The goblin who had found sign of Brand's outlaws in the borderland was like-minded to the more accepting of his brethren. Ithk was his name, and trotting into the goblin town on the east side of the Forest-Down-Around-the-Hammer-Rock-But-Not-Too-Close, his breath streaming in the chill air, Ithk greeted guards and was passed through, recognized. As with all goblin towns, this one used to be a village where humans lived. Some had been hunters who took game out of the Qualinesti forest when they dared, some were farmers who scratched a living out of the stony soil, but the true value of the town had been its inn, a place known for the fineness of its ale and wine—some of that wine got from elven traders who didn't mind stepping out of the forest to do business—and the thickness of its feather beds. Travelers found that inn a good place to stop, and it became a favorite of traders and mercenaries and folk getting from one place to another. And so there were baker shops—two—and a butcher and a herbalist and even a chandler and a blacksmith. It had been a fine little village, as these borderland places go, and ripe for picking.
Ithk jogged down the street, his weapons ringing on him as he looked around in the frosty morning. The hovels he saw had once been trim houses and tidy shops set around a square in which one great house stood higher than all. This used to be the inn. Now it was where Gnash lived. He hadn't done the taking of this village, not him. Golch, father of Golch—the son murdered at the hands of those stinking outlaws out at Hammer Rock—had done the taking back at the end of spring. Golch the father had lived at the inn, quite comfortably until Gnash came in, him and his army thrice the size of the one that Golch commanded. After his army overwhelmed this goblin town, he'd taken Golch the father and dragged him out of his house. Before all, he'd plucked out his eyes, cut out his tongue, then lopped off his head. Father and son, it turned out that they’d had more than la name in common.
Thus had Gnash declared himself the ruler here and taken all those who had belonged to Golch and made them part of his army.
Ithk banged his fist on the hob’s door.
"In!" shouted the hobgoblin.
A wave of heat rushed out the door from a roaring hearth-fire. Burnished armor lay all around the front room, that wide space that would have been the inn’s common room. The armor rose up in heaps—breastplates and greaves, shinguards and helms, all stolen from the corpses of the killed. Daggers and swords lay on the floor among the bones of old feasts. Among the broken crockery on the wide table, jewels glittered, ornaments pilfered from luckless travelers—necklaces from maidens who perished of fear or worse, rings from the fingers of matrons and piles of furs and feathers taken in the autumn from a barbarian Plainsman lost in the stonelands on his way to Qualinost. Atop one of these piles the hob sprawled, sucking his teeth and scratching for lice in places you don't like to get lice.
Standing on the threshold of this dire den, the wind blowing in snow at his heels, Ithk delivered his news, already imagining his reward.
"Master, the outlaw Brand is on the move."
The roar swelled up in Gnash's chest, rising from his belly like steam swelling in some dire invention of gnomes, something sure to explode and kill all those in reach. Piggy eyes opened as wide as they could, and the green-skinned hobgoblin bellowed, "Where?"
Ithk closed the door behind him. He looked once around, saw the scavenger dump that had once been a well-appointed inn, and shuddered. Over in the comer lay two corpses he hadn't seen before. Gnash had been busy, working or amusing himself.
"Out in the borderland, away down by the Notch. All of ‘em from what I sees—the humans, the damned bastard lying dwarf, the elf, and the two women. But more women than that. They got an elf woman with 'em, and she looks like a prisoner."
The hob leaned forward. Things shifted around him, his pile of booty slipping a little as a knight's helm and three golden goblets rolled down the side of a bale of furs. It is the thing about hobs that they are more long-headed than their smaller kin. They have more room in their skulls for brains and generally know how to make that situation work for them. Gnash was, among hobs, a fairly intelligent specimen.
"How’d she look? Used? Beaten? Starved?"
"Hungry, but they all looked hungry. She was closely guarded, like something they didn't want to lose."
And what good, the hob thought, would she be to them with winter walking into the borderland? None. She'd eat food, drink water, and sooner or later they’d get tired of her. In winter, when it’s cold and hungry and not much food to be had, you get tired of passing the prisoners around and would rather have the water they drink and the food they eat.
"Hostage," Gnash said, belching. He scratched under his arm. "For ransom." He twisted a cruel grin. "Ain't like that’s not been done before, eh? Goblins been known to lose their heads over Brand's hostage-taking. We know what he got from Golch. I wonder what he's looking for from the elves?"
Ithk, who had been a particular friend of the younger Golch the Beheaded, did not reply.
Gnash slid from atop his hill of pilfered goods, big and green and warty, and he nodded to the little goblin. "Help yourself."
The goblin didn't move or even look at anything in the room. The last one to help himself too quickly was handless and about starved to death by now because no one could think of a reason to feed a useless, handless goblin. But when Gnash had left, gone roaring out into the streets to gather up a considered portion of his army, the goblin darted quickly to the heap his master had lately lounged upon. He snatched a fur from the top of the nearest bale, a bear's pelt with the head still dangling, and flung it round his shoulders for a cloak Winter was indeed walking into the borderland, and Ithk had a bit of wit himself.
Gnash wasn't long at getting his army moving. He took only the little time he needed to look around his cluttered quarters for a thing he'd been carrying with him from one place to another since he'd first found it, a long time ago in the spring. It was a thing from the mountains, found in deep and secret places under the southern part of the borderland between Qualinesti and Thorbardin. It didn't look like much. He might have walked right past it when first he saw it, but something about the crooked staff had called to him—not with a voice, no. It was more like a tickling in the brain that would have been the raising up of hair had that tickling been on the outside of his head.
He had a small talent for magic, did Gnash. Not all hobs do, but it isn't impossible to find those who have managed to make a magical device or two work. Gnash had done that, and he'd had a high time in the borderland, reveling in the destruction he caused in the process. He hadn't had to use the staff much to affect his conquests of the three goblin towns he now owned. Alas, he sometimes thought. But, after all, he'd needed the towns to house his growing army. He certainly couldn't kill too many of the goblins. That had left him with few opportunities to play with his weapon, but at last, here was one come right down the borderland to him.
And so, Gnash got his staff, and he got his army moving. It wasn't a great portion of his army, only a part, and these he didn't have to threaten or argue or cajole. They were afraid of him, doubly so when they saw that staff in his hand, the old gnarled wood. They’d do anything he demanded, but this he didn't have to demand. Best of all goblins loved fighting and killing. They were happy to go south toward the Notch and see what kind of blood they could spill. And they were goblins; they didn't care if they had to run by night and make their way under clouded skies. They rejoiced in the cover and ran harder, all the way down to just above the Notch. There they stopped, because their master demanded, and there they held. They made no camp, and they killed no animal for supper. They slipped into gullies and crevices and didn't complain. They knew all the places to hide—little caves, the abandoned dens of foxes, the gaps between boulders. One after another, the goblins made themselves invisible in the borderland and prepared to wait till the gods came back to Krynn, or until the Great Gnash told them to move again.
Brand was abroad with a hostage, one their master thought he was
delivering for ransom. Some of the goblins thought it would be great fun to snatch the ransom from out of the human's cold dead hands. Those who'd once known Golch the father and Golch the son thought it would be very satisfying to have the ransom, but they thought the fun would come with the killing of Brand and all his scurvy band.
Even when they saw elves gathering, shadows at the edges of the forest with more substance than most, the goblins kept still, for Gnash warned that these must have to do with the ransom or some treachery. Gnash knew how to let things fall as they would and pick his moment at the proper time. It must be told, though, that Gnash's army had a hard time keeping still in such proximity to elves. The wind was blowing out of the forest, and it hung with the sick-sweet stench of Qualinesti, enough to gag a goblin, if any had cared to risk his own head at Gnash's blade for making retching sounds.
And, of course, he had that staff of his, that magic.
Chapter 6
Like the hound who guarded her, Elansa lifted her face to the wind, the chill blowing not from the south now but from the west. It carried the scent of pine trees and snow. Fang pricked his ears, and Elansa filled up her lungs with that perfume: the scent of home. Nearby stood Brand and Ley. The elf had his back to the wood. Past him lay a stony flat known as the Notch for its wedge shape. Elansa traced the sketch of stone fences that lay on the land. Someone had farmed here once. Perhaps outlaws or goblins had driven them out.
Ley pulled up the hood of his cloak against the cold and said, "We saw the wagons, Brand. North on the road that runs alongside the edge of the wood. Two drivers, teams of four stout horses. The wagons aren't covered. We saw the weapons. Long sword-lockers, and we couldn't see what's in there, but we could see the shafts of lances and bows with the strings wrapped round. We saw quivers stacked like logs, filled fat. No place for warriors to hide in those wagons.
"We’ve been in the forest, and there's no one—birds, saw some deer—just the forest. Tianna went in as far as the glen—" He held up two water bottles, fat and dripping. "Plenty of that. I think they must have had some good rain or snow."
Brand looked past the elf, away across Stagger Stream. Not much water ran there, but Elansa knew this stream didn't have its source in the White-rage River. The head of this stream lay in the north, but farther west in the stonelands. That, she had heard Brand say, must be blocked by rock-fall.
"It's all right," Ley said. "Just the forest and the wagons coming."
Elansa turned away; hoping no one could see the blood move to her cheek, the flush of hope rising. It might be the outlaws saw only two wagons and their drivers, but she knew—it had to be!—that Keth wouldn't simply trust the ransom and his wife to two drivers. He would be here. Somewhere he was here, waiting to take her home. And before he did he would kill every one of these bandits.
She looked around, but carefully, as though she were but casting down her glance, perhaps afraid. In fact, she looked to see where weapons were—the knife in the belt of Arawn, Dell's bow and quiver, Brand's sword, Char’s throwing axe. On the ground, carelessly left beside the limping stream where it had been used to gut fish, someone's knife lay. Dull light wavered fitfully on the edge of the blade. In two strides, Elansa could have her hand on it. She didn't move. She simply marked it and looked away.
A small dusting of snow gathered white in the cracks between the rocks. The hounds that accompanied the outlaw band went with heads low, licking the stones. Over Ley's shoulder, Elansa saw Tianna standing. The woman faced the forest. Her hair blew back in the wind, a pale pennon of silver. Again, Elansa was struck by the elven look of her—the elegantly canted ears, almond eyes, silver hair. She stood taller than an elf, though, and there was something about her features, a lack of refinement perhaps, a coarseness that put Elansa in mind of humans. She looked away, as from someone’s shame.
"Half-elf," Char said. He cocked his head, his one good eye narrowed. "Bother you?"
Wind blew, grit flew, and Elansa smelled snow on the air. She thought the question impertinent from a dwarf whose own kin did not like to see their blood mingled with other races.
"It is disgusting," she said, and she didn't care who heard her. Soon it wouldn't matter. Soon Keth would come and fetch her home. No one seemed to have heard her, or if anyone had, no one cared.
Brand snapped an order, a simple word—"Spread!"—and his outlaws melted away into the stoneland, their dun clothing making them nearly invisible. The hounds padded beside, and Fang kept close to Char and Elansa. She did not look at the knife. She did not look at Char. She walked, a step, another, the knife gleamed. One more step, and she fell, hard to her hands and knees, crying out and hoping her cry sounded no less hopeless or weary than any other the dwarf had heard her make.
Char never looked around. "Fang," he said, and the dog hung back to make sure she wouldn't bolt.
Neither did she, but beneath her right hand lay the forgotten knife, once used to clean fish. She slipped it quickly into the sleeve of her blouse. Making noises to sound like distress, she climbed to her feet, the dwarf and the dog none the wiser. At Char’s command she went behind a tumble of boulders, great stones rolled out from the mountain a long time ago when the gods visited cataclysm upon Krynn.
"Stay," Char said, as he would have to the hound.
She did. From her vantage behind the pile she could see the road, rough and rocky. Upon it traveled two wagons, dust billowing behind. The horses struggled with the weight they pulled and the difficult road. Elansa held her breath, and she thought she heard one of the drivers call encouragement to the beasts. Gray-cloaked, she couldn't determine whether they were man or woman. That they were elves she only knew because they were her ransom-bearers.
Noiselessly, Brand slipped around the corner of the stones and dropped down beside Char. "Keep her here," he said, never looking at Elansa. "And don't trust her to the dog. Do it yourself."
"Aye, I got ’er. Don't worry."
The dwarf didn't have a hand on her, but Elansa could not doubt that should she try to break and run he'd drop her in her second stride, his throwing axe buried between her shoulders. She kept very still, feeling the blade of the knife against the skin of her forearm.
Brand stood, jerked his head, and Arawn stepped out from hiding onto the road. Together, the two walked toward the wagons, swords drawn, a fighting distance between them. Elansa’s heart beat hard, her eyes stayed fixed upon the wagons and the drivers. The wind changed, and she smelled the horses. She heard Brand shout:
"Hold! Right there!"
Horses snorted, harnesses jangled. One of the drivers called in Elvish to her team or to her companion. Elansa shivered, knowing the voice. Lindenlea! Her every muscle tensed, ready to leap. One-eyed but quick-eyed, Char grabbed her hard from behind, yanking her off her knees and onto the stone.
"Don’t," he said. "Fastest way to die."
She sat still, jarred and clinging with awkward fingers to the hidden knife. As though in despair, she drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms. Beneath her filthy green cloak, she let the knife slide into her hand and closed her fingers round the bone handle.
I will kill you first, dwarf. In her mind, she snarled.
But when she looked up again, nothing of what she thought or truly felt showed on her face. She composed her expression into one of anxiety and fear, arranging mouth and eyes into flinching as though she were an artist sculpting.
Kill you first, she thought, turning her face, only briefly, toward Char to let him see what she wished seen.
Horses snorted. One whinnied. Another of the drivers called out, a curse that humans might think was meant for the poor weary beast. "Stinking bastards," is how that would have translated into Common. Elansa’s heart beat hard again, slamming against her chest. That was how Prince Kethrenan addressed Brand and Arawn, though the two certainly did not know it.
The time had come. Now she would go free, now home, or—no she wouldn't think of the alternative. Now she would go free.
Now she would go home.
In Common, Kethrenan called, "Where is your master, churl?"
She could not see them, prince or outlaw, but Elansa had been enough in Brand's company to know that he'd have shown no sign of anger at the address. In her belly fear slid like snakes. She had seen this man prepared to kill with no second thought, she had seen him hand over a goblin to death with no other consideration than to wonder whether he might take greater satisfaction doing the killing himself.
Soft, in her most secret heart, she prayed to gods Outlanders did not think existed. She prayed to soldier gods, and she prayed to her own Blue Phoenix.
Keep my husband safe. Hold him safe. Oh, take me home—!
"Get down from the wagons," Brand called.
Hidden, she saw nothing, and it seemed that all the world had fallen still, holding its breath.
"Get down!" She heard the rattle of shod hooves on the stony road and imagined the light leap of elves leaving the wagons. "Now, you—over there. You—the other side." A breath-held moment; someone didn't move, then: "Char! Show ‘em what we've got!"
Char kicked her, hard in the small of the back. "Get up."
She stumbled to her feet, her hands still hidden. Char shoved her, and almost she turned, snarling. He kicked her to her knees. Char took a fistful of her tangled, tarnished golden hair. He yanked her head back, as Ley had pulled back the head and exposed the naked neck of a goblin soon to die. Her purloined knife fell from her grip. Laughing, the dwarf kicked it aside. Coldly, he pressed his own knife to her throat.
On the road, Kethrenan stepped away from the wagon. When he was told, he stripped himself of the knife at his belt and the sword on his hip. Lindenlea did the same, their gestures quick and careful. These things they handed to Arawn, and in the handing off Elansa saw the jeweled grip of Kethrenan’s oldest sword. They had been wed with that sword as part of his marriage gear, polished and honed and gleaming in a tooled scabbard at his hip.
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