by RG Long
The bright wall of light that had killed every goblin it touched had appeared well in front of him and gave him and all the other goblins around him enough time to scurry away from the castle and find a way out to sea together.
The only negative to this turn of circumstances, however, was that every single goblin aboard the ship was a stinking coward who had hoped the larger of their race would do all the difficult killing for them while they came by and picked off the almost dead.
Now that they had turned tail and fled the east, Stinkrunt was looking forward to finding the rest of the Big Scars, which he could at least count four of on the ship, and bossing them around and settling down somewhere back in familiar territory.
He was, after all, still the goblin big Doyen and that meant all of the others had to do what he told them to.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Howling and shrieking goblins on the right side of the boat brought Stinkrunt out of his daydream of ordering someone to bring him some decent food to eat. He was quite upset about this and even looked up from his vomit ready position to see what the commotion was all about.
Having done so, he wished he hadn't.
More than two-dozen white sails dotted the horizon, all of them bearing the banner of the Southern Republic.
Stinkrunt had no intention of going over why he, the leader of the goblins, was on a leaky ship with a minute number of them heading in the exact opposite direction they had been instructed to go.
“Quick!” he said, leaping to his feet and attempting to walk around the ship as if it were solid ground. The going was rough.
“Put the sails all the way up! Use the oars! Get the wind blowing faster! Whatever it takes! Move!”
Not that those on board needed telling, they had mostly started doing the things Stinkrunt had been ordering before he had given the commands.
He looked over his shoulder and saw that the sails were approaching them much faster than they were managing to escape. They would be on them before there was any chance of getting away.
In his haste to speed things along, Stinkrunt ran alongside one of the rails, carrying a bit of rope he was fairly certain belonged at the front of the boat. At that exact moment, however, another goblin lifted up a giant timber and turned around to head in the opposite direction. The timber hit Stinkrunt square in the chest and sent him, as well as a few barrels and the large piece of rope, hurtling over the side of the boat and into the foamy sea.
Stinkrunt spluttered and coughed up water that burned his nose and made his eyes swell with tears.
He grabbed onto a barrel with a Big Scar symbol on it and struggled to stay afloat. No one on the goblin vessel seemed to notice or care that they had just left their leader to float away in open water and continued to sail on.
He cursed loudly.
There was nothing Stinkrunt hated more than the ocean. Well, except being the sole goblin floating on a barrel in full sight of an approaching armada of Southern Republic ships.
The first humans aboard the forward most ship pointed him out to their crew.
"This is stupid," Stinkrunt said out loud as he saw a few of them begin lowering down a rowboat to collect him.
43: Sad Reunion
Throngs of people trudged south, away from Beaton, the once glorious city now laid to waste. With winter approaching, there would be little time to rebuild and repair. Those efforts would come with the spring. For now, however, they marched as one to the south.
Ealrin and Silverwolf stood as they watched them go. He leaned on Holve's old spear, favoring his uninjured leg. She simply had both her hands on her hips.
“Nice of the Southerners to give anyone who asked a lift,” she said sarcastically.
In truth, any of the soldiers from the Southern Republic that had breath still in them had sulked back to their ships and took the river south. Leaderless, they sailed away without any message or word. Ealrin had expected as much. There wasn't exactly anyone in Beaton to leave a message with. The Red Guard were without a general and Beaton was without a governor.
With whom would they discuss how to go forward? Alric?
He alone had emerged from the chaos. The rest of the Council of Seven hadn't made a showing yet. Alric had made a rousing speech about Thoran welcoming all who needed shelter and would gladly house refugees until the spring when they could return.
So people took what they could carry and followed the youngest prince to the first checkpoint between the two countries: Mountain Gate.
Ealrin could see the people snaking along the road for miles. He still stood at the ruined walls of Beaton, unsure of what to do next. He had come to Beaton on Teresa's orders, not Alric's. His loyalty was to Thoran and to his friends from there, but there was a hesitation he could not explain when it came to this prince he had spent so little time with.
And where had Folke gone? Ealrin had not seen him since before the battle began.
Was Thoran safe now? Was their mission accomplished? They had been sent to retrieve aid for a war they thought would be made in the south. Was all of the fight truly spent?
These thoughts allowed his mind to wander and not think on the terrible events that had taken place here. So many had lost their lives. And for what? Androlion was dead. Some gifted Speaker had killed Rayg, or so the rumors said.
Could peace be made after so much war?
“Mister Ealrin!”
He was carried away from his dreaming by the sound of a familiar voice and the sight of three rather short figures running his direction.
Gorplin, Jurrin, and Jurgon were trotting as quickly as their legs could carry them to the spot where he and Silverwolf stood. Twelve other dwarves followed them. Ealrin let out a shout and rushed to greet them. He fell on them as they all three tackled him to the ground.
“Friends!” he said as he regained his feet. “It's been a long time! Was it you that brought the dwarves from the west?”
“Bah,” Gorplin said, shrugging his shoulders and holding an axe Ealrin had not seen him carrying before. “And a dragon, don't forget that. Made a real mess of Androlion's lot before them demons showed up.”
“I saw the dragon,” Ealrin admitted. “It was with the dwarves?”
“It's a long tale, lad,” Gorplin admitted. “And these two have had their part in it, make no mistake.”
As he said that he patted Jurrin and Jurgon on the back.
It was good to see familiar faces.
“Is this a friend of yours, Mister Ealrin?” Jurrin asked, looking at Silverwolf a little sheepishly.
“Uhh,” Ealrin said, half smiling and looking back at Silverwolf, who had raised an eyebrow at him.
He was saved the task of answering by the sound of another voice he recognized.
“Have you seen Alric?” an elfish voice asked from behind him.
Wisym had come from within the city, flanked by half a dozen elves who all looked like they had only just managed to survive the battle.
“Didn't you hear pretty boy's speech?” Silverwolf asked, turning to face her and the surviving elves. “He told everyone who wanted a bed and a winter's supply of food to follow him. He's headed that way.”
She pointed toward the front of the line of people marching away. Without another word, save for a fleeting farewell in Ealrin's direction, Wisym ran toward Mountain Gate. Her elves followed her at a run.
“Bah. Elves.” Gorplin said, shaking his head as they watched them run south.
“Tell me about it, stubby legs.”
Ealrin spun again to see another face he hadn't in two weeks.
Tory was walking toward them, surrounded by elves clothed in black cloaks. Ealrin ran and embraced the only other Sword of the King he had not seen since they had split up.
It was seeing Tory that made Ealrin pause and realize something.
There were several missing from their company.
“Where's...”
Tory's lip quivered a bit and he sho
ok his head.
“Lote didn't, uh...”
He didn't have to finish for Ealrin to know that the stoic elf wouldn't be returning.
“And Gaflion?” he asked, turning to Gorplin.
The dwarf bowed his head and Jurrin's eyes watered.
“Nope,” Jurgon said, looking back up at Ealrin sadly.
He could hardly stand the realization that war had claimed so many of their original group. Gaflion, the veteran. Lote, purposeful and proud.
“And Bertrom?” Gorplin inquired, looking around, misty-eyed.
Ealrin shook his head.
“He found his bravery and it cost him his life,” Ealrin said. Silverwolf had coughed and turned back away from the gathering crowd.
“We'll have time to honor the dead,” said a voice from another life from below where they stood. “For now, let's help the living.”
They all turned. Gorplin spoke first.
“By the suns...”
“Oh, right,” Tory said looking at their expressions. “I forgot to tell you I found someone.”
Ealrin walked forward, stunned. Surely this was a ghost. There could be no other explanation for what he was seeing.
How else could Holve Bravestead be standing before him, pushing a small cart as if he were alive and not dead?
“Holve?” Ealrin asked, walking over to the man who had found him, nursed him back to life, and whom he had seen disappear into a blinding flash of light. “Is it really you?”
The old grizzled face looked into Ealrin's and he knew. It was the man himself. Ealrin ran to him and embraced him.
“I thought you were dead,” he said into the older man's shoulder. “You and that demon...”
It just couldn't be. He had to be imagining it. There had to be something about the way he was looking at him that told Tory what he was thinking.
“He's alive, Ealrin. If he were a ghost he'd have flown off by now, trust me,” he said from behind them.
Holve was patting Ealrin on the back. He took hold of his shoulders and held him at arm's length for a moment. The old man looked the young one up and down for a moment.
“You've grown,” he said shortly, the smallest hint of a smile on his face.
“As for me,” Holve continued, turning back to his cart and to two young faces who looked sad, like they had lost everything they cared about. Ealrin didn't recognize them. In all of the chaos, it was odd to see a young elf and a dwarf wandering the outer walls of Beaton with Holve. Then again, it was odd to see Holve, too.
“It's a tale I've told once before and can be retold in good time,” he said, walking back to the small cart he had wheeled over to them. “For now, we need to make haste to Mountain Gate and find her a healer. I don't think we can leave her here for too long, without proper shelter.”
Ealrin didn't know what Holve was talking about. He walked over next to him and looked down at the cart for the first time.
His stomach felt like it fell out from underneath him.
Lying in the cart, looking more dead than alive and covered up to her neck in a few ragged blankets, was the only one Ealrin had thought would be safe from the ravages of war and the pain he had experienced in full measure over the last month: Blume.
44: Spring's Joy
Ealrin looked out the window of the dining room at The Vagabond Inn. Not much had changed since he arrived three months ago. In fact, the only thing that had changed at all about the inn since he had first walked through the doors with several friends was the fact that every room was now taken, even though the patrons kept changing.
The war had driven many from their homes. Those who could afford it were staying at the inn through the cold winter. Others who were less fortunate had the option of working for their keep in town or else asking for assistance. The city of Mountain Gate had hardly seen such a busy winter.
Not much of that mattered to Ealrin, however, who sat by Blume's side day after day. Who else would care for her, after all?
Holve had come by once a month to check in with Ealrin and to tell him all about what was happening on Ruyn. The man never let a thing like snow or cold winds stop him from making long journeys. Standing by his window, Ealrin could see the first evidence of spring breaking through the winter that had been so dreary.
Small flowers were peeking through the last snow of the season on the grassy lawn of the inn. The suns even felt warm to Ealrin for the first time in months. Perhaps with a few more days, the snow would melt away and be gone until next winter.
But what good would spring do without the bright face of the only one Ealrin wanted to see smile?
He turned away from the window and walked slowly back up to the room where Blume lay, and sat down next to Holve on the bed opposite Blume's. He startled awake.
Clearing his throat, Holve adjusted himself in the chair.
“Get any rest?” he asked as he looked around the room and checked the mug he held in his hand. Ealrin took it from him and filled it up with water from the jug on the side table.
He shook his head.
Sleep had been fleeting for him throughout the time he had cared for Blume. Whenever he did, he felt as though something terrible may happen to her. And so he was awake and by her side as often as he could be.
Bright morning light was now pouring in through the window. It illuminated the room and fell on Blume's face, making her look less comatose and more like she was just sleeping.
The sight of it brought a tear to Ealrin's eye.
“I can't stay another night,” Holve said, not looking at Ealrin wipe his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I'm needed in Thoran. Teresa has given up the throne to Alric.”
“Didn't you say that Wisym had told her Alric murdered Folke?” Ealrin said, sitting up at this news.
Holve sighed deeply.
“I did,” he said through gritted teeth. “But it seems that Alric has managed to secure the support of the people.”
He took a deep gulp of the water Ealrin had poured him.
“It's cruel how things work themselves out sometimes,” he said, still looking at Blume. “Teresa gave everything she had to defend Thoran from the goblin invasion and with one speech, Alric is able to lay all the blame of not having enough winter supplies on her poor leadership.”
Holve snorted.
“As if Thoran could have asked for a better leader than Teresa.”
Ealrin let the statement hang in the air for a time before he spoke.
“So why give him the throne?” he asked. “Shouldn't she...”
But the end of his statement was something he knew Teresa wouldn't want. Holve finished it for him.
“Fight him for it? Go through a civil war that will ensure Thoran's demise into the history books? No. She won't fight him for it. There's been too much blood shed on Ruyn as it is. I'm meeting her and the few who refused to be led by Alric and going south.”
“To the Republic?” Ealrin asked.
Holve gave half a laugh.
“Not much more of a Republic, is it? The dwarves from the south who returned to their mountain homes refuse to have anything to do with Conny or any other human city, and the elves from the south are all but spent. I think Wisym and her lot are the very last of them. Wisym told me herself that they couldn't face returning to see what was left of Talgel or Ingur.”
He shook his head.
“Even though Androlion's gone, he nearly succeeded in ridding Ruyn of the races.”
Ealrin stood up and walked over to the fire, stoking the flames with a metal rod, giving new life to the embers below.
“Did we accomplish anything?” he asked, looking down at the dying fire. He turned and looked at Holve. “Were we able to help anyone?”
This terrible feeling had been creeping up over Ealrin all winter long. There had been so much loss. So many had died in this stupid, pointless war. Did their puny resistance to it even matter?
“You helped me,” said a voice that most certainly did not
come from Holve Bravestead.
Ealrin let the poker fall with a clang and dropped to one knee beside Blume's bed. Her eyes were just barely open, fighting against the sun in the room.
“Where am I?”
He almost let out a laugh of joy. Ealrin couldn't believe that she was alive!
“Mountain Gate,” Holve answered, his voice relieved and much lighter than it had been just now. “North of Thoran and you've been out for nearly three months.”
Blume let out a breath through her lips that sounded annoyed.
“Three months?” she asked, as if making sure she heard him correctly. “That explains my back.”
She winced as she tried to move.
“Not too quickly,” Ealrin said, a wide smile still on his face. “Rest.”
Blume grunted a bit and tried to move again, this time letting out a small yelp of pain, followed by a sigh.
“This is frustrating,” she said weakly. “Help prop me up, please.”
Together, Holve and Ealrin arranged her in such a way that her back was against the wall with a few pillows in-between so that she could sit up on her own. The long white evening shirt she was wearing fell loosely around her frame, Ealrin noticed with dismay. She had lost a good amount of weight while lying in bed.
She let out a deep breath as they finally got her into position. Several more winces and yelps had accompanied her request to sit.
“So,” she said, looking at them both expectantly. Ealrin realized the three of them had not all been together and in good health for almost half a year and smiled at the question Blume asked them.
“What's been happening?”
IT TOOK THE BETTER part of the morning to tell Blume of how the results of the siege of Beaton had spread over the land. Most of the changes had occurred in the south, where an elder who served before Androlion dissolved the previous council, Mara, was now the ruler of the human cities.
