Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

The shuddering started again.

  “The king and all his chiefs. King Thuric. King Sigeric. All the warriors. All families. All herds.” He looked suddenly into Julian’s eyes and he spoke slowly. “All are dead.”

  “Show me.”

  The man’s eyes rolled like those of a frightened animal.

  “Run,” he said. “Run.” Again he lapsed into his own tongue, the words heavy with lamentation.

  Julian put his hand on the man’s shoulder. This was terrible luck for his own plans, but he felt sympathy for the man. Julian had lost an opportunity; this man had lost his entire people.

  “You must show me. I am a Roman General.”

  “No, no, no.”

  Julian took him by the other shoulder.

  “You are with my Legion now. We will protect you.”

  The man gave a quick laugh that teetered at the edge of hysteria.

  Julian shook the man, hard. “Show me,” he commanded. “Show me and I’ll protect you. Fail me and I’ll leave you here for the cobbelensi.”

  He wasn’t sure quite how to say the word, but the man understood. He gasped.

  “What is your name,” Julian said, keeping his voice sharp.

  “Hontsa.”

  “Hontsa. Show me the battleground. I have to see it with my own eyes.”

  Hontsa nodded but seemed unable to speak. He kept looking at his dead horse.

  “Which way?” Julian asked.

  Hontsa pointed up the hill.

  Marcus now arrived, followed closely by Avitus. Both men began to protest almost at once. Julian chose the easier battle first.

  “Avi, I’m just going on ahead a bit. You stay here and keep an eye on my Legion.”

  “No, I’m going with you.”

  “No, you are staying.”

  Avitus stuck out his lower lip. “Your Lady Mother told me to go with you, not with a bunch of centurions.”

  “This is not a debate, Avi. You stay. I’ll be back soon.”

  “I have to go with you.” He pleaded rather than insisted.

  “You cannot. I won’t be gone long. Stay here; I don’t want to have to look after you.”

  Avitus looked hurt

  “I’m sorry,” Julian said quickly, “I just want to keep you safe. I didn’t mean … .”

  “Lucius Julianus didn’t,” Avitus replied. He hung his head and his voice went flat. “But General Metellus did.”

  Avitus gave way to Marcus without further protest, and that bothered Julian even more than his unfortunate words. It was as if by moving away some gap was opening between them, one he wasn’t sure he could close again.

  Marcus blustered.

  “This is a breach of protocol. The General must remain with the Legion. Let the scouts scout.”

  His face was animated, his skin flushed red at the cheekbones.

  “It’s not a scouting expedition,” Julian said. “I know what’s there, or I’ve a good idea anyway. I’m going to assess the strength of the enemy.”

  Marcus would not back down.

  “We don’t even know it’s an enemy.”

  “You saw the others fleeing. You’ve seen soldiers flee after a losing a battle, Marcus. You know this fellow is not lying.”

  “Very well,” Marcus said. So far from backing down, he took a step forward. “Then let the Legion advance with you. If there are so many of this enemy, maybe it’s not safe.”

  Julian considered his First Tribune. The two other Tribunes, Aetos Makris and Gnaeus Sextus just beyond, listened intently. This was not the time to argue, he decided. He raised his voice so the others could hear.

  “First, have the Legion form a defensive position. I won’t have you being surprised. I am taking a detachment of cavalry to investigate forward. Await my return.” He paused a beat. “You have my orders.”

  He left Marcus no room to maneuver and the man knew it. He watched his First bite back a retort, then draw himself up.

  “Yes sir, General, sir.” He came down hard on each ‘sir’.

  Before Marcus could turn away, Julian said quick and low, “I don’t like it either, First. I’m taking a gamble here. I need you to support me.”

  Marcus Salvius glanced at him sharply. “This is no palace amusement,” he said in a fierce whisper. “You are gambling with my men.”

  Julian winced. Whose men? He was going to have to work out his difficulties with his First Tribune, and soon. But first he needed to see this battlefield. He raised his voice again.

  “You choose the men, Captain Ennius. We set out in five minutes.”

  “Aye, General.”

  Ennius selected a squadron, two score of men accustomed to a reconnaissance in force. They all shared a lean look, grimly disinterested yet alert and ready. Veterans.

  They crossed a low hill that barely dipped before climbing steeply through a pine forest. The squadron filtered through it, working their way around trees and boulders. The air hung still and cold; the sky was a clear, pale blue.

  The barbarian kept trying to go back. He would walk along for a time, seemingly cowed, but would suddenly balk, and they had to urge him onward. Other times, he would turn right around, his head low, muttering to himself. He never tried to run; rather, he simply veered off like a stray sheep. At last, Julian stuck him on his own horse, where Hontsa kept up a continuous whisper filled with incomprehensible pleading.

  Ennius put riders on the flanks, but let Julian take the lead. They rode at a steady pace, up one hill and down another. Hontsa advised against riding in the valleys.

  “Not safe,” he said with a mad giggle, “also, the fogs come.”

  At the top of the next hill, Julian saw what he meant. A wall of pale gray was moving down from the north. He urged his horse to more speed.

  Hontsa’s whimpering edged toward a wail. Julian told him roughly to shut up, and the man returned to his moaning. Ennius drew his riders in closer.

  Near the top of a ridge between two tall hills, Hontsa began rocking from side to side. Then he threw himself off and would go no further.

  “There,” he whispered, pointing upward. He repeated the word, but said no more.

  “Dismount,” Julian said. He said it as a command, but he found his horse, like the barbarian, refused to go further in any case. He tied it to a sapling and started up.

  The ridge top was thirty yards further. The ground was covered with new heather and gorse bushes, providing a bit of protection so long as he did not stand. At the top, he pushed through a tangle of brush, and looked over.

  Before him spread a wide river valley, between high hills. The river itself was dark with bodies and blood, and a stink sat heavy on the air like rotted flowers in a closed room. A rustling, thudding sound rose with the stink, as of herds grazing. The scene refused to resolve itself into anything comprehensible. Carnage blanketed the valley floor.

  Below, nearer the ridge, he could make out details. He saw hundreds of black tents standing in irregular circles, a few campfires still burning. Scattered like leaves among them lay dead things: dogs, horses, goats, humans.

  Moving through this landscape were endless thousands of dark shapes that reminded Julian one moment of bears but another moment of apes. Every so often, one of the bodies moved, and in a flash three or four dark shapes leaped upon it, then it did not move again. And everywhere, the creatures made sport of the fallen. They slashed at the bodies and threw pieces into the air. They snatched up parts and bounded away. These scenes repeated endlessly, fading away into the advancing fog.

  A commotion sounded behind Julian but he could not tear his gaze away. He heard Hontsa’s voice saying, “all dead, all dead.”

  Something thudded heavily next to him. Ennius and another trooper had Hontsa pinned to the ground.

  “Tell the General what he is seeing.”

  “All dead,” Hontsa moaned. He lay on his stomach and buried his face in the dirt, refusing to look.

  “Tell me, friend,” Julian said, trying to keep the ang
uish out of his voice.

  “Can’t you see?”

  “How many? How many Thervings have died?”

  “All.” It was a long wail of a word.

  “Numbers, damn you,” Ennius snarled. His voice was ragged.

  Hontsa moaned into the dirt. Ennius grabbed him by the hair.

  “Wait,” Julian said, taking hold of Ennius’ wrist. The Captain drew back a little.

  “Fifty thousand?” Julian said. He frowned at himself for picking that number.

  “More.”

  “Sixty thousand?”

  “I don’t know, I swear by my ancestors,” Hontsa said fervently but softly. “Women, children, old men. Even the herds.”

  “What are those things?” asked Ennius.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Julian answered for Hontsa. “I want to know why there are so many.”

  Hontsa raised his head at this. “The cobelins are never so many, unless there comes a Gniva.”

  “A what?”

  The man repeated the word. “When the Gniva comes, all the other packs follow, until they are more than the stones in the earth. More than numbers can say. Then it is a Horde.”

  He shuddered as he said the word and began to moan again, softly, his face lowered.

  Julian looked out across the valley, trying to see if he might spot anything that might be a Gniva. All he saw was devastation, a whole people crushed out, with dark maggots gnawing at the remains. Something in the vista reminded him of his nightmares, and his stomach clenched. The foul smell crawled up the ridge and into his nose.

  “General, sir.”

  Ennius’ voice sounded at his ear.

  “We’d best be going. That fog’s coming up fast.”

  They mounted their horses once more and began riding back to the Legion. Hontsa was moaning again and now no one could quiet him. Julian made him walk, on the theory the effort of keeping up would take away his breath for moaning. After a while, it seemed to work. The barbarian fell slowly behind and had to trot repeatedly to catch up. None of the troopers were inclined to wait for him.

  “How many of those things do you think there were?” Julian asked of Ennius.

  “A hundred thousand, certe,” Ennius said. His voice was strained. “I saw an army of fifty thousand once, in Anatolia, and that didn’t half cover a smaller valley. It could be two hundred thousand.”

  “Alexander faced a quarter million Persians at Gaugamela,” Julian said. “Arrian tells us they stretched for miles, and that was in close formation.”

  “More than numbers can speak,” Ennius repeated Hontsa’s words. “Maybe the barbarian’s guess is as good as any.”

  They lapsed into silence. Behind him, Julian could hear the troopers whispering to one another, their low voices muffled by fear. He did not blame them.

  The thought of getting the Emperor his fifty thousand warriors was now no more than a poor joke. In the back of his mind, Julian realized his chance of getting protection from Emperor Valens was gone forever. But all that was back in the City. In the face of what he had just seen, his own troubles seemed remote, even trivial. He knew they were not. Plotinus would prosecute him regardless of larger dangers. But it did not, could not matter. These were invaders, whether man or beast or creature of legend. Whatever they were, they had slain an entire people. And, they were sure to descend upon the Empire.

  Invaders always did.

  The fog was waiting for them in the next valley. It flowed between the brown hills like milk, burying stone and tree. They stopped at its edge.

  “Down and then up,” Julian said, and Ennius agreed. “We won’t be able to tell direction once we’re in there, but we’ll be able to tell down and up.”

  “The Legion should be in the next valley beyond,” Ennius said. “And Marcus will have some men on the far side awaiting us, I’m sure of that.”

  “We’ll have to chance getting lost,” Julian said. “I have to get the Legion out of here, fast.”

  “Vere,” Ennius said as he stroked his horse’s neck. It was snorting and stamping uneasily. “No telling where those creatures might be.”

  Julian added to himself that he must get the Legion not just away, but back to the Empire. Few would believe him, back in the comforts of Constantinople. He would need the testimony of veterans to back him up. He might have to write to the Emperor at Antioch and persuade him to return with his legions.

  They plunged into the fog. One of the troopers snatched up Hontsa, to keep from losing him. Within mere seconds, Julian was all but blind. The stallion picked its way across the sloping ground as if walking through snakes. Every step was uncertain and much, much too slow. Julian heard sounds all around him—leather creaking, the snorting of horses, the cursing of men—but could see nothing beyond swirling gray that flowed past him like a stream.

  The ground leveled, then canted upward. Julian urged his horse forward, promising him just a little further, and just a little further. He felt badly for lying to his horse, then scorned himself for that. Any other time and place, it would have been funny, but not now, not in this place.

  The First Wing emerged from the fog in scattered groups. Even so short a distance had separated the veteran troopers. The men re-formed hastily, mocking each other at having lost formation so quickly. They gathered at the top of the hill.

  The fog had risen during their traverse. The cavalry now stood on an island in a sea of white smoke.

  “We can’t sit up here and wait,” Julian said. “Nor am I willing to risk the noise of shouting.” He pointed as he spoke, “there’s west, and I think I see another hill just there, which means down there is our Legion, unless I’ve miscounted my hills.”

  Nearby, Hontsa began a piteous wail.

  “One moment, General,” Ennius said, “I’m just going to slit that fellow’s throat, then I’ll be right back.”

  “Not yet,” Julian said, “he’ll quiet down once we start moving again.”

  “Then, by all the gods, let us start moving again.”

  They passed back into forest—pine trees with beech scattered among them. Once in the fog all sounds muted again; Julian could not shake the impression he was riding through a vast tomb. Even the horses seemed to sense it, and moved with their heads down at a reluctant pace.

  At least there was almost no underbrush. They traveled unimpeded among the trees. Julian peered into the mist but couldn’t distinguish between shadows and phantoms, horses or trees, until almost upon them. Hearing was as bad as seeing. With not a stir of wind, there should have been no sound other than the tread of horses and the creak of leather, but every so often would come a snap or thump, causing him to glance suddenly in this direction or that. He could not decide from where the sounds came, not with everything muffled by mist, but the sounds always seemed close. He pulled off his helmet, to hear better, and found it was slick with moisture. He wiped it with his cloak, but the cloak was also wet. Everything, even the air itself, was pressing in upon him.

  A movement to his left caught his eye. He started a bit, then saw it was Captain Ennius. Julian turned in the saddle to speak to him and as he did so, something hit him in the back, hard. The blow knocked his helmet from his grasp, and he went flying. He saw trees and what might have been a horse rotate through his field of vision. Then the ground struck him, and for a few moments he could see only bright spots and hear only a loud ringing in his ears.

  He lay still for a moment, face down, trying to decide what had just happened. His first thought was that his horse had thrown him, but then he remembered being hit. Had he been shot by an arrow?

  The ringing in his ears subsided and merged with the unmistakable sounds of battle: men crying out to one another, horses shrieking, a horn sounding. He rolled over, got to one knee, and stood up, looking around.

  He could see only a few strides in any direction. He saw shapes dashing about, but the shapes were confusing. To his right he could see a man on a horse, but what was that other shape? A bear? W
ere they being attacked by bears? No, he was just remembering camp stories. He shook his head, trying to order his thoughts. He took a few uncertain steps in one direction, veered to the right, then back to the left. Sounds seemed to be coming from several places at once, but he couldn’t sort them out.

  A horse bolted by without a rider. He took a few steps more and saw a man lying on the ground, unmoving. He went over to him and saw the man’s head was twisted horribly and his throat was laid open, red and steaming. Then he saw a shape go flying past in the fog about five feet off the ground, and that didn’t make any sense at all.

  In one part of his mind he thought he should be giving orders, taking command, but the notion seemed absurd. This was chaos. There was no sort of order to give and no one to give it to. Even so, he felt a powerful urge to do something. Men around him were fighting; he should be in the fight.

  He continued in the same direction. A trooper approached him, sword in hand. His eyes were wild and his mouth was working but no sound came out. He turned and ran off into the fog.

  Only then did Julian realize his own sword was still in its scabbard. He cursed, pulled it out, and took stock of himself for the first time. His horse was gone, and his shield with it. The sword in his hand felt nearly useless. He waved it about vaguely. Having armed himself, only now did he begin to be afraid. A moment earlier he had felt as if he were watching some weird theater performance, but now that he held a sword, he could not only fight, it was conceivable he could also die.

  A man was ahead of him. Julian took a step, then something landed in front of him, not five feet away. It was facing away from him—it must have jumped directly over his head. He could see it plainly enough, at least from the back, but what he saw was utterly unfamiliar. He saw one long arm swing, saw a shield go up to take the blow, and realized that whatever it was, it was attacking one of the troopers. He did not see what it was, or who the trooper was, all he saw was the arm swing and the shield block. Without conscious thought, he ran forward and plunged his sword into the back of the attacker.

  It felt like stabbing a tree. The blow jolted through his arm and shoulder, and he nearly lost his grip on the hilt. He yanked hard, pulled out the sword, and stabbed again, but the attacker spun as he did so. The blade glanced off, even as an arm caught him across his own arm. This time the sword was knocked out of his hand and fell to the ground.