The stink of goblins filled his nose. He regained a bit of open ground and looked up.

  The moon was westering. Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but goblins. Silently, he cursed the dream that had sent him here. None of my visions work out. Somewhere up ahead was the Gniva, he was sure of it, but he could go no further. The goblins here were too numerous, a wall of flesh. If he pressed further, they would awake.

  He turned around and his heart jumped. The sky to the east was lighter.

  Again I fail, he thought. Despair weighed him down. I’ve gone too far and not far enough at the same time. Typical of me.

  And now he was in the midst of the Horde with no protection. He thought of Avitus alone in the shop. He would wake up, find Julian gone. No more visions for me, Julian thought. I have to get back.

  His jaw tightened, and his eyes grew steady. He would return to the shop. Before dawn. Avitus would get him close. That’s all he needed, just to get close. He began to move. When he was not watching his feet, he glanced up at the sky. He kept expecting to see the sun thumbnail its way over the eastern hills. The half-light shaded from gray to rose.

  He was more worried now about Avitus than he was about himself. The fool will come looking for me. He pictured him dashing wildly into the street, to be torn apart by goblins. But no, Avitus was smarter than that. Even so, even so.

  Julian risked moving more quickly. If it had taken an hour to reach the top, it felt like ten hours to return. He wondered if he had gone too far yet again. Where was the shop? He was about to stop when he saw it, with two goblins still leaning against its wall. They were not awake. Why could they not lie down like any other creature? His heart thudding with a sickening weight, he slipped through the open doorway.

  Like the goblins, Avitus continued to sleep. Relief drained away what was left of Julian’s strength. He all but collapsed against the far wall, next to the Scythian. He looked over. Even asleep, Avitus’ face showed the strain. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes sunken. For a moment, Julian saw his friend as he might be as an old man.

  He leaned closer, wishing he could do anything to avert the next few hours. He fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Dawn

  At sunrise, Tykonos stood atop the Tower of Saturn, still wearing his fine, black robe. Next to him stood the Grand Chancellor Zosimus, his face nearly as pale as his gray hair. It had been a long night for both of them, getting volunteers to stand atop the walls and face the Horde, nearly without weapons.

  “The City is defended by children,” said Zosimus to Tykonos. He pointed down the length of the wall.

  “Not so,” Tykonos replied, “we have also women and old men and the sick and wounded.”

  Zosimus made a sour face. “Our hope is in the wall itself,” he said, “not in its defenders.”

  “Vere,” said Tykonos. He looked outward. Where sunlight touched the ground, goblins were stirring. The attack was beginning.

  He looked left and right, along the wall. Children did indeed stand to post, as many sleepy-eyed as wide-eyed, most of them armed with no more than a pile of rocks. Here and there were grandfathers with clubs, women with knives, and men with such hurts they could scarcely stand.

  These are not defenders, Tykonos thought, they are bait.

  Bait which the Horde was taking. Torrents of goblins ran at the wall in specific places, a repetition of yesterday’s attacks. Shouts, cries, and screams came from people who had never faced battle, much less battle with a horror.

  “Now, sir?”

  Behind Tykonos stood three buglers, horns at the ready. The youngest looked like he was here to play for his own execution.

  “Not yet,” Tykonos said. More goblins were streaming down from the hills, out from alleys and buildings, dark and boiling as if flushed out by a storm.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let them direct all their attention on us.”

  “Look there,” Zosimus cried. “Already they reach the top!”

  “Only one,” Tykonos said, trying to steady the man with his voice. A goblin had bounded up the pile of corpses lying before the breach. The repairs were solid, but they did not reach so high as the original, and one made it over before being killed.

  Minutes limped by on crutches.

  At least, Tykonos saw what he had waited for—the upper reaches of the wide Seventh Hill were empty of goblins; the Horde was at the wall, pounding and clawing. Hundreds still remained atop the Sixth Hill, but that hill was for Marcus and Inglena. Time was running out. He signaled the buglers, feeling dice rattle in his gut as he took the gamble.

  The quick, rising notes of the horns were taken up by big cornu atop other towers, their curved bells sounding brave and mournful.

  The dice would not stop tumbling.

  On a narrow beach where the land ran down to meet the sea, Inglena and her people waited to hear the City call them to battle.

  All the Thervings were mounted, even the rixen. They had emptied the City of its horses. All had to ride, to keep them all together. Inglena looked them over, seeing the fragment of a sliver of the People. All who remained. All risking all.

  She rode her gray stallion. He had borne the sea passage calmly, but now he pawed at the ground, scenting battle. She stroked his neck, spoke patience to him, and he steadied. She touched hand to sword, to steady herself.

  Thrasimund moved among the warriors, speaking in low tones. Horses danced nervously. Sunlight bathed the land in golden hues and spread across green meadows. The hills before the City were covered in black waves. Inglena wore her deerskin battle attire: white leggings, white jerkin, white boots.

  Then the deep voice of the City horns bellowed, lowing like giant cattle. The Thervings surged forward, the fragment of a sliver of a shattered nation. They covered the open ground at a trot, preserving strength. Inglena thought of the Thessalonika Gate and the Tower of Saturn and the awful break in the wall. She eased her gray into a canter.

  The Thervings neared the slopes of the Seventh Hill, its lush flanks disfigured by dark blotches. She thought of Marcus, which made her heart slip into her stomach.

  Do not die, Marcus. Do not die, Julian. I will reach you.

  She drew her white sword. Her horse surged into a gallop. A long, rising shout escaped her, and it was answered by two thousand voices. She rode at full speed into a dark mass, and Death leaped from her hand.

  She leaned forward, feeling the horse run, feeling heart and flank.

  The assault was going well, Marcus thought. Goblins attacked, but in fewer numbers than he had feared. Through lemon groves and kitchen gardens the legion had climbed the ridge, meeting with little resistance. Even so, it was still hundreds against thousands. By the time Marcus reached the ridge crest, the XII was as ragged as a wind-torn pennant.

  Once among the buildings and groves of the Sixth Hill, he abandoned all pretense of an orderly advance. The men knew the objective; they would have to find their own way to it.

  The arrangement of cohorts and lines steadily broke into random squads of men, each fighting his way forward as best he could. Every street and alley saw brief but vicious fights at close quarters, sword and talon slashing. Halfway up the Sixth Hill, Marcus lost touch even with his own First Cohort.

  With him now were Ursinus the Standard-Bearer, along with eight men from the First Cohort and three stragglers. These were enough to defend in each direction at crossroads, but not so many as to get in each other’s way in the narrow streets. It would do. He had fought in such a fashion before.

  Marcus drove uphill as straight as he could. The military goal was the Gniva, but in his heart he thought only of Inglena. He had no fear of go
blins, of talons and teeth, not even of their endless numbers. His one fear was that he should arrive too late. That he would find her dead. The thought drove him on at such speed, his men struggled to keep pace. The closer he got, the worse became the fear.

  Near the top they arrived at a small, unoccupied plaza, its stones scarred by claws. But there were no monsters.

  “Hail there!”

  He turned, half expecting to find goblins had learned to speak. A group of nine Roman soldiers entered the square.

  “Marcus Salvius!”

  “Hail, Rufus Panneus,” Marcus said. He started forward again.

  “Glad to see you, too,” Rufus said. “Where have all the damned goblins got to?”

  “Let them get to hell,” one of Marcus’ men called, but Marcus himself did not answer. They were attacking the wall, but they were also attacking the Thervings. Inglena. He pushed himself forward. Too late, too late. The words lashed at him.

  “Keep moving,” Marcus said, grimly. Rufus Panneus nodded.

  The sound of trumpets woke Julian.

  At first, sleep still heavy on him, he thought it was Gratian arriving with an army, but he realized that was impossible. The Western Emperor was weeks away, at best. But the trumpets were Roman. They were sounding Advance.

  Sounds erupted outside, nearer at hand—a hard rattle like hailstones, which developed into a generalized roar as the Horde awoke.

  He scrambled to his feet, pulling Avitus with him. The Scythian’s hair was tousled, his eyes were wide, his face dirty—he looked like some wild man of the North. The next moment he recovered himself and took Julian’s hands in his own.

  “It’s a sortie,” Avitus said.

  “Only one reason,” Julian said. “The City is about to fall. They march out to die.”

  “Maybe the girl … Petra.”

  “Maybe. The message was for them to stay and defend, not to sortie out.”

  They got to their feet. Avitus moved to the doorway and peered outside. Julian hung back. It was time. There would never be another. A pain lanced through Julian’s heart.

  “I’m sorry, little bird,” he whispered.

  Avitus heard it. He looked over his shoulder.

  “Not I,” Avitus said. “I’ve never been sorry, and don’t you start.”

  He put his hand on Avitus’ arm, and together they stepped outside.

  Sunlight poured like liquid up the narrow street. A pack of goblins bounded toward them, Julian held his breath for a moment, then the pack raced by. He breathed again. Avitus’ magic still worked, but for how long?

  They climbed the Sixth Hill. Goblins ran in every direction. Avitus following, they kept to the side of the building, to keep goblins from coming at them from behind. They slipped from the needlemaker’s shop along a row of similar shops, until they came to a little plaza. No more than a hundred feet across, and thick with goblins, swarming in their strange, random movement.

  Julian looked around for another route. Last night he had walked right through here, but now it would be impossible. Even as he searched for another way, goblins began leaving from one side, while none came from the other. Within two score of heartbeats, the plaza lay empty under the morning sky. Julian watched, but even after a couple minutes, only empty buildings sat under the yellow sun.

  Roman trumpets sounded again.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Avitus. The Scythian’s first steps were stumbles; he was weakening already.

  Last night, the street near the summit had been packed with monsters, but now there were far fewer. The buildings, scarred but standing, glowed a gentle orange or pale yellow in the strengthening sun. This is my home, Julian thought, trailing his free hand along the masonry, you cannot have it. A few packs raced by them, but they were easily avoided. They did not all head toward the City. Good, Julian thought. Split the enemy.

  Avitus’ feet scuffled along the cobblestone, but he would not stop when Julian said they might rest a moment.

  He whispered in response. “We can’t stop. I will not.”

  Julian put Avitus’ arm around his shoulder, supporting him. They moved more slowly, but Avitus did not have to keep a grip on Julian’s arm. They limped past ruined houses, along a street shredded by talons. Then they were at the top.

  No buildings or groves stood here. Julian was finally able to see the whole of the battle under way.

  To the south, the Horde clawed at the City, tearing at its raiment of masonry. Now and again, spouts of twisting orange and black licked at the walls. Hobs.

  Eastward he heard men shouting, bugles and whistles sounding, and the clash of sword and shield. The Legion. He wondered if Marcus fought there. From the west came the wild cries of Therving warriors. In that direction he thought he saw flashes of something like lightning. He tried to picture Inglena leading a charge, her magicians wielding lances of blue fire.

  Much nearer, at the summit of the Sixth Hill, swirled a dark mass of goblins. Hundreds, moving in a wide circle with frenetic purpose. Packs broke away steadily, like black sparks thrown off by a hellish fire: some toward the City, some toward the advancing legion, some toward the Thervings. The swirling mass thinned slowly.

  At the center stood the Gniva. It was two hundred yards away, Julian guessed, but it was easy to spot—much taller than those around him, with crimson flesh. He saw no hobs. All sent into battle, he supposed—a small bit of good fortune, but he would take it.

  Away toward the Bosporus, in the direction of the Thervings, a brilliant light shone forth, followed by a deep boom. Good, Julian thought fiercely. Burn and die.

  Avitus loosened his grip so suddenly Julian turned to see what was the matter. He wished he had not, for the Scythian’s face had paled to the color of dust. Julian put stone around his heart, then spoke to Avitus quick and low.

  “This is it, Avi.” He glanced toward the Gniva. The masses of goblins had thinned further, but still a hundred or two ran there. He could see more clearly now—they darted in then out again, swooping past the Gniva like clouds of starlings.

  “Get us inside the circle. At the end, I’m going to have to let go, you understand?”

  Avitus nodded. His eyes were fever-bright.

  “Keep yourself invisible. When I’ve killed the Gniva, we’ll join hands again, go invisible, then we’ll hide and you can rest. Understand?”

  Again Avitus nodded, but his smile was like Death’s grin. Julian kept his emotions off his face.

  “Let’s kill the monster.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Say the Words

  The sun climbed and grew hotter. The noise and heat reminded Julian forcibly of the battle of Hadrianopolis. Despair boiled up from his belly and he swallowed hard. The Legion’s horns sounded again, and a war cry went up. An image of Marcus Salvius hewing down goblins appeared in his imagination, but when Marcus went down under a flood of claws and teeth, Julian pushed the image away.

  They were at the top of the Sixth Hill where there had once been an orchard, but the ground was covered now by packs of goblins that zoomed in restless motion. Some of them swept by so close he could hear their breath. Julian tried to see in every direction as he and Avitus moved like drunkards, ever closer to the Gniva.

  He could see the creature clearly now. Its flattened head rose well above the other goblins, its crimson-brick coloring unique among the monsters. After the Gniva was dead, Julian thought he might give its body to physicians to study. This was not the first Gniva, Inglena had said; it likely would not be the last.

  A pack of goblins came directly at them, so quickly he and Avitus barely had time to dodge. Then another pack, and another raced past, and Julian realized they were scattering. He hoped it was to join the attack on the wall.

  Abruptly, a path to the Gniva opened. Julian took a breath. This was his chance, however slim. He tugged at Avitus and they moved forward together at an uneven run, Julian gripping his sword with one hand, still supporting Avitus with his other arm.
/>   Packs raced by, but he managed to avoid them. Goblin stink coated his throat. The ground under foot had been churned into dust. The drum of goblin feet hammered at his ears.

  Ten yards, no more, separated him from the goblin leader. He sensed the presence of other goblins, but dared not look to either side. His whole attention was fixed on the Gniva. He saw its back, saw that it was covered in scars and sores. He saw exactly where his sword would go in.

  The creature turned. Now Julian saw its side, its long left arm with a centurion’s cloak wrapped around it, like a bandage. He saw the long talons, like black six-inch knives protruding from red fingers. The head rotated until it seemed to look directly at him. Pink eyes, small and pig-like.

  Four yards now. He was at a run, all but dragging Avitus behind. He could not turn aside; he was a loosed arrow, his trajectory set.

  A goblin crashed into him and Avitus, sending all three tumbling, breaking the contact. Avitus lay a couple of yards away, stunned but moving. The goblin that had slammed into them did not move. Julian scrambled to his feet. On one side was the Gniva. He had a single instant of fierce satisfaction as he saw the Gniva startled by his sudden appearance. On the other side, Avitus was getting onto his hands and knees.

  Julian’s heart went to Avitus, his brain went toward the Gniva, but his feet still went forward. Julian gripped his sword, his choice made.

  The Gniva stared at him. Its long arms swung at its side. It swayed slightly, like a boxer. It was the same stance, the same eerie regard he had seen back at the canal, as if a boar had suddenly reared up to examine him. It’s planning how it will kill me, Julian thought. It is not afraid. Good.