“Which unit you be with?” he demanded. “How come you ain’t got no yellow circle?”
Stognad rose on his toes and stretched his neck as if to look over the goblin leader’s shoulder.
“One thing sure, ain’t with them tree vermin back there,” he announced. He jerked his head, indicating a threat behind the goblins and took a firmer grip on his axe.
The seven goblins whirled, their weapons raised. Behind them, Bersmog and Stognad swung their axes, dropping the leader and his largest companion. Unfortunately, Stognad’s axe struck the iron helmet before it cut through the neck of the leader, and the clang brought the other four around in a hurry.
“Plenty smart, who ain’t?” Bersmog demanded as he dodged a spear and stepped in to take a swing at his attacker. The other goblin jumped back, and a second stepped forward, its spear deflected by the heavy buckle of Bersmog’s belt.
Cald had stayed in the shadows, fretting because he was not in the fight, but understanding his two friends had something in mind. Deciding they had exhausted their abilities at trickery, he stepped out and loosed an arrow. His shaft was true, but his target, the second spearman attacking Bersmog, tripped over a clump of grass and fell. Bersmog jumped forward to take advantage of his opponent’s fall and barely missed stepping into the path of the arrow.
Bersmog’s axe made short work of the fallen goblin, and he whirled to swing at his first attacker, who was again agile enough to jump away.
Cald rushed to the aid of his friends, meeting one well-armored humanoid axe to axe. Both drew back, their arms and hands tingling with the shock that had traveled up the normally absorbent handles. The dry wood had been no match for the blows.
Knowing his hands were useless for a moment, Cald used an elven trick. He leapt into the air to kick his opponent in the face. His jump was not quite high enough, and one booted foot caught the goblin in the throat. The humanoid fell with a gasp. Cald had crushed his windpipe.
The human had only just landed and righted himself when another goblin, eyes filled with bloodlust, charged with his spear. Cald twisted to the side and hacked ineffectually with the axe, still gripped in his numbed fingers. He held it by strength of will; his arms still felt rubbery.
He danced back and forth, unable to take his eyes off the spearpoint to check the ground behind him. The meadow seemed to be getting wider; that meant he was being worked back toward the trees. The goblin, his spear giving him the advantage on reach, forced Cald back until he tripped over a root and fell sprawling on his back. Just before the breath was knocked out of him, he kicked out, catching the humanoid’s right leg and jerking it sideways.
The goblin tumbled, and Cald tried again to use the axe, but, unable to control his arms, he had swung too fast. One edge of the blade bit into another thick tree root. The goblin fell on top of the other edge. The humanoid rolled over, and the axe, dislodged from the root by the goblin’s impact, stayed buried in his chest.
Cald rose shakily to his feet to see Bersmog standing in the middle of the field, leaning on his axe handle, while at his feet lay the sixth goblin. He was watching Stognad, who faced the last of the group. The last of the goblins in black and yellow was a clever fighter. He met each of Stognad’s parries with a block and delivered a thrust of his own.
Stognad was the more intelligent of the two goblins living in Sielwode, and while most of the elves’ teachings seemed foolish, he had tried to learn those things he thought might be useful. Seeing he was unlikely to win with goblin battle tactics, he attempted a trans-leap, jumping about to confuse his adversary.
The goblins had never truly understood which elven battle tactics were accomplished by skill and which were aided by magic. Stognad’s flat-footed leaps reminded Cald of the jumps of a spastic frog. Stognad didn’t seem to know where he would bound next. Fortunately his opponent didn’t either. When he tried to second guess Stognad, he missed his thrust. Stognad was on target. As the life went out of their last enemy, Cald and Bersmog approached Stognad.
“You need to wash your pants?” Bersmog asked, stopping a good distance from his friend.
Stognad frowned at him but addressed Cald.
“Him hit on the head?”
“I don’t think he recognized your strategy,” Cald grinned. “It takes elven magic to do a trans-leap.”
“Thought something was wrong,” Stognad looked down at his feet. “Jump plenty good, but not like elf.”
“Jumped like your pants full,” Bersmog said.
“Worked,” Stognad glared at his friend and led the way through the forest toward the major battle. “Nose keep me on the ground,” he gave his explanation as they walked through the wood. “All full of awnshegh stink.”
That was a new excuse for failure, Cald thought as he led the way toward the eaves of the forest. Fewer battle noises reached them through the forest now. The sounds had stopped completely by the time Cald found Malala sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree while Kilrinis bandaged a wound on her arm.
She used the other to point, and Cald followed her direction. A hundred yards farther on, he found Eyrmin facing a burly human whose clothing was tom and bloody and whose hair, molded tightly to his head, clearly showed where it had been pressed down by a helmet. His headgear lay on the ground a few steps behind him.
The prince stood straight and slender, looking like a reed defying an oak. Even so, in authority and power of will, Eyrmin drew all eyes. His slender blade appeared to be no match for his adversary’s two-handed broadsword, but the prince parried the blows with surprising ease. As they circled, stepped in, exchanged blows, and stepped away again, the human seemed to realize they had an audience of elves.
“Kill me, elf,” he panted, “And a thousand like me will be on my heels.” He lunged for Eyrmin, who seemed to melt from the spot where he had been standing and appeared four feet away.
“There could not be a thousand like you,” Eyrmin taunted. “Despicable as your race is, they could not spawn that many fools.”
“Soon you’ll see what fools we are,” the man shouted, lunging at the elf again. He leapt forward, but hesitated after his first step. Three times before, Eyrmin had trans-leapt to the left after a decisive thrust from the human. The human swung to guard his right but found nothing. Eyrmin had not moved. He raised his blade and caught the man in the throat, severing his spinal cord in one quick strike.
The prince watched the man fall. As he turned slowly to face Cald, his wide, slanted eyes flinched from the boy’s gaze. Eyrmin’s ruthlessness in defending his homeland was legendary, yet he shrank from having the boy he had raised see him kill a human. Then he noticed the blood on Cald’s clothing.
“Are you injured?” he came striding across the clearing. Until then, Cald had forgotten about the blood. He looked down in surprise.
“My race contains a lot of blood,” Cald said, “but none of it is mine.”
Before he could continue, Stognad interrupted, telling about the battles they had fought on the way to join the prince. They had accounted for twelve of the enemy, but the goblin, with his peculiar idea of truth, increased the tally by a score. Cald and Eyrmin exchanged glances that said they would discuss the matter later. The elves were gathering around, trading long, speaking looks.
Cald admired Eyrmin’s patience in letting the goblin finish his boast. The others were still keyed up after the battle and were less tolerant of the bragging. When Bersmog, who had been adding to the story, stopped for breath, Saelvam interrupted.
“Why do they keep coming?” He shifted his bow from hand to hand and stared north, toward the eaves of the forest as if another attack would come at any moment.
“They want something from the Sielwode,” Eyrmin said, stating the only obvious part of the mystery over the frequent attacks. He stooped to pick up a handful of leaves, using them to clean his sword. Around the small clearing, the others did the same.