Will Power (19 page)

And there was one bit of evidence on my side. The bones hadn’t all collapsed into dust, and those fragments that remained—including part of the skull—looked to me more goblin than human.

“So what does it mean?” I asked, staring into the fire. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling of a deep cold in my bones.

“Mean?” said Renthrette distractedly. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not everything
means
something, you know.”

“Yes, it does,” I insisted. This was the one thing I had learned from
my years in the Thrusian theater. Everything means something, even if you can’t control what that meaning is. If you ever doubt that little unimportant-seeming things mean something, try farting on stage during a tragic death scene. Trust me on this. “This means something.”

“Then, what?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll make a guess,” I said, fiddling with a stick which had caught fire at one end. “Some goblin force, a spirit or something, crossed over from the other forest, from Sarak-Nul, I mean, and came looking for us. It was very specific in its choice of identity and there has to be a reason for that. It animated a goblin corpse, perhaps, and used my thoughts to
clothe
it, as it were, as a person I knew. I had been thinking of Orgos earlier—missing him, I guess—and it somehow seized my mental picture of him and fashioned its form accordingly. Something like that. It chose a person I respect, a person whose company I missed, and presented him as he exists in my head, which is why it got the swords wrong. When that mistake was revealed, the spell (or whatever it was) fell apart for some reason, as if the controlling force couldn’t sustain the illusion once I became suspicious. The question is, why go to all that trouble?”

“Maybe it was just some wandering ghost—” began Renthrette.

I cut her off, swallowing back the now ludicrous urge to say that I did not believe in ghosts. “No,” I said. “It had a purpose. It was trying to get rid of us by saying that we were in danger, out of our element, guaranteed to fail. . . .”

“Whatever it was, it read you like a book,” Renthrette remarked, a sly little smile crinkling the edge of her mouth.

“Thanks,” I said. “But my point is that it was willfully
misreading
the Orgos in my head. He never would have said all that stuff about running away. That suggests real purpose. It wanted us gone enough to violate the disguise in a very risky fashion. There is more to this than meets the eye. If we are so impotent, why did it want us out of the way? If we are so obviously doomed, why go to the trouble of trying to get rid of us? Maybe we actually aren’t completely out of our element. Maybe we
can
do something aside from getting ourselves killed. . . . Tough to believe, but there it is.”

We continued our trek across the forest for the rest of the day. Renthrette led, sedate and watchful. I followed, glancing behind me from
time to time in case that rustle of wind in the trees was actually the corpse of an old mate coming to share some thoughts on what we should do next.

The air was moist and cool, and wisps of mist still trailed along the forest floor and over the still, dark surface of the river. Then a rocky escarpment rose up on the bank and we had to turn from the water and into the forest to get round it. It was about thirty feet high, irregular, and creviced in ridges and craggy, tuber-like growths. A few withered bushes and weeds struggled out of the thin soil in its cracks, and boulders dropped from God knew where were scattered among the undergrowth. And in one horseshoe hollow was a cave. Its mouth was tight, only a few feet across, and inside was a dark tunnel that burrowed back toward the river.

Renthrette brought her horse to a standstill and I looked from her to the cave and back. “You must be joking,” I muttered.

“Quiet, Will.”

“Can we just get on and leave this adventurer stuff for the people with nothing better to do? Remember the last cave we spent the night in? Or our little jaunt through the cistern at the Falcon’s Nest? Two words:
talking bears
. And goblins. No, four words:
talking bears and goblins
. Riding them. OK, six words. . . .”

She had already dismounted and was approaching the cave mouth cautiously, bent over to peer in. I stayed in my saddle.

“Don’t expect me to come,” I began. “Don’t expect me to help pull you out when a great set of grinding incisors grips you round the waist and . . .”

But I had already dismounted, had even begun to follow, so this show of defiance had become futile even by my standards. She paused at the dark entrance, adjusted her grip on the axe I had given her, stooped further, and was gone. I hesitated, looked down at the crossbow in my hands, cocked it, and fitted a bolt into the slide. Then I bent over and stepped inside.

The cave was shallow and only the very back was completely dark. There was ash and charred sticks on the ground and, as I turned them over with the toe of my boot, I saw what looked like chicken bones.

“Here,” said Renthrette, from my left. She was holding a satchel made of coarse, olive-colored fabric. She upended it and a series of
small packages spilled out onto the floor. I was stooping to pick one up when I caught a sharp aroma, momentarily unpleasant, then wonderfully familiar.

“Cheese!” I exclaimed. “Thank God. Look at this, Renthrette. Cheese. Good cheese at that. Real cheese that tastes of cheese, not that petrified rubber they gave us in the pub the other night. There’s a strong, crumbly white; a smoked; and, what’s this? Oh God . . . a blue. Oh yes. Taste this, it’s superb!”

She gave me a superior look and I scrambled to my feet.

“Nothing else?” she said.

“Nothing else?! Taste this!”

“Is that all there is?” she demanded with slow patience.

“Eh . . . no. There are a couple of small knives, a metal pot, a spoon, a cloth of dried herbs, and half a bulb of garlic. Oh, and a small onion. Great!” I enthused.

“Great,” she echoed halfheartedly, striding back out into the forest. I followed, nibbling contentedly on a sliver of the smoked. “Probably a hunter’s camp,” she remarked uninterested.

“I left the pot,” I said, guiltily. “I only took the cheese and the garlic. Come on, don’t be so damned moral. My need is greater than whoever can get hold of this stuff.”

“Whatever, Will,” she remarked with a slightly sour expression. “But keep that stuff downwind of me and don’t come breathing on me after you’ve eaten it.”

Fat chance
, I thought. If it was only a matter of giving up garlic and onions, I’d have been living on celery for months now. Well, probably.

I was just pondering the wholly academic question of which of my appetites would have won out if I had been given the option when Renthrette’s horse turned sideways abruptly and pattered to a halt.

“What? . . .” I began, but she waved me into silence with a sudden gesture.

She turned and hissed, “Get off the path!”

She led the way, pushing her mount into the trees off to the right. I followed, looking wildly around but seeing nothing. Then, as I slid from the back of my horse, landing awkwardly on my left ankle, I heard voices coming from up ahead. I couldn’t hear words, and the
sound fluctuated as it carried on the breeze, but the language raised the hair on my neck. It was caustic and abrasive, dark and spiked like the head of a mace: goblins.

My horse flinched and I patted it desperately, pushing it farther into a thicket of tangled leaves and branches. Renthrette had already tethered hers and was on her way back, axe in hand in a way reminiscent of her brother Garnet, her eyes cautious and resolute like an animal’s. She slipped furtively past me and crouched behind the gnarled and heavy trunk of an oak. I bit my lip hard till the blood ran in my mouth, and pressed my horse further into cover.

There were four of them, dark and squat, armed with knives and long spears. Two of them wore half-helms, the others had hoods of leather. They were talking among themselves and laughing: nasal, rasping laughs which creased their eyes to nothing and set their heavy jaws lolling. Their skin was a grayish-yellow and thick, almost scaly, snake-like. Their limbs were short and powerful. I swallowed the blood in my mouth and froze, squatted in the dirt beside Renthrette, one hand on my crossbow, the other braced against the tree trunk. Renthrette looked at me and her face, though blank, seemed somehow to ask what I thought we should do. They would pass within fifteen feet of us in less than ten seconds. I held my breath.

Then one of the horses snorted. The goblins reacted immediately, their conversation evaporating in an instant as they went stock still, eyes and ears scanning the woodland. One of them paused and then began to inch along the path toward us, head down and spear horizontal. Renthrette tensed like a cat poised to spring. I glanced down at my weapon and stretched my index finger to the trigger. The first goblin’s yellow-green eyes met mine and his mouth fell open in a cry of warning.

I tried to aim, but Renthrette leaped in front of me.

She bounded out onto the path from the other side of the tree, the axe held behind her, ready to strike. He barely saw her before her blow connected. He screamed and fell forward. I jumped to my feet and leveled the crossbow at the next, whose eyes were on Renthrette. He wheeled his spear toward me too late and the bolt hit him between shoulder and neck.

Two more. Renthrette cut at one with her axe and it bit into the goblin’s spear, breaking it cleanly. He gripped the top half of the shaft with its metal tip like a shortsword and swung it at her. Simultaneously,
the last closed on her and she took a step back. The crossbow was too slow to load and I dropped it, pulling a knife from my belt. It felt small and inadequate, but I had to do something.

Those creatures, I thought, must not touch her.

One of them was glancing warily around for other attackers.

I nodded pointedly, my eyes staring across the path and into the trees. The goblin closest to me, a thin, gray-skinned creature brandishing a scimitar, caught the glance but did nothing. I felt my bluff had been called. I glanced from the goblin back into the forest behind him and shouted—quite convincingly given how unoriginal the idea was—“Now!”

The goblin spun in the direction I was staring, raising his blade, and I launched myself at him, knife extended.

The leap was poor and I fell short, managing only to gash his leg as I fell. He shrieked with surprise nonetheless and collided awkwardly with the other one who, thinking he was under attack, stabbed blindly with the remains of his spear. The point caught his fellow just above the waist, bringing him to his knees as Renthrette flung herself at the other. They fell together, each clawing for the handle of the axe which had been torn free in the fall. The gray one, sensing I was upon him, turned and looked up. The blade of my knife was already sweeping toward him and his eyes met mine as it stabbed home through his vest. Almost simultaneously, Renthrette seized the axe, raised it and brought it down hard. There was a sickening splitting sound like a bursting melon, then silence.

I sat on the ground breathing hard.

“That was a terrible idea,” said Renthrette after she got her breath back, “that let’s-pretend-there-are-more-of-us thing. I couldn’t believe you actually tried that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I reposted.

“Barely,” she answered. “It’s a good thing the goblins weren’t exactly crack troops.”

I gave her a sardonic look. I still hadn’t got to her level of casualness when it came to carnage, and the idea that someone had, however briefly, really wanted to kill me, always left me a little disoriented.

“Never mind. With a bit of luck we’ll get ambushed by some real pros later in the day,” I remarked.

“They must have been a patrol, but they were pretty damn casual given the fact that they were in enemy territory,” she mused, ignoring
me. She picked up one of the dead goblin’s spears and looked it over critically. “Odd,” she said.

“What?”

“See this little crosspiece just below the head? That’s to stop it going in too deep. It’s a hunting spear. Which means they’re either just using whatever weapons they can steal regardless of their purpose—always possible for the likes of them, I suppose. . . .”

“Or?”

“Or they weren’t a military patrol at all.”

“Hold it,” I said, getting to my feet. “You’re saying they were here hunting for food?”

“There probably isn’t much that lives on their side of the river. Here there are probably deer, wild boar maybe. It’s probably their cheese that you have in your pockets.”

“So you don’t think they were looking for us?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said. “I suppose. Still, we had to attack. After all, goblins are goblins, right?”

“Of course,” Renthrette answered, but she didn’t look at me, and seemed strangely preoccupied.

We both fell silent and got on with readying our horses. We didn’t make eye contact at all for a while, though I can’t say what was going on in Renthrette’s mind. I’m not really sure what I was thinking, but there was something, a feeling of anticlimax or uncertainty. I think we both sensed it in each other but chose to keep quiet, holding the feeling at arm’s length as if we were warding off an unpredictable dog.