Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  Inglena sat near a campfire that was just coming hot enough for cooking. She was tired and hungry, as she always was after a battle. Her sword lay next to her, scabbarded and wrapped, the hilt showing like a sliver of ice.

  Stavanos was busy with the food, though she knew this was only so he could be near her. Every service he did was like a claim laid upon her. Every kindness felt unkind.

  She couldn’t afford having him panting after her, now that the Romans were here. She had to make them take her people with them, and for that she needed to keep all her options available. She had been pursued by enough men, both before and after the exile, to know how to be pursued. If using herself as lure would save her people, then so be it, and she could not allow Stavanos to get in the way.

  But who was she to lure? She had met two leaders today, exact opposites. One was called commander but behaved like a fool. The other behaved like a commander, but had not the title. The General was the one to flatter, obviously. Also obviously, he liked to be flattered, though he did not like being tricked. Julian seemed too much like a child—a clever, pretty and fascinating boy. She was sure he had many girls back in his home, but she doubted he loved any of them.

  The other one, she thought she could like. He was built like a warrior, with broad shoulders and a strong face. He was not handsome in the usual way, but his eyes were kind even under the black eyebrows. He was older, but she saw in him a true leader. He cared about his men above all else, and she sympathized with that. If he chose to protect her, she could rely on him utterly. She could not say the same for the General.

  “Some bread, Inglena, and a bit of rabbit. I warmed it in the fire.” Stavanos stood near, holding out a bowl.

  The look on his face, too young and too eager, made the food taste bitter before she took the first bite. Soon, she thought, I shall have to be cruel.

  As she ate, she allowed herself to think about the disaster. King Athanaric dead, along with all his people. Other kings as well. A Horde on the march, a thing that had not happened in generations. The only king left to the People was Fritigern, her own uncle, a man who even in his prime was never more than cunning. Never a strong leader. A fox, not a wolf.

  Worse, he was the only king left who could overturn the old laws, end the exile, return the rixen to the People. And he was the very king who had banished her in the first place.

  Leuva had always said they should run. Up into the mountains, or through the Iron Gates and into the Western Empire, where goblins would never go. For Leuva, and those who followed her, exile was a fact of life, part of the very existence of the People, not something to be overturned. Even now, after a string of victories, Inglena had won over little more than half the rixen to her cause. Leuva had, after all, been an exile for years before Inglena had come along.

  Her own plan was still the best, even so. She argued with herself because she knew she would have to argue with the others. Fritigern more than any of the other kings would seek a safe harbor, and Rome was the safest in the world. If the price of Roman protection was to accept the rixen, the old fox would be the one to pay it. It was up to her to convince these Romans that her own people were also worth the price. Marcus the Tribune might speak for her, but would this General? Would he even survive? She had a brief, unworthy thought that if the General should die, things might be easier.

  “Princess?”

  It was Stavanos again.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said. His head bobbed once, an odd half-motion he had adopted. Something short of a bow, but only just.

  “What is it?” She knew he adored her, perhaps loved her, but she could not help feeling annoyed by it, and she seemed unable to keep from showing it. The more he put up with it, the more he irritated her.

  “Were you going to say what message to send to camp?”

  And that was the worst of it. The boy was sincere, dedicated, conscientious. And right. If he had been rude or stupid, it would be so much easier to be angry with him.

  “You are right, Stavanos. I was thinking of other things.”

  “Of course, Princess.”

  She sighed.

  “You must do a Sending. Tell Mila, she seems to hear you best. This is the message: it is time. I have found the Romans. Leuva must bring all our people at once to the Four Trees and wait there. Bring everyone.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “What? She will come.”

  “But will she wait?”

  “At the Four Trees?”

  He nodded.

  Inglena did not reply at once. She had seen a confrontation coming ever since she declared her intention of allying with the Romans. This was not how she wanted that confrontation to take place, but the Horde changed everything.

  “She will wait,” Inglena said, with more confidence than she felt. “Even if she runs, it will be to the mountains, and at Four Trees is a good crossing. She will wait there if only to tell me again that I am wrong.”

  Stavanos smiled, and that was another problem. He had a most pleasing smile.

  “Go on. Send the message. Leuva and I are not enemies yet. We will have to wait here tonight, but the others should start as soon as they can.”

  Stavanos nodded, his round face serious. He was so young and so earnestly brave, she felt sorry for him. It was the most she could feel.

  There, she told herself, you have done what is needed. Rest.

  She took her own advice, lay down, and fell asleep at once.

  CHAPTER TEN

  All Are Needed

  Julian was already awake when the first trumpets of the day sounded. He sat up in his cot and looked at himself in the almost-total darkness, exploring his wounds. The cuts had not bled, but the skin felt tight. A score of bruises covered his upper body, bad enough that it hurt even to raise his arms. His armor had protected him from worse. The trumpets called just as he stood up.

  A moment later, Avitus opened the curtain that separated the two rooms of the tent.

  “You’re up,” he said.

  “Don’t sound so astonished,” Julian said. “It wasn’t punctuality, it was pain.”

  “Serves you right for playing the hero,” Avitus said. His voice was scolding, but he was especially careful as he dressed his master.

  Julian declined anything but water and some bread, saying he wanted to get going. When the two men went outside, they found the Legion was already forming ranks.

  “D’you suppose they’d leave without us, Avi?”

  “No, but they might pack us like supplies onto the wagons. That tribune doesn’t care for laggards.”

  Julian took his place near the standard.

  “Salve, General,” the man holding it said.

  “Salve,” Julian replied. He peered. “You are … Ulpian? Uros?”

  “Ursinus, sir. Ursinus Desidenius.”

  He was a big man with a heavy black beard and great paws for hands, much scarred. That makes it easy, Julian thought. A bear, carrying a standard.

  “Ursinus,” he said aloud, though not quite to the man. “Ursinus the Standard-Bearer.”

  “Er, yes sir,” Ursinus said uncertainly. “That’s me.”

  Trumpets sounded again, and after a moment Julian recalled his role. “Oh!” he said, “March!”

  The order was repeated up and down the line, though without the interjection, and the Legion moved out.

  “Salve, General.”

  “Good morning, First.”

  “You intend to walk?”

  “I do,” Julian said, “and before you say more, I do remember our earlier talk. Generals ride, you said. I regret to admit, my previous horse bolted and has likely provided some ghobellensi a toothsome supper. Given the shortage of horses for our cavalry, I have decided not to waste a horse on myself.”

  Before Marcus could respond to this, Inglena approached and spoke.

  “We have a horse. It belonged to Peikar.”

  Julian could tell by the tone what that meant.

&
nbsp; “There, sir,” Marcus said, “a horse.”

  Julian had no answer for that. He hurt too much to be witty.

  Inglena sent one of her men, who returned soon after Second Call had sounded. He was leading a small horse, not much larger than a pony, who ambled behind with an odd, rolling gait.

  “He’s wide in the hocks,” Inglena said apologetically, “but he’s steady in battle and can walk from sunrise to sundown.”

  Julian eyed the dun-colored animal with the bowed legs and smiled. He glanced sidelong at Marcus.

  “He’s perfect,” he said. “I shall call him Bandylegs.”

  Julian had the pleasure of hearing his First Tribune actually gasp.

  “Sir, I … ah ….”

  “No more protesting, Marcus. I need a mount, as you have said. Third Call is about to sound.” He climbed aboard Bandylegs easily, despite his wounds. His sandals were no more than a foot off the ground. “It is settled.”

  Before the XII was beyond the next hill, everyone in the Legion knew their General had named his horse after the Emperor Valens, who had famously bowed legs to go with his enormous paunch of a belly. It was a soldier’s sort of joke, though not one any of them would have been likely to risk. It was fine for the General to do so, though, and the men told each other the story with zest and a note of pride.

  Avitus had a mount as well, a brown, rather dejected-looking beast. The Scythian promptly named it Horse from Hell.

  “It’s not a horse,” Julian pointed out, “it’s a donkey.”

  “Yes,” Avitus agreed, “but let me dream.”

  The Legion moved out, down and away from the battlefield, marked now only by a thin twist of smoke that rose from the pyre where the Romans had burned their dead. Their new Thervingian guides led the Romans by different paths through shouldering hills, under a wan gray sky. The men as they marched glanced nervously at the pine forests or wide thickets of scrub oak and hawthorn trees and red-barked dogwood, looking for any untoward movement. Their imaginations made grotesque shapes out of boulders, guttural cries out of the cawing of rooks, and gave movement to shadows, but in fact the hills were silent and empty. The only sound was the rumble of foot and hoof, the regular beat of Roman boots syncopated now by the irregular tramp of the rixen.

  The Romans tried to see if magicians looked any different from regular folk, but the light of the cold day soon dispelled the most foolish of the rumors. There were no half-man, half-goats. No purplish smoke emanated from any Therving’s hands. None of them walked a foot above the solid earth. Some soldiers, though, persisted.

  “They’re disguised, you nit-brain. Ya don’ think they’d walk about in they’s true form! You wait. One of them starts to cast a spell, then you’ll see their true shape.

  “Don’t stare at them,” said another. “They can bewitch you with the evil eye.”

  And so on. A few suggested that the barbarians might be all right, since they helped our boys, during the fight and after as well, but the consensus was that this had been for their own ends, which were mysterious, that they weren’t to be trusted, that sorcery was a bad business and everyone knows it. The further consensus was that the General had let those people tag along because he was smitten by that woman. She was a beauty, certe, but someone sensible—like Marcus Salvius, for instance—would never have let her within ten miles of our boys if he could help it. And here, too, they hinted sorcery might be at work.

  The Thervingian princess, Inglena, accompanied Julian. She rode a fine roan stallion, easily four hands taller than Bandylegs.

  She is very pretty, Julian thought. Naive, a bit too earnest, and not nearly so beautiful as the woman from his vision, but he forgave that. The little, quick smiles she sent his way were clearly intended as flirting, but she was not very good at it. She intrigued him, though, and he was eager to learn more about what had happened.

  “I said yesterday you owed me an explanation, about your people, those creatures, that sword.”

  “Yes,” she said, then seemed unsure as to what to say next, so he helped.

  “Tell me about that sword of yours.”

  “It was my father's.”

  Again she lapsed into silence. Julian resisted the urge to sigh. It was hard enough to concentrate with his horse’s odd gait rolling him from side to side without having to lead this barbarian girl through a conversation.

  “Did he make it?”

  “I do not know,” she said. He was afraid she would stop again, but she kept going after a moment. “He never talked to me about it, and then he died. It became mine when he was killed by the goblins.”

  “I’m sorry.” He said the words, but they felt weak and trite. She seemed not to hear them.

  “It is not a magic sword. In your hands, it would be only a sword. Any other sword in my hands is just a sword. But this,” she reached over her shoulder to touch the hilt, “when it is in my hands ….” She shrugged. “You saw.”

  “Indeed I did. I don't understand it, but I saw it.”

  She shrugged. Julian cast about for words. Here was this extraordinary thing, utterly inexplicable. How was he to make sense of it? He was, he supposed, asking her to explain something that for her was as ordinary as a tree stump.

  “Very well, tell me about the enemy,” he said, not knowing what else to say about the sword. “What are they?”

  “Goblins,” she said.

  “Gobelins,” he said, trying the word. She gave a small smile. “Where do they come from? What are they?”

  “What they are? Goblins,” she said. “Where they come from is easier to say. A very long time ago, the People lived in their homeland, on the shores of the Sea of Jand.”

  “I do not know that Sea,” Julian said.

  Her lips thinned a bit. “I do not know how to tell you.” She pointed. “East. Far to the east.”

  “Good enough,” he said. “Many strange things come out of the East.”

  “We lived there since the gods made the world. But one day, a man crossed over the Sea, when the water was low from drought. He crossed from island to island, and there he was captured by goblins.”

  She was not looking at Julian as she spoke but looked ahead, her eyes distant. She was reciting legend. The morning sun put diamonds in her black hair.

  “Goblins have no voice, but they do speak, in motions and by clicking their claws. Somehow they made the man understand they would spare his life if he showed them the way across the Sea.” She looked over at Julian. “Goblins cannot swim and they fear water.”

  “Good to know. Let’s hope we get across the Siret quickly, then.”

  “They find ways to cross rivers,” she said. “But the Sea of Jand protected the People. Until the first rixen brought the goblins.” She sighed. “At least, that is how the legend goes. This man was the first rixen and he brought the goblins. In later years, other rixen appeared, and whenever they appeared, so did the goblins. Then King Gramond decreed Exile and all the rixen were driven away. And so we have been, ever since.”

  “Do you believe this story?” Julian asked.

  “No,” she said, and he saw a glint of fire flash in her eyes. “I do not know how the goblins found us, but I do know my people would not call the goblins. We fight them.”

  “And this Horde?”

  Her face paled at the word.

  “It comes only once in a long time, no one knows why. Long enough that there are always those who try to stop it, but no one has ever stopped a Horde. There have been battles, but we always lose, and then the People have to run. If we run far enough and fast enough, the Horde disappears by itself, when the Gniva dies.”

  “The Horde holds together only by this Gniva?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we only need to kill him!”

  She gave a short, bitter laugh. “He is surrounded by thousands of goblins, and by hobs as well, who can hurl fire, or so the legend says. No one can kill the Gniva; no one has ever come close.”

  Julian
chose not to argue with her, but he filed away the information. Anyone can be killed, he thought, there is always a way.

  “Yet, you fight them,” he said aloud.

  “We do.”

  “Why, if it is hopeless?”

  She did not answer right away. They continued at walking pace. Julian wished the men would take up a song, but the Legion marched in silence through the long morning shadows. A hawk in the distance stooped and dove behind a line of bare-limbed chestnut trees.

  “I fight for redemption,” Inglena said at last.

  Julian waited.

  “I fight to show we are the defenders of the People, not their enemy. If we fight well enough, I hope the kings will end the Exile.”

  “But you said this Horde cannot be defeated.”

  She sighed. “It is so. And the kings are all dead, except for Fritigern.”

  “You want me to speak to the king on your behalf, don’t you?”

  “How could you know?”

  He shrugged. “It’s obvious enough. You contacted me looking for an ally. Well, you have one. You don’t need to persuade me, Princess. I have a feeling we shall both need all the help we can get.”

  Now she looked dumbfounded. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Say yes. It’s one of our easier words.”

  She rode in silence for a little while, seeming to struggle with something. Finally she spoke.

  “I must tell you something, General Metellus.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It may be not all of the rixen will want to be your ally.”

  “That would be a shame,” he said, “for all are needed.”

  “Some believe we should go into the mountains, go west again, as we have always done. That this is the only way the People can survive, by keeping to the old customs. Leuva believes this, and she has many who would follow her.”

  “Doesn’t one of those old customs keep you in exile?”