by Marin Landis
Who would create such a disgusting display? He knew the answer even while thinking it. The Goblins. Maybe that’s what the one he’d caught was referring to.
He looked at the tree again. It was solid and didn’t offer a way to climb up. Behind it was thick vegetation, the sort of thorny bushes you saw all over this forest. He slashed at the foliage behind the tree and noticed that it was not a robust bush. In fact it was a thin facade and hiding the entrance to a small tunnel through the brambles. He had to crawl on all fours to go through it but if that’s where the other two Goblins went, he would follow. He wasn’t going to let them get away.
Ruing that he needed to be less than gentle with Janesca’s corpse, he made slow progress, shuffling along on his knees, dragging her behind with one hand. In the back of his mind something had been nagging him; the necklace he wore. The one that Mikael had given him as he died. It was becoming very warm. It must react with the sweat, he thought, but he didn’t stop to investigate it. Not only was he eager to be out of this tunnel, but he was incredibly irritated and he didn’t trust himself not to throw the phoenix amulet away in a fit of pique. He was scratched numerous times by thorns, the sweat pouring from him causing the lacerations to sting and the short few minutes it took to get through the secret tunnel felt like hours. He was becoming hysterical as he reached the end and an open space in front of a cave mouth. He felt like laughing in relief and crazily thought that Janesca was lucky she couldn’t feel the dozens of cuts and scrapes all over her body due to his heavy handed yanking and pulling of her corpse.
The cave mouth was dark and he could see nothing within. The smell emanating from the hole barely large enough for a man was intense; burning flesh, smoke and feces. He didn’t care. He arranged Janesca down by the side of the cave entrance and stepped inside, trusting to his eyesight adjusting to the dark once within. He stopped briefly, listening for movement. Nothing, but that meant little. He moved gingerly forward, seeing a dim light ahead and to the right. He felt a faint tugging at his leg and instinctively looked down. The light didn’t even enable him to see that much, but there was no Goblin there. He registered a rush of air and a terrific blow to his chest and then the world spun. He hit his head on a rock as he fell and then he heard shouting in a crude language. Shapes gathered around and he attempted to sneer but instead fell into unconsciousness.
His head was pounding painfully. Wave after wave of agony throbbing against the back of his head. He sat and touched where the pain seemed to originate. His hair was caked in what was probably blood but it was too dark to see the color of the wetness on his hand. It seemed to have scabbed over, so that was one piece of positivity to help him through his slight confusion. Then he remembered; the Goblins hit him with something heavy. He stood, carefully and his head cleared a little. He was still in pain but he could catch his breath. There was voices some distance away and when Melvekior turned to look in that direction he could see a light and some movement. Holding out his hands to guide him he moved towards the illumination and almost instantly lost his footing, something moved, or rather swung, as he walked into it. Half feeling, half looking closely he saw that it was a tree trunk tied to a rope. This must have been what drove him to the ground. The Goblins were more devious than he had given them credit for.
Moving slowly past the trunk trap he edged towards the light and the noise. As he was getting closer he could see half a dozen goblins dancing in a circle around something he couldn’t make out. There was a small fire burning near them. His strength was returning with every step he took, with every second he was recovering from his heavy blow induced sleep and each moment saw him returning to the rage he experienced when he first saw Janesca’s dead body at his feet.
Without a moment’s concern for his own safety, he ran as fast as he could at the group of goblins. He was sure that two of them were the ones that had slain his horse, the rest were females, two of which had saggy dugs that flopped about as they danced. There was no sense of modesty about them which only fueled his anger. One was a virtual child and the last an old, wrinkled being that at least wore some clothing as well as a feathered headdress. She ran, as did the child, almost instantly, one of the females screamed and the other cowered. The males at least had some fight about them and engaged him, shouting words in their vile language. As he attacked he saw in his peripheral vision that the object they danced around was a human figure, nude. A woman, that looked exactly like Janesca, but couldn’t be, she was dead. Parking that thought for a moment, he punched one goblin in the temple and it landed at the figure’s feet in a heap. The other scraped a knife along his leg, the blow meant for his groin. These creatures had little mercy and fought dirty. Melvekior’s rage had taken over him and he reveled in his fury, turning to bring his leg around, sweeping the armed goblin from his feet and then stamping hard on the little humanoid’s head. It lay still.
Quickly turning he saw no more of them, though he could heard sniffling and crying from elsewhere in the cave. He wasn’t going to risk searching for it in the dark and with Mithras knows what traps awaiting him.
It was definitely Janesca who stood there, looking in wonder at her hands. The wound on her side, closed and looking pretty good for a gash that bled as it had done.
“Come, do not delay.” He grabbed her hand and then thought better of it. “Can you walk?”
She looked up at him and then, as if startled, jumped back slightly, letting out a small “ah”.
“You’ve had a shock,” he said softly, “but we must go quickly. Take my hand and we’ll go somewhere safe.” He took off his cloak, to drape around her shoulders and then noticed it. She wasn’t completely nude, she was wearing a white amulet around her neck. His father’s amulet. How did she get that? Did the Goblins take it from him and then put it on her? “How did you…?” He changed his mind, there would be time for questions later. “Never mind, here.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled, becoming impatient so pulling her harder than he intended. She didn’t complain, just stumbled along after him. They left the cave and he squatted down.
“If you’re wondering why you’re so scratched, this is why,” he indicated the tunnel, smaller than he remembered. “We have to go back this way, unless you’ve grown wings.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Melvekior didn’t understand how she could be in such relatively rude health. He was also slightly distracted at the way his cloak kept revealing more of her than he felt appropriate. Where did her dress go? Were the Goblins about to rape her? The thought revolted him.
“Just follow me closely,” he said as he pushed his way, on hands and knees, through the gap in the thorny wall.
They made quick time, she seemed to be immune to the pain, but got her limbs snagged on long thorns more than once. The first couple of times this happened, she let loose with some choice profanities. The sort of thing his father or Frammel would come out with. He must remember that she was probably a peasant, so not to expect too much.
When they arrived at the road again, he felt a deal more secure. He didn’t expect that the Goblins would come back for more. All they had to worry about was bandits and the Tashers. Of course, he had a near naked, extremely beautiful, woman with him, which would make it much more likely that they’d be harangued by passers by, not to mention that they were on foot.
“Right, let’s get a look at you,” he started when they got to the road. She shrank back in horror. “No, not like that. Get it through your head right now that I’m not going to force myself upon you. I just want to see the extent of your injuries. Then you can wear my spare clothing.”
“Thank you,” she spoke slowly as if weighing up her words very carefully. Quite different to when they first met. “I’ve just heard that all men are filthy dogs.” She gave a cynical laugh.
He moved his cloak to the side, studiously looking at only the parts of her he needed to examine. Her wound seemed even more healed than when he looked at it twenty minutes ago. The thorns that had s
tuck her flesh and torn her skin hadn’t left any marks either. How could that be?
A horrible thought started creeping into his mind. Was she dead? A Draugr? She couldn’t be, she spoke and she made sense, but were they all like that at first? Slowly deteriorating over time until they became the shambling, senseless beings he fought in Summershade.
He thought rapidly. Had he mentioned her name? Melvekior grabbed her by the shoulders. “What is your name?” he looked her directly in the eyes.
“Umm Maria, Marla. Yes, it’s Marla. My injury is confusing me.” She stumbled over her words, obviously lying.
“I see, and where do you come from Marla?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, maybe wondering what all the questions were about. “I’m from Amaranth,” she spoke mechanically, without emotion. “I was visiting my grandmother in the forest when I was abducted by those creatures.”
“How did my amulet come to be around your neck, Marla?”
“That, I don’t know. I was as surprised as you.”
He didn’t want to confront her with her lies until they were somewhere safe. And maybe it was true, maybe she did suffer such a blow to the head that she’s forgotten everything and she was making things up to fill in the blanks herself. She had no reason to trust him after all.
He’d let her down once, he wasn’t about to punish her for that.
“Let’s get you some proper clothes then,” he said, semi-cheerfully and led to where his bags lay hidden.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Forester's
“I knew I couldn’t outsmart him and I’d felt his terrible strength, so I suggested a drinking competition. Worst mistake I ever made.” - Mikael on negotiating with the Aelvar King.
Just as night was drawing in, they reached their goal for the day. The Forester’s Arms. This almost legendary inn was the halfway mark through the Great Forest. Mikael spoke fondly of it and even Aeldryn claimed to have been here more than once. In disguise of course; Aelvar weren’t that common, certainly rare enough that he would attract a lot of attention. Something Aeldryn would not relish.
Sleeping anywhere else in the Forest would invite trouble. Being robbed would be the least of your worries. Abduction, murder, bizarre deaths, disappearances, something would befall you. Someone on the Amaranth Council recognized this and built the Forester’s Arms. So named because it functioned as not only an inn and a tavern, but as a meeting place and hiring hall for the local Lumberjack’s guild. While these were the official reasons for the inn’s construction, as with any governmental body, there were ulterior motives.
Long used as an illicit route for smuggled goods, the Great Caravanway was rife with tax dodgers, making this the perfect place to house the Tashers, the King’s elite group of Tax Collectors. It was rumored that since the Forester’s Arms was built, lost revenue through tax avoidance had halved, but Aeldryn maintained that this was nonsense and it just drove the smugglers further underground. Maybe even literally. The entire top floor was permanently reserved for the King’s men. What most did not know is that the “owner” of the pub was also the Head Tax Collector. One of the richest men in Amaranth, he pocketed a percentage of the portion of the profits that everyone passing through the Forest of Eage paid for safe passage, road maintenance and Royal goodwill.
This was probably the safest place in the Forest, that he knew of anyway, although he also felt a little worried. While he shouldn’t have anything to worry about and Mikael had lectured him extensively on how to deal with Bargeth and his men, he still felt some trepidation. Normally he was of importance, if not outright in charge. Now he was in someone else’s land and needed to rely on their mercy.
The building was huge. Four times at least the size of the Forthcrest Inn. The second floor had bars over the windows and a loft room had been built quite recently adding half a further story. The wooden structure had been treated with some sort of fire retardant which gave it an odd sheen. It also looked like it would hamper any climbing. He knew that there’d been a fire shortly after the place was built, obviously an attack of arson, so precautions had been taken since then. There were no guards visible, but the balcony around the Tasher’s floor looked a perfect place for a lookout.
It was twenty yards or so off the road with no space for caravans carrying nasty surprises. For these and there would be plenty, there was a cleared space further west along the road. Plainly these would have to be guarded so merchants always traveled well guarded. A large sign, scorched slightly, swung creakily at a few feet above head height, the name of the establishment written in brown beneath a well drawn picture of a handsome, bearded fellow smiling and holding up a tankard of ale.
Janesca had cheered up, looking almost human. With clean clothes on, albeit men’s clothes, and the blood washed from her face and hair, there was nothing to tell anyone that she’d recently been through an extremely traumatic experience. She seemed eager, if anything to get into the Inn. Seeing him hesitate to look at the sign, she pushed past him into the common room. It was large, with wide stairs at the back leading up. A door on the back wall, and one behind the bar, made up the other exits. The bar itself was half the length of the room and Janesca propped it up, looking comfortable, more so than he himself felt. She said a couple of words to the man behind the bar, Melvekior couldn’t hear what, but he strode over. The man looked amused and nodded to him as he approached.
He looked very much like a man you wouldn’t want to annoy. Taller than average, bald with a silver goatee. His tunic and apron marked him as the barkeep, but his heavily muscled forearms, scarred head and steely gaze, unphased by an armed and bloodstained Knight, marked him as something more.
“Bargeth,” spoke Melvekior as a greeting.
The man pulling two ales behind the bar didn’t seem surprised that Melvekior addressed him by name, but quickly took in the demeanor and appearance of the young man before him.
“Martelle,” he responded in the same tone.
“I’m impressed. How did you know?” Melvekior was genuinely impressed. Bargeth hadn’t seen his crest he was sure.
“Ye look a lot like your father,” Bargeth responded. “He was an arrogant ass too.” He placed two drinks before them.
“He was, so you’ve heard of his passing?”
“Aye, lad, not much escapes us.” Admitting he knew that Melvekior understood his role in the Forest made him feel a little more secure.
“Could we have a room for this night?”
“Just one? I hadn’t heard of ye marrying.” A smile rode his lips briefly.
“Yes please, unless there’s a tax on that sort of thing,” he retorted.
“Not yet. Ye’ll pay the going rate, no special rates here even for you.” What’s that? Did Bargeth owe Mikael for something? A matter for another time.
“Another ale,” Janesca demanded, slamming her tankard to the bar. Melvekior hadn’t even touched his. These peasant folk knew how to drink all right.
Bargeth poured her another and they retired to a table.
“Don’t get too drunk. I appreciate you’ve been through a lot but there’s no need to make a show of yourself.” He sounded like Aeldryn and he wondered why he was so concerned.
“Don’t ye worry, boy, I’ll be fine.”
Melvekior had decided that he didn’t think her a Draugr any longer, but the incident had scrambled her brain. The way she spoke was quite rough and now she was downing ale like a soldier.
No sooner had he wondered where the Tasher’s were the door opened and three of them walked in. Their look was a giveaway. Green leathers, twin shortswords and bows on their backs. Two of them spoke with Barghest and the other stared at them, quite unashamedly, having moved away from the others.
“Barkeep, please buy the King’s men a drink on me,” Melvekior spoke loudly enough to be heard. Bargeth did so, pouring them an ale each. The two at the bar raised them in salute to Melvekior who did the same in return.
“Sir knight,�
� said the one standing alone, surely the leader of the trio. Taller than average with a thick black mustache and eyebrows to match. A tanned face, his dark eyes peered curiously over. Melvekior stood and walked over. He stood before them as an equal, noble blooded he might have been, this was their kingdom. “Thank you for the ale. We are wardens of this forest. Has your journey been comfortable?” He looked pointedly at Janesca who has just started on Melvekior’s drink.
“Less than comfortable forsooth, kind warden. We were beset by goblins and our horses slain. I did manage to see the buggers off but now we are without transport. My sister is ill and we are traveling to Amaranth to see Alvers Winderon the renowned healer. I fear now that we might take so long to get there, considering Janesca’s state, that it will be too late for her.”
“Hmmph, you did us a favor then Sir…”
“Melvekior Martelle.” Eyebrows raised, he didn’t have the perspicacity of Bargeth that much was certain.
He knew that this was coming, one didn’t travel the Great Forest without being visited by the Tashers. It was hinted at earlier in the “ye’ll pay the going rate.” No open bribery for such as he though. It would be unseemly, he’d just keep playing the game.
“If you have half the strength of arms your father was rumored to have Melvekior then I pity the goblins that beset you.” He held out his hand and Melvekior shook it. “Haelfrin,” he introduced himself and totally disregarded Janesca, thankfully.
“Did the little beasts take anything else, or just the lives of your mounts?” The question he’d been expecting.
“Just the horses. In fact, if you could help me procure two new horses, I could pay suitably well.” The bribe, masterfully offered, exactly as Mikael would have done it.
