Tears of Liscor, page 14
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
“Yes, Chieftain.”
Rags nodded at Pyrite. Then she looked around. The burning light of the forest was reflected in the eyes of her warriors. Redscar grinned as he leaned on the back of Thunderfur. Poisonbite and Quietstab were standing ready. Rags pointed.
“Hobs behind! Redfangs with me! We ride!”
She charged into the forest. Her Carn Wolf howled in fear as Rags crashed through the flames, but Rags had chosen a spot of the forest that had yet to be engulfed. She urged her wolf forwards. She had minutes. But the Humans were in sight. A group of them fought desperately, keeping back from the flames while the Goblins she’d sent in encircled them.
“Fall back!”
Rags screamed at the Goblins. They looked up and ran as her warriors streamed past them. The burnt Hobs and Redfangs gave way as more of their comrades charged the Humans. Rags stared around. There were thirty-odd riders here. But the one she was looking for—
There. She saw a flash of armor and a panicked figure striking around him. The Humans had their backs to a wall of fire, and the only way out was through the Goblins.
“They’re turning!”
Redscar snarled as he raced past Rags. She nodded. The Humans had no choice. They formed a clumsy line and then kicked their mounts forwards. Rags pointed.
“Forwards!”
Her Goblins screamed as they charged the Humans cut off by flames. Carn Wolves leapt at horses, making the already frightened animals rear and throw their riders off. Hobs filled the gaps, dismounting riders, cutting them down on the ground. Others grabbed the horses, dragging them towards safety. Rags watched the Goblins and Humans mixing in the confusion. But she only had eyes for one person. She waited as she saw him spur his mare past a group of fighting Hobs. Then she pointed.
“There!”
Her Carn Wolf leapt forwards. The young man lashed out, cutting another Redfang across the chest. He flinched as the Goblin’s sword skated off his breastplate. He turned—and saw Rags.
The fool had a helmet, but he’d forgotten to lower the visor. Rags saw a frightened young man’s face between the wrought metal. He was older than her. But he looked scared, like a child. He flailed at her with his enchanted sword as she charged him, crossbow in one hand, sword in the other. Rags drew her Carn Wolf out of range. Gilam tried to follow her, but his mount reared. A Hob was right in front of it. Quietstab swung a huge stave, and the [Lord] screamed and choked as the cudgel knocked him from the saddle.
He landed hard on the forest floor. He was alive—his armor had blocked the blow, but now he was on the ground. Quietstab ignored the young man—he yanked the white mare down as it tried to rear. Quick as a flash, he mounted it and kicked it into motion.
“Stop—”
Gilam croaked as the Hob took off with his horse. He got up clumsily and looked up as Rags rode towards him. Gilam’s face went pale. He fumbled for his sword. But he’d dropped it. He backed up as Rags stared down at him.
“You—you—”
Rags ignored his quavering voice. She aimed the crossbow right between Gilam’s eyes. He turned to run. Her Carn Wolf snarled and leapt. The impact threw Gilam to the ground. He rolled over weakly, and Rags stuck the crossbow’s tip into his helmet. Yes. Rags remembered Twofeather’s death. This was the moment. She wondered if she should say something. This felt so easy. So…she could hear Gilam panting loudly. It sounded like weeping.
“Gilam!”
Rags looked up. She heard a desperate shout. Someone was riding through the sea of flames. A man on horseback. Her eyes widened. Lord Pellmia himself was riding towards them, heedless of the fire that was making his horse scream. She looked down at Gilam and put the pieces together. This was his son!
Good. Rags saw the man casting about. Her Goblins were in full retreat. They had what they came for. The Humans were burning or dead. The Goblins had their horses and some of their gear. Staying any longer in the forest would be death. Rags had to follow them. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
“Father!”
Gilam flailed wildly. Rags’ Carn Wolf stomped on his chest, and he gasped. Somehow, Pellmia heard it. He turned, and Rags saw his form freeze.
“Stop!”
She saw the [Lord] riding at them, ignoring the flames that raged around him. She heard him scream. She had heard that scream before. Desperate. Helpless. She had heard Goblins weeping and screaming over their friends, their parents. She had heard Humans screaming the same as she burned their lands and homes.
Rags held very still. She could see Pellmia stop as he saw what was going on. The tip of her crossbolt was aimed straight at Gilam’s forehead. Her finger was on the trigger. Rags met the [Lord]’s eyes. He would see his son die. That seemed fitting. She’d watched him cut down families when his forces assaulted the city. This was justice.
“Stop.”
Pellmia’s voice rasped as he held out a hand. Rags didn’t move. Her Carn Wolf snarled in fear and anger as the fire closed in. Rags felt the tension in her crossbow’s trigger. One pull and Gilam died. And Pellmia would be broken.
As she’d broken when she’d seen Relc cutting the heads off her family. He’d hummed a song as he did it. This was vengeance for that moment. For Laken Godart. For Tyrion. For all of it. Only, it wasn’t enough. Pellmia would come for her after she killed his son. Rags would have to evade him.
The small Goblin held still as she considered it. Yes, he’d follow her—or stay with his son. Either way, he’d probably die. But if he followed her, she’d have to lure him back to Pyrite. He was probably good at fighting. And if she killed him, would the Humans stop or follow? She could hear them in the forest now, calling his name in desperation.
Loyalty. They’d come after her tribe. But they’d be leaderless. Could she beat them? Or would it be better to run and hide? Rags hesitated. She could hear sobbing now. She glanced down in irritation. The young [Lord] couldn’t even die quietly.
It was hot. Rags stared at Pellmia. His face was white. He stood in the forest as it turned to embers around him.
“Chieftain!”
A voice. Rags turned. Poisonbite was waiting. She had a group of Goblins armed with crossbows. They were taking aim at Pellmia. She pointed.
“Hurry and kill! We go! Forest burning! Burning pain death!”
Yes. Rags saw it clearly now. Shoot Gilam. Keep Pellmia back. Aim for his horse. Her finger tightened on the string. The crossbow’s trigger shifted. Kill him. And kill the Humans that came after him. Slaughter them. They’d kill her people otherwise. She had to kill them. Or run.
As Goblins did.
Rags saw a burning farmhouse. She saw a blind man declaring war. She saw a city burning as her Hobs streamed through the gates. She saw a Human army fleeing as she cut them down. She saw the Humans cutting down her tribe from behind. And the pieces fit together. She looked at Pellmia and saw something strange.
Wetness. The fire burned around him, but the [Lord] was weeping. He stared at his son. He knew what Rags would do. And he couldn’t stop her. His hand was raised. His son was weeping too. Rags stared at him. She saw the whole of her history with Humans in the flickering of the fire between them.
Kill. Flee. Ambush. Retreat. Revenge. Run. Attack. Defend. It had happened when Velan lived. And it was happening now. Again and again, since she had been born. And it would go on—
Forever. Rags stared at Pellmia. Then she looked down at Gilam. He was silent. He’d given up or passed out. Rags hesitated. Her trigger-finger itched to pull. But—
She raised her crossbow silently. Her warriors looked at her. Rags glanced around. Poisonbite was staring. Pellmia had frozen. Rags turned.
“Retreat!”
She turned her Carn Wolf. Poisonbite wavered, but Rags pointed. And the fire was growing more intense. Rags raced her wolf through the fire, sensing its fur begin to burn. The Goblins hesitated, but Pellmia kicked his mount forwards, racing towards his son. They turned and ran after Rags.
——
He had to be dead. Pellmia tumbled from his saddle, landing hard on the burning floor. Even the dirt seemed to be burning. He knelt by his son, lifted the limp head. He had to be dead. That was why the Goblin hadn’t shot him.
“Gilam. Gilam?”
Gilam’s face was pale. Sweat poured down his face, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. But he was breathing. Pellmia’s breath caught. He touched Gilam’s face with a trembling hand and saw his son react. Only then did the world start moving again. Pellmia looked up and heard the urgent voices at last.
“Pellmia! Lord Pellmia!”
“Here!”
The man cried out hoarsely. He stood up and looked around.
“Here! Dead gods, get over here!”
He saw riders surging towards him in the flames. He heard Kilmet’s voice ordering the mages to douse the flames. Pellmia looked around. The fire was intense. He could see a few shapes running in the distance. Goblins, fleeing the fire they’d created.
Pellmia stood over his son. He was alone as his cohort fought to get close to him. He was breathing hard, his armor scorched, his mount burned. He watched as the Goblins ran out of the forest. The last group ran to the edge and paused there. The Goblins looked at him. A small Goblin on the back of a Carn Wolf turned. Rags met Pellmia’s eyes. He stared at her. Then he saw the Goblins standing behind her.
Hobs. Goblins riding Carn Wolves. Crossbow Goblins. Others armed with deadly pikes, standing at the forest’s edge. Hundreds of red, glowing eyes found Pellmia. The Goblins stood at the back of their Chieftain.
In the moment before his escort reached him, Pellmia stood alone, over his son. The Goblins stared at him. They could have turned back through the fire. They could have killed the two Humans. But they did not. They turned and ran after Rags through the smoke as the fire engulfed the forest. Pellmia stood behind as someone screamed a word and water splashed on the ground around him, instantly becoming steam. He stood and then bent and cradled his son in his arms.
“My boy.”
——
Later that day, Pellmia stood in the temporary camp that had been erected just outside the burning forest. He held still as the [Healer] gently applied a healing poultice to his skin.
“The burns are bad, Lord Pellmia. A healing potion won’t cure all the damage correctly. Something about burns—I’ll apply as much as I can, but you’ll need me to reapply this twice daily for several days.”
“That’s fine.”
Pellmia ignored the pain. He’d taken worse. He looked at Kilmet. The scar on the man’s arm stood out as Kilmet coughed. He’d ridden after Pellmia, helped him get Gilam out of the fire.
“Not as bad as that burn you got from the Corusdeer, eh, Kilmet? Now I know what it’s like.”
“You could have just asked, sire.”
Kilmet looked up wearily. His grey hair was blackened with soot. The two older men laughed, and the healer shook his head.
“You’re lucky your armor saved you from the worst of the fire, Lord Pellmia. Or there’d be little to laugh about. If you’ll excuse me, I must see to the others. And your warhorse. He won’t be fit to ride for days yet.”
Lord Pellmia stopped laughing and nodded soberly.
“Yes, thank you. Is my son well?”
“Up and about. Shall I send him in?”
“Do so.”
The [Healer] left through the flaps of the tent. Pellmia was wincing as he put his doublet on when Gilam stormed through the tent flaps. He was already bandaged and poulticed, and his face was crimson with fury.
“Father!”
“Gilam.”
Pellmia turned. He tried to embrace his son, but Gilam stepped back.
“Father, the Goblins stole Olli! And my gear!”
“Did they indeed?”
Lord Pellmia blinked at his son. Gilam nodded. He clenched his hands into fists.
“That damn Hob and that little Chieftain ambushed me! He rode off on Olli’s back! My bag of holding was on her and all the rest of my gear! Father, give me a hundred [Knights]. I’ll ride into their camp and retrieve her. And cut down their numbers so they’ll not dare try something like this again!”
Pellmia blinked at Gilam. He looked at Kilmet, who sighed and didn’t meet his eyes. Pellmia nodded slowly.
“I see. So you survived the fire and you want to get your own back, is that it?”
“Yes! All I need are a few men—”
“No.”
Gilam paused. His face reddened further. The fire had scorched part of his hair off, and what hadn’t been burned was reddened. He looked like one of those water bugs that were so highly sought-after. What were they called? Lobsters, that was it.
“But father, the Goblins attacked us! They nearly killed me!”
“But they didn’t. They let you go. They could have killed you, but they didn’t.”
“Only because they knew what would happen to them if they did!”
“Most likely.”
Pellmia nodded. He thought of the small Goblin who’d met his eyes. His hand closed slowly and then unclenched. Pellmia stared down at his burnt palm. He shook his head.
“They spared you. She did. And I don’t know why. Perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps it was pragmatism. Either way—”
“Father, Olli—”
Pellmia turned. He looked at his son, and Gilam went silent. It had been a long time since Pellmia had looked at his son like that. Not as his boy, but as a man looked at another man and gauged his worth. He shook his head.
“Kilmet?”
“Yes, Lord Pellmia?”
Kilmet straightened expectantly. Pellmia glanced at him.
“Have my son find another horse. He’ll ride with the vanguard tonight. Under your authority.”
“But father—”
“And if he gainsays you in any way, spank him as you would your own boy. I have a job to do.”
Gilam made a strangled noise. Kilmet covered a smile as he bowed slightly.
“The Goblins, Lord Pellmia?”
“Yes. We have a duty, and I’ve promised Veltras they’d be there. This changes nothing.”
Pellmia strode out of the tent. He left Gilam behind. Pellmia stared past the rows of burnt riders towards the forest. It was ash now, ash and smoke. He mumbled to himself.
“This changes not one thing.”
And yet it did. Pellmia bowed his head and then called for his horse. He mounted it, ready to hunt the Goblins down. He still had a duty. The little Goblin Chieftain had not won her freedom. But for the first time, Pellmia thought of her. How small she was. Was that normal? Or was she someone’s daughter? Did they have mothers? Fathers?
Pellmia had lived for over sixty years. He had survived both Antinium Wars, fought the Goblins on his land. He had not seen the Goblin King’s death, but he had celebrated it. He had known the world with the certainty of a man his age could have. Now the world began to crumble under his feet. But he had a duty. He was just no longer certain it was the right one.
——
Rags sat in her camp, tending to her Carn Wolf. She hadn’t named it like Redscar had with his. Names were a silly thing to give to an animal that would probably die in battle. It was bad to get attached. But she still applied the healing potion gently to its burns.
The Carn Wolf wasn’t happy. It nipped her slightly, expressing its discontent at the pain. Rags let it, but bonked it on the nose when it tried again. She turned as a Goblin poked her in the side.
Poisonbite had missed one of her burns, but only just. The other Goblin frowned at Rags. She still didn’t understand why Rags had let the two Humans live. Still, her exuberance over the battle in the forest outweighed her personal issues with Rags.
“Chieftain, have special things. Magic weapons sorted. Also, bag.”
“Bag?”
Rags looked up. She glanced at her Carn Wolf and pointed. Another Goblin took over tending to it. Rags got up and followed Poisonbite. She found Quietstab, Noears, and Redscar sorting through the loot they’d captured from the Humans. A lot of it was just quality steel weapons. There was a weakly enchanted shield, a hatchet with a throwing enchantment on it…and a bag of holding. Rags’ eyes widened when she saw Noears drop a large rock into it and pull it out.
“Good bag. Lots of items can fit.”
“What was in?”
“Food. Gold. Letter. Shared food, tossed gold and letter.”
Noears dismissively pointed to a pile of gold coins. A few Goblin children were having fun throwing the gold coins around. Pyrite was reading the letter. Rags walked over to him.
“What say?”
The Hob shrugged.
“‘Lady Cimeca, your face is as radiant as a pear in the full moonlight. I yearn to stroke it and speak to you of high matters such as romance and a possible union between our houses. You know my father and yours are close friends, and I am most struck by your wit and humors and loveliness. Please give me some token to which I may use for remembrance…’”
Rags tilted her head back and forth, frowning. She cut Pyrite off when it seemed that the letter began to repeat itself, only this time comparing this Cimeca’s legs to swans’ necks or something.
“What it mean?”
Pyrite considered the letter and shrugged.
“Want to have sex.”
“Oh.”
The Hob crumpled the letter up and tossed it away. Rags went back to the bag of holding. She stared at it.
“Can use. Put heavy things inside.”
“Yes, Chieftain. What about horses?”
Noears pointed. Rags stared at the restless horses. Of all the things they’d looted from the Humans, that was perhaps the most valuable. She eyed the snow-white stallion that was pacing back and forth restlessly and shrugged.
“Put on wagons. Good food and goes fast.”
“Yes, Chieftain.”
Noears smacked his lips happily. Redscar came over, flipping a sword up and catching it by the hilt.
“Chieftain, what now? Go this way? Hills. Hard for Humans to follow. Can lose. Or fight.”
