The Goblin Wood (9 page)

One, perched stickily on her wrist, told her there was something “nasty” about the packhorse but she couldn’t express her impression more clearly. Makenna dismissed her with a shrug and capped the jar, turning to meet Miggy’s worried eyes.

“Do you think he’ll be back?” the goblin asked.

“Aye, that one’s a lordling. It’ll take more than a vanishing act to get rid of him.”

“And he had all that steel on him, too,” Miggy fretted. “I dunno. I don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry. Steel or no, he eats like everyone else. We’ll snatch his food, rot his tack and his boots, and send him home, barefoot and starving, just like all the others.”

T
obin gazed at the charred ruins of the cabin, and his resolve hardened. He would bring the woman who had done this to justice. If he had to, he’d destroy her.

He’d met the young couple on the road yesterday; the pregnant girl, pale and spent, and her worried husband. Tobin had seen enough refugees in the past three years to know he couldn’t help them all, but he’d stopped to make them a meal and had the satisfaction of seeing a trace of color return to the girl’s face, though she’d hardly eaten anything.

They described their cabin’s location and told him all they remembered about the goblin attacks. They added a few more pieces to his growing store of knowledge. Over the past weeks, Tobin had spoken to everyone he could find who’d dealt with the goblins and the terrible sorceress who led them. All those he’d spoken to had lost against her.

But he was prepared, with knowledge and with magic, and he wouldn’t lose. He had promised Jeriah, and himself.

Tobin went to search the wreckage, charcoal blackening his boots and hands. He didn’t really think he’d find anything. It had become clear that the sorceress and her minions fought primarily with magic—a very dishonorable advantage against poor peasants.

But she was a peasant herself—the round country accent was unmistakable. It had been the third thing about her that astonished him. The first was her youth—she looked no older than Senna, the sister who’d been born just before Jeriah. The second shock had been her beauty.

But it wasn’t just beauty—he’d seen many lovely girls. It was the strength and wildness of her, as she stood with the wind swirling through her hair, that had stricken him mute.

Tobin shrugged. If he were a powerful sorcerer he’d make himself young and beautiful—or at least handsome. He wondered why she wore a vest covered with buttons. Perhaps they had some magical significance? He tried to shake off his uneasiness at the thought. As Master Lazur said, a blade through the heart would kill anyone. Superior planning could beat the strongest magic. He knew enough about his enemies to guess what they were likely to do in their first attack. All he had to do was plan a counterattack. And there was ammunition ready to hand—he’d passed several gisap bushes on his way to the burned-out cabin. Tobin’s father, who prided himself on being a good hunter, had taught Tobin most of his woodcraft, but it was Jeri who had shown him the uses of this particular plant. Yes, there were things he could do, even against magic.

Tobin knelt beside the fire, finishing the stew he’d fixed for dinner. He’d made camp in a clearing, sheltered on the windward side by an outcrop of jutting rocks, with a stream nearby and plenty of grazing for Fiddle and the packhorse.

It was full dark now, with the moon riding high, barely visible through the lacy canopy of branches. It was late for dinner—it had taken longer than he’d expected to boil down the gisap leaves. At least making camp was little trouble. Once he’d built his fire ring, he’d only had to spread a ground cloth and lay out his bedroll. And of course, hang his food sack so nothing could get at it, just as everyone did in the wilds.

Tobin was still smiling when he heard a scrabbling noise at the far side of the rocks. He reached instinctively for his sword, but the face that appeared at the top of the rocky jumble was anything but threatening. Small, round-cheeked, with spectacles atop its long nose, the goblin’s expression was quite friendly. Tobin remembered the lovely peasant girl sneering at him from the wall and drew his sword. Appearances could be deceiving.

The goblin froze. “You’re not planning to do anything with that, I hope. They promised me I’d be out of reach up here, even from that nasty steel blade. Aren’t I?”

A smile tugged at Tobin’s mouth—the creature was a good four feet out of reach of his sword. “I can’t reach you up there,” he assured it. “Not without climbing the rocks. This is just in case you decide to come down and attack me.”

The creature eyed his mail shirt and snorted. “Attack you with what, my teeth?” It seated itself comfortably on the point of a rock with the air of someone settling in for a long chat. A diversion, perhaps? Tobin was perfectly willing to be diverted. He had the Otherworld stone in his pocket, and the net hidden under his tunic, so nothing too serious could go wrong. The repulsion charm was placed where it would do the most good. Besides, if he handled this right, he might learn something.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“Why, information.” The small creature beamed as if he’d said something clever. “Knowledge, facts, theories even. I am what the common tongue calls a Bookerie, and our trade, indeed our purpose in life, is to collect knowledge of all things and pass it on. And you?” He paused expectantly.

“Umm…what?”

“What are you, and what is your purpose in life? When you asked what I wanted, I thought you understood. I’ve offered you knowledge, and you must now give me some in exchange. Surely even humans understand exchange of knowledge. Look how they introduce themselves, which you, incidentally, have not.”

“I’m Tobin,” said Tobin, his mind reeling at the spate of words.

“And I am Master Erebus. That’s a fair exchange, your name for mine, you see?”

“So—so if you tell me something you expect me to tell you something back?” Tobin grasped at a sudden hope. “Can I ask you for things I particularly want to know?”

“Certainly. Most of our trade with others is in useful knowledge, although among Bookeries, worrying about the usefulness of knowledge is considered vulgar. Almost rude. But with others we tolerate it. That seems to puzzle you?” He whipped out a piece of paper and a quill. Tobin noticed an ink horn on his belt. “Tell me, have I interpreted your reaction correctly? I’m making a study of human reactions and I want to be precise about these things.”

“Well, I’m a little puzzled. Humans usually trade money for knowledge. Or just give it away.”

“Give it away? Then how do you clear the debt?”

“What debt?”

“Your debt to the one who has given you knowledge, of course. Surely you realize that knowledge is precious!” He sounded utterly shocked.

“Yes, we do,” said Tobin thoughtfully. “In fact, I exchanged some food for knowledge just yesterday.”

“Ah.” The little man began to scribble earnestly.

“You said you were studying humans. Why not start with the sorceress? She’s human, isn’t she?”

“The mistress? Of course. And I did start with her, but I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s atypical.”

“You know her well?”

“Certainly.” The goblin paused to beam at him. “I’m one of her closest advisers. I gather knowledge for her so she can make informed decisions. Why do you ask?”

It was not a rhetorical question, and the sparkling eyes behind the spectacles were astonishingly shrewd. Should he lie to the goblin? It seemed a dishonorable exchange.

A chorus of shrieks sounded from the side of the clearing where Tobin had hung his food sack. It was followed by a furious thrashing in the bushes. Tobin leapt to his feet, snatched up his sword, and ran to investigate.

The sack lay on the ground in the little ring of bushes where he’d known it would fall. Even in the moonlight he could see the places in the brush where the goblins had leapt to escape the magic of the repulsion charm. The leaves he’d coated so carefully with gisap glue were all but gone. He’d hoped the bushes would be strong enough to hold at least one of the goblins till he got there, but they’d all escaped. It’d take them hours to peel off all those leaves, though—a fitting payback for his humiliation at the wall. Glue made from gisap leaves dried out in a few days and lost its holding power, but for those few days it was incredibly adhesive. No, he didn’t envy his opponents. The first skirmish had fallen to her, but this one was his!

He turned back to camp just in time to see his bedroll vanish into the bushes. With a cry of dismay he dashed after it. He thought he saw several small, scurrying forms, but as he crashed through the bushes, he kept his eyes on the one that had his bedroll. And he was gaining on them. Just a little more—

Something grabbed his ankle, and he crashed to the ground, stunned and gasping. His elbow hurt, and his ankle had been scraped, right through his boot leather. He turned and saw the trip rope.

“Now.” Master Erebus’ voice came cheerfully out of the darkness. “How would you describe your reaction to this incident?”

Tobin couldn’t see him, but he knew the pen was poised. An inarticulate growl rose in his throat.

“Hmm. Would you say that’s closest to irritation, anger, or fury? Or something in between? Please, try to be precise.”

“Get out of here, goblin, or I’ll—I’ll roast you alive!”

“Hunger? How very odd. And I thought the mistress was atypical! I must make a note….” His voice trailed away.

Tobin dropped his head to the soft earth and consigned all goblins to the Otherworld.

No doubt they’d try again. And now, thanks to the goblin’s boasting, he could use their persistence. If he read Master Erebus right, the little goblin would be incapable of resisting a chance to pick up more knowledge, and Tobin still owed him several answers. Then he would take her. Not kill her, not unless he absolutely had to. Tobin had begun to consider his mission a good deed, like St. Meriot slaying the monster that had ravaged several coastal villages. But something in him still shrank from the idea of making her helpless with the net and then killing her. This way would be better.

It took him most of the next day to boil down all the gisap leaves he needed. He had to load all his gear onto the packhorse and take it with him when he went to gather the leaves, for he didn’t dare leave it unguarded. He painted a thick coating of the glue over all the places he thought a goblin might decide to perch. He had to stop work twice, once to free a bird that lit on a low limb, and once a squirrel that ran over a sticky log. But when the sun set, the animals became fewer.

His camp looked just as it had before, except for his missing bedroll. He kept an ear cocked for Master Erebus’ arrival all through dinner, but the goblin never came.

Finally Tobin curled up in his cloak and went to sleep—right under the branch where he’d hung his food sack. He had coated the branch with gisap glue, but he wanted to stay near it. This time of year, when little had grown and nothing had ripened, it was almost impossible to live off the land. If he lost his food he’d be forced to retreat, just like the others.

His cloak was neither as large nor as warm as his bedroll. Tobin wakened several times, cold and stiff, to wrap himself more snugly. The third time he wakened, he needed to visit the privy.

He slept in his clothes, so all he had to do was pull his boots on. The horses were asleep, though Fiddle roused as Tobin walked past, and he gave him a pat. He wandered drowsily away from camp, took care of the problem, and started back.

The dim light of early dawn was creeping through the forest, but he wasn’t so thoroughly awake that he couldn’t get a few more hours’ sleep. He walked on, trying not to wake up more than he had to. He seemed to have come a long way. He yawned, wondering why they hadn’t tried for the sack. It wasn’t a problem. The sap would remain sticky for several days—all he had to do was keep the animals out of it. Tobin plodded on, not really looking where he was going until a loose rock turned under his foot. He stumbled, regaining his balance with an effort. He looked around and gasped. He was almost a quarter mile from camp!

Racing back, he cursed the sorceress in his mind—he needed his breath for running. He could hear Fiddle snorting and stamping even from this distance. How long had he been wandering in bespelled circles? If they got his food—

As he ran into the camp, three goblins scurried off, with his food sack on their shoulders. They made good time for small creatures, but their legs were far shorter than his, and they were heavily burdened. He could catch them.

He jumped the first trip rope, but the second sent him sprawling. This time he was ready—he fell rolling and was back on his feet with barely a break in his stride.

He’d almost reached them when they raced into a grove of low-growing trees. Crashing through the branches, he defended his face as best he could while they scampered beneath the worst of the tangle. They had gained almost five yards when he burst from the grove and saw them dashing across a small meadow.

He surged forward in a furious sprint. They were almost into the forest. Willing all his strength into his pumping legs, he laid hands on the bag and grabbed it.

The three goblins shot in different directions and vanished.

Tobin sat down, clutching his prize and gasping for breath. It was several moments before he roused enough to wipe the sweat from his face, and several more before thought returned. How had the goblins beaten the charm? She must have been behind it. Had she cast some sort of spell that negated the repulsion? That meant she must have been in his camp just a few minutes ago!

But Tobin still had his food—that was what mattered. As long as he had that, they couldn’t force him back. What else were they stealing? Fiddle would give them trouble, but the packhorse was vulnerable. He’d better get back.

He rose, threw the sack over his shoulder—and something inside it clacked woodenly. There was nothing in his food sack that would make such a sound. A blinding realization hit.

Tobin dropped the sack and tore it open. Bags stuffed with dried leaves to imitate bread loaves. Strips of dried bark instead of meat. A few stones to add weight. Now that he looked closely, it wasn’t his sack at all—it was too new, too clean.

His mind filled with the memory of the goblins racing away with the dummy, and fury warred with admiration. They’d been wonderfully convincing. He hadn’t even glanced at the tree where his own sack had probably been hanging in plain sight. It wouldn’t be there now. He remembered the wild chase through the forest, and suddenly saw himself, smashing through the trees and triumphantly grabbing the wrong sack. Tobin burst out laughing, clear and bright as the sun creeping over the horizon.