Horded - Kingdom Gone Book 2, page 17
His arms found a path around her and locked together. He lifted her up to meet the kiss and Maera’s arms pushed her bag aside, wiggled up around his neck in an assist that had to be part reflex. She’d never wanted this for herself, not since Vane and Westwood. A million years ago, now, and some other foolish girl. All she’d asked for was justice, and instead, the universe had given her the tir talus.
His lips said the word against hers, brushing it across her skin. She repeated it, “tir talus,” the heart’s beating. It swished through the places where they touched, tying their bodies and their souls into a single unit.
She hadn’t wanted it, or maybe just hadn’t dared to hope for it. Now that he was here, hers, wanting meant so little. She’d have taken on the horde to keep him, would have fought to the death if they tried to force her away from his side.
“Tir talus,” he said. “Maera.”
“Tir talus.” It was that, and that was it. No more explanation necessary, except perhaps, for the shouting in the distance.
Torg’s grip on her didn’t loosen, but his face turned, and his attention shifted. She felt his spine go rigid and she heard the reason in the chorus of raised voices. The horde had stirred, and Maera had no doubt the next action would be aimed at them, whatever it was.
Their chief led the mob. Two enormous, square gobelin warriors stood on either side of him and the rest of the horde, minus the Sol buta, came behind. Had they been outside the pocket, you might have been able to hear the grumbling all the way to the Southern coast. As it was, Maera only pressed closer to Torg’s chest.
“Torg and Talius Bonesplint!” The gobelin chieftain bellowed and the horde fell silent. “The time has come to discuss your behavior.”
“Behavior?” Torg kept one arm around her shoulders, but he let go with the other and gestured dangerously toward his leader. His voice was defiant enough to make her want to crawl around behind him. “Do you question a gobelin’s right to seek out his tir talus?”
The comment sent a ripple through the horde that she didn’t understand. The women who had brought her still remained apart from the mob. If Torg meant to gain them as an ally, he’d have his work cut out for him. Maera didn’t believe one day of bathing and dressing would cement any kind of loyalty toward her.
“No.” The chief shook his head. “It is not your action on that matter that we question.” A dark look backed the calm statement. It chilled her, made her spine curl inward, but Torg missed the threat.
He stood tall, waved his dismissive arm again and clenched his jaw, making the teeth clatter that punctuated his people’s moods. “Then what?”
“Your brother!” One of the giants beside the chief growled and the word rumbled through the mob.
“Quiet, Dutat.” The horde leader sniffed and lifted one hand for silence. Even so, it took a few moments for the command to drift through the crowd. At last, the chief took a deep breath and continued. “It was Tal who led Rulak’s men to our border. It was Tal who led you to the town where you were shot. It is Tal who must answer for Fak’s death.”
“No.” Torg threw an arm out to shield Tal at the same time Maera did. He looked at her and his lips twitched. They stood together and made a wall in front of his brother. “We will answer all together.”
Perhaps her due had come at last. She didn’t mind it. They’d answer together, the only way that made sense. Neither of them could let Tal fall over the events that led to their finding one another. She’d stand with both of them, had said she’d face down the whole horde if necessary, and now it looked like she’d have her chance to do just that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The witch defended him as readily as his brother did. Neither hesitated when Olin pronounced him responsible. They moved like a shield, protecting him from the horde’s wrath, and they would all pay for it now. That rebellion sank them as surely as his actions had sunk him. Even the Sol buta could not save them now, though his brother mentioned the tir talus, went so far as to enlist them in an unspoken allegiance to the sacred bond.
The old matriarch held her tongue, however, while the rest of the horde clattered for Fak’s vengeance. Even Torg’s reputation would not still the noise. Teeth clicked, armor rattled and the whole pocket resonated with the sounds of gobelin fury. So many eyes flared golden that he might have taken them for fireflies, were it dark enough to hide the snarling faces. Fireflies with an army of clattering weapons at their back.
“Very well.” Olin agreed with Torg, doomed him and the witch to whatever fate they’d chosen for him.
“No.” Tal stood up and tried to lean around his brother’s blockade. “They had nothing to do with this. I’m the one who stumbled into Rulak’s men. I’m the one who returned here, who failed to alert the horde to their presence.”
“And I’m the one who led Fak straight into them. You tried to tell them, and they wouldn’t listen. Would you?” Torg turned and snarled back at the horde. “Tal told you about the castle, about Rulak’s men, and what did you do? Ignored him, sent Fak to witness Tal’s folly?”
“Funny,” Olin’s voice had a razor in it. He latched onto Torg’s tirade and twisted it the way Tal had known he would. “That Fak didn’t survive to return and confirm that folly.”
“What are you saying?” Torg let go of his woman and lunged forward. He stalled his charge only when nose to nose with Olin.
The horde stilled. The camps fell eerily silent. Worse, perhaps, than the rattle of war was the stunned quiet that muted an entire gobelin mob. Dutat and Vrau, standing point on either side of Olin, failed to strike out against their long-time friend. Torg had asked for it. His actions demanded it, but without Fak to stand as second, Olin had relied on the two other gobelins besides Tal who owed his brother their allegiance. A mistake, and one he recognized now as Torg’s rage faced him unchallenged.
“Do you suggest,” Torg’s voice held to a low and hissing whisper, but everyone within the pocket heard his words. “That Tal had something to do with Fak’s death? That I did?”
Vrau looked to Dutat for reassurance. If one of them would turn on Torg, it would be him. But Dutat’s eyes had fixed on his friend, even though his hand hovered near his weapon. Would Dutat believe this of them? Not likely. To suspect Tal would be allowed, even expected, from any of them, but to call out Torg as a traitor?
No one would believe it and Olin knew this, had to know it in the silence that rang around them.
“No.” His answer was long coming. He showed weakness and it leant some merit to their cause. “I do not, but this thing is wrongly done, and Tal’s ranting about the castle hasn’t helped it.”
“I’ve seen it myself.” Torg stepped one pace, exactly one pace, backwards and gave Olin room to consider his words…and his position. “I’ve seen the castle, and so did Fak before Rulak’s men took him. Why do you think that horde is hovering outside our walls, Mighty Olin?”
“You say that you have seen the castle?” Olin’s question had no ring to it. He stalled and Tal could guess why easily enough. The horde wanted vengeance for Fak’s death. He’d been as popular as Torg, or close to it, and Olin would have to deal with the complaints if no action was taken. “The enemy horde is at our walls, yes. And so it is far too dangerous to stray from our pocket for a time.”
Tal didn’t care for the sound of that. Olin had a plan brewing. He could hear the weight of it in the man’s tone, and he sounded far too pleased with whatever idea he was weaving.
“If you let us show…” Torg began, and Olin’s hand flew up to silence him.
“Yes,” he said. “I think the three of you should be able to find some proof of this thing. Bring it back to us, and the matter will be done.”
It would take one trip through the pocket, one single step to prove to Olin what they, what Fak himself, had known. Now Tal saw that step might as well have spanned the world itself. Olin would not allow another of his horde to go with them. He would not budge from his own, secure seat in the pocket. He’d send them out instead, and if Rulak’s men didn’t kill them, they’d still be just as lost. They couldn’t bring back a castle.
Torg knew it. He had to know it, but despite a momentary pause, he showed no outward sign. Olin’s proposal was a death sentence at worst, complete banishment at best. The horde would not wait for them. The gobelins would go home, back across the Shadow Mountains, without them. Yet Torg lifted his pointed chin and threw out an arm. The witch slid under it, tucked in close to his side, and reminded Tal that it would be three of them banished together.
Today, that seemed less horrid than he’d originally thought, but he still looked ahead to many a lonely night on the outside, as the odd man out.
“Very well, Mighty Olin.” Torg made a mockery of their leader’s title. What did he have to lose by it now? “We’ll bring you your proof.”
Olin laughed, and even Vrau and Dutat joined him. The horde rippled with mirth, a step better than the murderous clicking, but a very small step. “Okay, Torg Bonesplint, fallen gobelin, you bring us back the castle and you’ll stand proudly at my side again.”
“I’ll do one better,” Torg’s head ran away now. He’d gone drunk with their humiliation. Tal flinched, but not nearly as much as he should have. If he’d expected his brother’s next words, he might have run. “We’ll bring you the Guardian.”
“Ha! Ha!” Olin’s bellow echoed over the pocket. By the third “ha” the crowd picked it up. The horde joined him, mocking the very idea.
“It’s true!” Torg yelled over them until Tal had to reach out and pull on his arm. He might have ripped it from the socket if it would just make Torg stop, make him shut up and not say the next thing. “Tal saw the Gargoyle!”
He dangled from Torg’s arm, groaning. The laughter swelled, but Olin stepped in, owning the gap between them that only a moment before had belonged to Torg. Now the chieftain had the advantage, and he meant to press it all the way.
“Impossible!” He shouted into Torg’s face, but his eyes drifted to Tal, pinning him in place, dissecting him and finding him so very lacking. “No one has seen a Gargoyle since the Final War!”
“I have.” A strange voice answered, loud enough to be heard but softer than the conversation warranted.
Tal checked his throat, but the words had not come from him.
The voice continued, as if from the air itself. It squeaked into a higher pitch than any gobelin could master. “I’ve seen a Gargoyle just this morning.”
The horde rattled, hissed as every gobelin looked for the source of the odd announcement. Tal saw him first. Perhaps, because he was shorter. An imp huddled low to the ground, gray as a rock and grinning like a cat. He winked when Tal caught his eye and stood up, sprang to his feet and bowed left and right, clearing a narrow circle between the horde and the pocket wall he’d come through.
“This is not your business, imp!” Olin shouted first and the horde muttered assent.
“Oh?” One slender hand touched a gray chest. The imp’s eyes stretched wide. “Of course not. Your pardon. I only assumed, you see. If my enemy had the thing I most desired in his clutches…I’d want to know where.”
The imp’s declaration shot ice through Tal. Rulak’s men and the gargoyle. He’d seen them with it, should have known they still had it. The prophecy had chosen them, and yet that ice shivered under his green skin and whispered that it was all wrong.
Olin growled and silenced the horde’s murmuring. He waved his big arms and a path opened between imp and lead gobelin. “What’s this about?”
Torg opened his mouth. He’d ruin this if he linked the imp’s story to them. The horde would suspect the newcomer enough already. Tal sank his teeth into a sea foam arm and his brother muttered a curse instead. He shook Tal off easily. The bite hadn’t been meant to last, only to shut him up. They’d fare far better if the imp’s tale stood on its own.
“A gobelin horde,” the imp giggled and hopped from one foot to the other. “Much like yours, but not so mighty, of course.”
“Rulak’s horde.” Olin nodded.
The little man’s laughter chattered through the pocket, rising to a squeal that made Tal flinch. “Yes! That’s the one. He’s got himself a gargoyle, your friend Rulak. Can’t imagine what he means to do with it.”
Fulfill the prophecy. Tal clenched his teeth and ground the tips together. Rulak meant to use the Guardian to get at the castle, but once he’d found it, the gobelin wouldn’t do his duty. His men would not defend the ramparts, would not summon the Bearer or call the Powers back. Rulak meant the fortress for himself. He always had.
“Where are they?” Olin demanded. The horde fell silent, but the imp only cackled and bounced in place.
“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” he snickered. “Think of what they’d doooo to me, if I did.”
“What do you want?” This wasn’t the first Skinner to wander into Olin’s camp. He knew the game the imp played, but his patience had already been worn down dealing with them. “What is it that you want for your secret, imp. Spit it out.”
“Hmmm.” It wasn’t in an imp’s nature to be direct, and Tal could see the hesitation on this one’s face. It had enough sense, though, to detect Olin’s mood. “I want protection, trading rights, and someplace to lie low until the fouler of your kind have moved along.”
So he’d fallen out with Rultak’s horde. If so, the safest place for him would be here among the enemy. Tal chewed on this while he watched Olin consider the offer. What the imp asked lent credence to their story as well. If the little Skinner had been somehow planted by them, the last thing it would ask for was to stay with the horde where it might be found out and punished for its treachery.
“Agreed!” Olin bellowed the decision and then turned just enough to glare at Torg before adding. “Now tell me, imp. Where is Rulak hiding this fairy tale?”
“Oh, he’s not hiding it.” The imp answered with a flourish again, back to himself. “He’s got it chained up like a trophy right in the middle of town.”
“What town?” The witch spoke up now, too loudly and with no sense of the breach in protocol. Tal understood why. He knew what she was thinking before the imp answered, even though it only took the thing a second to reply.
“Ramstown. Rulak’s horde has sacked the village and set camp in its smoking ruins.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The noise shook her bones. The horde continued to shout and clatter until she could feel their teeth clicking even over the heartbeat signature of Torg at her side. Ramstown sacked. Her legs wobbled and threatened to buckle. Jaymi, innkeeper Simpson, the weaver’s wife, Molton Fayer, Tilly and even Miller Ramsten …had they all fallen under a stroke of the wicked, wiggling gobelin blades?
Torg whispered with his brother, Olin hollered in the gobelin tongue, and Maera stood, imagining one face after the other. Dead. Some of them would have perished. Maybe all of them were gone. How many escaped, and how many citizens of Ramstown lay in the muddy streets?
The gobelin camp had exploded with activity. Her Sol buta escort drifted away, leaving her with only two allies in the chaos. Another town damaged and she was here, in the center of the very source of its doom. Torg’s arm shifted and he faced her without a shred of blame in his expression.
“Stay with Tal.” He put a hand to either side of her face. His skin was warm and soft against her cheeks, gentle. His eyes had the force of his will flashing inside. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Of course he’d leave her now.
Maera nodded and listened to the cadence of gobelin as he gave his brother directions, too. That message was not for her ears, and she suspected he didn’t share it deliberately. She suspected he’d gone to beg for her life to be spared, and from the fury in the camps around her, she knew he’d fail in that attempt.
The froggy brother stood beside her, and they watched Torg leave together without speaking. He was hers and Maera didn’t doubt it. She might not deserve him, but he was hers just the same. If his people chose to kill her, she knew as well, they’d have to go through Torg to do it. He might be hurt then, too.
“If they come for me.” She didn’t look at Tal, and kept her voice as soft as the breeze through grass. “Don’t let your brother get involved. Do whatever you have to.”
“It’s all my fault.” Tal spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. His voice whined with self-loathing. “The whole thing is my fault.”
“What?” She’d been staring after her tir talus, but now her eyes dropped to Tal. He’d hunched into a ball beside her, legs pulled up and eyes cast to the ground. Maera knew that pose, even if she’d only allowed herself to indulge in it in the privacy of a darkened room. “It’s no—”
“I found the gargoyle.” His voice flowed too fast to interrupt, as if this thing had to come out or he’d never have the courage to utter it again. “I found it, and it bowed to me. I should have stayed when Rulak’s men arrived. The Guardian chose me. Me? Why would it? I’m the lowest of gobelins. You know that? The shortest, the slowest, the one who hides in his brother’s big shadow. And I ran. I left it to the enemy horde and then I led Torg to your village, right into an arrow and more. I led Rulak’s horde to the village too, and Fak is my fault also.”
“Tal.” He paused for a breath and she dropped to the ground beside him. “Tal, listen. You didn’t do this.” She meant to add her own sins to his list, to convince him the whole mess was her reward for deeds long past, her curse. But how could she lesson his pain by claiming it? How could she reduce his horde’s plight to punishment for a long ago crime by a girl who was too young and too stupid to know what her actions would unleash?
She hadn’t known.
Maera closed her eyes and tried to remember the bodies. They deserved her attention. Every face should be burned into her memory forever, but here in the pocket, beside the whimpering gobelin, the images blurred at the edges. She’d thought she loved the man. A fourteen-year-old, ridiculous kind of love that allowed her to believe his gang meant her village no real harm. She’d seen the glory of him only, had focused on Vane and made a villain in her mind of the goodmother who wouldn’t help her win him. Or had it been the magic she’d lusted after, the stories old Hadja spun willingly each night to the goodmother, to an outsider, while Maera was forced to spy in secret, to creep through the grass for her scraps of magic and wonder?
