by Alex Stewart
“Neither did I.” Oaktwig strode into the illuminated circle, approached the fire, and crouched next to the goblin to warm his hands. “But this won’t wait. The usurper’s sent one of his attack dogs to sniff around. It seems it’s finally dawned on him you’re getting information from someone inside the camp.” He seemed a lot less pompous and ineffectual than he had the previous night, Drago thought, although which persona was play acting, designed to hide his real motives, was difficult to tell. Perhaps they both were. One thing he’d learned early in his profession was that very few people were really all that they seemed.
“Then you shouldn’t have taken the risk,” one of the others said.
Oaktwig shrugged. “I’ll be back before he even notices I’m gone, standing on my dignity and bleating about protocol after making him wait to talk to me. One thing I’ll say for the troll shagger, he’s fun to wind up.”
The burly goblin stood, Oaktwig matching the movement, and shook his head dubiously. “Don’t underestimate him. What’s so important it couldn’t wait?” He paused for a moment, mulling over his own words. “Apart from the fact that he’s here, of course.”
“He’s dug something up already, or thinks he has. The usurper’s agents in Fairhaven have been hiring bounty hunters to go after Gorash.”
“We know.” The goblin nodded. “We’ve got people there too. Who got to them first.”
“Most of them,” Oaktwig said. “One managed to give them the slip, got on a riverboat, and made it as far as the mine. If he’s that resourceful and persistent, you should let Gorash know before he pays him a visit.”
The goblins laughed, their leader the heartiest of all. “I don’t think he’s got that much to worry about. But I’ll tell him what you said.”
“Good.” Oaktwig turned away, his eyes already on the path leading back to the quarry. “I’ll keep my head down for a few days, and see what happens. Anything urgent I’ll pass on as soon as I can.”
“If you don’t get caught,” the burly goblin cautioned. “But we’ll leave someone here just in case.” The expressions on the faces surrounding him were ample evidence of just how much none of the other goblins wanted to be the one left behind in the woods on the off chance of receiving a message several days later.
“I won’t be,” Oaktwig assured the leader, blissfully unaware that Graymane was presumably still toiling up the path behind him, and that they were almost bound to meet head on.
Drago hesitated. If he followed the elf back he could assist Graymane in Oaktwig’s apprehension, and presumably force the location of the bandits’ camp out of him somehow. But that would take time. On the other hand, if he followed the bandits, who were now, with one sulky exception, preparing for departure, he’d find the camp for himself before the night was over. All he’d have to do then would be to sneak back to the mine undetected, and tell Graymane where to find it. After that they could raid it at their leisure, preferably with a goodly number of elven soldiers to keep the bandits occupied while Graymane fulfilled his oath, and Drago examined the bandit chief’s dwelling for any readily portable valuables in lieu of the second installment of his payment from Greenleaf.
That, on balance, seemed the better option, offering the greatest possibility of success in the shortest possible time. If he was careful, there would be little or no risk, especially as he could see the goblins and they couldn’t see him.
Then Oaktwig’s foot brushed against a clump of fallen leaves, kicking them into the fire. They were tinder dry, and roared up, flickering brightly.
“Look! You were followed!” the burly goblin yelled, and Drago glanced reflexively at the pathway, expecting to see Graymane stumbling into an ambush. Only when he saw nothing there did he realize the goblin was pointing directly at him.
“Shag it!” Drago was moving even as the involuntary oath left his mouth, his hand going instinctively to the sword at his waist, although he hadn’t the slightest intention of standing and fighting against so many. Turning on his heel, he plunged into the tangle of undergrowth surrounding the clearing, trusting to his smaller stature and ability to see in the dark to help him evade pursuit.
“Where did he go?” Oaktwig demanded, his own blade hissing from its scabbard. The goblins were turning their heads this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of him Drago supposed, although he didn’t think they stood much of a chance so close to the fire; the light it threw out would merely intensify the surrounding darkness, making his cover even harder to penetrate.
“Over there,” the burly goblin said, pointing almost exactly at Drago’s position, and the gnome realized he’d badly underestimated the competence of his opposition. These bandits were as much at home in the woods as Drago was in the avenues and alleyways of the Wharfside district, and were perfectly able to track him by the noise he was making. Throwing himself flat he crawled under the low-hanging branches of a thicket of some shrub he didn’t recognize, but the leaves of which were inordinately prickly, and emerged a moment later on the other side of a barrier he was fairly certain the larger beings would be unable to penetrate.
Rolling from beneath the bushes onto a patch of soft, rich leaf mould which muffled the sound of his movements, he stood cautiously, stilling his breathing as much as he could, and froze, looking back at the flickering fire. The silhouettes of Oaktwig and the goblins stood out clearly against the fluctuating light, blurring as they passed behind the intervening vegetation.
“I can’t hear him,” Oaktwig said, what Drago could see of his posture conveying the impression of listening intently.
One of the goblins shook her head. “Me neither.”
Drago began to move away, placing each foot carefully on the cushioning loam, wary of treading on anything which looked as though it might snap and betray his position. Following the bandits when they left wasn’t looking like such a good option anymore; they were bound to be wary from now on, alert to any suspicious sounds behind them, and would probably leave a rear guard in ambush in case he tried. That was what he’d do in their boots, anyway. Better to stick with his first idea, follow Oaktwig instead, and help Graymane apprehend him. If he hadn’t fallen off the ledge trying to climb out of the quarry in the dark . . .
“We won’t have to,” the burly goblin said, taking something from his pocket, and Drago felt a sudden chill of apprehension. Gorash’s agents in Fairhaven had used magic, as he remembered only too well; it shouldn’t have come as that much of a surprise that his other followers had access to it too. “He must be around here somewhere.” He threw the small object in his hand in roughly the right direction, presumably toward the last place he’d heard Drago moving.
After his encounter with the filth golem, Drago wasn’t about to hang around and see what this spell was supposed to do; especially as the air was suddenly filled with the rustling of foliage. With one last glance back, he began to run, heedless of the noise he was making—which was probably being drowned out by now anyway. Suddenly the campfire was no longer visible, the thicket he’d crawled through denser and larger, the branches growing longer and thicker before his startled and horrified gaze.
Drago jinked sideways, making for a gap between the trees, but suddenly it was no longer there, fresh brambles shooting up from nowhere to fill the gap. As he turned aside they lashed out in his direction, snagging for a moment on the sleeve of his jacket before ripping free.
Writhing roots burst from the ground, entangling his feet, and he cut at them with his sword, heedless of the damage he was doing to the edge of his blade in the process. Right now, that seemed to be the least of his worries. He tore his boots free, but a low-lying tree branch whipped out, entangling his sword arm; before he could free it, another was round his throat. Reaching up with his free hand he tore frantically at the encircling wood, feeling the noose tighten in spite of his best efforts; then a bunch of flexible twigs seized his wrist, the scratchy bark feeling like the grasp of skeletal fingers against his skin. Darkness fell across his
eyes, sparks flaring as his straining lungs gasped for non-existent air, the wooden noose biting into his carotid artery.
Then the darkness and the sparks were all there were, until even they faded into nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Just got someone to finish.”
Drago’s first surprise on coming round was that he didn’t seem to be dead. The second was that he was lying on something soft, which gave slightly under him, and the third was that he managed not to throw up, despite the nausea and the pounding headache which all but overwhelmed him the moment the first surprise had kicked in.
“Take your time,” a voice said, with what sounded like genuine solicitude, and Drago opened his eyes; he’d stirred without thinking as he began to regain consciousness, and cursed himself silently for forfeiting the chance to counterfeit oblivion while he got the measure of his surroundings. “Don’t try to sit up too fast—told you so.”
Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of nausea as he tried to push himself upright, Drago slumped back on what turned out to be a large, well-stuffed cushion. It was embroidered in an elaborate pattern which did nothing for the rippling lights which exploded across his vision in response to his attempt to move, and his pounding headache. Rolling over, he sat up a little more cautiously, and raised a hand to massage his neck, which, unsurprisingly, was uncomfortably stiff.
“Perhaps you should drink something.” The speaker turned out to be a goblin, sitting in a folding camp chair, looking down at Drago with an expression of affable curiosity on his face. An expression Drago was far too wary to trust.
“Perhaps I should.” His own voice surprised him, emerging in a husky croak, and he swallowed, finding his throat dry and sore, as if he was just getting over a severe cold. His sword was gone, of course, he’d known that instantly from the angle he’d been lying at when he woke. Had he dropped it when he lost consciousness? Probably, but the scabbard was missing too. He fought down the impulse to check his boot; somehow he doubted that the bandits would have missed the dagger hidden in it, but on the remote chance that they had, he wasn’t about to reveal its presence.
“Then by all means, help yourself.” The goblin indicated a folding table next to his chair, which seemed well stocked with food and drink.
Despite the aftereffects of being choked, which still lingered, Drago began to feel hungry again, which he supposed was a good sign. After a moment of struggling against the cushion, which seemed determined to suck him back down again like the mud exposed at low tide in the Geltwash estuary, he found his feet, with a little less difficulty than he pretended. He still didn’t know who this goblin was, and why he was being so polite to someone he must have every reason to believe was there to assassinate his boss, but sooner or later he was probably going to have to fight his way out of here. If it turned out to be sooner, then it certainly wouldn’t hurt to seem less able than he was.
Swaying a little on his feet, Drago took the opportunity to get a good look at his surroundings. As he’d surmised, he was in a tent, a large one; possibly even the murdered queen’s royal pavilion, judging by the quality of the hangings, and the oak tree motif common to most of them. It was hard to judge the full size of it, as the sleeping area had been curtained off, leaving the living area they were now in all that he could see. Rugs covered the floor, but he could see grass beyond the open tent flap, and what looked like a surprisingly large camp; two or three tents were partially visible through the narrow gap, along with a couple of campfires. If the shadows they cast were anything to go by, the tent flap was flanked by guards, a guess confirmed a moment or two later by glimpses of mailed elbows.
Drago tried to extrapolate the full size of the camp from the tiny portion of it he could see, then gave it up as a bad job; there was still too much he didn’t know, although if the line of trees he could see beyond the tents was anything to go by it was still somewhere in the woods, probably a clearing.
The food and drink, however, were definitely present, and he walked over to the table, careful to keep out of reach of any sudden moves by his enigmatic host. A second chair was already pulled up to it, into which he clambered, finding a second place setting already prepared opposite the goblin. Despite the real sense of menace he felt in this situation, the theatricality of that made him smile. This was someone who enjoyed playing mind games, which hinted at a sense of superiority, and an exaggerated opinion of their own cleverness. Someone, in other words, who could be outwitted a great deal more easily than they supposed.
“You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” he said, reaching out to a flagon of wine which, from the sheen and the heft of it, was probably made of silver; the eyes and tongue of the dragon engraved on it were finely cut rubies. He poured a generous measure into a matching goblet, and swallowed appreciatively, his voice returning to something like normal. He’d never tasted anything like it; even the contents of Lady Selina’s flask had been little better than dockside tavern dregs by comparison.
“It was no trouble,” the goblin said, with evident amusement. He indicated the food. “Help yourself. I’m sure this evening’s exertions have left you a little on the hungry side.”
“They have.” Drago contemplated a plateful of roast pigeons, transferred one to the platter in front of him, and began to dismember it. He tried to match his host’s insouciant manner of speaking, hoping it didn’t sound too forced. “I have to admit, I’m rather surprised to be here.”
“Not half as surprised as we were,” the goblin assured him. “But under the circumstances, Nug thought it would be better not to kill you once the trees had you under control. At least until after we’ve had a little chat, and decided what’s best to be done.”
Drago noted the implied threat, as he was supposed to do, and nodded politely, pretending to have missed it. “Nug?” he enquired. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Well, you certainly haven’t been introduced,” his host conceded. “Nug was in charge of the detachment you came across in the woods.” Drago nodded again, picturing the burly goblin who’d conducted most of the business with Oaktwig. “Luckily he had a charm on him, or we might never have found you again.” He poured himself a drink, and sipped at it, his eyes never leaving the gnome.
“I should have expected it,” Drago said, around a mouthful of avian flesh. He swallowed, and continued a little more clearly. “Your people in Fairhaven were very fond of throwing spells around.”
The goblin nodded. “Magic has its uses. If you don’t get too reliant on it.” He sipped his wine again. “From which, I take it, you’re the one that got away.”
“I am.” Drago nodded too. “Drago Appleroot, at your service.” He wasn’t quite sure what “at your service” was supposed to mean, but it was one of the things people said to one another when formally introduced, and he thought it would be the right thing to say under the circumstances. Anything that helped this goblin fop believe he was buying his charade of good manners would work for him.
“And you know who I am, of course.” The goblin chuckled quietly, as if sharing a private little joke he thought Drago was already in on. “If you’ll pardon my bluntness, I really am most curious. Just how were you intending to kill me?”
“Kill you?” for the first time since he’d woken up, Drago felt his head spinning from something other than the aftereffects of being choked into unconsciousness. “You mean you’re Gorash?”
The goblin stared at the gnome for a moment, while it dawned on him that Drago’s astonishment was genuine, then burst out laughing so hard that one of the guards stuck his head round the tent flap to make sure everything was all right. Gorash waved him away.
“I’ve always thought I was. But perhaps we should ask my wife when she gets back, just to be on the safe side. After all the unexpected news we’ve been getting tonight, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to find I’m someone else entirely.” He sat up straighter in his chair, directing a glance of keen intelligence at Drago. “Wha
t exactly were you expecting to find here?”
“If I’m honest?” Drago decided he might as well be. He’d misread the entire situation from the start, it seemed, even the second place at the table, and his head still felt too heavy, his thoughts too slow, to keep track of any attempts at misdirection. “Someone I could talk to.”
“About what?” Clearly, whatever answer Gorash had been expecting, this wasn’t it.
“Getting your people off my back. I turned Stargleam’s offer down flat, but they didn’t believe it, and kept coming after me anyway. I’m a bounty hunter, not an assassin. I’ve only ever killed in self-defense, and that’s not a line I’m willing to cross unless I’m forced to.”
“I see.” Gorash looked thoughtful. “And what would force you to?”
“Saving my own neck,” Drago said. “If you didn’t call them off, then that would be self-defense in a way. Don’t you think?”
“I think the legal profession or the priesthood has taken a bigger loss than either of them will ever know,” Gorash said, an unmistakable glint of amusement kindling in his eyes. “But I take your point. I’ll send word back to Fairhaven to leave you alone in future.”
“Just like that?” Drago asked, completely wrong-footed. Somehow he’d expected things to be a lot more complicated.
“Just like that,” Gorash assured him. He paused for a moment, in a manner Drago found far from reassuring. “Of course, you could do me a little favor in return.”
“Could I?” Drago asked, not giving away any more than he could help.
Gorash nodded again. “You have the run of the mining camp, and you know your way here now. Or, at least from there to the meeting point Oaktwig uses to pass on information. It’ll be dangerous for him to make contact, with this spy the usurper’s sent sniffing around the place, but you could run messages for him instead without anyone even noticing. What do you say?”
