Tal wasn’t back. She couldn’t deny the oddity now, not when the rest of the men seemed to have filtered home already. Torg’s breathing suggested sleep, though without the snoring. She had a moment alone and used it to eat her own stew, to rinse and wipe the mug she ate from and to fill it with half of the liquid from the other. That left them a bowl and half a mug of beverage each. She drank water from the skin and sat on the log to wait.

  The pocket wall stood stoically on one side of her. The horde rattled nosily on the other, and the tent where Torg slept waited directly in front. To her back, a scraggly tree marked the boundary between their camp and the next. What if Tal didn’t come back? Was she supposed to crawl into the tent, curl up in the furs beside Torg and go along as if nothing was wrong?

  Everything was wrong.

  She sniffed away the threat of panicky tears and inhaled cooking odors instead. Gobelin food was hearty. It sat like a stone in her stomach, but she enjoyed the mild flavors well enough, and it seemed to fuel a great deal of activity with fairly sparse portions. Gobelin life had a rhythm to it too, an ordered and ruled structure that she only barely understood. It reminded her of the song she could hear when Torg was nearby. It reminded her of everything she didn’t know about them or her situation.

  The pocket sparkled everywhere now. She knew about that, had overheard enough of magic while spying at Hadja’s windows. The dust thickened the closer the moon got to full. The dust fueled magic, and it was worth its weight in gold outside the pocket. Here it fell like dew and was trod upon. Didn’t the gobelins collect it? Did they even deal in magic?

  Tal’s crystal had something of that to it. She pulled it out and turned the long stone over in the low firelight. Sigils had been carved along each side. Magic, just like Hadja’s…or related to it. She’d need him to let her out again soon, and he wasn’t anywhere to be found.

  She didn’t dare try to work the pocket alone. Though a whisper of something she’d overheard nagged at her to try. Humans and magic. Powers and dust. Younger Maera had listened well on her late night sojourns to the old woman’s window. She’d heard just enough to know better than to try her hand at it.

  Despite this, she stood and carried the crystal to the line Tal had drawn. She kept her feet back, even leaned away a tad, but she thrust the tip of the stone through. Tal had not returned. She needed Tal to get out, and she needed him to answer her questions. A lot of questions. No more waiting.

  He appeared in front of her. The pocket wall shimmered and she looked out on a grassy spot amid dark trees. Her errant gobelin sat on the ground, leaned his back against a short ruin of a well and darted his eyes to all sides and back again. His hands fidgeted in his lap and, when his gaze landed on her, his eyes widened. He spoke, but the words didn’t breech the barrier.

  Maera shook her head. She had a few words for him as well, sitting on his green ass while she was stuck in the center of his horde.

  He jumped up now, however, and his face twisted into a grimace. He ran for her, waving and moving his wide lips, and Maera backed away from the pocket wall as quickly as possible. She snatched the crystal free and tucked it into her skirt again. Tal burst into camp, clicking like mad.

  “Following me!” he hissed.

  “What?”

  He shook her off and spun to face the invisible wall. “Watch. Be ready.”

  Uh oh. Maybe he hadn’t just been loafing. She stared at the spot he’d come through and held her breath. Tal watched, flexing his hands into fists alternately. He bounced in place and waited for something awful to follow him through.

  Except nothing happened. Eventually, Maera relaxed, but Tal still watched, still flexed. She turned to the fire and prodded the flames, listening to Torg’s breathing. He’d awoken. She’d have bet he watched them now from the furs. The heartbeat pattered more loudly in her mind. Swish, swish, definitely not sleeping.

  She took one bowl and mug to him while his brother stared down nothing at all. Torg sat up when she ducked inside. He took the bowl and she set the cup down on the ground. His eyes stayed on her, too intense and flashing gold in the firelight.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I am feeling much better.” He reached for her and she leaned away until he dropped the hand back to his side.

  “Your brother is back.”

  “Tal?”

  “I think he may have had some trouble.”

  “He often does.” Torg smiled, but his eyes narrowed and he flicked a glance out toward the campfire.

  “I think he’s okay.”

  He grunted and nodded. His mouth opened again and she guessed his next word. He’d repeated it often enough. Before he could say it again, Maera stood as tall as she could inside the tent and sidestepped toward the edge.

  “I’ll let you eat.”

  “Tir—”

  “I’ll check your bandages when you’ve finished.” She hustled the last few feet and heard him groan as she left. Tal had given up on his paranoia and faced her now. Maera waved at his dinner and plopped herself down on the log nearest the tent. That kept her back to her patient and left her facing his brother, who had some explaining to do. “I got your food.”

  His eyebrows raised high enough to un-wrinkle his nose a touch. “You did what?”

  “I went to the pot and got food. Is that bad?” She stared at him, stuck out her chin and dared him to tell her it was.

  “No.” He sat down instead, facing her. “What did they do?”

  Maera shrugged. “Nothing. They gave me the food.”

  He nodded and eyed his bowl as if it were poisoned.

  “I already ate mine.”

  He looked guilty, but picked up the bowl and stuck his fingers in it. They didn’t melt off, and he picked out a lump of meat and chewed it, nodding until he’d swallowed. “Good.”

  “Are the Sol buta your healers?”

  He started and looked at her again. “No.”

  “Well, what are they then?”

  “Sisterhood of the heart.”

  “Yeah, you said that. What the hell does it mean? What do they do, and why is everyone so scared of them?”

  “We only speak of these things with children.” He stuffed a vegetable in his mouth and glared at her.

  Maera had had about enough of his avoiding the subject, however. “Pretend that I’m a child, then.”

  “The tir talus is a sacred thing.”

  “What does tir talus have to do with the Sol buta?” Now she fidgeted, arranged her skirt and forced herself not to look behind her toward the tent and the man she knew was also listening.

  “The Sol buta are the keepers of tir talus. You understand? This is the most sacred of things.”

  “But what is it?”

  Tal clicked and looked toward his brother. He slammed his food down on the ground and stood up. “I must speak with Olin.”

  “What?” Maera shook her head. “Now?”

  “There’s an enemy horde nearby. I must tell Olin.” He lied through his teeth. He could have run to his leader the minute he’d come back. Now, he ran from her. The coward tossed another look into the tent and then scampered out of camp as fast as his green legs would churn.

  For a few breaths, it was quiet as the grave. The fire hissed. A twig snapped in protest and the breeze shifted a few leaves overhead. Then Torg’s voice answered, spoke softly behind her.

  “The tir talus is the sacred bond,” he said. “It is the heart’s true mating.”

  Mating. That pretty much said it all. Maera wasn’t a pet after all. She was in far more trouble than she’d ever guessed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Olin sat in his own camp, beside his favorite warrior, Fak, with three gobelin women in attendance. The horde leader had his boots off. He wiggled plump, green toes in front of his campfire and scowled at Tal.

  “What is it now?”

  The women giggled and scooted closer to Olin’s sides. Fak clicked and threw a chunk of wood into the flames. They sparked and showered Tal’s boots with embers.

  “Rulak’s horde is nearby,” Tal said.

  “Hmm.” Olin nodded and picked at his teeth. “I heard as much before.”

  Tal took a deep breath. This was his best shot, and it was a thinner one than he’d hoped to snatch. “They seek the castle, Olin.”

  “Ha!” Fak burst loose with a guffaw and stamped his foot down, but Olin waved him quiet even though his own shoulders shook enough to rattle his armor.

  “Haven’t you had enough attention today, Tal?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  Olin sighed and sat taller. The women scooted away and tried to look busy at nothing.

  “Torg has seen it as well.”

  Fak spat on the ground. He exchanged a look with Olin that spelled disaster for Tal’s hopes.

  “I could show you,” he grabbed at his last chance. “They’ve camped in the pocket where it’s appeared.”

  “All right, Bonesplint.” Olin sighed and shook his head sadly. “Show me, then, and let us be done with this nonsense.”

  Tal reached for his belt before his mind caught up with him. His relief, the wafting away of two days’ tension vanished in a moment of clarity. The witch had his crystal. Olin watched him through narrowing eyes. Fak watched him. The three women snickered behind their hands. He saw Olin’s shoulders lift and fall in a mighty sigh.

  “My crystal is still in camp.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I’ll go get it now.”

  “Or later. Whenever.” Olin didn’t bother to hide his chuckle this time. He passed a look to Fak and went back to picking his teeth.

  “No.” Tal cringed when Olin turned back, one bushy brow lifted. It was too late to take it back, however. “Come with me. I can show you from there.”

  “Hmm.” Olin grunted and rearranged his feet so that all his toes could warm evenly. “Fak can go. Show him your castle first.”

  The warrior would have protested. Tal could see it in the look he gave Olin, but the gobelin ruler had had enough. He waved for Fak to obey, and there would be no questioning that decision. The chieftain’s face clearly said so.

  Fak stood and glared at Tal. He’d follow, but he didn’t like it. Tal knew the rest of the warriors, all of them, blamed him for Torg’s fall. He hurried, spun and dodged his way back toward their fire without even making certain that Fak came along.

  When he got to camp, the witch ran to meet him. Tal stumbled backwards into Fak, but she leapt the log and kept coming.

  “Thank the Powers. I need out!”

  “The crystal.” Tal did his best to ignore the amusement on Fak’s face. He steadied his feet and took the stone from the human’s hands. She spun and hurried past Torg, across camp to the wall. Torg was up. He’d managed his way to the log, and there he sat, fuming at the flames. He didn’t look up until Fak spoke.

  “You’ve healed then?”

  “Maybe.” It was an odd answer, but no weirder than the look Torg cast at them.

  “Tal!” The witch called from the membrane. He didn’t have time to ponder his brother. He needed to show Fak where Rulak’s horde was camping. First, he’d have to let tir talus out for her nature call.

  He sighed and led Fak to the pocket’s edge, ignoring the icy looks Torg shot at them. The witch kept her eyes fixed ahead, and when he reached the wall, she held out her hand for the crystal. Tal shook his head and watched her face scrunch up.

  “I will come for you after I show Fak the enemy horde.”

  “Fine.”

  “It will only be a few minutes.” He inserted the stone and brought the meadow to mind. They crossed together, and then he stepped quickly back into camp. Fak had managed to use the second alone to say something that had his brother growling aloud. They fell silent when he returned, but Torg had a nasty glower on. And Fak looked far too pleased. “Look here, Fak.”

  Tal shifted the wall to the thistledown field. He watched Fak’s face instead of the pocket, waited to see his redemption there. Instead, Fak shrugged and favored him with a pitying expression. He knew before he turned that the horde had gone, that the thistledown might be trampled, but the pocket was empty.

  “Is this what you meant to show us, Tal?” Fak snarled. “A field of fluff?”

  “Come over. I’ll show you now.”

  Fak shook his head, but followed him anyway. They crossed into the down and Tal immediately crouched and looked to all sides. Rulak’s men were gone. The camps were gone, and the thistledown was plucked to a bare, billowy shadow of its former glory. Still, the horizon was clear and backed by a glorious sunset, and standing proudly in the midst of it was the outline of his castle. He heard Fak’s gasp and let his grin loose.

  “You see now?”

  “Olin,” Fak said. “I must tell Olin this.”

  He must. Now it was a serious thing. Now it mattered. Tal clicked his teeth and imagined the gargoyle bowing before the mighty Fak…or snapping the gobelin’s head clean off. He only replied, “Yes,” and shifted them back to camp.

  Torg was on his feet when they appeared and his legs wavered more than Tal would have liked. He looked even paler than normal. His arms crossed over his chest, and he jerked his head at the membrane. “Bring her back!”

  “Fine!” Tal swiveled around. He gave them both his back and stuck the crystal through again. His lips tightened with his mood, and he glared out over the meadow. Fak gasped again. Rulak’s men. They’d followed him through all the pockets, in and out. Had they been hiding in the grasses, or just stumbled back around on his trail?

  “What is it?” Torg demanded, but Tal couldn’t find his voice. He stared at the meadow, at six enemy gobelins with a human trussed up like a pig on a stick and found no words to answer. Unfortunately, Fak had plenty of words. He answered before Tal could stop him.

  “Rulak. The other horde has taken your woman.”

  Torg bellowed and charged the membrane. Tal grabbed at his tunic, but his brother had too much mass. He barged straight through and dragged Tal along for the trip. Fak was right behind them, howling and drawing a long, curving knife.

  Rulak’s men dropped the witch. They’d bound her hands and feet to a pole. She landed on her back and rolled downhill. Torg screamed and dove into their midst. He didn’t even have a weapon, but the other gobelins hadn’t expected him and they scattered to the sides before reaching for their own blades.

  Their four companions turned to Tal and Fak, who already swung his knife and gnashed his teeth. Tal scrambled for his blade, but he had a handful of crystal to tuck away first. He fumbled it into his belt and reached for his knife, but one of Rulak’s men was on him before his fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  He ducked the first swing, heard the enemy’s weapon whisk over his head and rolled into a crouch before pulling his knife free. He squatted, teeth bared and snarling. They’d put the smallest of their number on him. Tal clicked and bounced. That left three on Fak, and meant he’d better make short work of this one.

  The gobelin snickered and gnashed back at him. He was fat as well as short, moved slowly in a half circle while Tal spun to track him. He had a necklace of boar’s tusks and no tunic under his leather straps. The weapon he’d attempted to smash Tal’s head with was wooden, a club with rows of deadly metal nubs embedded along its length. He bounced this in his hand now while, around them, the sounds of battle rang in the clashing of knives and grunting voices.

  Tal swished his knife low through the grass and feigned a duck to the right. The fat gobelin swung his club down too slowly. Tal rolled left before it impacted the grass and thrust up into the bulbous midsection. Blood filled the grooves in his dagger. The enemy grunted a last time and Tal twisted and pulled his knife free, taking a portion of the man’s insides with it on exit.

  Rulak’s man hit the ground face first.

  Tal bounced to his feet and quickly surveyed the battle. Torg had downed one of his combatants. Now he had the man’s club and used it to fend off the knife slash of the other enemy. Tal fought the urge to rush to his brother’s aide. Fak had three warriors on him and, though he’d managed to keep them at the end of his knife, all three still closed in together.

  Tal ran at them. He howled and lifted his knife, leaping into the air. The nearest of Rulak’s men spun at the sound, but the man had only raised his blade halfway before Tal’s came down, point first, into his chest. They landed together, the enemy on his back and Tal squatting above. The fallen gobelin’s arms still flailed with his weapon. His legs twitched as if they still meant to run. Tal shoved once, twisted and withdrew his knife just as a blow landed between his shoulder blades.

  He fell onto the downed foe and rolled to the side. A second strike hit the place he’d been, crushed the chest he’d already punctured. He scooted back now, but his back burned from the club’s spikes and he felt blood flowing under his tunic. An enemy gobelin stood over him, and this one was built like Torg or Fak. His face stretched into an evil snarl. He raised the club for the next strike, the one that would split Tal’s skull.

  Killed while trying to rescue the witch, it served him right. He closed his eyes and showed his teeth, but the blow didn’t fall. The enemy grunted. Tal heard gurgling and then the thump of a body landing against the ground.

  When he looked again, Torg stood, grinning where the enemy had been. Blood drizzled from the old wound in his shoulder, from his neck and a new scratch along his forearm. He still wobbled, but not enough to slow him down. He was Torg, the mighty!

  “Help Fak,” Tal pushed up from the ground, stood shakily, with pain tearing through his back where the club had landed. It lay in the grass now, and he spared it a glance before checking on the final fray.

  They’d downed four between them, but the other two had downed Fak.

  Torg plowed into the nearest one, clubbing him and kicking him aside. Tal stumbled forward, intent in helping. But the last of Rulak’s men saw his plight and bolted, fast as a snap, toward the pocket. Before Torg had dispatched his friend, he’d vanished into Old Space.

  “He’ll bring the rest!” Tal shouted. They should go after him, should stop him before the whole of Rulak’s horde appeared, but Torg shook his head. He leaned over Fak and then stood quickly.

 

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