The Goblin Gate (3 page)

Another blow smashed his shoulder; the pain was sickening. Hands shoved him, and he stumbled to his knees. He never saw the blow that struck his head, but lightning streaked across his vision and agony blotted out thought.

The lightning left darkness behind, but, slowly, his hearing returned.

“…of you help me get this demon-cursed mare…” The man’s voice grunted with effort.

Other voices replied, but Jeriah didn’t understand what they said. Waves of pain washed through his head, but he couldn’t die now. Someone rolled Jeriah over. His limbs flopped helplessly, and the surge of blackness almost sucked him down. He concentrated on the voices.

“…only got a handful of silver,” someone said. “But with what we’ve already got…”

A handful of silver. They were robbing him. Of course they were. Bandits.

“…decent clothes…split up…mare’s worth a lot more…”

Glory! They were stealing Glory! Jeriah did his level best to move then, to protest, but his body refused to obey and the pain in his head whited out sound for a time.

“…get some land,” one of them was saying when his hearing returned. “Far enough past the wall that those white demons will never reach us. Which reminds me, get his weapons too.”

Hands fumbled at his belt, and another shaft of pain shot through Jeriah’s head as his body rolled again. He wasn’t aware of the sound he made till the hands searching his clothing froze.

“He’s alive.”

“Never said he wasn’t,” another voice replied. “I thought…take care of that while we dealt with the mare.”

“But I can’t just…”

“You said you’d take care of it.”

“I thought you’d already done it!”

They sounded like brothers squabbling over who had to wash the dishes, and Jeriah wasn’t even surprised when a firm voice interrupted.

“He’s seen our faces. Finish him.”

“Hey! In a fight, that’s one thing, but I can’t just…”

They were squabbling over his murder. Jeriah felt almost too horrible to care, but some of the argument penetrated anyway.

“…Northers didn’t save our…hang us in an instant if he identifies us.”

“They’ll be even more likely…What was that?”

The voice sharpened on the final words, and Jeriah frowned. There was something about their voices. An accent?

“They’ve spotted me!” a strange voice bellowed. “Get the troop up here! Now!”

That voice had no accent. How odd. Someone tripped over Jeriah and swore. Pounding steps. Pounding hoofbeats. The beat of pain in his head.

Jeriah slid gratefully into the darkness.

His first awareness was pain; sharp in his rib cage, an ache in his thigh. Jeriah’s shoulder felt as if it might shatter if he moved. But all these pains were dwarfed by the agony in his head, which pounded all the way to his stomach with every beat of his pulse. His stomach fought back with an urgent wave of nausea, and Jeriah discovered that he could move after all—he rolled over and vomited.

As his stomach heaved itself dry, Jeriah became aware of hands holding his shoulders and a pan catching the contents of his stomach. A man’s voice was speaking, though Jeriah was beyond paying attention to the words. When he finished, the hands eased him down. There was a pillow, thank the Bright Gods, beneath his aching head and blankets above and below him. But the surface under the blankets was hard
and lumpy. Why was he lying on the ground?

Footsteps moved away, taking the acrid smell of vomit with them, and Jeriah caught another scent—the medicinal smell of the bitter tea his mother gave him for headaches and bruises. Demon’s teeth, he had both!

Jeriah tried to open his eyes, but the sunset’s golden light sent spikes of pain through his skull. He could hear movement, rattling metal. Then the steps approached, and a gentle hand lifted his head.

“Come on, lad, let’s give it a try.”

He sipped gingerly—the tea was stronger than any he remembered—but he kept it down, and the stranger showed no impatience. “Good, lad. That’ll help.”

When Jeriah turned away from the cup, the hands laid him down again and the footsteps moved away. He listened to the slosh of water, a few clanks, the rhythmic thunk of an ax in wood. The light on the other side of his eyelids was dimming. He really should try to see who it was. He was still thinking about it when he fell asleep.

The pain of rolling onto his sore shoulder woke him, and Jeriah opened his eyes before he had time to think. A large fire danced beside him, warding off the chill. The sky was dark, with stars glittering amid bits of drifting cloud.

On the other side of the fire a man leaned against a large pack. His hair showed more gray than brown, and fine lines creased the skin around his eyes. When he saw Jeriah
looking at him, he rose and came to kneel at Jeriah’s side. “So you’ve decided to join me. I’m glad to see it. For a while, I thought you might not! How’s the head?”

“Better,” said Jeriah. It still throbbed, but he could think and function. He raised his left hand, since his right shoulder hurt, and found a swollen lump above one ear.

“Aye, it’s a nasty one. Look at me, lad.” The man held up a finger and watched Jeriah’s eyes track it. “You’re seeing all right? Good. What’s your name?”

“Jeriah Rovan. I was on my way to Linksley when they—Glory! Where’s Glory?”

“If Glory’s a pretty brown mare, she’s tethered over there with the gray fellow.”

Jeriah slowly turned his head in the direction the man pointed. Fiddle was watching them, but Glory stood with her head down, sleeping. There were no other horses. And where were the rest of his rescuers?

“Is the rest of your troop still chasing the bandits?” Jeriah must have been unconscious for hours. He was surprised the bandits could elude an armed troop this long. Though the stranger wasn’t wearing the sunsguard red tabard, or any other kind of uniform.

“You were awake to hear that?” The man poured Jeriah a tin mug of healing tea. “Keep sipping on this. I didn’t think you were conscious when I first showed up. In fact, if I hadn’t heard them say otherwise I’d have thought you were dead! But as for my troop…you’re looking at it.”

Jeriah stared. “You’re telling me that you drove off those bandits? There were five of them! And you’re not—” He stopped, fearing to insult the old man, but the stranger was smiling.

“No, I’m not a knight. Or even a fighter, unless I have to be. I just fired a couple of crossbow bolts into the trees beside them, and started shouting for the rest of ‘the troop’ to come to my aid. And using that for a hand warmer won’t do a thing for your headache.” He gestured to the mug.

“They fell for that trick?” Jeriah wanted to laugh, but his head was throbbing. He took a cautious sip. Not too hot, and although his stomach complained, the tea stayed down.

“Why not?” the stranger asked comfortably. “They’d finished stripping you and were having a demonish time with the mare, so they were ready to give up.”

“It was lucky you came along at the right moment.”

“Ah…not exactly. I waited till I thought they’d be willing to leave before I tried it.”

“You waited? You just sat there and watched them rob me?”

Jeriah started to sit up, but a pulse of pain in his head sent him back to the pillow in a hurry. The stranger’s ruse no longer seemed funny.

“Timing is important in these things. And there were five of them. Speaking of timing, I’d give that tea a few more minutes to work before you get lively.”

“You may be right about that.” Jeriah still didn’t care for the
stranger’s tactics, but there was no point arguing. “Besides, the smith in Brackenlee warned me there were bandits in the area. But I didn’t believe him, so I wasn’t paying enough attention.” Which meant part of this was his own fault.

“I must admit,” said the man, “I was surprised to see ’em myself. In the Southlands, that’s something else, but this far north…” He shook his head. “What’s the Realm coming to?”

A wisp of memory tickled Jeriah’s aching brain.

“They were going to steal Glory.”

“Aye, but they didn’t,” said the stranger soothingly. “You’ve no need to worry.”

“No, it’s not…” Jeriah pressed his hands to his head, trying to force the memory through. “They said something about a demon mare….”

“I’m not surprised. She put up quite a fight.”

“No.” Jeriah gulped down the last of the tea, hoping it would help his head. “It was something else about demons. White demons.”

A frown creased the man’s brow. “White demons. Isn’t that what Southlanders call the barbarians?”

Five ragged men, all with black hair. Had they also had the swarthy skin of Southlanders? Jeriah couldn’t remember.

“Seemed to me,” said the stranger, “that they were speaking with a bit of an accent. Wasn’t one I placed, but my territory’s here in the Northlands.”

Had the men been speaking with a Southland accent?
Jeriah couldn’t remember. “What would Southlander bandits be doing this far north?”

“I haven’t heard of them spreading up this far, but…” The stranger picked up one of his pots and refilled Jeriah’s cup. “Do you know about the surprise attack the barbarians made on the border last month?”

“I heard something about it.” Jeriah blew on the tea, then sipped. Both his stomach and his head were beginning to settle.

“It was after our army had withdrawn for the summer,” the man continued. “Being desert folk, the barbarians had never attacked in the hot season before. Thousands of Southlanders were driven out of their homes, all in one night, with no chance to take stock, or seed, or tools. They’ve nothing to start over with, and not much to lose. And they’re the lucky ones! The only reason the barbarians take prisoners is so the meat won’t spoil before they’re ready to eat it.”

Jeriah shuddered. In the army they said that a quick death by your own knife was better than capture by barbarians.

“Aye.” The old man’s face was sober. “It’s bad. And if the lawlessness is spreading this far, soon no road in the Realm will be safe!”

“This one certainly wasn’t,” Jeriah said bitterly. “And I can’t afford…” He didn’t mind losing his silver. It was the delay that mattered.

“They were still cutting the packs off your saddle when I arrived,” said the stranger, misunderstanding that unfinished
sentence. “So anything you had on the horses you still have. I’m afraid what you carried is gone.”

Jeriah glanced down at himself for the first time. He was dressed in an unfamiliar homespun tunic, worn to softness. He looked around but saw no sign of his belt, boots, or sword. Or purse. “My sword’s the worst loss.”

“Do you need money? I can lend you a bit to get on with.”

“Could I sell you some spare tack instead?” Jeriah asked. “I didn’t have much money left. At least now I won’t have to tell Father that I spent the rest. How did you catch Glory? She doesn’t let strangers handle her.”

“It took a while, but once the gray fellow came back and she saw he trusted me, she decided I was all right.”

“But he’s trained the same way. He shouldn’t have trusted you either!” Jeriah’s eyes darted around—tin pots, tin cups and spoons. The big pack. Was it possible…

“Ah, but he and I had met before.” The man nodded, confirming of Jeriah’s dawning suspicion. “Yes, I’m Todder Yon. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

It couldn’t be a coincidence. “How…? What…? Were you following me?” Jeriah demanded. His head was throbbing again.

“Aye. After hearing in three different towns that a young knight was trying to track me down, I got curious. So I came after you. What do you want of me, Jeriah Rovan? Not”—his eyes strayed to Fiddle—“that I can’t guess.”

The wrinkled face held nothing but kindness and sorrow, but Jeriah was suddenly aware that he had no sword, and his right arm was all but useless. If he had intended harm, he’d have been helpless to pursue it. A chill of wariness brushed him. This man was no fool.

“I need you to help me get in touch with some goblins.” Jeriah rose carefully to his knees, leaning forward, though the movement made his whole bruised body ache. “I need their help. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Lad, the goblins aren’t dealing with humans these days. I hope it’s not really a matter of life and death, because if it is, you’ve got a problem.”

Jeriah clutched his throbbing head in both hands. How to persuade this man?

The tinker sighed. “Lie down. You getting sick won’t save anyone.”

Jeriah stiffened his spine and remained upright. The tinker’s expression was quietly unyielding, but he’d been kind to Jeriah. Surely if he knew the truth…Would he want the truth? Maybe enough to trade for it?

“You were a friend of hers, weren’t you? The sorceress?”

“Mistress Makenna? The one who’s been condemned to death? And whose accomplices they might hang too, just on principle? Certainly not.”

Jeriah gritted his teeth. “All right. If you had been her friend. Or if you were her enemy. Or even if you only traded gossip in the villages around here, would the truth about
what happened to her be worth something to you?”

“I’ve heard rumors in half a dozen towns that she and her goblins have vanished,” the tinker admitted. “Half a dozen different rumors.”

“I saw them disappear with my own eyes.”

The tinker snorted. “And how did that come about? If you’re going to make up tales, you should at least make them plausible.”

“I came north as Master Lazur’s assistant,” Jeriah told him.

“Oh, then I’ll certainly trust you.”

“You can,” said Jeriah grimly, “because when she vanished, she took my brother with her. And if I don’t get him out of the Otherworld in two months, he’s going to get sick and die.”

Less than two months, now. He shivered.

The tinker was frowning. “Still, Lazur’s assistant…”

“It was…a new position for me,” Jeriah told him. And not entirely voluntary, but he had no intention of sharing that with a stranger.

“Hmm. Maybe we can trade a thing or two,” said Todder Yon slowly. “The true tale of what happened to the sorceress and her goblins, that’d be of some value in the towns I visit. That’s my only interest, mind.”

Jeriah nodded eagerly. “And in exchange, you’ll put me in touch with the goblins?”