The Goblin Wood (11 page)

Magic or no, she could still fight. And he was the one who’d done this to her!

She pulled back to put swinging room between them and kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. The long skirt of his chain mail took most of the force from the blow, but he hadn’t expected it, and he doubled over, grunting.

She got one wrist free and twisted the other, kicking for his face. He ducked, avoiding the blow, and straightened up. She tried to claw his eyes with her free hand, but the net hindered her and he grasped her wrist again. She twisted her body, trying to pry herself out of his grasp, but that was a mistake—he hooked his foot expertly around her ankle, tripped her, and then lunged forward to land on top of her.

Makenna saw the log, half buried in the new spring grass, as she started to fall, but there was nothing she could do.

T
obin barely got the sorceress’ hands and feet bound before she began to moan and stir. Good. That meant the blow that had stunned her wasn’t serious. He hadn’t even seen that log. Well, it was her fault anyway—he still ached from that vicious kick.

Master Lazur had said she probably wouldn’t put up a fight once he got the net on her. Tobin wondered what else the priest had been wrong about.

The net clung to her, but Tobin still gagged her, just as a precaution, and whistled for Fiddle. The woods were utterly silent, not even a breeze to stir the branches. The only sound was the thud of Fiddle’s hooves. The moon wouldn’t rise for several hours, but the road was only a few miles east, and Fiddle was more accustomed to night riding than most horses. They might reach the road before moonrise.

Tobin saddled the gray and threw the sorceress up to the horse’s back, grunting with effort, for she was muscular—heavy for her size. She glared hatred at him, then her eyelids drifted down again. Tobin didn’t care how she felt. He’d been disgusted by the ease with which she lied and her obvious willingness to swear falsely. This one had no honor at all. He’d take her to Brackenlee, see her in gaol, and send a message to Master Lazur, who was the proper person to deal with her.

Tobin mounted behind the sorceress, whose bound legs forced her to ride sidesaddle like the lady she wasn’t. He pulled Fiddle’s head away from a tempting patch of clover and turned him to the woods. It was black as a cannibal’s cook pot where the branches blocked the starlight. Should he stay here till morning? Master Lazur had said the goblins would probably run off when their mistress was powerless. Master Lazur had also said that goblins had no loyalty or courage. Tobin, remembering Master Erebus, was beginning to doubt that.

The silence felt more ominous than barbarian war drums. No, he’d better get out of the Goblin Wood as soon as possible. He kicked Fiddle into motion.

The second trip rope almost brought the horse down. Fiddle stumbled, snorting, and then planted his feet and refused to go forward. Tobin could hardly blame him.

He dismounted and, after a few moments’ thought, retied the sorceress’s hands to the saddle in front of her. Her eyes sneered at him, but Tobin ignored her. He could lead Fiddle and cut the trip ropes. After all, the moon was beginning to rise, and he couldn’t be too far from the road.

He walked for perhaps half an hour, and the trip ropes stopped appearing. He began to feel safer. Goblins were little more than vermin—though it was hard to think of Master Erebus in those terms. Still, how persistent could vermin be?

The only warning was a split second of furious rustling in the undergrowth, then a rope whipped tight around his ankles. His body hit the ground, dragged a few feet, and hurtled into the air. With a startled shout, Tobin crashed into the trunk of a young tree and hung there, upside down, bruised and stunned. Leaves clung to his face and hair, for his helm was gone. He clutched the trunk to steady himself, and his wits returned. The goblins had—

The goblins! They’d free the sorceress!

He drew his knife, hauled himself up, and hacked through the rope that held his feet. He managed to grab a branch with his other hand before the rope parted, so he fell feet first, but several branches hit him and he landed in an awkward sprawl. Half a dozen tiny, dark forms were advancing on Fiddle, and the sorceress was working at the knot that tied her to the saddle.

Tobin staggered to his feet, shouting and drawing his sword. The goblins vanished in a blink, as if they’d never existed. He might have doubted his eyes if it weren’t for the mockery on the sorceress’ face.

“It won’t work,” he said loudly, more to the silent forest than to her. “I’ve got you, and I’m keeping you. They might as well give up.”

No one replied. Tobin shrugged and checked the knot that held her to the saddle before he assessed his own damage. He’d picked up several painful bruises and scrapes, especially on his legs. His armor had protected the rest of his body. Perhaps he should have brought his leg greaves as well, but they were uncomfortable for walking and he’d thought this mission would be less dangerous than full combat. Tobin sighed, picked up his helm, and reached up to brush the damp leaves from his face and hair. They didn’t come off. “What is this…” He yanked off a glove and tried again. His fingers recognized the sticky resistance. The leaves had been coated with gisap glue.

The woods echoed with ghostly, goblin laughter.

They were leading him astray. The moon rode high now—it had provided enough light for him to avoid the last two traps, but it also told him he should have reached the road hours ago. His aching feet reinforced the message. Exasperating, that he had to walk while she rode.

Tobin leaned wearily against Fiddle’s sweaty flank, closing his eyes. If he walked away from the rising moon, he could hardly fail to cross the road eventually. But eventually had passed, and passed again, and he still wasn’t there. Surely no spell was so powerful it could affect the moonrise! So how—

Fiddle shied, almost pulling the reins from Tobin’s grasp. He grabbed the bridle, soothing and commanding. He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. It was the thing that had spooked the horses at the wall!

One appeared right in front of Fiddle’s face, shrieking, and the horse jumped again. Tobin swung at it and was astonished when it vanished in a spatter of blood—he’d felt almost no resistance when his blow connected. At least the things could be killed, if you could hit them.

Several more appeared, but now they kept out of his reach. Fiddle stamped and pranced. A stone flew out of the darkness to strike the horse’s hindquarters, and he tried to rear, despite Tobin’s grip on his bridle. The sorceress clung to the saddle with both hands. If the horse bolted they could free her at leisure as soon as he stopped running.

The goblin things swooped and gibbered. Another stone came out of the dark. Fiddle lunged, shaking his head. Tobin yanked out his knife, one-handed, and slashed at the rope that held the sorceress to the saddle. Fiddle was trotting now, trying to break into a run in spite of Tobin’s weight pulling his head down. It took Tobin three tries to cut the rope, and he cut her, too, in the jouncing struggle.

Stones whirred through the dark. Fiddle screamed and reared. Tobin dropped both knife and bridle and grabbed the sorceress, dragging her from the saddle as Fiddle bolted into the forest.

He fell to his knees, scrabbling for the knife. He cut the gag and pulled it free.

“Call them off,” he commanded. Another thrown stone made his helm ring.

She looked into his eyes, smiled, and said nothing.

Stones stung his ribs, even through his mail shirt. Tobin grabbed her hair and laid the blade against her throat. “I’ll kill her!” he screamed. “I’ll kill her, if you don’t leave me alone!”

As the crashing of Fiddle’s escape faded, the silence returned, impenetrable. Tobin could feel the anger, the burning determination of those who watched him from the shadows, and he realized with sick dread that his threat was worthless. If he killed her, he would never leave the Goblin Wood alive.

Tobin plodded wearily on, following Fiddle’s tracks. He’d cut the rope that bound the sorceress’ ankles and made her a hobble that let her walk, but not run. He’d tied her hands behind her again, and he used the small amount of rope that fell from the knot as a leash. His precautions seemed excessive—she walked meekly where he directed. But her lovely, dirty face held neither meekness nor defeat, and he understood her triumph. He knew he was being pixie-led, but he couldn’t think of any way to prevent it. Only the small orange-brown stone in his pocket gave him hope.

The tracks crossed a stream. Even in the branch-sifted moonlight, Tobin could see the hoofprints coming out the other side. Were they Fiddle’s tracks or some sort of illusion? The sunrise would give him direction again. If he had Fiddle he might still escape, but without the horse’s strength he would never make it. He rubbed his throbbing forehead wearily. There was no reason to think Fiddle hadn’t crossed this stream. It was shallow and not very wide—no challenge for a horse. Tobin could do it himself. He sighed. It was those clear tracks on the other side that made it look so much like a trap. He was so obviously meant to follow them.

“If you’re going to take all night thinking about it, I’d like to sit down.” It was the first time she’d spoken since he’d removed the gag. Her voice held the same mockery as her eyes.

“Don’t bother,” said Tobin. “I’ve got a better idea.” He could search for the trap. He might even be able to spring it without getting caught, but there was a simpler way. “You go first,” he told the sorceress.

She shrugged delicately and stepped toward the stream. At the edge of the bank she paused, probably trying to figure out how to step down into the water without tripping.

Tobin was just hoping that she’d fall and get thoroughly soaked when a springy branch whipped over the ground and knocked her feet from under her, pitching her into the stream.

Smiling grimly, Tobin waded in and dragged her up the opposite bank. Cold water streamed from her hair and clothing, and she snorted to clear her nose. She glared at him from beneath the wisps of soaked hair that straggled over her face.

“It was your turn,” he told her. The small victory was immensely cheering. Tobin looked at the tracks leading into the forest. Why should he follow the trail they laid? Sooner or later this stream must join the Abrin River, and that would lead him out. He hauled the girl to her feet and set off, away from the hoofprints, walking downstream.

“You won’t make it,” said the sorceress.

As if she had summoned them, a flurry of stones flew out of the darkness, striking his mail, pinging off his helm. One hit his unprotected leg and he yelped and clutched it. That was a mistake. The second barrage was entirely directed at his legs.

The sorceress laughed. Tobin grabbed her arm and tried to run, but the stones were a constant stream, all but crippling him. He noticed that the stones never hit the sorceress and tried to use her as a shield, but the stones came from all sides and he could only use her to block one. The sharp blows were agonizing and his muscles knotted in protest. Tobin gave up and turned, dragging his prisoner back to the stream. He was hoping to find cover along the water-cut bank, but as soon as he reached the creek the hail of stones stopped.

Tobin’s legs gave out. He fell to the ground, gingerly rubbing his bruises and trying not to cry in front of the enemy. By the saints, that hurt!

“I told you so.”

Tobin looked up. Most girls that bedraggled would have lost all dignity, much less the power to intimidate, but nothing could detract from the look of cold satisfaction in the sorceress’ eyes.

“The net stops your magic,” he said. “How are you controlling these goblins?”

“You think they have to have me around to come up with a battle plan? Taking me was your first mistake, human. On their own, they’re even nastier than I am.”

“I didn’t ask who came up with the plan, I asked how you’re controlling them. How you’re keeping them enslaved without—”

She began to laugh. It sounded like genuine amusement, but Tobin couldn’t think of anything he’d said that was funny.

“You think they’re doing this because my magic enslaves them?” she asked.

“Well, since goblins have no loyalty—”

“Who told you that? That goblins have no loyalty?” She sat down beside him, without asking permission, but Tobin was too tired to care.

“A—A man I know. A wise man.”

“Priest, was he? Never mind, you don’t have to say. But let me tell you a story my mother, who was also a wise woman, once told me.”

Tobin scowled, but he had no way to stop her. Listening was better than being stoned.

“It’s about a farmer, who owned an apple tree and a grapevine. His grapes were good, but the apple tree, ah, the apple tree produced the most, and the biggest, apples of any tree in the village. He was a wise man, this farmer, or so he thought. How could he not be, when his tree produced apples so fine?”

Her voice had softened, its country lilt pronounced. Chattering about apples, she sounded more like a farm girl than a mighty sorceress.

“Is there a point to this?” Tobin asked.

“Patience, lordling. For the time came when the grapevines grew high and shadowed the apple tree. The farmer, being so proud of his fine apples, uprooted his grapes and burned them. Only then did he discover that the reason the apple tree had done so well was because the grapevines shaded it in the hottest part of the summer. That, and the mulch from the grape squeezings, which he’d spread around the tree’s roots. Without the grapes, his apples were just like everyone else’s.”

Tobin snorted. “So the point of this story is that humans need goblins? We’ve done fine without them for the past six years.”

The sorceress smiled. “That’s likely the point my mother would have made with the tale. My point is that the farmer was a fool, who knew as little of apples or grapes as your priest knows of goblins. And if your priest’s a fool, what does that make you for following him?”

Tobin looked away from her smug expression. Apples and grapes. Perhaps she was mad—madness might account for a lot of things. But the goblins she led were altogether too sane. The hoofprints lay before him, their message as clear as if someone had posted a sign. He couldn’t leave the trail.

If he stayed there, all they had to do was wait until he fell asleep, and he was tired enough to do that right now, in spite of the pain in his legs.

If he killed her, he would die.

But if he went on…Tobin touched the stone in his pocket and made up his mind. “All right.” He hauled himself to his feet, dragging the sorceress up after him. “We’ll do it their way.”

As long as he followed the tracks, the goblins gave him no trouble, but his bruised legs were unsteady and he kept his eyes mostly on the ground, not looking up until the hoofprints vanished into a wall of dry brush.