T. Kingfisher - Nine Goblins

Heading Two—Moving stealthily, practice thereof…

“And if we follow the forest?”

“Probably closer to fifty or sixty miles, although it’s hard to tell. Could be more. We’ll still have an open bit at the end—can’t tell if the woods go up to the foothills, but I don’t think they do—but we’d be under cover most of the way.”

Nessilka nodded. She had a brief vision of herding the Nineteenth across open fields by night, hiding in drainage ditches during the day, barking dogs, men with crossbows, and shuddered. “I’m thinking we’ll go with your plan.”

“One more thing. There’s a town—probably ten miles north, real close to the woods. We can probably go deeper in and go around it, and risk getting lost, but we might want to try raiding it.”

“Raiding? Corporal, there are nine of us.” Nine goblins could, on a good day, probably disrupt a child’s tea party or decimate a chicken coop, but Nessilka wouldn’t have put them against anything bigger.

“I’m not suggesting we try to pillage the town, Sarge. I had more in mind hitting a henhouse, and maybe somebody’s laundry. Have you seen Thumper’s loincloth?”

“Thank you, I’ve been trying not to look.”

“There’s a coupla isolated farmhouses on the outskirts. I think a small group could raid one.”

“I’ve got no stomach for killing farmers, Murray, and if we do, we’re going to have hunters after us before you can say “glarguk.”

“Great gods, no, Sarge, I’m hoping they won’t even see us.”

She relented. “Okay, talk to me again when we’ve found a place to hole up for a bit. I’m still hoping to put miles between us and that wizard.”

In the end, they found a kind of dirt cave in a mostly dried-out riverbed. If it rained, they might flood out, but the promise of even a muddy pool of water nearby was more than enough to recommend the campsite. They had made at least three miles, which wasn’t as much as Nessilka liked, but it was better than nothing.

Weasel had managed to bring down a rabbit. A rabbit and a bird weren’t much between nine people, but along with the dried field rations, it wasn’t bad, and everybody knew it could have been a lot worse. Both rabbit and pheasant were cooked on a spit, and were greeted with so many appreciative complaints—“Gah! Tough as an old shoe!” “You call this rabbit? Looks like a long-eared ferret. Tastes like one too!” “What was this bird eating, stinkbugs?”—that the little goblin was completely tongue-tied.

“Okay, guys, tomorrow we’re doing a full day’s march,” said Nessilka once the last bones had been gnawed. Groans greeted this. She waved them off. “We’ve got a route back to Goblinhome, but we’re sticking to the woods for now.”

“How far are we…”

“…from Goblinhome, Sarge?”

“’Bout fifty miles as the crow flies. We’re not crows, though, so we’re looking at seventy or eighty.”

More groans. “Why can’t we take the short way?”

“’Cos it’s through human farmland, and I don’t think they’ll be real happy to see us.”

“Perhaps we could go in disguise?” asked Gloober hopefully.

“We’re four feet tall and green . I think they’re going to notice.”

Blanchett consulted with his teddy-bear for a few minutes, and then said, “He says it’s a good plan, Sarge.” The teddy-bear had one of the pheasant tail-feathers stuck behind one ear, giving it a jaunty look.

“Err…thank him for me.” Nessilka wondered briefly what she’d have done if the teddy-bear hadn’t approved, had a brief vision of a mutiny led by a one-eyed stuffed animal, and squelched it. It had been a long enough day already.

It was a long night, too.

Goblins are good at sleeping on the ground. They had all been doing it for so long that they hardly cared any more—pack for a pillow, cloak if they had one. And tonight they had the luxury of cut pine boughs for a mattress, which was significantly better than camping on the hillside. No one was complaining there.

No, the problem was the noises.

Generally the noises of goblin digestion, snoring, and other indelicate processes were enough to drown out anything outside. This time, however, the gurgle of nine stomachs had nothing on the woods.

“Those aren’t normal,” said Thumper, the fourth or fifth time something went by with a swoosh outside, as if on enormous wings.

“It’s owls,” said Murray.

“It’s not owls,” said Thumper. “I’m a forest goblin, ‘kay? Those aren’t owls.”

“You can’t have been in the forest since you were little,” said Murray.

“They haven’t changed owls since I was a kid. Owls are silent, like. They sneak up on stuff. That’s not an owl.”

As if exhausted by speaking this many words all at once, he fell silent. Everybody listened.

Something that probably wasn’t an owl wooshed by again.

“We don’t like this, Sarge,” said Mishkin and Mushkin.

“Sarge doesn’t like it either,” said Nessilka, “but it’s out there and we’re in here, and it’ll have to come through me to get to you, so go to sleep.”

She was closest to the entrance of the cave, and she’d always had pretty good hearing. She was probably the only one who could hear the other noise—the soft, sucking sound of footsteps in mud, as something walked quietly up the riverbed, fifteen or twenty feet away.

Thhhhwuck. Thhhhwuck.

Swoosh.

She glanced behind her. Murray was the next closest, but he was half-deaf from his time in the Mechanics Corps and the daily explosions. She didn’t say anything.

Her hand tight on the handle of the club, Sergeant Nessilka stared wide-eyed into the dark.

Sings-to-Trees stood on his porch, a cup of tea in one hand, and frowned into the darkness.

He wasn’t particularly scared of the dark. He knew most of what lurked in it, and had occasionally removed thorns from their paws. And although he was careful never to rely on it, he was fairly certain that there was an understanding among the smarter denizens of the forest that he and his farm were off-limits. He suspected he’d been lumped in with the little birds that pick the teeth of crocodiles, something too useful to waste on a whim.

For the predators that went on two legs, there were always the trolls. A desperate man had come to the farm once, and he’d been much more desperate after the trolls got him cornered on the roof and the gargoyle sat on his head. He’d been positively grateful to see the rangers when they came to take him away.

Sings-to-Trees had lived out here for years, more or less by himself, and never had any particular cause to fear the dark.

Still…

There was something odd about the dark tonight.

The elf wrapped his fingers in Fleabane’s ruff. The coyote whined briefly.

He must feel it too.

Sings-to-Trees wished he could put his finger on it. The crickets all sang the usual songs and the fireflies had been out in force through the evening. The spring peepers had mostly stopped peeping, but that was nothing more sinister than the season passing. Early cicadas had begun to take their place.

It wasn’t too quiet. It was a healthy forest at night, so it was downright noisy. The stars were in the usual positions and the leaves were hissing the way that leaves always hiss in the wind.

Still, something was making him uneasy.

Fleabane sighed and flopped against his shins. The coyote’s hackles kept coming up, then easing back down. Sings-to-Trees knew exactly how he felt.

The leaves sighed. The crickets chirped. A lone firefly, still lovelorn, flashed its message to any other fireflies that might be looking for a good time.