Goblin Nation

by Jean Rabe

  She felt each rock he stepped on and each root that tugged at his feet as he and his fellow knight wound their way down an overgrown game trail. It opened on a small clearing where four other knights sat around a fire roasting a wild pig. Three of them jumped to their feet, while the fourth remained intent on turning the spit.

  Mudwort hurriedly took everything in—packs and swords propped against trees, a tent stretched between two sweet bay trees. It looked like the men had been camped there for a while.

  Tannen dropped her roughly on the ground and set his foot against her stomach to keep her in place.

  “Only one,” he told them, gesturing to another knight. “We found tracks and followed them. And this is what they led to.”

  “A small female.” That came from the tallest of them. He was broad shouldered and had narrow hips, and with his feet together and posture stiff, his form reminded Mudwort of a dagger thrust into the ground. “Looks weak, starving maybe. And with clothes. Maybe from Steel Town. Should check her for scars and whip marks.”

  “I think she understands the common tongue.”

  The tall knight studied Mudwort. “Aye, from the looks of her eyes, I’d say you’re right, Donnel. Good work.” He stiffly bent forward and stretched a hand down, his mailed finger wiping at a smudge of dirt on Mudwort’s forehead. The gesture seemed oddly tender. But a heartbeat more, and the hand was clamped around Mudwort’s neck. He nodded to Donnel, who removed his foot, and he grinned at Tannen.

  The tall one held her high, applying just enough pressure to keep her in check. “Are you from Steel Town, little red goblin?”

  Mudwort didn’t answer, but her gaze bored into him. “Aye, she is. Her eyes speak as loud as any voice. A fine prize you’ve secured, Donnel, Tannen. First to eat this evening, you two are. And no watch duty for you.” He brought Mudwort down so he could stare directly into her face, his lips curled up. His dark eyes fixed on her and held her as firmly as his grip.

  “We should take her to Zocci,” Tannen declared. “He’ll get information out of her.”

  The tall knight nodded. “That we will. But it would behoove us to try our own tactics first. Save Zocci the trouble. Gain us stature with the commander.” He turned to stare grimly at Mudwort. “You will tell us where the rest of the Steel Town slaves have gone, little goblin.”

  Mudwort squirmed and was rewarded with a punch to her stomach.

  “The sooner you tell us, the less it will hurt. And if you cooperate well, little goblin, when we kill you we will burn your corpse and scatter your bones, as is your ghoulish custom. But if you decide not to cooperate …” The knight reached his free hand to hers, grabbed her little finger, squeezed and twisted it, and bent it back until it snapped. Then he reached for the next.

  10

  THE STONETELLERS

  BERA’S HEART

  Bera Kata stood six feet tall and was as muscular as most of the men in her command. She’d spent more than half of her adult life in the Dark Knights, leaving behind her husband and grown daughter for her respected posting. The knighthood was her closer family and held her heart.

  Her plate mail glistened in the late-afternoon sun, and her tabard, which appeared pressed, flapped gently in the slight breeze. Her helmet, polished to an almost hurtful sheen, was tucked under one arm, and her chin was pointed up, giving her a mien of aristocracy.

  She stepped over a fallen log and waved her men forward, leading them beyond the beach and into a section of the woods where narrow trunks grew so close together, the burliest of her knights had to walk sideways. They marched for days, the weave of the canopy becoming tight and allowing only a little light to filter down, which looked like panes of crystal. She wiped her forehead clean of gnats and, despite her fatigue, adopted a faster pace, the beauty of the place lost on her.

  When she’d first stepped into those woods, the air had been alive with pleasant birdsong and the gentle rustle of small branches and clumps of leaves stirred by the wind. As she walked, she heard only the clank of armor and the snap of twigs breaking beneath her men’s feet, the ragged breath of a few soldiers, and the occasional skittering of a small ground animal giving her force a wide berth.

  Am I right? she wondered. Did the goblins of Steel Town come this way? By the Dark Queen’s memory, let this be the right course.

  She’d learned by spreading around a liberal amount of steel in a port along the Newsea—while confirming her findings with Isaam’s magic—that a heavily scarred man had purchased ships with a cargo rumored to be goblins. More coins booked passage for her entire company of knights. She had followed the goblin ships to Schallsea Island, where persistent questioning of local fishermen and more of Isaam’s spells revealed the ships had indeed borne goblins, as well as a plague. Though the fishermen did not say where the ships sailed after the healers had done their job, she managed to capture someone who finally talked.

  “The former homeland of the elves,” he revealed.

  So the knights set sail in pursuit.

  One of her trackers had found evidence of goblins along the beach—as well as more evidence that they had tried to cover up their tracks. He’d found no tracks since—the damnable rain had washed away the traces—though he’d spotted splintered branches on bunchberry bushes, indicating something had come that way. The chief tracker was several yards ahead of her, following signs she could not see. She fixed her eyes on the back of his tabard.

  How much of a head start did the goblins have? She thought. A week? Two?

  “Commander? A few words with you, please.”

  She glanced to her right. The sorcerer who tromped up to her side was a slight man, only five and a half feet tall. His wrists and elbows were so bony that it looked like his skin had been stretched over his skeleton, yet he had an oddly pudgy face that reminded her of a bulldog.

  “Yes, Isaam?”

  The sorcerer was the only Dark Knight not wearing armor. His long, gray robes, not so neat and clean as usual, defined his arcane station. The sleeves had been pulled up to his shoulders and tied with cords, and the hem was frayed in a few places from catching on roots. The backpack Isaam wore had snagged vines and leaves, which dragged behind him and made swishing sounds. Bera reached behind him and tugged the backpack free. Isaam had been in Bera’s company for more than a decade.

  “Commander, my divinations on the beach this morning yielded nothing. You realize that, don’t you? I found a trace of the goblins when I scried while we were at sea but nothing since. I tried to discuss this with you earlier. We might not be going in the right direction.”

  Bera frowned but did not reply.

  “My magic is strong, Commander, and it will not fail me. It has not failed me before. You know my determination. But something … I tried to tell you this earlier—”

  “You will scry again when we stop for the night?”

  “Of course, Commander.” The man opened his mouth to say something else then thought better of it. He fell in line behind Bera and bunched up his robe to keep from tripping on it.

  “I am certain you will have better results this evening, Isaam. After you’ve eaten and rested.” Bera stuck out her lower lip and blew upward, chasing away more gnats. “After we’ve all eaten and rested our blistering feet. I have great faith in you.” She added softly, “Old friend.”

  She’d been pushing the company for the better part of a few weeks—first south along the beach, where their longboats had come ashore, then east into the heart of the thick woods, following her tracker’s suggestion. The Qualinesti Forest was huge, and finding a mob of goblins and hobgoblins in it would not be an easy task necessarily. But Bera did not doubt she would meet with success eventually. She’d sent two more scouting parties ahead the previous day, both with skilled trackers.

  “I hope your faith in me is well placed, Commander,” Isaam said. “And I hope we find the goblins soon. This is not my element.” The sorcerer was obviously struggling to keep up with her.

  Ber
a continued to watch the tracker, who was ranging farther ahead; she glimpsed only a splotch of black from his tabard. They were looking for clues as to whether the goblins had passed that way. It had been some time without a sign. They could be going in circles and following a wild boar for all she knew.

  “It is not my element either,” she whispered.

  It could have been late afternoon or early evening when the tracker lost whatever trail he’d been pursuing. The forest was more shadows than light, and Bera’s men stumbled over roots and caught themselves on thorny branches. They were all in physically fine condition, but the pace and the terrain had worn them down.

  The tracker shook his head. “Commander, there is nothing else I can see to follow today. Rather than proceed blindly, I’d like to stop here. In the morning, when the light is better, I might see something my tired eyes are missing now.”

  “Very well, Eloy. We’ll resume in the morning.” Bera planted her fists against her waist and fixed him with a glare that told him it really wasn’t all right. “Stop for the day!” she called over her shoulder.

  “Thank the gods,” Isaam muttered.

  “There’s a clearing ahead, Commander. Not big enough for all of us, though.” Eloy shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I caught sight of a stream there.” He gestured to the north. “About fifty yards.”

  “Refill your skins,” Bera continued. “Wash and rest. Eloy, you and Virlan take a dozen men and find meat to supplement the evening meal.” Normally she would let her scout rest, but his failure to conquer the trail did not sit well with her. “Do not come back until you’ve secured enough meat to feed us all.”

  He was quick to gesture to twelve fellow knights and disentangle himself from her icy gaze. Bows in hand, the squad melted into the foliage.

  Minutes later, Bera was carefully folding her tabard on a rock. She removed her gauntlets and arm pieces, and after her men started settling nearby, she tugged off her breastplate and straightened the padded armor beneath. It was a signal to her men that they could remove their armor as well.

  “May I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, Zoccinder stripped to his padded armor and sat next to her.

  “They have several advantages over us, these goblins we pursue.” Bera wiped at a spot on her leggings. “Small, they can move more easily through these woods.”

  “And they haven’t such heavy, hot armor to contend with.”

  “Aye.” She offered him a thin smile.

  Zoccinder was the most imposing knight in her unit, easily seven feet tall and heavily muscled. He looked wholly formidable in either a suit of plate mail or his sweat-stained pads. He’d arranged his armor carefully in front of him, the chest piece of which had bluing on it—something a highranking officer might wear, not someone of Zoccinder’s low rank.

  Bera guessed he had some ogre blood in his veins, as he’d spoken the language to captives several weeks past. But he’d not claimed such a heritage in his records, so she kept her speculation to herself. He’d told her he was twenty-six years of age, but she believed him to be at least five years younger, as his face was boyish and unlined and he lacked the scars of someone who had served in the order longer. Twenty or twenty-one then, she decided. That would make her twice his age.

  He rested his hand on her thigh.

  “We will find them, Bera, these goblins who vex you.” He kept his voice low, his dark blue eyes fixed on hers. “Isaam or the trackers will find them. We will have them.” He pointedly addressed her by her first name, she noted, no longer as commander. “It should not take many days.”

  “I detest them, you know, goblins. Horrible-smelling, hideous creatures that look vaguely like men. They chatter in a vile-sounding tongue that reminds me of wild dogs yapping.”

  “They’re not wholly monsters, Bera. They do wear clothes, for example.”

  She gave a clipped laugh. “What clothes I’ve seen them in hang in tatters.” She paused. “Many of them have eyes yellowed like they’ve got a disease.”

  He didn’t say anything else but rested his battle-axe across his legs, the haft atop her knee. The weapon was singular, a keepsake from his grandfather, he’d claimed. It—and the blue-colored armor—proclaimed him as being from a family of some means, and his bearing bore that out. Isaam had whispered to Bera once that the Dark Knight’s axe reeked of magic. Bera figured that Zoccinder would tell her about the axe in good time.

  That Zoccinder, who preferred to be called Zocci, had not risen up higher through the Dark Knight ranks was a sad testament to past behavior—that is, several recorded incidents of insubordination. Others would have been drummed out of the order for his offenses. However, he was a superb fighter and proficient in many languages. His courage and bloodlust were equaled in her unit only by her own. And he’d done nothing to gain a black mark on his record since joining her company.

  “A walk, Bera? To that stream Eloy mentioned?”

  She nodded and did not protest when he extended a hand to help her up. The other knights had been witness to the growing attraction between the pair, all wisely keeping silent. Zocci took his axe along.

  The stream was barely in sight when he pulled her close and angled his head down to meet hers. His skin glowed with a thin sheen of sweat. She noted again that there wasn’t a blemish or scar on his handsome visage, despite the number of battles he’d been in during the past several months. He was pure, unspoiled.

  And twice his age, Bera knew she was.

  She had a husband and a grown daughter at home.

  He kissed her like her husband never had, his lips at the same time dry and supple against hers and somehow in that instant sapping all the strength from her. His free hand cupped the back of her head.

  She was his commander, a veteran Dark Knight, decorated where he had been demoted, praised where he had been reprimanded.

  He was half her age.

  The axe rested against his leg. His thumbs traced patterns on her neck, and after a moment, he raised his head and softly blew on her eyelids. She had lines at the edges of her eyes, a mark of her years on Krynn. Did he notice them? she wondered. Did he think about the years between them? Did her men?

  She heard men splashing in the stream and suspected they could see her. A moment more and she didn’t worry about it as Zocci tugged her down behind a stand of lilies and onto a bed of ferns.

  Isaam barely acknowledged Bera’s return to camp.

  The sorcerer sat cross-legged, shoulders hunched and back humped like a man decades older; his concentration was directed at a small crystal globe nested in the folds of his robe in his lap.

  His oddly thin fingers hovered above the crystal, darting down but never quite touching it, rising up, then flashing down again. His rhythmic gestures reminded Bera of a musician playing an instrument. His lips moved, but if he talked, she couldn’t hear him. There was the snap and pop of a large fire, over which five deer and a large boar were spitted, and the quiet conversations of groupings of knights. The venison filled her senses and made her realize she hadn’t eaten since the previous night. Zocci would bring her some.

  “Isaam.”

  The sorcerer nodded but did not look up.

  Bera thought she saw tiny manlike images swirl in the crystal, which looked orange in the light of the fire. She concentrated to make out the images, but they were made indistinct in the shadows cast by Isaam’s head as he bent lower.

  “What do you see, old friend? Goblins? Tell me you see goblins.”

  Isaam did not reply, though his mouth and fingers moved even faster.

  Bera stood silent for several moments, until Zocci came up to her side, strips of venison in a small wooden bowl that he handed her.

  “It will take a while for all of the deer to cook, but this is a start.”

  “A good start,” she told him, only briefly meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”

  He stayed at her side until Isaam finally raised his head. Then Zocci politely retreated, a
nd Bera sat down next the sorcerer. She held the bowl out, but Isaam shook his head.

  “Later. The magic covers my hunger.”

  “Did you see goblins?” Bera repeated louder. “In your crystal?”

  “One,” Isaam said after a moment. “This time I saw one.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He’d made it clear on several occasions that he detested the creatures. “It is a bloodied one, and I saw it being carried by one of our brothers. He brings the unfortunate goblin to this camp. I touched his mind and guided him in this direction, as they’d lost their way in these old woods. They come despite the darkness.”

  “Which party? Zeff’s?”

  He gave a nod. “Zeff carries the goblin, and five men follow him. I sense they are pleased with their grubby prize, Commander. He will be here soon. My mind tugs him.”

  Bera’s shoulders sagged. “Perhaps my other scouting party has misplaced itself as well. Can you search for them too?”

  “In a while.”

  A silence settled between the two, and for several minutes both of them stared at the crystal. Bera could barely make out the tiny form of a man, Zeff, carrying something—the bloodied goblin Isaam mentioned. The fuzzy images surrounding the pair were trees. There was another knight behind the first, and no doubt more. A glow came from over the shoulder of one, likely a torch. Bera wondered if Isaam saw it all in greater detail.

  She chewed on the venison, finding it tough but delicious, given her hunger. She ate quickly and handed the bowl back to Zocci when he materialized.

  “More, Bera?”

  She nodded. “A bowl for Isaam too.”

  When Zocci returned, he set Isaam’s bowl on the ground, as the sorcerer did not reach out a hand to take it, nor was he distracted from the crystal in his lap.

  “Another walk, Bera?”

  “Perhaps,” Bera returned a smile. “After I am finished here.” She stuffed another piece of venison in her mouth and licked her fingers clean of the juices. Zocci retreated only a few steps. “I knew your magic would not fail you, Isaam, old friend. I knew you merely needed to rest your feet and …”