Goblin War Chief

by Gerhard Gehrke

  One Stone and the new arrivals were scraping the ground to clear a spot to bed down. A few passed out grubs, nuts, and any other bits of forage they had gathered.

  Wren peered out from under his hood. “You should know I was the one who suggested you go to help set up a camp with the wounded.”

  She locked eyes with him. “Why me? There’s others who know more about caring for the sick.”

  “That’s not the reason I suggested you. I don’t think you should be here. This is only going to get worse. But you’re the only one who keeps fighting Noe on how to proceed.”

  “Because sometimes she’s wrong,” she hissed.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you keep finding ways to tell her that to her face when others can hear. You did it again this morning.”

  “You heard?”

  “Goblins talk.”

  “It’s not like she makes herself available to me.”

  He let out a sharp sigh. “She doesn’t need to. You had a choice to be part of this or go home. Look, I’m not saying this to hurt your feelings. But every time you square off with her, it’s poison.”

  She let his words soak in. Then she got up and collected her blanket.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you.”

  She didn’t have a plan or a destination. She stumbled past several groups of hunters and warriors who were huddled together for warmth. Chief Gelid stood among his men and leaned on his spear. It was as if the cold didn’t faze him. He gazed at her and there was something lizard-like in his eyes.

  The next group over, she found One Stone. He was laughing along with the others who had just returned, until one senior goblin motioned for them to quiet down. Preemie was huddled nearby, alone and shivering. Thistle took a seat next to him, wrapped him with half her blanket, and listened to the wind as it howled through the trees above.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thistle hadn’t thought she’d sleep, but she found herself jostled awake as Preemie roused.

  “Weapons only,” One Stone whispered as he hurried past. “Noe says fall in.”

  Thistle rose and wrapped herself and watched as the raid readied itself. It was still night with no moon or stars. She followed Preemie as he moved along with the rest. Thistle had a hard time even telling what direction they were heading. They had a narrow trail to follow downhill. The goblins rushed along it in single file. The air felt like ice on her face. After an hour, the trail descended a steep slope where it zigzagged before letting out behind a long wooden house with a peaked roof and a chimney that belched smoke.

  Noe waited at the top of the vantage point along with her officers. “I want that place surrounded.”

  The warband scurried down towards the longhouse. Before Preemie could follow, Thistle grabbed his arm and pulled him aside.

  “Wait,” she whispered. “Stay here with me. We might be needed to help with the wounded.”

  He looked at her for a moment before nodding.

  Over a hundred goblins moved without a sound down the slope and encircled the longhouse. Very little light filtered through the shutters over the windows. Surely at such a late hour most of the humans would be asleep.

  A lone goblin climbed the rough stone chimney. Once there, he slid something over the flue.

  It didn’t take long. A man inside bellowed and a few loud words were exchanged. Then a heavy wood door was thrown open and a big human strode outside. The goblins charged him with a shout. Mobbed, he went down. Warriors flooded through the doorway and more tore at the shutters. From inside came screams.

  Noe raced down the hill, her officers right on her heels along with the rest they had held back. Thistle remained in place, a hand clamped on Preemie. He had his eyes pressed shut.

  “Will you stay here?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She fell in with the attacking raid, zigzagging down the path and rushing towards the longhouse. The man who had come out the door lay dead, his head bashed in. But there they stopped. There were too many goblins trying to enter the place all at once.

  Ramus was at the door, waving the goblins outside back. “It’s over. It’s finished. Put your spears down before you hurt someone.”

  But the goblins who had yet to enter continued to push their way inside. Thistle followed.

  The longhouse was more spacious than any building she had ever seen. A large stone hearth occupied the center. She smelled cooked meat, which instantly set her mind on food. A long spit with the remains of a pig carcass was set on a table. A group of goblins were busy slicing off pieces of meat and devouring them. Smaller game animals were suspended near the fire. Other goblins were cutting them down.

  Thistle almost tripped over a pair of legs. The fallen human hadn’t made it far from a bedroll laid out on the floor before being stabbed through.

  A dozen more humans lay dead. But here the fallen were adult men, along with two women.

  The warm air made Thistle’s face and fingers tingle.

  A crash came from an open door at the rear of the longhouse.

  Thistle peered into a dark back room stacked with boxes and scores of sacks. Kernels of corn and almonds were scattered on the floor. A few goblins were digging through the stash. One stunted hunter munched on a mouthful of something crunchy. On the floor against a wall was a human male, still alive. He had chains binding his feet and legs and shackles holding his wrists together. He let out a whimper.

  A goblin digging through a crate raised his head, as if none of them had noticed the man. He drew a knife.

  “Wait,” Thistle said, moving to stand between the prisoner and the goblin.

  The goblin’s hard face caught enough of the light for Thistle to see the look of determination. He wanted to kill the human.

  “He might know something. He’s important. Leave him alone.”

  “My mother had an uppity rooster like you,” the goblin said in a strained voice. “Cluck-cluck-cluck. You know the only solution to a rooster that thinks it can peck its master?”

  She felt a surge of panic as the goblin moved closer. He was shorter than she, his lean arms muscular, his teeth bared.

  “Stay away from me.”

  “Wringing its neck,” he said. “That teaches the rooster the lesson it needs to learn.”

  The tip of the blade waved about before her. The other goblins in the storeroom just watched.

  She tried to remember the goblin’s name but her mind was a blank. “You can’t.”

  “Hey!” Ramus stepped into the room. Before the goblin in front of her could react, Ramus grabbed his knife hand and his neck and throttled him until the blade fell to the floor. He slammed the goblin into the door and then pushed him out of the storeroom. “Outside. All of you.”

  He waited until the rest of the goblins scurried past.

  “They were going to hurt the prisoner,” Thistle said.

  Ramus looked at the man and then at her. “You shouldn’t be here. I thought Noe made that clear.”

  “This man could know something. We have to question him.”

  “That’s not your decision to make.” He escorted her to the front door, then hesitated. The goblins who had been kicked out were standing among the others. Thistle received some hard stares. Some were Gelid’s men. “Go wait by the hearth. Grab a slice of meat if you can. And be quiet.”

  She did as instructed. Her hands trembled and all thoughts of food were gone. At the front of the longhouse was a small altar, and Noe was sitting with her back against it. She held an article of gold, three intersecting rings. Ramus whispered in Noe’s ear and she followed him back to the storeroom.

  Thistle inspected the altar but found nothing of interest. She found a spot along the wall and sat down on a bench. The nearest goblins had discovered a bottle and were passing it among themselves.

  A few minutes later, Noe emerged from the back.

  “Arens, take two with you. Bring everyone down here, including the wounded. We’ll w
arm up and fill our bellies.”

  He obediently trotted towards the door.

  “The rest of you settle down. Be careful not to burn this place. Gelid will set guards outside. I’ll be in the back room and I’m not to be disturbed.”

  Noe left the goblins and returned to the storeroom where the prisoner waited.

  As much as the overwhelming warmth made Thistle want to curl up and soak it in and remember a time when feeling cozy was normal, Thistle got off the bench and hurried after her.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “So much food,” Noe said from behind the door to the storeroom.

  “We’ll be able to continue for a while,” Ramus agreed. “It’s enough for an army and plenty for our raid.”

  “And this human here. Do you suppose he’s a criminal?”

  Thistle couldn’t hear the response as she pressed an ear against the door.

  “Hey! Get away from there.” One of Gelid’s warriors approached her.

  Thistle pointed to the door. “Noe wants me in there.”

  “I doubt it. She gave orders that no one gets in that room. And I don’t imagine she wants you spying.”

  Before the goblin could grab her to take her away, Thistle knocked.

  Ramus opened the door.

  “You might want me to take count of the supplies,” she blurted.

  “Not now,” Ramus said. “This is not the time for you.”

  The goblin guard clicked his tongue. “Told you.”

  “Ramus, bring her in,” Noe said.

  The guard and Ramus both looked surprised. But the guard hurried away, clearly angered. Thistle hid a smirk as she stepped into the storeroom.

  There were etched lines beneath Noe’s eyes and she looked pallid. “Find paper and something to write with. We need to interview this human. Everything he says, put down.”

  With several candles lit, the full contents of the room were visible. A half table was pushed against a wall. On it was a clipboard with a cluster of pages. She also found a pen with a bottle of ink. It took a moment to slide a loaded crate over to where she could sit and prepare herself.

  Ramus closed the door.

  In the better light, Thistle could see the prisoner. Judging by the lack of facial hair, he was quite young, a boy in his early teens. His face was swollen and bruised where he had been struck, and his nose appeared broken. Dried blood and soot caked his face. His clothes were tattered and he wore no shoes. He watched Noe out of the corner of his eye as he kept his head bowed and turned away.

  Thistle felt the urge to reassure him that he wouldn’t be harmed, but realized it would be an empty promise.

  Noe began to pace before the prisoner. “I see you listening. You understand our words.”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Thistle that this all might be a waste of time if he didn’t. Somni knew there were at least three major languages the humans spoke, with only one shared by the goblins of Athra.

  The prisoner nodded. “Give me water.”

  “Why do these men hold you?”

  His head sagged. It happened quickly. Noe made a fist and struck him. She looked as if she was about to punch him again as he cowered, but then she paused to examine his arm.

  “This tattoo…what does it mean?”

  He spoke with a rasp. “Courage.”

  She looked at his other arm. It bore a bluish tattoo on the bicep.

  “And this?”

  “Strength. Please…”

  Noe picked up a bottle from an opened case. She uncorked it and handed it to the prisoner. He gulped down several mouthfuls of what smelled like apple cider before stopping to cough. Noe took the bottle away.

  Thistle realized the prisoner wasn’t a local. Or if he was, he wasn’t one of the zealots. The marks belonged to the humans who believed in such glyphs. Few who openly displayed them would last long this far north among the adherents of the dominant religion of the land.

  She scribbled down “SOLDIER?” on the page and showed it to Noe.

  Noe set the cider on the table and faced the prisoner. “Where are you from?”

  “Confidence, near Pinnacle.”

  “You’re a long way from home, human. So what is a boy from the south doing all the way up here?”

  “I’m a soldier in the archduke’s army.”

  “I see,” Noe said, her tone frosty. “It was the archduke’s men who raided our land.”

  “No! It wasn’t me or any who serve the archduke.”

  “If you decide to start lying, then your life will be measured in moments, starting from this one. It was the archduke’s men and his horses, weapons, and supplies who murdered the men, women, and children of my kind.”

  Thistle knew Noe had heard the complete story of what had happened and who Lord and his raiders were. But she kept silent.

  “That was Lord Root. He tried to recruit everyone within North Fort to join him. But not all of us went. He abandoned us. He used his rank to disobey orders and took our supplies. We have no quarrel with you goblins.”

  “So you’re from this fort?”

  He nodded and looked between Noe, Ramus, and Thistle with desperation.

  “And how many soldiers remain who didn’t desert?”

  The prisoner shook his head.

  “Surely one as bright as you knows how to count beyond the fingers and toes.”

  “I won’t say.”

  Noe paced for a moment. She paused to check Thistle’s page, but she hadn’t been writing. Thistle hurried to scribble down the pertinent facts, but there weren’t many.

  Soldier from Pinnacle. North Fort. Prisoner of the zealots.

  Ramus kept watch on the prisoner, his expression blank.

  The prisoner drew up his knees, his eyes wary. Thistle understood his fear.

  “How is it you came to be captured?” Noe asked.

  “I was a messenger. The zealots have us outnumbered and surrounded. Our supplies are low.”

  Thistle added these facts to her notes.

  “I tried to slip out at night,” the prisoner continued. “Kel, our sergeant, wrote the note. I don’t understand letters but I know he was requesting reinforcements. They caught me as I tried to slip through their lines. I managed to destroy the message before they could take it.”

  Noe snatched up the bottle of cider and handed it to the boy. “And you don’t know what it said.”

  He drank more cider down. When he paused to take a breath, she relieved him of the bottle.

  “If Lord Root was able to leave, why didn’t the rest of you follow and escape?”

  “There are too many sick. And we have our orders.”

  “And you’ve been a captive for how long?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve tried to keep count. Seven weeks? Eight? Please tell me what you want. I don’t want to die.”

  “How many men left in the fort?”

  He hesitated before sputtering his answer. “Thirty.”

  “Counting the sick.”

  He nodded.

  30.

  Thistle tapped the pen on the page and then considered the amount of food in the storeroom. Noe’s hand was resting on the hilt of her knife.

  “What about your men’s morale?” Thistle asked.

  Noe glared angrily at her. “I think we know enough.”

  “How long were you holding out before Lord left?”

  The prisoner paused to think. Did he know the danger he was in if he had nothing else to share?

  “Our last resupply was in spring. We already heard rumors of the zealots attacking traders. But no orders followed. Lord undermined all the officers. And then they either got sick or killed, save one. Only Kel stood up to Lord. But now I’m wishing I had never listened to Kel. He urged us to stay and to obey orders. Then I’d be alive.”

  “You wish you had gone with Lord?” Noe prompted.

  The boy missed the trap implied in the question. He nodded and looked greedily at the bottle. She held it for him as h
e gulped more cider.

  Thistle set down the pen. “Lord’s dead, as are all of his men. If you would have gone with them, you would be dead too. The thirty men in North Fort—would they leave if given the chance?”

  He shook his head. “Surrounded by zealots. The zealots won’t guarantee quarter. I don’t know why they saved me.” He gave a laugh. “Lord. Serves that snotty pureblood right.”

  “What have you learned of the zealots and their numbers?” Noe asked.

  The prisoner shrugged. “Hundred and a half, if you include the tribals.”

  “They’re allied?” Thistle asked.

  “I don’t know why or how. If we had tried to attack before Lord left, we might have done some damage. He killed us by deserting.”

  An exchange of silent words followed between Ramus and Noe that Thistle couldn’t read.

  “He could know more,” Thistle said.

  “We’ve learned enough. Now it’s time to evaluate what to do with what we’ve found.”

  Thistle rose from her crate and opened the door, motioning Noe to follow. Noe arched an eyebrow but accompanied her outside. The nearest goblins perked up, as if anticipating an order.

  “There’s value in discovering why the Pinnacle men and the zealots are fighting,” Thistle whispered.

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool. I keep forgetting why I indulge you. Make your point without the attitude.”

  “The tribesmen—tribals—the zealots, and the men from Pinnacle in the fort. None are on the same side. The tribals act as mercenaries and want to have no dealings with us. We have no quarrel with Pinnacle. But if their fort falls, they will want to strike back. If they hear we harmed their soldiers, even this one, then we have a second enemy.”

  Noe sniffed. “I know of the fort and its location. It’s too close to our land.”

  “We don’t have the warriors to take it. We’re far enough from Athra that we can’t even patrol this distance with any regularity. It’s too far south to be any danger to us. It’s getting cold. There’s other villages we might raid where we might actually capture supplies for our people.”