“You’d have us wait for the weather?” Noe said, her voice quavering with unmasked rage.
“I’d have our people not make a misstep that will cost us more than we dare pay.”
“What course would you have us take, Huntmaster?” Chief Gelid asked.
“We care for those who live. We rebuild. We commit to watching our border and lending warriors where needed if the humans come again. The chill in the air says we face a cold winter. We hunt and fill our drying houses with meat and forage. And the rest of us go home.”
Even a few from among Noe’s own hunters mouthed their agreement.
“Go home?” Noe said as she strode before him and locked eyes with as many as would meet her gaze. “Mire Linda is my home. No goblin here gets to retreat back into the hills to wait for all the humans to go away and pray to the moon for them to be taken by the next great freeze. We have humans to our east and south and face them every spring and fall when we hunt.”
Huntmaster Eleck scowled. “I’ve heard the reports. You also antagonize them by raiding their homes and poisoning their wells.”
“Are you implying that our troubles are our own making?”
“What I would tell your chief if he were here is that you have the misfortune of being closest to the sea and because of that, suffer the most. But this council will set the pattern for our actions for the seasons to come. We leave the humans along the shores alone. Your report on the raiders’ fall is well received and we owe you our gratitude. We know now that their actions had nothing to do with us, and with these men’s deaths at Mother Mountain, the matter is concluded.”
The note of finality in Eleck’s last statement was clear. Chief Gelid clapped and nodded and waved for one of his warriors to pass him a bottle. Others drank as well and a general murmur rose. A few goblins began laughing as the tension of the meeting began to give way to a celebration.
“We’re not done here!” Noe cried.
But even as she protested, she was ignored.
Thistle felt her own face grow hot. Was that it? Was it over? As much as she wanted the nightmare of her abduction to fade, she realized there would be no going back to normal. Her village had been wiped out. Her own efforts to remember the names of those many who had died would be a paltry thing if no one could be bothered to read what she had written.
And what of Spicy and Rime and the stolen children? All that they were would be enshrined in song, as if Lord’s raid had been a natural event like a forest fire. The dead and missing would be mourned. Her role as a sage would be over if Firebloom decided she would be better suited for the field or any other mundane task deemed practical, as opposed to wasting her time with words set to paper. If they had a sage, what use would he have for her?
She couldn’t believe what she was about to do even as she stood.
She picked up her plate and smashed it on the ground. The shattering ceramic had its desired effect. All the goblins were looking at her, at least for the moment.
“I speak on behalf of Boarhead. One Stone was voted chief, and I stand in our sage’s place and demand for us to be recognized by this council.”
Noe looked bewildered but it was Huntmaster Eleck who spoke. “One Stone? This boy is chief?”
One Stone appeared stunned by the sudden attention.
“Tell them,” Thistle said.
One Stone cleared his throat. “I was elected by the survivors.”
Eleck looked amused. He motioned for One Stone to continue. Thistle gave him an encouraging nod.
“Do you have something to say?” Eleck prompted.
One Stone gave Thistle a helpless look. Suddenly he was the boy who hadn’t even earned his first stud, the lad Somni would call on during weekend class if he fell asleep. “Thistle will say what she needs to say.”
Eleck motioned impatiently for either of them to continue.
“The humans must be reminded that we exist,” Thistle said. “We don’t delegate this to time or season. While all of us recognize that Lord’s raid was an affront, the humans have done countless smaller crimes which must be addressed.”
She helped Papa stand and walked him to the fire ring for all to see. He trembled like he was going to break away from her.
“Some of you have seen what was done to Papa. I don’t know his real name. The humans kept him as a slave for what I can only guess was many years. See with your own eyes what they’ve done to him. From what I’ve learned, his family was taken or perhaps even murdered. There are other goblin settlements closer to the sea which are regularly brutalized. The humans hold goblins as slaves and trade them as animals, the owners free to do what was done to him. That’s the fate being endured by the children taken from Boarhead.”
“Our hearts are heavy,” Eleck said. “But we have no way to recover them.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. We have the warriors here now. Noe and her hunters have experience with the nearest human villages. We let them know that we won’t suffer this treatment any longer. A clear message.”
“You’d have us declare war with humans.”
Noe was watching her carefully.
Thistle took a moment to choose her words. “I said a clear message. We set a boundary beyond these hills over which no human will ever cross again. Any human who holds a goblin as a slave is our enemy. Any village that would condone treatment like this is a target.”
Eleck was shaking his head. “You’ve suffered much, girl. But we don’t have time for such foolish talk. One Stone may play chief and you can act the sage, but you’re a child. This council is over.”
“Chief Valens called this council,” Thistle said. “He decides when to call it over. And Noe here is his proxy since he is absent. All here have shown you deference, but you aren’t Firebloom’s chief, merely one of its huntmasters. While your wisdom is welcome, you don’t speak as a chief here.”
Eleck rose and advanced towards her. Noe blocked him.
“We’re offering to take you and all of your survivors in,” Eleck snapped, “and this is how you treat your elders? You speak of war when none of you were even born before the last raid we declared.”
Thistle put a hand on Papa’s shoulder. “And you’d have us treat this as acceptable terms of peace.”
“Sit down, Huntmaster Eleck,” Chief Gelid called. He had set his bottle down and was sitting forward with renewed interest. “There is mettle in this young sage’s words, and I’ll hear of her plans.”
“Madness,” Eleck grunted as he looked around the council. But he once again took his place by his sons, content to glower.
“I’m no hunter or warrior,” Thistle said. “But I’ve run with Noe and her goblins. I defer to her.”
With that, she guided Papa back to their spot and sat. Wren gave her a pat on her shoulder. She felt numb and realized her hands were trembling. One Stone whispered a question to her but at that moment her mind was too frazzled to make sense of any of it.
What had she done?
“Those who wish to hear of my strategy, step forward,” Noe was saying. “We will fight them as we do best. We stalk the night. We attack where they don’t expect us. And we make sure they never come to Athra ever again.”
Chapter Eleven
A War Council was held on the waning quarter moon of the last month of fall.
It was decided by representatives of Mire Linda and the tribal representatives of fifteen villages that an expedition would be conducted against the humans living in the northwest quadrant of the Inland Sea in order to prosecute any who would hold goblins as slaves and to send the clear message that such treatment will no longer be tolerated.
This decision was reached by majority vote. A tally of those for and against will be added later.
Thistle put her pencil down and rubbed her eyes. The firelight was too weak to continue writing. The notebook served as a poor ledger, as the width of the page was insufficient. She longed for a writing table she could stand at, and a lamp.
/> Papa had curled up on his spot and was snoring softly even as dozens of voices spoke quietly nearby.
Noe was at the center of the largest group. Chief Gelid and most of the other leaders were with her, while Eleck was noticeably absent.
Mire Linda had few refinements, but a generous stash of rice wine had been shared. Several bottles were passed from hand to hand. Wren was stooped nearby, a green glass bottle dangling from his fingers as he stared dully into the fire. One Stone stood at the periphery of Noe’s group, with Preemie at his side. She spotted Ramus and Arens among those gathered with Noe. Both were senior hunters from Boarhead; doubtlessly upon returning home, a new vote would be taken and Ramus would be chosen as chief before their trek to Firebloom.
What if all of them perished? Boarhead would truly be no more. At least with them alive, the village might once again be settled come spring.
She felt a fresh wave of doubt.
Eleck had been right to dismiss her opinion. Her words had been hollow. Nothing would make Papa whole or bring back the dead. She wished she had Somni to talk to. A true sage held the wisdom of ages in their head.
Were there even any left?
Turtle Rock lay outside of Athra to the north of the sea, and it had a sage. But Lord had split his men into separate raiding parties and she feared Turtle Rock had met the same fate as Boarhead and Thousand Groves.
She put the notebook away and shook her head at the thought that it, perhaps, was the last and only piece of their history left. The five pages of brief notes in crude pencil scratched in her admittedly precise style was a sad testament.
She realized she needed sleep. Of course there were more books and perhaps a sage still lived somewhere. But the heady rush of having turned enough opinions that evening kept her head spinning as the consequences of what would follow kept nagging at her.
Wren offered his bottle but she raised a hand.
“You surprised me,” he said. “I thought you disapproved of Noe and what she was doing.”
“You’re the pile of squirrel guts who volunteered me to speak. I don’t agree with what she’s done. But something has to happen. Maybe some good will come of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to clear my head.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She made a face. “I doubt you can even stand.”
He slurred a weak protest as she left him.
She had a hard time understanding the mood of the goblin warriors and hunters not part of Noe’s meeting as she wandered through the village. She heard excited boasts, laughter, and song. But more than a few of the clutches of gabbing men hushed when she passed too close.
It was as if she were the lone parent among groups of misbehaving juveniles intent on mischief. Some of the goblin men were older than her father. Had she actually achieved some measure of authority with them? How many of these would follow Noe in the morning? Most, she guessed.
Noe spoke well. Thistle sensed Mire Linda’s proxy chief had learned her words at the knee of someone well versed. Some in the simple village must know their letters.
The outer ring of homes boasted gardens of bean vines growing up along thin poles. She passed goat pens and more than a few houses where children and mothers could be heard through the windows. More than one insistent child was wishing for a later bedtime.
There was excitement in the air, the late hour be damned.
A field replete with heads of greens blocked the lane she was wandering. The cool damp ground was perfect for such produce. She stepped over a low gate. Beyond the garden she came to a kiln and a work yard where dozens of pots, bottles, and platters made of ceramic awaited some final part of the manufacturing process.
She thought of who the potter might be. Was it one of the mothers putting her children to bed, or was it a hunter or warrior who, even at that moment, bragged of what future acts of bravery they would achieve upon their next encounter with the humans?
She picked up a plate from a shelf of finished dishes. The craftsmanship was clean and the plate perfect, its clear glaze smooth and shining in the faint moonlight.
A potter was a vocation with a tangible product. They were worthy of their share of a village’s resources. Compare that to the misery brought down on Athra because of the presence of its sages.
Her numbers had always been good. She could have been learning from the miller instead of wasting her time with Somni.
Someone nearby was coughing. The hacking male goblin was somewhere in front of a modest home just past the work yard.
“Hello?” Thistle called as she approached.
The voices from the center of the village were well behind her.
“Help me,” the goblin croaked.
Thistle found a larger goblin at the bottom of a set of steps beneath the front door. It appeared he had fallen. She could smell wine, and a bottle lay broken under her feet. She stooped to assist the man so he could sit up. He gripped her and almost brought her back down with him as he tried to stand.
“Easy, you’re too heavy. There. Okay, I’ve got you.”
She got an arm under his shoulder and climbed one step at a time while bearing most of his weight.
“You’re a gift from the moon,” he said and laughed as they entered the dark home. She eased him into a chair at a kitchen table. She was about to leave when he caught her wrist.
“Light me a lamp.”
She found a clay lamp and piece of flint, along with a knife. With a few well-practiced scratches of the back of the steel blade against the flint, the sparks dropped onto the thick wick soaked in oil. She blew the flame to life.
“Ah, much better,” the man said. He was a pale-skinned goblin with a mane of long hair. The sides of his head were shaved clean and marked with sweeping black tattoos. A gold nose ring shone under his nostrils. He had bleary eyes, which considered her. He straightened in the chair as best he could before once again sagging. “I see you’re one of the visitors.”
“I’m Thistle from Boarhead.”
“Thistle? Is that your adult name? You appear old enough to have taken one.”
She shook her head. Such an inane question. Not every goblin went through the ritual of renaming. She’d always thought it was a waste of time and rather silly.
“You have your lamp burning,” she said. “I’m leaving.” Then, down a short hallway, she saw a large bookcase against a wall of the main room. She approached the collection and ran her fingertips along the spines. “Are these yours?”
“Indeed. Not bad for us lowly marsh dwellers, though not as accomplished as the library of Boarhead. But this one remains unburned.”
“You don’t need to be cruel.”
“Not my intention. You must be the sage’s apprentice rescued from the Pinnacle raiders.”
“And you’re well informed for a potter who wasn’t at council.”
She plucked a violet leather volume from the shelf. It was press-printed in modern script. Sage Thurten’s predecessor had produced more books than any goblin before him or after. He made multiple copies of the same book so they could be disseminated among those who stood to benefit the most. But the typesetting and binding had always been labor- and material-intensive, as was the making of paper and ink.
The Old War and Its Conclusion.
From the kitchen, he asked, “Find something you like?”
Thistle opened the book. “Somni was always looking for this one.”
She leafed through the pages and saw to her shock that the corners of many were dog-eared and that someone had scribbled notes in the margins and spaces above and below the text. She put the book back and selected another and saw it had received similar treatment. She blew dust off the top of the book.
Lyrics and Poems of Sylla. Another book Somni had spoken of, this one from before the Second Age of Provers. She saw tiny flowers had been pressed between the straw-colored pages that left darker stains wherever they had touched the paper.
“These should be cared for bett
er.”
“This is the best cared for library you’ll see. There’s more. Let me show you.”
It took a few tries but he managed to stand and totter down the hall to a side room. Thistle followed. The home needed to be aired out. Sharp body odor was particularly strong coming out of a side bedroom, but the office across from it was packed with six more bookcases. The shelves were jammed with more books.
There were books on metalworking and planting and more history dating to before the last ice age. Some were human works, yet more were goblin.
The man lit a few candles.
She crouched to examine the oldest of the human books. The spine on one was almost completely detached and the pages were loose.
“You’d like that one. Human history, quite old. It tells of a nomad in a vast country who conquered cities and empires with only his marauders on horseback. He struck fear into his enemies so that they would open their gates to him to avoid the horror of being taken by force.”
She laid the book out on a desk. She wiped her fingers on her blouse. They weren’t clean, but for the moment her curiosity won over her instincts for responsibility for the precious volume. Some of the pages clung to one another. She opened to a colored illustration of a city under siege. The representation of the men and horses and the defenders inside the wall were highly figurative yet compelling. She leaned close to soak in every detail.
“Not everyone opened their gates,” she said as she saw figures of humans murdering one another with curved swords, bows, and flames.
“Most certainly not. These were made examples of so word of their torment would prevent further defiance.”
“You have no sage. All of this should be shared. There are lessons we could glean.”
He leaned around her and looked down at the illustration. “This one would be timely, wouldn’t it? This isn’t the only book on warfare or those who knew it as an art form. Are you familiar with the phrase ‘forlorn hope’?”
Goblin War Chief Page 5