“Is there a reason we’re taking so long scouting them?”
When no reply came, Thistle crept past the hunters.
“Hey!” Ramus hurried to catch her and hauled her back underneath the trees.
“Let go of me.”
“Keep your voice down and mind your elders.”
She yanked herself free. “I’m Somni’s apprentice. I have a responsibility.”
It seemed for a moment that mentioning Boarhead’s dead sage had an effect.
Then Ramus pulled her close and spoke through clenched teeth. “I heard what your brother said about what happened to Somni. He’s dead. And from the sound of it, he could have warned all of us about the humans, but didn’t. Your own father and mother are gone, as is my Zina. The time for sages is done. So enough of your nonsense.”
The freckled boy from Thousand Groves stepped in and separated them. “Hey, back off. She’s been through as much as we have. Maybe more.”
He escorted her away.
“I didn’t need your help with them.”
“I’m certain you didn’t. You were willing to go off with a dragon. I’m sure there’s nothing you’re not capable of.”
Ignoring the flattery, she threw off his hand. “I need to know what’s happening.”
“Why?”
She felt all of Somni’s lectures bubbling up, but at the same time couldn’t remember any of the words that would make sense.
“It’s my responsibility.”
“Because? Is this what a sage needs to do? Be the chronicler of your village? Report everything for the benefit of future sages? My sage Thurten and your Somni are both gone. Their libraries are ash.”
“Then we rebuild them.”
“Rooms of books did nothing to save us. It’s their time now, the warriors and hunters. That’s what our people need.”
“Is that what you are? A warrior? You don’t have a bow or a spear. Why does Noe even have you along?”
The freckled boy smiled. “Because I’m an apprentice doctor. Call me Wren.”
Chapter Three
An accounting of the war party who pursued Lord Root and his mercenaries from the outer boundaries of Athra, the Fallen Ridges, and along the Inland Sea to Mother Mountain.
I, Thistle, was one of two rescued from the raiders’ hands by Noe and her band and am grateful to the moon for their bravery.
Spicy, my brother, along with a majority of the residents of Boarhead and Thousand Groves, remain missing or dead. But Spicy joined the dragon who will not be named by me as according to the sage’s oaths to its kind.
Lord Root’s soldiers murdered more goblins who are unknown to me in at least two other villages, Blackpool near Spirit Rock, and another unnamed community near the northeastern shore. But before Noe’s band could catch up with Lord in the volcanic region near Mother Mountain, Lord and his men met their end under the claws and fangs of the dragon.
Noe’s band has raided three farm communities in as many days as we return to Athra.
The purpose of my telling
Thistle paused to think.
Wren sat close to her as they waited with the horses near a pair of dugout canoes. A few human-sized huts stood near the water, but there were no signs of the residents. A veil of smoke drifted among the trees and with it came the smell of something burning.
Noe and a dozen of the hunters returned down a cart track.
“Gather yourselves,” she ordered. “We make for the marsh. No delays.”
Thistle put the notebook and pencil away.
The band readied themselves without comment. Arens picked up a bundle of supplies. He dutifully avoided eye contact when Thistle tried to engage him. Noe heaved on her own pack. Before she could head off, Thistle stepped in front of her.
“What did you do here?”
When Noe tried to move around her, Thistle took her spear from her. All the closest goblins stopped to watch.
“Were there human soldiers to fight or was it just more farmers and fishermen?”
Noe spoke in a flat tone. “Four farms. And four families. We killed three men and sent the women and children running. We poisoned the well and put their stable to the torch. And now we return to Mire Linda where you will be returned home.”
“What purpose does this serve? How long have the humans lived here? How many generations? These aren’t the soldiers who attacked us.”
“They’re humans. I don’t need any more distinction than that.”
“Does your chief know what you’re doing?”
Noe appraised Thistle with her jaw clenched. “Remember that we came to save you and your brother. You have no role here but to show silent gratitude. Soon you’ll be free to return to Boarhead, or what’s left of it. And Thistle? Never speak of my chief to me again.”
Thistle waited for most of the goblins to pass her by before falling in. Wren limped along beside her.
“This is a mistake,” Thistle said. “These people aren’t our enemies.”
“No? Are they our allies? Did they do anything to stop the soldiers who invaded us? If not, then whose side does that place them on?”
“That sounds like a slippery philosophy. Lord was a mercenary operating under his own command. He wasn’t fighting for Pinnacle or Pater the Zealot. He wasn’t loyal to anyone but himself. And he never even passed through this area.”
Wren paused to catch his breath. “But his soldiers murdering our kind with such cruelty speaks to a deeper conviction. What if it’s a trait all the humans share? It appears Noe isn’t afraid to learn from them. Who are you to say she’s wrong?”
“Because I’ve studied it. I’ve read about humans and goblins and the wars.”
Somni’s library had held several texts detailing the conflicts between the two. Even in living memory some of the older veterans of Boarhead had fought in what they called the Old War. The conflict had been a series of raids between the goblins of Athra and the men of Midsea. It had no determinable beginning and had ended when a force of humans had been ambushed and killed.
This was before the rise of Pater the Zealot. He had unified the villages of Midsea under a single banner of faith and governance and proclaimed his land an empire. No more humans had come to Athra. The peace since had always been assumed to benefit both peoples. Somni and the other sages had been debating for years how to pursue a lasting peace through envoys and treaties. But more immediate emergencies and the needs of survival had always postponed such efforts. Plus, there were voices of dissent, especially from Mire Linda and other goblin villages closer to the sea.
“Noe doesn’t have the authority to pursue war with the humans,” Thistle said.
“Says who? You? As you’re fond of reminding everyone, you’re just an apprentice. And even if there was a sage here, what could he do but voice an objection? You’ve done that. Your voice was heard.”
“She ignored me.”
“She’s not going to stop to take a vote on her actions.” Wren paused to adjust his pack. He winced.
“It’s not just your ankle, is it?”
“A cracked rib or three. Plus I get dizzy spells. I recommend a week of bed rest.”
“Lean on me and I’ll help you.”
They walked together until a signal came from the front of the column. They gathered in a sheltered pasture shielded by hedges. It was getting dark. By Noe’s decree, there would be no fires. Thistle helped Wren find a patch of ground where he could lie down. She settled in next to him, intent on continuing their conversation.
He nodded his thanks. From his pack he produced a glass flask. After uncorking it, he dipped a metal rod into the container and extracted a drop of liquid. This he placed on his tongue before putting the flask away.
“Is that…” she began to ask.
He nodded. “Poppy paste. It lets me keep walking.”
“You should say something. We could make a crutch or even a litter.”
“Don’t say anything. I’m already falling
behind. Noe doesn’t want anyone slowing her down.”
“You’ll be home soon. We should be in Mire Linda in a day, maybe two. From what I’ve heard, the village still stands. You’ll get the help you need.”
He grimaced as he adjusted how he sat. “They’ll be dropping you off and gathering more supplies. But I’m going with them.”
“Gathering more supplies? Why? I hadn’t heard anyone say anything about this.”
He didn’t answer. As if to change the subject, he flicked the blue ribbon dangling in her hair.
“A sweetheart from Boarhead?”
She touched the ribbon Spicy’s friend Rime had given her the night before the mercenaries had come. “A young hunter who’s always flirted with me. Rime. He’s sweet.”
“He lives?”
“He was taken with a few of the children. I have to believe he’s still alive.”
“I’m sure he’ll return to woo you with many more ribbons.”
Thistle felt her face grow hot. “He’s young for his age. Besides, with my work…”
“Too busy for a romance or you don’t want a distraction from your studies?”
“Both. Sage Somni took a chance taking me on and I didn’t want to risk letting him down. He never made an issue of it, but my mom and more than a few others weren’t pleased Somni had taken a female apprentice. ‘We have our roles to serve,’ Mother would say.”
Wren unrolled a blanket and struggled to get comfortable as he stretched out. “Brave girl. Willing to defy mother and community.”
A sharp sting of emotion flooded her. “It was my father who stood up to her for me after Somni invited me to apprentice.”
“He was with the ambushed hunting party. And your mother?”
She nodded. “Spicy said she made it to Thousand Groves with some of the survivors.”
“I’m sorry, Thistle.”
Her throat was tight. She could speak no more. Wren closed his eyes, his head resting on an arm. Thistle laid out her own roll but her mind was buzzing. Try as she might, she couldn’t not think about the dragon and her brother. Then her mother and father. And finally Noe and the warband that she led.
There was still just enough light to see.
Thistle took out the notebook and began writing.
Chapter Four
[scratch marks obscure several lines of text]
I should start with Boarhead.
My family and neighbors comprised a community of farmers, hunters, and artisans. Our village was robust and contributed to the others in Athra as best able. We helped with larger hunts, traded fair, and kept the peace with our neighbors.
Our sage named Somni was foremost among his profession, ardent in preserving all texts, and generous in his teaching. His library was surpassed by none. He assisted Sage Thurten of Thousand Groves in restoring recovered books.
Which was the greater loss? The lives stolen or the library burned?
No act of revenge can compensate for such crimes.
The hunters had snared a rabbit and a pair of fat muskrats. The rats were eviscerated and their scent glands removed. Noe allowed the hunters to light a small fire so the breakfast could be cooked. There would be little more than a bite or two per goblin, but the meat smelled wonderful as it roasted.
There wasn’t much to glean.
Thistle wandered the shoreline of a muddy brook and plucked an armload of bulrush. The shoots of the plants were edible, but it wouldn’t be very satisfying on its own. If they only had time for a soup. She plucked a few bay leaves from a tree and pulled up several dandelions, but could find no mushrooms or bugs in the short time she had before they would be once again heading west.
She shared what she had found.
After she peeled the bulrush stalks clean, she handed small portions of the shoots and roots to each hunter. While doing so, she tried to gauge the faces of the others. Many names she still didn’t know. Some rarely spoke. She could only wonder who among them had survived a run-in with Lord’s raiding party.
As she watched, Ramus stripped scraps of meat off a rabbit leg before passing it along to Arens. As was the custom among some hunters, Ramus had filed front teeth, which he used to good purpose as he ate. His right ear held six gold studs, all marks of achievement within the hierarchy of hunters.
He stopped chewing when Thistle sat next to him.
“You were there when my father was killed. Tell me what happened.”
“You dear girl. There’ll be time for all the children to weep. You’ll be home soon, or at least back in Athra. There will be time to sing ‘Of Sorrows,’ and we will.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Arens shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Ramus.
Ramus let out a sigh. “There’s nothing to tell and I won’t burden you with the details. It pains me to speak of it. We were surprised. We heard two of the horsemen coming, but not the dozen charging up behind them. They were too fast and too many. Before we knew it, we were surrounded in a group of trees. We fought, but didn’t stand a chance. Now that’s enough of this.”
“My father?”
He hesitated before answering. “Carus was the bravest of us. He comported himself well.”
“Did…he suffer?”
“No. The men weren’t interested in us except for slaughter. That’s why they missed Arens and me. We had no choice but to play dead. We didn’t have anything they wanted, so once the fight was done, they left. Your father didn’t survive his injuries.”
Thistle could only nod.
“We’ll shed our tears for those who we’ve lost, child. We’ll rebuild. Once we’re in Noe’s village, you’ll be safe and we can arrange for you to return home where you’ll be needed.”
“I’m not a child. Everything you’ve told me, there must be more.” She produced the notebook. “I recall the names of the hunters and have written them down. Let me read you their names and you can tell me if I’m missing anyone. Try to remember any words of note they spoke. And then you can tell me the details of the attack. The place. The time of day. Everything.”
“For what purpose?” Ramus asked firmly. “A song will be enough. Put that foolishness away. The sages are done. There won’t be time for writing with the start of winter. Your strengths will be needed as we rebuild. Your father was always too indulgent with you.”
She hung back as they moved out and refused to make eye contact with Wren as he came limping along.
“You look as mad as a wet badger.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m getting dumped off.”
“You’re going to be cared for. Word went out and everyone in Athra knows what happened. You also won’t have to pick snails to survive. You’ll be safe.”
“Everyone keeps saying that. I don’t want to be ‘safe.’ If this warband is going to continue, I need to be with it.”
“It’s not up to you. Noe’s in charge, remember? Try looking at the bigger picture. You get to help rebuild your home. Be with those who made it. Mourn with them. Comfort them. There’s people who need you.”
Thistle let out a sharp exhale. “And put away my pencil and have children like a good girl.”
“Hey, I don’t think anyone put it quite like that.”
“Well, they might as well have. There’s more to our remembering than singing songs. Our history is so we don’t make the mistakes of our ancestors. What Noe is about to do will bring more men and make more enemies.”
“I think you’ve voiced your protest. Right now, she needs warriors, not scholars.”
“She has to be stopped.”
Wren motioned her down. “Not so loud.”
A pair of hunters were coming up from the rear and leading a goblin along Thistle hadn’t seen before. The potbellied older male wore only trousers and thatch sandals. Thistle’s breath caught when she saw his face. A thick ring pierced his lower jaw beneath his tongue. A few links of a chain dangled from the ring. The crust
ed wound seeped with spit and pus. The goblin had no front teeth.
Wren motioned the hunters to stop. “Who is this? Let me see him.”
“We’re bringing him to Noe,” one of the hunters said as they hurried past.
They waited as Noe examined the new arrival. Her face grew stern. The others watched in silence. She then glanced from goblin to goblin until finally settling on Thistle.
“If any of you would doubt our actions, take a hard look. If any would stay their hand or show pity for the humans, you have no business with me. Those who will leave to return home, take this sight with you so all will know of it.”
“Where did you find him?” Thistle asked.
“A home up the way,” one of the hunters said.
“What is your name, father?” Noe asked the old goblin.
His eyes brimmed with tears. When he spoke, his words were impossible to understand. Trying to speak appeared to be painful.
Noe patted his calloused hands and rose. With a wave, she gestured for the band to move. “Wren, help him.”
Wren complied, attempting to take the rescued goblin by the arm. He slapped Wren away.
“It’s okay,” Thistle said. “Let me try.” She placed both hands on his. “You’re with friends. We’re taking you away from here to be with more of our kind in Athra. No one is going to hurt you. You understand? What’s your name?”
Again, he spoke. His garbled words made no sense. When Thistle tried to examine the ring in his jaw, he jerked back.
She offered her notebook. “Can you write?”
He shook his head. She sighed and was about to put the notebook away when he took the pencil. At the bottom of the front page he drew four stick figures, two tall, two short, and pointed to the tallest and then himself. Then he said something that sounded like “papa.”
“Papa? Is that you? And is this your family? You have a wife and two children?”
He nodded but then scratched out the other three before handing the notebook back.
Goblin War Chief Page 2
