The Goblin War

by Hilari Bell

  He did learn a lot about Duri history and culture that night and in the nights that followed. In the first part of the evening, Vruud told stirring tales of ancient times. The audience’s favorite story was the early war with the spirits, when the Duri shamans had learned how to “strongly seize” the magic of their dying enemies—though Tobin thought steal, or maybe rape, was a better description. The story of the later war wasn’t often told, for it hadn’t gone so well. The short version was that as the spirits had gradually been driven off the land, they’d destroyed it rather than leave it for their conquerors. The Duris’ war with the spirits had lasted for centuries, and the destruction it had left behind was what had finally forced the Duri to cross the desert and attack the Realm.

  When they were too drunk to listen, Vruud got out his flute, and Tobin was able to eavesdrop on the Duris’ conversation. It was when they reached that part of the evening, a few days later, that Tobin finally learned what the stranger had told the war council.

  A spirit had been sensed, somewhere between the Morovda camp’s territory and that of another camp. The council elders were still working out who would share in its death, under what circumstances.

  “Isn’t that a problem for us?” Tobin asked Vruud later that night as he prepared his master’s bed. “If you’re the next one up for sacrifice?”

  “I’m not necessarily the next,” said Vruud calmly. “One of the ways they keep us from running is to make sure we never know who’s next. There are two women and another man from our camp who might go before me. Of course, they’re all making the same count and hoping I’m up before them. It also depends on whose shamans capture the spirit. So far they’ve agreed that rather than fight over the spring—that’s where this spirit lives, and it’s not clear whose territory it’s in. But rather than fight each other, they’ve decided that whoever doesn’t capture the spirit will provide the human half of the trust. Since both camps are small, there will be plenty to go around. And all the shamans in both camps are frantically setting traps, even as we speak.”

  “What if the other camp’s shamans capture it?” Tobin persisted.

  Vruud shrugged. “Then I might be in danger. But capturing a spirit is harder than it sounds. It frequently takes weeks, or even months, and sometimes the spirit moves away from its source. Spirits hate to do that, for they’re bound to the trees, or rocks, or water they inhabit. But sometimes they disappear. And sometimes it turns out that the careless young fool who thought he sensed one was mistaken. We don’t need to panic. Not yet.”

  As many more days and a few more men’s gatherings passed, Tobin learned that Vruud was right. The young warriors discussed the spirit’s capture at exhaustive length—far more than they talked about fighting the Softers.

  When they grew most inebriated, Tobin would hear long, rambling discussions of the Duris’ greatest ambition, which was to invade the Spiritworld itself.

  There they would bathe in their enemies’ deaths, drawing in power till they were as strong as gods, invincible and immortal.

  This was usually the stage when they were drunk enough to draw daggers and cut their own flesh, displaying their will and how quickly even the weak magic they possessed would heal them.

  The spurting blood turned Tobin’s stomach, but the swiftness with which those wounds healed disturbed him more. He’d patrolled the border long enough to know that for every man who was slain, half a dozen more were taken out by injuries that didn’t kill. If the Duri could take out any knight they injured, and the knights had to kill a Duri to remove him from the fight, there was no way the Realm could win—no matter what tactics either side used.

  As far as Tobin could see, the Realm’s only hope was to get its people behind that great defensible wall, just as Master Lazur had said. Tobin had never liked the priest, but he hoped, passionately, that the man was succeeding in his goals.

  Tobin might be able to assist the relocation by returning to the Realm and reporting all he’d learned. If they knew the source of the Duris’ power, maybe the priests could do something about it. And if he could only learn what their battle plans were, there might be a way for the Realm’s commanders to counteract them!

  But as Tobin listened to the warriors complaining about how long it was taking to capture this accursed clever spirit, he realized there was one thing he could do right now.

  He set off for the spring soon after nightfall. The moon was full, and so many warriors had gone to the spring by now that their tracks almost formed a trail. Tobin could have followed them even in dimmer light.

  After some thought, he’d left his amulet behind. The Duri didn’t patrol as much at night as they did by day, but it did happen—and they’d all be using their magic-sensing ability in the area near the spirit’s spring. Not to mention how the spirit might react if he showed up wearing a piece of magic made from the death of one of its kin.

  It would certainly undercut Tobin’s argument that since they shared a common enemy, they might as well help each other.

  Tobin had seen only one spirit in the Otherworld, though the goblin children had told him about them until he grew too weak to listen. Was that hellish place, which had drained his life from his very bones, the Spiritworld the Duri spoke of with such deep bloodlust?

  It had to be. The Realm priests who’d first opened gates into the Otherworld couldn’t have known that the spirits lived there. As far as Tobin knew, the Realm’s priests knew nothing about spirits at all. It was the spirits from which the Duris’ amulets protected them, not their “gods.”

  Would approaching this spirit, even without an amulet, put Tobin in danger? Maybe, but if there was anything he could do to prevent the Duri from gaining more power, to stop the creation of more of those filthy blood trusts, he had to try.

  The spring was farther than he’d expected. The moon rode high by the time he spotted the patch of blackness that in sunlight would be the dense green foliage that appeared around water in dry country.

  Tobin took his time sneaking up on the spring—if he encountered a party of shamans or warriors out here, there’d be no question who would be sacrificed next. The only reason for a chanduri to be this far from camp was that he was trying to run. But Tobin encountered nothing except a startled fox that sprang lightly away through the moonlit scrub.

  The scent of water was intense in this dusty land, but only a trickle flowed down the small creek bed. Unable to sense the spirit’s presence, Tobin had no idea where it might be, so he followed the tiny stream back to its source, running out from under two huge rocks.

  He almost walked into the trap before he saw it, a web of fine wire glinting in the fragile light. It wasn’t any kind of snare Tobin recognized, for the wires were tied from bush to stone to one another in no pattern he could detect. The runes, once he spotted them, had been drawn on the rocks and poured onto the dry earth, using some dark substance that smelled like blood.

  Tobin smiled grimly. The Duri had finally done him a favor. He’d had no idea how he could prove his good faith to the spirit, but now . . .

  Foxes were playful creatures.

  He pulled loose almost half the wires and scuffed out most of the runes in the dirt. He only had to make a few fox prints in a patch of sand, and a handful more in the mud near the stream, to make it look plausible. By the time he’d finished, anyone would have concluded that a pair of foxes had blundered into the trap and destroyed it.

  Tobin looked around one last time, listening as much as watching. He heard nothing but the rustlings of the Southland night. He saw nothing at all.

  He sat down on a rock and took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’re listening. I don’t really know if you’re here at all. But I’m fighting the Duri myself, and I thought we might be able to help each other.”

  He told the spirit about his need to escape from the Duri and take the information he’d gathered back to the Realm. He paused, waiting.

  Nothing but silence.

  Tobin went
on to warn the spirit about the shamans who were hunting it and what its fate would be if it were captured. He advised it to abandon the spring and flee if it possibly could. Because the shamans were confident that if it stayed, sooner or later they’d succeed.

  No spirit rose out of the water to thank him. Tobin was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t already moved on. But in case it hadn’t . . .

  He told it about the war between the Duri and the Realm, making sure that it understood that the Realm had no desire to meddle with spirits or the Spiritworld, despite the recent incursion of Makenna and her goblins.

  Was she still there, in that shifting miasma of magic? Or had she somehow gotten herself and her goblins out, as she’d gotten him out? He asked the spirit about that, but it didn’t reply.

  His voice was growing hoarse, and judging by the lowering moon, destroying the shamans’ snare had taken too much time.

  Tobin rose to his feet. “I don’t know if you’re here or not,” he told the empty night. “If you are, I urge you to run—for all our sakes! But mostly for yours. It’s a terrible death.”

  For a moment he thought he felt something, like a breath sighing past him. But although he waited, nothing spoke or appeared. He knew that the spirits could do both those things, so he was probably imagining it.

  He had taken too long. The sun rose before he was halfway back to camp, and he had to crouch in the bushes and wait, barely breathing, while two Duri patrols rode past him. If he’d been wearing an amulet, he’d have been caught. Even without it, he now understood why Vruud wanted to be closer to the Realm’s lines before they tried to escape—Tobin had had no idea the area was watched so closely.

  He was in sight of the camp, and had emerged from hiding to simply walk back in, when he came around a rock and almost ran into a Duri warrior who was tying up his belt. The reek of fresh urine told Tobin what the man was doing away from camp—though why he’d come all this way, instead of using the covered pit, Tobin didn’t know. It didn’t matter, either. What excuse . . .

  The Duri’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and closed his fist in the front of Tobin’s shirt. “What abras clahft fa doing ress?”

  He wasn’t wearing his amulet! Tobin wished, desperately, that he’d had more time to learn the camp’s language. He’d been paying more attention to his lessons lately, but he still knew only a few words.

  “I’m sorry, master, but I’m not wearing my amulet now.” At least the Duri would understand him. “I’m the storyteller’s servant. From Bear Clan. I haven’t had time to learn your language yet.”

  Even the Duri weren’t so unreasonable as to expect him to learn a language overnight—but not knowing it, Tobin was supposed to wear his amulet at all times.

  The man’s next question was completely incomprehensible, but his scowl wasn’t. What excuse could Tobin make for being out here, without the amulet that would have permitted the Duri to track him down? If he’d had the sense to pick up an armload of firewood on his way in, he probably wouldn’t have been stopped, but now it was too late.

  The man babbled out another sentence, and Tobin shook his head to show he didn’t understand.

  The Duri knew that many chanduri would run if they had the chance. Any chanduri caught outside the camp had better have a good reason. And Tobin didn’t.

  The growing fear must have shown on his face. A sudden cuff made his ears ring, and the iron grip shifted to his collar as the Duri began dragging him back.

  Could Vruud come up with a lie fast enough to save him? If Tobin was beaten—his blood ran cold at the thought—would he be sufficiently recovered when their chance to escape arose? If the Duri decided that Tobin had shed his amulet because he planned to run, the beating he’d get might cripple him for life. He was going to start gathering firewood, any minute! He’d thought he saw a family of quail he could tell the hunters about. He’d—

  Tobin tripped on a root and fell to his knees. The Duri kicked him to his feet and hauled him on.

  No matter what story he told, no one would believe him unless he could think of a reason for taking off his amulet. But there was no reason he would have taken off the amulet except to try to escape.

  They were nearing the camp, and many of the chanduri stopped working to stare. Their faces were impassive, but Tobin had been one of them long enough to see fear and pity beneath their closed expressions. None of them would dare . . .

  An old woman stalked away from the pot she’d been stirring, spoon in hand. She was one of those Vruud thought might be up for sacrifice instead of him. Tobin didn’t know her name.

  Her wrinkled face, far from impassive, was full of furious impatience. She burst into a babble of speech and smacked him on the head with her spoon.

  “Ow!” She hadn’t pulled the blow.

  The Duri let go of Tobin’s collar, still frowning, and Tobin fell to his hands and knees. The spoon struck his back this time, accompanied by more incomprehensible abuse.

  He didn’t dare say a word. The old woman drove him back to her cook fire and shoved him down beside a basket full of soft-shelled nuts.

  She went on scolding him as Tobin cracked nut after nut, prying out the meats with shaking fingers. Finally the watching Duri shrugged and departed.

  The woman kept on scolding, though her voice grew softer. Only when all the nuts were shelled did she allow him to rise, knees still wobbling, to his feet.

  “Thank you,” Tobin murmured, though he knew she couldn’t understand him either.

  A flickering wink was his only answer, and he turned and made his way back to Vruud’s tent.

  He didn’t even know her name. He hadn’t learned the names of most of the chanduri, because he’d written them off. They were enemies, to be destroyed along with their Duri masters—whether they’d done anything to deserve it or not.

  But the chanduri had no choice about being part of the Duris’ attack on the Realm. The Duri treated them even worse than they did Realm soldiers.

  And the chanduri fought back, whenever they had the chance. Why hadn’t he seen it before? The chan weren’t his enemies.

  Tobin’s heart beat faster, his pulse throbbing in his temples. His head was aching again, from the repeated blows, but his heart ached worse.

  He had refused to recognize the plight of the chanduri, even to learn their names, because if he did, he’d have to try to help them. He couldn’t leave them at the mercy of their masters, leave them to be sacrificed, any more than he could have betrayed the goblins to Master Lazur’s executioners.

  Because he couldn’t save them, he’d tried to ignore them. But that old woman had risked a beating to save him. She’d almost certainly moved herself to the top of the sacrificial list—and Tobin could no longer ignore her plight, or that of her people.

  He had to save all of them. Not just Vruud and Hesida. Not just the old woman and the chanduri in this camp. He had to save every last chanduri from their Duri masters. Duri, who seemed to have no weaknesses at all!

  The immensity of it made him dizzy, but Tobin too knew something about wrestling. Strength could be made into a weakness, if your opponent could get the right leverage. And Tobin was beginning to see how he could use the Duris’ arrogance and bloodlust to bring them down.

  Chapter 9

  Jeriah

  JERIAH SAT IN HIS BED and looked at the sorceress. She was still wearing boys’ clothes, and sometime in the last week she’d trimmed up her ragged hair, but she looked too tense, too edgy for it to civilize her.

  The shallow cut across his throat still stung, so he phrased his answer carefully. “First, tell me why you want to talk to the Hierarch.”

  The girl eyed him warily. Jeriah waited. He wasn’t going to promise anything without that knowledge, no matter what she threatened.

  “All right. I want him to deed the goblins some land behind the great wall. Somewhere they can build and live openly, where humans aren’t even allowed to go without their permission.”

  “But
they’re no longer under death sentence,” Jeriah protested. “They can go back to their homes now.”

  “Those whose homes haven’t been destroyed,” said Makenna. “To live in hiding, on human sufferance. Oh, aye, some humans will welcome them back—but there are some who won’t. The goblins need a place of their own, a place that’s theirs. By law.”

  The intensity of her vision drove her to her feet, her shadow moving back and forth as she paced. “Since the relocation’s dead, the wood behind the great wall will be empty—no reason not to grant it to them, legal like.”

  Jeriah flinched. “The relocation isn’t dead! The barbarian army’s still there, and they’re not going away. We have to . . .”

  It was the grim pity in her expression that stopped him.

  “No one’s going to agree to move north,” she said. “Not country folk or city. Not till the barbarians are burning their towns and fields around them. You know that.”

  Jeriah did know it, but he still had to try. “Maybe when all the Southlands have been taken, and the Realm is full of refugees, maybe they’ll see the danger and start relocating then.”

  Makenna snorted. “If I know aught of humans, they’ll say that now the barbarians have so much land, they’ll stop where they are. And they’ll go right on saying it till the barbarians roll over them. And who knows? Maybe once they’ve enough land to settle on and prosper, the barbarians will stop. Your priest said they came here because a drought destroyed their own land. Maybe all they want is a new one, and the Southlands will satisfy them.”

  That was what his father would say, Jeriah knew, and the Hierarch and the council as well. And he had no proof they were wrong, except . . . “Master Lazur didn’t believe that. And you have to admit he’s been right about the barbarians so far.”