Mudwort launched a gob of spit that struck the knight’s thin lips. He made a gagging sound and slapped her so hard, the colors of the forest sickeningly swirled with the black of his tabard.
“She understood me. Zocci said some of them speak the common tongue.”
“Pray to the gods she does understand,” the one holding her replied. He was the one the milk-skinned man had called Tannen.
The one called Tannen shifted her, tucking her under his arm and holding her so tightly, she feared her ribs would break. She could manage only little breaths, and when she struggled to get her arms out so she could claw at him, he squeezed harder.
“Pray that she’s from a very big nest. Let’s take her to Zocci and find out just where she’s from.”
She felt each rock he stepped on and each root that tugged at his feet as he and his fellow knight wound their way down an overgrown game trail. It opened on a small clearing where four other knights sat around a fire roasting a wild pig. Three of them jumped to their feet, while the fourth remained intent on turning the spit.
Mudwort hurriedly took everything in-packs and swords propped against trees, a tent stretched between two sweet bay trees. It looked like the men had been camped there for a while.
Tannen dropped her roughly on the ground and set his foot against her stomach to keep her in place.
“Only one,” he told them, gesturing to another knight. “We found tracks and followed them. And this is what they led to.”
“A small female.” That came from the tallest of them. He was broad shouldered and had narrow hips, and with his feet together and posture stiff, his form reminded Mudwort of a dagger thrust into the ground. “Looks weak, starving maybe. And with clothes. Maybe from Steel Town. Should check her for scars and whip marks.”
“I think she understands the common tongue.”
The tall knight studied Mudwort. “Aye, from the looks of her eyes, I’d say you’re right, Donnel. Good work.” He stiffly bent forward and stretched a hand down, his mailed finger wiping at a smudge of dirt on Mudwort’s forehead. The gesture seemed oddly tender. But a heartbeat more, and the hand was clamped around Mudwort’s neck. He nodded to Donnel, who removed his foot, and he grinned at Tannen.
The tall one held her high, applying just enough pressure to keep her in check. “Are you from Steel Town, little red goblin?”
Mudwort didn’t answer, but her gaze bored into him. “Aye, she is. Her eyes speak as loud as any voice. A fine prize you’ve secured, Donnel, Tannen. First to eat this evening, you two are. And no watch duty for you.” He brought Mudwort down so he could stare directly into her face, his lips curled up. His dark eyes fixed on her and held her as firmly as his grip.
“We should take her to Zocci,” Tannen declared. “He’ll get information out of her.”
The tall knight nodded. “That we will. But it would behoove us to try our own tactics first. Save Zocci the trouble. Gain us stature with the commander.” He turned to stare grimly at Mudwort. “You will tell us where the rest of the Steel Town slaves have gone, little goblin.”
Mudwort squirmed and was rewarded with a punch to her stomach.
“The sooner you tell us, the less it will hurt. And if you cooperate well, little goblin, when we kill you we will burn your corpse and scatter your bones, as is your ghoulish custom. But if you decide not to cooperate …” The knight reached his free hand to hers, grabbed her little finger, squeezed and twisted it, and bent it back until it snapped. Then he reached for the next.
BERA’S HEART
Bera Kata stood six feet tall and was as muscular as most of the men in her command. She’d spent more than half of her adult life in the Dark Knights, leaving behind her husband and grown daughter for her respected posting. The knighthood was her closer family and held her heart.
Her plate mail glistened in the late-afternoon sun, and her tabard, which appeared pressed, flapped gently in the slight breeze. Her helmet, polished to an almost hurtful sheen, was tucked under one arm, and her chin was pointed up, giving her a mien of aristocracy.
She stepped over a fallen log and waved her men forward, leading them beyond the beach and into a section of the woods where narrow trunks grew so close together, the burliest of her knights had to walk sideways. They marched for days, the weave of the canopy becoming tight and allowing only a little light to filter down, which looked like panes of crystal. She wiped her forehead clean of gnats and, despite her fatigue, adopted a faster pace, the beauty of the place lost on her.
When she’d first stepped into those woods, the air had been alive with pleasant birdsong and the gentle rustle of small branches and clumps of leaves stirred by the wind. As she walked, she heard only the clank of armor and the snap of twigs breaking beneath her men’s feet, the ragged breath of a few soldiers, and the occasional skittering of a small ground animal giving her force a wide berth.
Am I right? she wondered. Did the goblins of Steel Town come this way? By the Dark Queen’s memory, let this be the right course.
She’d learned by spreading around a liberal amount of steel in a port along the Newsea-while confirming her findings with Isaam’s magic-that a heavily scarred man had purchased ships with a cargo rumored to be goblins. More coins booked passage for her entire company of knights. She had followed the goblin ships to Schallsea Island, where persistent questioning of local fishermen and more of Isaam’s spells revealed the ships had indeed borne goblins, as well as a plague. Though the fishermen did not say where the ships sailed after the healers had done their job, she managed to capture someone who finally talked.
“The former homeland of the elves,” he revealed.
So the knights set sail in pursuit.
One of her trackers had found evidence of goblins along the beach-as well as more evidence that they had tried to cover up their tracks. He’d found no tracks since-the damnable rain had washed away the traces-though he’d spotted splintered branches on bunchberry bushes, indicating something had come that way. The chief tracker was several yards ahead of her, following signs she could not see. She fixed her eyes on the back of his tabard.
How much of a head start did the goblins have? She thought. A week? Two?
“Commander? A few words with you, please.”
She glanced to her right. The sorcerer who tromped up to her side was a slight man, only five and a half feet tall. His wrists and elbows were so bony that it looked like his skin had been stretched over his skeleton, yet he had an oddly pudgy face that reminded her of a bulldog.
“Yes, Isaam?”
The sorcerer was the only Dark Knight not wearing armor. His long, gray robes, not so neat and clean as usual, defined his arcane station. The sleeves had been pulled up to his shoulders and tied with cords, and the hem was frayed in a few places from catching on roots. The backpack Isaam wore had snagged vines and leaves, which dragged behind him and made swishing sounds. Bera reached behind him and tugged the backpack free. Isaam had been in Bera’s company for more than a decade.
“Commander, my divinations on the beach this morning yielded nothing. You realize that, don’t you? I found a trace of the goblins when I scried while we were at sea but nothing since. I tried to discuss this with you earlier. We might not be going in the right direction.”
Bera frowned but did not reply.
“My magic is strong, Commander, and it will not fail me. It has not failed me before. You know my determination. But something … I tried to tell you this earlier-”
“You will scry again when we stop for the night?”
“Of course, Commander.” The man opened his mouth to say something else then thought better of it. He fell in line behind Bera and bunched up his robe to keep from tripping on it.
“I am certain you will have better results this evening, Isaam. After you’ve eaten and rested.” Bera stuck out her lower lip and blew upward, chasing away more gnats. “After we’ve all eaten and rested our blistering feet. I have great faith in you.” She added softly, “Old friend.”