Silent as a shadow, Kerian moved away from the dead goblin, her calls leading the other two deeper into the woods. She worked her way around so the two became separated by a dense briar thicket. Thus she was able to dispatch them one at a time, taking each by surprise.
Back at the clearing, the last two goblins continued to snore on, undisturbed. Kerian thanked her ancestors for this blessing. Her limbs were shaking from exertion. As long as they did not wake, she would spare them. She made straight for the campfire and the table of provisions. She slung two waterskins over her back and picked up two loaves of bread.
Just as she was lifting a small wedge of cheese, one of the sleeping goblins sat up, roused from sleep by she knew not what. His eyes went wide as he took in the clay-caked elf standing by the table. With an outraged shout and a hearty slap, he woke his companion. Then he was on his feet, drawing iron.
She dropped her purloined goods and hefted the sword in both hands. The blade wobbled and she firmed her grip. With two goblins coming for her, she widened her stance, weight evenly distributed, ready to move in either direction. The lead goblin was still several yards away when she saw its gaze flicker past her. At the same time, a blow landed on the back of her head, knocking her to the ground. Vision swimming, she managed to roll to one side. Her sword was jerked away.
The foe towering over her was no goblin, but an ogre, eight feet tall, muscular, with dull yellow skin and shaggy black hair. The piercing shrieks of her attackers had completely masked any sound of his approach.
The huge creature bent and seized her by the throat. Lifting her so her feet dangled above the ground, he cast a ferocious glare at the two goblins.
“Not waste elves!” he growled. “Capture!”
His thick fingers tightened. Darkness rose up and dragged Kerian into its depths.
Chapter 3
From the parapet of the log fort called Alderhelm, Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily, watched the dirt road from the fort’s gate to the hazy woods, about two hundred yards away. Alderhelm was located in a remote district of the former kingdom of Qualinesti. Situated halfway between Gilthanost on the coast and Ahlanost at the foot of the Anviltop range, it was among the smallest of the forts built by the Order since the fall of the overlord Beryl.
Heat made the road shimmer. The sun behind her was low, and Breetan lifted the visor of her helmet, but no matter how long she stared, the result was the same. The patrol was overdue.
She called down to the guard on duty, “Where is Lord Freemantle?” The guard claimed he didn’t know. “Well, find him, lout! Go!”
The guard jogged away to the earthen casement at the center of the fort. The laces of his boots flapped in the dust. The quality of recruits here was pathetic. Most of them were Samuval’s castoffs, driven out for being too lazy or too stupid to serve the freebooter chief. Alderhelm seemed to attract the sorriest ones, and its commandant, Midgrave Freemantle, hired them all. It was his way of making up the losses his garrison was suffering.
The guard returned and called up, “The commandant is in the keep, Lady.”
Doing what? she wanted to shout but did not bother. It was far simpler to go there herself.
She dispatched the guard with a message for Sergeant Jeralund, one of the few professional soldiers in the garrison, then descended the rough-hewn log steps to the bailey.
Around the inside of the stockade were assorted shanties of logs, planks, and canvas. They belonged to the civilians allowed to dwell under Lord Freemantle’s protection. They were a picturesque lot, the usual scum and scrapings too inept or weak to survive in the bigger towns. Breetan didn’t mind gamblers, quacksalvers and purveyors of strong drink. She did despise third-rate ones.
On her second day here, she had to make an example of one of them, a nasty little procurer called Three-Lips for the large scar just below his bottom lip. Touring the fort in civilian clothes, Breetan met Three-Lips at the entrance of his establishment. He made overtures she found offensive, and she knocked out two of his front teeth with the bronze knuckles she carried. Furious, and still unaware she was a knight, he sent two hired blades after her. She beheaded one and disemboweled the other. Three-Lips she had hung from the flagpole atop the commandant’s keep.
She climbed the mound at the center of the fort and entered the keep. Five paces inside she found Lord Freemantle struggling into his armor. He was a stout man, and in summer wore steel only when the situation demanded it.
“I know, I know,” he said irritably. “The patrol is overdue.”
“Another six men lost.”
“Maybe not.” Freemantle gave up on his pauldrons and shoved them back at his beleaguered manservant. “They aught only be delayed.”
Breetan laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. “The pattern is plain,” she said, planting hands on hips. Unlike the commandant, she was at ease in her three-quarter plate, enameled in sable, as befitted a Dark Knight. “We’ll find them with their throats cut, just like the others.”
For the past three months, someone or something had been whittling down his troops. One here, three there, soldiers went missing only to be found with their throats cut. Freemantle’s reports to the Knights’ citadel in Gilthanost had resulted in the arrival of Breetan Everride. Her task was to put a stop to the slaughter.
For six armed men to disappear together was unusual, however. No group of that size had gone missing before. The patrol had been on its way to reinforce the sentinel post at the Shattered Rock crossroads. Twice in the previous three months, the sentries’ relief had arrived to find the two men slain or, more disturbing, simply gone.
“I’ll ride out with a company and see what we find,” she told Freemantle.
“Don’t go far. There’s little daylight left.”
She almost laughed at him again. The commandant was afraid to go out after dark? What were things coming to out here?
Sergeant Jeralund and twenty men were waiting for her at the gate. Breetan’s horse had been brought from the stable. She mounted and rested the butt of a cocked and loaded crossbow on her thigh.
“Sergeant, we have ground to cover. At the double, if you please.”
Jeralund drew his sword and thrust it in the air. “All right, you donkeys! Time to be war-horses! At the double!” he roared.
This late in the day, only a few travelers remained on the road. They dived for the ditches when Breetan’s column approached. In ragged order the mercenaries lifted their booted feet and jogged behind their elegantly mounted leader.
Breetan was a member of a select organization within the larger Knights of Neraka. According to reports compiled by its headquarters, the Black Hall, the only elves remaining in the province were slaves. Breetan believed the reports were wrong. Who but rebellious, forest-bred elves could be at the bottom of all the trouble?
All seemed normal in the forest. Alert for ambush, Breetan saw only squirrels scampering from branch to branch, heard only birds singing in the treetops. Her dark red mantle hung limply from her shoulders. No breath of breeze stirred the air. Beneath her helmet, her sunbrowned face was flushed from the heat.
Dusk had fallen by the time the column reached Shattered Rock. The soldiers tensed as they neared the crossroads.
Shattered Rock had earned its name from a great boulder on the southwest side of the intersection. The sharp-edged block of gray granite, roughly cube shaped, resembled none of the native rock in the vicinity. Local lore held that it had been dropped by a giant in centuries past.