Operation Arcana

by John Joseph Adams

  “Ever meet a human?” The Gibberer asked again, his voice hard.

  “No,” Twig said.

  “Call your magic ‘rump,’” The Gibberer said. “Means arse. Your magic is human arse.”

  The Gibberer’s magical flow intensified, and Twig felt the muscles in his buttocks clench painfully. He winced, his hands flying to his behind. The Gibberer laughed, a series of coughing barks.

  “Arse rat!” Twig had finally earned an adjective. The Gibberer turned to Stump. “How’s kine?”

  “Hungry,” Stump said. “This ground is freezing solid. We need to move them to—”

  The Gibberer’s arm extended, the magic making it elastic, the hand swelling into a distended paddle. He caught Stump on his ear and sent him sprawling. Stump managed to come up on one elbow, spitting out grass before the Gibberer reached him, his huge foot catching Stump on the chin, lifting him up and spinning him in the air. Stump landed in a heap beside White-Ears, who stared at him, confused. Blackfly began to wail.

  The Gibberer turned to her. “Shut up.”

  She shook her head, biting down on her cries. The shrieks became muffled mewling. “Shut up!” The Gibberer snarled, pounding toward her.

  The mewling turned to screaming as the Gibberer snatched her up by an ankle, dangling her headfirst over his gaping maw. She shrieked, beating against his fist with her tiny hands.

  Twig launched himself at the monster, knowing it was useless, that the Gibberer could turn him to bloody rags with his magic, or beat him senseless without it.

  Twig’s feet slipped on the frost, made slick by the Gibberer’s slaver. He landed on his face, teeth clicking together painfully as the Gibberer lowered Blackfly, squalling, her head disappearing past the yellow-brown mountain range of his tusk teeth.

  And then Stump was up behind the monster, whipping the knife from its hiding place, raising an arm to plunge the short blade into his back.

  “No!” Hatchet shouted, colliding with Stump, sending them both tumbling in the grass, the knife clattering against a stone.

  Stump sputtered while Hatchet rolled to his feet and backed away. The Gibberer spun, tossed Blackfly aside. She landed on top of White-Ears, toppling the old goblin.

  “Wot?” The Gibberer asked, pinching the knife between two fat, malformed fingers, the blade tiny in his giant hand. “You little . . .”

  He took two quick steps and snatched Stump up by the back of his shirt. The Gibberer growled and shook him. Stump flopped in his grip until the shirt tore, leaving The Gibberer clutching a scrap of filthy leather and Stump skinning his face in the grass for the third time in the passing of a few breaths.

  The Gibberer panted. Twig got to his elbows, stayed there. Best not to let the monster see him on his feet. The Gibberer’s breathing slowly evened, mismatched eyes narrowing, the light of thought entering them.

  Twig caught his breath. An angry beast was bad. A thoughtful one was worse.

  “You want knife?” The Gibberer whispered. He reached down, seizing Stump’s wrist, slapping the blade into his open palm. Stump struggled weakly, but the fight was out of him.

  “There,” The Gibberer said, his voice suddenly soft, almost affectionate. “Knife.”

  Twig felt the monster’s magic pulse, and Stump cried out as his hand melted around the stone.

  The Gibberer seized Stump by his neck, dragging him over to White-Ears. The older goblin had gotten to his knees and was cooing to Blackfly, who sat shivering, eyes wide, seeing nothing.

  “Now,” The Gibberer crooned. “Cut.”

  Comprehension dawned across Stump’s face. He shook his head emphatically. The Gibberer pointed to White-Ears. “Cut!”

  “No.” Stump’s voice was edged with defiance.

  “Kill you,” The Gibberer promised.

  “Then stop talking and do it.” Stump bared his teeth.

  Twig got to his feet, advanced, fists balled.

  Hatchet sprinted to him. “Don’t,” the scrawny goblin whispered. “Don’t make it worse!”

  “Cut!” The Gibberer roared. His magic pulsed again, and Stump jerked like a string puppet, arm lashing out and plunging the knife into White-Ears’s gut.

  The old goblin exhaled in a rush, eyes going wide. Slowly he slumped forward, folding over Stump’s extended arm. Stump knelt, his shoulders shaking as he wept.

  The Gibberer grunted and turned away. He stabbed a finger at Hatchet. “You, good rat.”

  He spoke loud enough for all to hear, pointing at Hatchet again. “See good rat? All be good rat. Easier for you.”

  His eyes lit briefly on Blackfly, still beside White-Ears, ignoring the ancient goblin’s wound, Stump’s sobs. “Not hungry,” The Gibberer rasped. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Stump’s sobs coalesced into an angry shout. “You will die skewered on the Black-Horns! They are coming for you.”

  “Hope so,” The Gibberer said. “Easier. Hard work, hunting you lot.”

  And then he was gone, the crunching of his footsteps across the frost fading into the distance.

  Twig watched the hulking back recede. He knew he should help White-Ears, comfort Blackfly, but exhaustion overwhelmed him. He was conscious of his breathing, coming in ragged gasps, burning in his lungs. Wet cold kissed the bridge of his nose, and he crossed his eyes, watching the snowflake melt. Its cousins would be coming soon, and there would be no shelter from them save what warmth huddling with the kine could provide.

  Stump’s sobs rose, became shrieks, yanking Twig from his reverie. Twig shrugged off the fugue, shouldering Hatchet out of the way and dropping to his knees beside the big goblin.

  Stump was bleeding freely from both hands. He grasped the knife blade with one hand, tried to twist it free of the melted mass of palm and fingers that clutched the handle.

  “Leave it!” Twig shouted, grabbing his wrist.

  “I stabbed him!” Stump shouted back, shaking off Twig’s grip. “I stabbed a grandfather. I can’t hold this cursed thing.” With a final wrench, the handle came free, spraying both of them with blood, leaving a ragged groove in what used to be Stump’s palm.

  Stump clutched the hand to his stomach, doubling over. Twig tried to reach for it, but Stump turned away from him, cursing. Twig cursed too, called for Hatchet to help Stump while he went to White-Ears’s side. The old goblin groaned weakly, lying on his side, curled up like a sleeping child. Blackfly sat as she had through the whole ordeal, silent and staring. Hatchet stood where he was, arms hugging his sides.

  Twig eased White-Ears’s body straight. “Easy, grandfather,” he said. “Let me see.”

  White-Ears offered none of Stump’s resistance and straightened out, exposing a small red hole surrounded by a spreading stain, the red made black by the filth ground into his robe. Twig widened the rent in the garment as gently as he could, revealing a small, neat slit in the Sorcerer’s gut. Twig was no Healer, but he knew enough to know that all hinged on whether or not the blade had pierced the organs or slid between them.

  Twig knew that Spadeleaf grew beneath the gathering frost. It could keep a wound from souring, but without Earth magic, he couldn’t coax it to grow fresh enough to use. He sniffed the cut. When a goblin’s guts were opened, there was usually a bad smell.

  No Spadeleaf, no poultices, no Healing magic. There was nothing to do but stop the bleeding. Twig ripped a strip of filthy fabric from the hem of White-Ears’s robe. He tied it tight over the wound, knotting it around White-Ears’s back and cinching it up until the old Sorcerer groaned again. Twig leaned over White-Ears’ face until he was sure the Sorcerer was still breathing, then returned to Stump.

  Stump gripped bundles of frozen grass tightly. They soaked up most of the blood, tiny drips tapping onto the frozen ground. The knife lay in the grass, handle still encased in bloody meat.

  “Let me see,” Twig said, kneeling.

  “S’fine,” the big goblin said, getting to his feet and walking toward the scattered kine. “I’ll see to the herd.”
>
  Twig turned and caught Hatchet’s eyes. The scrawny goblin stood, arms still wrapped around him himself, shivering. His eyes widened with shame as he met Twig’s glare, then narrowed in anger. “What’d you have done?” Hatchet asked. “I saved us all! He’d have killed us, that knife had gone in! I did right!”

  “The knife did go in,” Twig said. “Just not where Stump meant it to.”

  Hatchet held Twig’s eyes as long as he could, which wasn’t long. He looked at his feet, long toes flexing inside his sodden soft leather boots. “I did right,” he muttered.

  Twig left Hatchet, snatched up Stump’s discarded stick, and jogged to the other side of the herd. He cooed and swatted, played to the kine’s natural instinct to move together, and soon they had their twenty head milling in some semblance of order.

  “Stump,” Twig began.

  “It’s fine,” Stump answered.

  But it wasn’t fine. The bundles of grass in Stump’s hands had gone tacky from blood, fat drops still falling from them. White-Ears lay shivering in the grass, doubled over a wound that was likely going sour. Blackfly had found her tears again, curled up alongside White-Ears as if her closeness could make him well.

  Twig felt another snowflake touch his nose.

  Clover lowed again, her head poking up from the center of the herd. There was urgency in the sound, the pleading of a mother-to-be worried for her child.

  “Aye, girl,” Twig whispered. “I hear you.”

  He heard her, but what could he do?

  Twilight came on. It brought cold with it, earnest, relentless.

  Two Three-Foots warriors came when darkness fell.

  Twig and Hatchet helped White-Ears, half dragging the old goblin along. The Black-Horns herded the kine, and the Three-Foots herded the Black-Horns, ready to hurt them should they slow.

  And they were slow. White-Ears moved as slowly as growing grass at the best of times. His wound hadn’t made him faster, and Blackfly refused to leave his side.

  “Move!” grunted one of the warriors, the spear shaft punching into Twig’s shoulders, sending him stumbling. Hatchet raced to keep up, and White-Ears moaned as his shoulders twisted. Twig checked his stride so as not to pull too hard on White-Ears. His sodden boot slid in the frost, and he fell to one knee.

  “I said move!” shouted the warrior. He spear shaft shoved White-Ears now. The old goblin fell silently on his face, no strength left to cry out. Hatchet twisted away, breaking free from White-Ears’s frail grip, and Twig dove to break the old goblin’s fall, landing face first on the grass and filling his mouth with cold dirt. His head jarred painfully against something hard.

  Twig lay for a moment, letting the stars clear from his vision. But just a moment. Longer would invite a butt stroke from the spear that might exceed his endurance. He lifted his head, blinking, his scalp throbbing.

  A metal stake was driven into the ground, the black iron surface dusted with ice, melting beneath his bright, fresh blood.

  Even in his pain and humiliation, Twig was in awe of the Three-Foots skill at tracking. The plain looked the same in every direction, the green-white surface of the ground broken only by their footprints and the warm breath of the kine as they nosed in search of forage. He could always find the Black-Horns by the stars, but on the ground, he was useless.

  Yet every night since the Black-Horns were captured, the Three-Foots hadn’t failed to find their way back to this same circle of iron stakes. Twig didn’t know how they were secured below the ground, but he and Stump had pulled and swore the first night the Three-Foots chained them there, manacles chaffing painfully at one ankle, the other end locked to the stake.

  An old tree stump stood just outside the circle, a dogged reminder of the forest that once grew here before the grass reclaimed the land. Once the prisoners were shackled, one warrior trotted back to camp while the other settled himself on the tree stump, spear across his knees, huddling silently in his furs.

  The kines’ instincts were strong. They would not forage at night. For once, they drew closer to the goblins. Their thick coats stank, the softness tempered by the bones beginning to stand more starkly against them, but they were warm, and kept off the worst of the wind.

  The darkness thickened, swallowing the kine, the thick black line of the horizon visible only through a forest of gently shifting legs. Clover was easy to pick out by the blot of her gravid belly. Twig clucked until she came to him, then dragged White-Ears over with Blackfly following. The three shivered, nestling close to the warmth of the pregnant beast, ignoring the chitinous feel of the bloodsuckers against their cheeks. Clover huddled closer, as eager for their warmth as they were for hers. Twig wondered if she sought comfort as well, the touch of a friend in the midst of this cold desert. If his magic wasn’t Soft, he would be able to tell.

  A spear butt swatted the side of his head, and he realized he had drowsed. Rough hands thrust a bowl at him, and he clutched at it, slopping hot broth over his lap. He was momentarily grateful for the warmth, his loins one of the few parts of him not numb, though he knew he would pay for it when the liquid cooled. He held the bowl close to his face, letting the steam touch him, feeling his muscles unclench ever so slightly. They had been given one such tiny bowl a day, not even enough to fill Blackfly’s belly.

  White-Ears clutched feebly at his bowl, sloshing in his trembling hands. Across from him, Hatchet crouched over an iron pot, at least double the size of the bowls. Something floated in the broth, peeking over the pot’s lip. Twig couldn’t tell in the dark, but it looked like meat.

  Stump was already slurping down his meal as the guard strode off, and Twig turned to White-Ears as the old goblin managed to lift the bowl to his lips. Blackfly sat beside him, silently twisting the hem of his robe in her hands. The guard had forgotten her.

  “You get what’s given, and no more,” the guard growled over his shoulder. “I catch you sharing it out, your head for it.”

  Hatchet picked the gobbets of meat out of his broth, licking the grease off his fingers. He froze as he felt Twig’s glare.

  The wind picked up, whistling in Twig’s ears and freezing his wet lap. Hatchet lowered his head—in shame or to protect his food, Twig couldn’t tell. He mumbled something so quietly the words were lost to the wind, but the insincerity of his tone rang as loudly as a thunderclap.

  Twig shook his head. “No,” he whispered across to Hatchet. “You heard the guard. Don’t risk it.”

  Hatchet bent to his meal, eyes locked on the ground between his feet.

  Twig struggled to his knees, his body feeling heavy, as if the chain at his ankle had cousins hauling on every inch of him. He coughed wetly in the cold, steadying the bowl as he knee-walked around White-Ears, who slurped at his food, bowl steadied on his knees, shoulders gently shaking with the rhythm of Clover’s labored breathing.

  Twig reached Blackfly and took her hand. He jerked his ankle, making sure the chain cleared White-Ears, and led the girl around to Clover’s far side, where the bulk of the beast would hopefully screen them from the guard.

  The girl stayed silent as usual, but only until her grip on White-Ears’s robe was threatened—then she began to whine. The whining grew louder as Twig pulled harder, and threatened to turn to a scream, until Twig gave up with a sigh and pressed the bowl, already gone cold, into her hand. Let the guard see. He was too tired to care. If he was to be beaten, then he was to be beaten. Maybe the guard would beat him to death and end this misery.

  But hunger’s voice was more insistent, and Blackfly stared at the bowl of broth for mere moments before bringing it to her mouth and sucking it down so quickly Twig feared she’d be sick.

  The cold creeped, icy fingers tightening around them as they shivered against Clover’s side. Stump sat out in the open as long as he could, an act of defiance that didn’t seem to impress the guard, huddled in his furs, a gray silhouette in the darkness. Hatchet joined them soon after. Twig didn’t want to be close to him, but he couldn’t deny the w
armth the goblin radiated, no doubt increased by his full belly.

  Whether he saw or not, the guard made no move to punish Twig for feeding Blackfly. Twig took advantage of the reprieve to check White-Ears’s wound. The filthy binding stank, and in the darkness it was impossible to tell if it was the binding itself or the wound. White-Ears didn’t stir, but Twig could feel the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, hear the dull whistle of his breathing. That would have to be enough for now.

  The goblins huddled together in silence, too exhausted to speak, and nothing to be gained from the act anyway. After a moment, he heard Hatchet’s soft snores. His big head lolled on Stump’s shoulder, the bigger goblin too tired or too grateful for the warmth to push him away. Twig shifted his leg, trying to reposition his frozen arse, then paused.

  A flash of something in the darkness, a broad patch of black in the midst of the gray field the night had made of the frost.

  He stuck his fingers in his mouth, gently sucking on them. It took a long time, but soon they began to answer, the numbness giving way to the fiery agony that told him they were still alive. He winced and endured. It would only be for a moment. He dragged his fingertips along the ground, the pain mingling with the brush of the frozen grass.

  They stopped over a broader plant, a tiny cluster, shaped like knives.

  Spadeleaf.

  His first instinct was to pluck the plant immediately, but he bit down on the impulse. He could pluck it at any time, and such a small portion would be of little help. Far better if it could be magicked into more. Only White-Ears’s faint flow resonated nearby; the guard had no magic, so he would never know.

  Twig cupped his hands over the tiny plant and closed his eyes.

  The song was there, faint, deep, but present: the hopeful trilling of new life, helpless against the timing of its birth, struggling against the great death that winter brings for all. Twig extended his magical current toward it, listening to his own breathing, trying to calm himself, to steady his shivering muscles, stop the chattering of his teeth.