"Ain't chokin' for you, elf," the boy sneered. "Ain't chokin' nothin’ for the like of you."
Feslan’s hand tightened on the boy's shoulder. He jerked him a little, but not hard. "That's a lady of the House Royal you're talking to, boy. Be mindful."
The boy snorted and twisted a grin that might never have known humor. "Aye, and so what does it matter to me? Reckon her sword'll kill me just as fast be she lady or goblin or bandit." He looked around again at the smoking houses and the broken well not five yards away. He looked at the ravens picking over the dead, at the smoke curling up from the last burning embers of what used to be his home. Then, right into Lindenlea’s eyes he looked, his own blue eyes piercing as daggers.
"So, do it, royal elf. Kill me and get done. I ain't got much here to lose, eh?"
Lindenlea raised an eyebrow. The boy spoke like a bitter warrior, one who had seen too many battles and lost most of them. His face was all bones and hollows, his hands raw with cold, his lips cracked and bleeding. She didn't doubt that under that rag of a shirt, the boy had ribs like ladders. By the look of him, he couldn't count twelve years for himself.
Pawing the barren earth, scenting death and hearing ravens, Lindenlea’s horse pawed the ground, restless. Bridle bits jingled and saddlebags bounced.
"Listen," Lea said. "You may have nothing to lose, but what about those who are hiding with you? Are you ready to let them suffer, too?"
Again the boy snorted. "What? Gonna kill us all ‘cause I won't tell you what you want?"
She appeared to consider this, scratching her chin and looking at Feslan over the boy's head. Then, when enough time had passed, she said, "No. I'm not going to kill them. I was thinking," she said, gesturing with her head to the horse beside them, "I was thinking you might be hungry, and your friends, too."
Ah, there was the key. The boy's face set in stubborn lines, but those melted fast as he contemplated food. He swallowed, then again. He looked away, then back.
"Them was goblins done it," he said, his voice low and flat and dead. "Them was goblins, and one of ’em-" He looked up, his eyes narrowing, his chin jutting as though he didn't think he'd be believed. "One of ’em, it were the biggest goblin I ever seen, green-skinned and pig-eyed. But that ain't the whole of it. I'll tell you that ain't the whole. It had-"
He stopped, shaking his head. Away in the village, among the rubble, Lindenlea heard the voices of her warriors calling one to another or speaking together. She heard the horses and the wind as the boy's silence held.
"It had a fire-staff," she offered.
The boy's eyes went wide. "Aye, it did, and when it pointed it at things, they exploded. But it didn't stay. It didn't-" The boy shook his head, not having the words. "It didn't stay while its army did the killing. It set things on fire and left. It were goin'-" he turned around and pointed out over the stonelands. "It said it were goin' away, back to the Fortress of Ghosts."
Lindenlea glanced at Feslan, who shrugged.
"Where?" she asked.
"The Fortress of Ghosts. Away out in the south, down in the stonelands." As though they were dim-witted, he said very slowly, "The Fortress of Ghosts. In the mountains."
Cold crawled up Lindenlea’s spine. "Pax Tharkas?"
"Aye," said the boy. "There. The Fortress of Ghosts."
Eyes on the saddle bags slung across the back of the elf's horse, the boy licked his lips, dried and split by cold. "You really got food in there?"
Lindenlea nodded to Feslan, who untied the saddle bag and tossed the boy a cold half of the hare that was last night’s supper. The boy caught’ it and darted away. Lindenlea hardly saw him go. She looked away south and east to where sunlight glinted, perhaps off the snowy heights of the mountains, perhaps from the very towers of Pax Tharkas itself.
Pax Tharkas was an ancient city, and long dead. Who knew what might be lying in some forgotten forge or storeroom? More weapons like the fire-staff, more and worse. Lindenlea knew the legends, knew her history. She knew that when dwarves and elves had lived in Pax Tharkas, ancient friends in peace, they had stored many weapons there-swords and axes and spears, bows of finest make, arrows with shafts as straight as truth. And there had been weapons of another make, not forge-made or fletched. There had been magic weapons.
Without doubt, the hobgoblin had found his fire-staff there, or thereabouts. And when Lindenlea looked over her shoulder, west to Qualinesti, it seemed there wasn't as much distance between that old fortress and the elven forest.
"My lady," said Feslan. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to think a moment, and this is what I'm thinking about: " ‘Back to the Fortress of Ghosts,’ the boy said. Back, as though Gnash had been there before."
Long deserted, the fortress could not have been swept clean of all that had once been there. Perhaps the hob had come upon some ancient mage’s secret hoard. If that were the case, it would be best if the hobgoblin never returned there.
Lindenlea looked south to the gleaming peaks of the Kharolis Mountains. A softer breeze blew here than must be breathing there. There, so up, it would still be winter. And there, or close to there, Prince Kethrenan hunted, questing to find his wife.
Lindenlea looked east to the stonelands where the hobgoblin and his army might even now be stopping to burn and loot before pushing on to Pax Tharkas. Last she looked to home, to the forest her prince had put into her care, her beloved kingdom.
Chapter 13
"I’m following gods."
The voice came out of darkness, and it sounded both near and far away. Elansa walked stunned, all her senses reduced. It was hard to see in the barely lit tunnel. She should have been able to discern the red outlines of her companions, the edging glow of their lifeforces. She could not. Only strangely-near and far, then near again and far again-she did hear the voice of the one who claimed to follow gods, the voices of those who scoffed or groaned in pain or exhaustion. A metallic taste filled her mouth, slick and coppery, and she knew that was blood. She had bitten her tongue, her lips to bleeding when she'd engaged the magic of the sapphire phoenix. Someone held her in his arm as she walked. She wanted to pull away, to cry out for the pain that caused. The ogre who'd gripped her had left a mass of bruises.
"Ah," said the one who held her, "nothing's broke, girl. Keep walking."
Brand. His impulse, his arm, his own strides moved her, not her own will. Left to herself, she would have crumpled to the ground.
She said so, once. "Let me go. Let me fall." In her heart she'd cried, Leave me behind!
All her bones screamed, as though they had been separated from their joints, wrenched from their sockets. She hadn't worked healing magic with the talisman. She had called upon the god to let her speak with the earth, the rock of the world, and that had been granted. She had not asked for healing. She had asked for breaking. As her body had known how to gather the illness of trees and then feel the healing of the sapphire phoenix, now her body felt the breaking, the tumbling of stone, the cracking of rock. She had rent a piece of the earth and felt all the tearing pain in her body.
"Na," said Brand, "na, now, girl. You go on. You can."
Ah, she must have whispered that plea she'd thought had been a silent scream in her heart. She went on. She had no choice. He would not let her stop.
"I am following gods."
Char said that, and recognizing his voice felt like a triumph. Elansa looked up, looked around, and saw the dwarf standing head-cocked and looking up at Brand.
"I’m following gods, and if y’ had but the one eye I do, you'd know it."
No one had the one eye Char had. No one had the ability to see in almost complete darkness as even a one-eyed dwarf could. Faint beams of light shivered down from the ceiling of the close tunnel; there were cracks above. This light, barely discernable to humans or elves, was enough for Char to find his way, enough, it seemed, for him to find something to follow.