Whatever happened to Hàdig?

The story of Hàdig's escape is one worth telling. Of course, we as the party didn't hear of it all at once, it was only once we escaped from the farm house that the tale was more fully told. As a number of us focused on Nevyn, some of the party sought answers from Hàdig. Cecelia and Robin sought information on the numbers of goblins, their disposition, the location of their camp. Any insights they could draw into what they would face in the coming hours. Xocholani sat nearby, her questions formed as blunt interjections asking him why he had acted in the way he had, seeking to find some sense of his purpose.

It is fair to say Hàdig was much better at talking about the goblins than he was himself, leaving the majority of Xocholani's questions unanswered.

This record represents my best understanding of what that experience was for Hàdig, the horse warrior had no interest in my offer of reviewing the record. I leave you with his tale,

Aldren Thorne

Pain.

Consciousness brings a throbbing ache pounds behind his eyes. His head feels heavy, his mouth dry and sticky with blood. Somewhere nearby, wood crackles and snaps. The smell of smoke hangs thick in the air.

When Hàdig finally forces his eyes open, firelight assaults them.

A large pit fire burns a short distance away, sending waves of oppressive heat across the forest clearing. Sparks drift upward into the darkness beyond the trees. The earth beneath him is hard-packed dirt and tangled roots.

The memories come back in a tangled mess. The battle. The farmhouse. The goblins. Xocholani’s desperate prayers. Nevyn being carried away, but then turning into an insect and escaping.

The arrows. So. Many. Arrows.

As Hàdig instinctively tries to shift into a more comfortable position, pain shoots through his shoulders and lower back. A shaft of an arrow remains sticking out of his side, still lodged in him from the ambush that couldn’t have been more than an hour ago.

His wrists and ankles have been bound together behind him in a tight hogtie. Thick rope biting deep into his skin. Whoever tied them were far more skilled than the goblin raiders. Every movement only tightens the bonds further.

Movement behind him draws attention. A harsh chittering laugh breaks the silence, followed by a deeper, wheezing guffaw.

Then something sharp slams into his thigh. Another small cut was a trivial thing when compared to the collection of wounds he had already taken.

Several goblins wearing wolf pelts emerge from the shadows, grinning through yellowed teeth.

One bares a broken tusk and points the blade at him.

"Ha! Human awake!"

They speak common at least, if only to taunt him.

The goblin jabs him again. More laughter.

"No running now. You belong to Gnhass-ka."

The others cackle in agreement.

"King Gnhass like strong ones!"

"Maybe king keep this one, or maybe sell!"

Their arguments are interrupted abruptly as a large shadow falls across the firelight. A deep voice growls from above them.

"Leave him, scum."

The goblins shrink back.

"He does not belong to your pitiful clan."

The speaker steps forward into the light. Hàdig recognizes him immediately as the hobgoblin commander from the battle.

Gone is deception of the once pretty yellow summer dress. Now that Hàdig sees him clearly, he wears fitted chainmail beneath worn leather armour. A longsword hangs confidently at his side. The same sword that took a bite out of his flesh some time ago.

The hobgoblin crouches beside Hàdig and seizes his jaw in an iron grip. Thick fingers forcing his head to turn. A tattoo of intertwined manacles and coins wrapping around a dark tower is visible on his forearm.

The hobgoblin studies his face in the flickering firelight. For a moment he says nothing, before giving a satisfied grunt.

He turns Hàdig's head slightly. Examining. Appraising. Evaluating. The same way that Hàdig may have once considered a horse to join his family herd.

"Strong."

His grip tightens.

"This one will fetch a good price."

A few of the goblins exchange disappointed looks, their eyes flicking to a large pot on the firepit.

The hobgoblin’s gaze snaps toward them and he barks a command in the cruel goblin language, sending them quickly scurrying away.

"Once we break the last farmhouse, we will have enough captives for the markets."

His voice carries easily across the camp as he addresses them all.

"Golthar will be pleased."

Without another word, he releases Hàdig, his head striking the ground hard. The arrow in his side shifts, drawing a hiss of pain and the blood to start flowing from the wound once again.

The Hobgoblin moves away, walking to meet with two Goblins at the other side of the fire.

The first is broad and muscular, larger than most goblins Hàdig has seen. A faded red cloak is wrapped around his waist like a warrior's kilt. One hand rests casually on the haft of a finely crafted hand axe. Unlike the others, he hasn't laughed once. His dark eyes remain fixed on Hàdig with unsettling intensity.

The second is taller and leaner. A wolf pelt hangs from his shoulders, draping nearly to the ground. His hands are empty, but his fingers dance near the daggers sheathed at his sides.

Before the hobgoblin even reaches them, the scrawnier goblin begins shouting angrily, gesticulating wildly with spittle flying from its lips as it speaks the harsh goblin language.

It is clear that the goblins are not nearly as unified as they appeared during the battle.

The rangy goblin is furious. His wolf-pelt cloak sways as he jabs a finger toward the distant glow of Sukiskyn's walls.

The topic of discussion was made clear when the Goblin began pointing at Hàdig, with the eyes of all of the wolf pelt wearing goblins starting at him with murderous intent.

Some gestures or expressions transcend any language barrier.

Abruptly, the Hobgoblin spoke in Common, breaking through the tirade of the Wolfskull.

"If he dies, then Golthar pays nothing."

The argument stops- coin carries considerable weight, even among goblins.

"Golthar can pay for dead goblins, when the farm falls. The others fell. The logging farm, the river farm, the hill farm.”

Above the clearing, barely visible in the darkness, large shapes circle, Hàdig can barely make out bats, far larger than any he has ever seen before.

One swoops low over the clearing, its passage silencing the goblin’s rant as its leathery wings brush the goblin’s topknot before it lands in a nearby tree with an unpleasant screech.

Vlakk's smile widens. He stares directly at Hàdig.

"Did you hear that hero? The owl is dead."

That earns approving grunts from both clans.

“Your friends will be joining you soon too. Without eyes, the bats will strike, opening the way for us to burn the farm to the ground and take everyone inside to Gothar. He will pay well for each of them, and that payment shall make all of these tribes wealthy. None shall see the dawn without chains.

Across the fire, the stocky goblin in the red cloak has remained silent throughout the exchange. The Red-Blade chief. He rests both hands casually atop the haft of his axe.

Unlike the Wolfskull leader, he looks neither angry nor worried. Simply patient.

His statement of "Before dawn" is the only contribution he makes to this makeshift council of leaders.

The Wolfskull leader stalks away to his warriors. Still mumbling and throwing glances back at both the Hobgoblin leader and the prostrate form of Hadig.

With the leadership “discussion” completed, the camp begins moving again. Weapons are inspected, armour adjusted. Goblins focused on themselves and making sure that all was in place for their attack on the farm.

This sudden focus gave Hàdig a chance where eyes weren’t on him.

He rolled on to his front, pushing the broken arrow through his side, the sharp point emerging from his back near his bound hands. With some awkwardness, he brought the ropes close to the sharpened point and began to saw through the tightly bound ropes.

After a minute the rope parts. Pain shoots through Hàdig’s legs as circulation returns and he hisses in response, berating himself for making any noise at all. 

No-one appears to notice.

Hàdig quietly stands, the crackle of the fire and the fading argument of the goblin leadership covering any movement sounds he makes as he crouches ready to spring. Steadying himself he takes a step towards to the wood line behind him. As he nears the treeline, a squeal rises from his feet as he trips on a wounded goblin who was quietly sleeping in the darkness.

Hàdig pushes his tired legs as fast as he can, giving up on any attempt at stealth to put as much distance between him and the Goblins.

Any dream of a clean getaway were crushed when an arrow struck his right arm, spinning him to the ground. A black mass of wings teeth and claws just swooped past his head as he fell, a glancing blow from an arrow saving his skull from a mauling.

Pushing himself to his feet, he dodges to the left, trying to keep the trees between him and the bats above and the archers behind. By some miracle, he caught a glimpse of the lights of the farm through the trees.

Drawing on a well of stamina that would impress even the most dour elder of the tribe, he puts his head down to gain as much speed as possible, barely noticing the two swipes from giant bats coming at him from the trees. Goblin scouts rise up out of the forest ahead of him, to stunned to do more than screech as he rushes past them towards the farmhouse. 

A string of bright lights flash ahead, allowing him to see the farm through the trees ahead before they disappear as suddenly as they arrived. 

Hàdig leapt over a tangle of roots that threatened to trip him up, and suddenly he burst out into the clearing, the farm house tantalisingly close.

He had managed to pull ahead of the pursuing goblins, but couldn't seem to outpace the bats. They were still flying close and seeking to bite deep into his skin. 

A cascade of flourescent green light flew out of the tower of the farmhouse, striking nearby. The blast was accompanied by a high pitched laugh of delight. Hàdig prepared to yell to his friend, only for one of the bats to strike pulling his focus into thoughts for his immediate safety as it clamped down on his arm, seeking to pull him out of his stride. 

He regretted the interruption immediately when a second spell followed the first, the spell burst on the bat biting down on his arm, splashing acid on all of those nearby, including Hàdig. Unable to contain his temper any longer, Hàdig screamed at the spellcaster "EEK YOU MORON".

Hàdig ran on, recognising the tall form of Cecelia and the salvation of the farm ahead....

 

 

 The Light Goes Out

Aldren stood at the top of the tower with both hands resting upon the wet parapet.

Below him, the yard lay in darkness broken by the farmhouse lamps and the last dull glow of the ruined barn. Rain gathered in the creases of his fingers. He could feel it, just as he could feel the cold pressing through his cloak, but neither seemed quite as immediate as the absence inside his head. Bruce had nearly made it.

That was what kept returning to him. The glimpse of the house, the desperate flight between the trees, the sudden return of their connection. For one brief moment, Aldren had thought the owl was coming home. Then he had felt the impact. He had sent him out there.

Beside him, Sarki watched the northern approach without speaking. Robin stood farther along the parapet, turning his head occasionally to listen beyond the steady patter of rain. Both rangers had learned that not every silence needed filling.

At last, Alfana touched Stallios on the arm. “Come on. We should rest while we can.”

The older guard nodded, then glanced towards Aldren.

“Call if you see anything.”

Aldren managed a small movement of his head. He did not trust himself to answer.

They went downstairs, leaving the three of them beneath the rain and the watchful dark.

Inside, the household was beginning to move again. Kuzma emerged from the central room, took one look at the exhausted defenders and went directly to the kitchen. Soon a kettle hung above the hearth, and she was searching through bundles of dried leaves with the purposeful impatience of someone who had decided that everyone else had done enough talking.

Darya followed her, gathering bread, cheese and whatever food could be prepared without much fuss. She set bowls upon the table, moved a discarded weapon out of the way and began making room for people to sit.

Elsewhere, Pytor and Taras helped brace the entrances. Timber scraped across the floor. Nails were driven into damaged frames, and Hadig’s table was forced more securely against the front opening. His absence made every heavy task more noticeable.

Pytor struggled with one end of a bench while Cecelia lifted the other.

“He would have moved this himself,” he said.

Cecelia adjusted her grip. “Yes.”

They carried it into position without saying anything more. Once the barricades were secure, the talk turned, reluctantly, to what his capture meant.

Hadig had been the person they could send towards a failing door. He could hold a narrow passage, carry someone who could no longer walk, or strike hard enough to break an enemy’s courage. Without him, they had fewer answers if the goblins forced their way inside again.

Xosh listened from beside the hearth, her mace resting against her leg.

“And they know we are fewer,” she said.

No one disputed it.

Eventually, Alfana and Stallios returned to the watch, and Robin persuaded Aldren to come downstairs.

“You need something hot.”

“I’m quite all right.”

“You’ve been standing in the rain.”

Aldren looked down at his soaked sleeves as though this were new information.

Sarki collected his bow.

“Come on.”

The kitchen smelled of bread, damp wool and Kuzma’s tea. Aldren accepted a cup and wrapped his fingers around it. The brew was dark, fragrant and rather more forceful than he expected. Its first mouthful made him close his eyes; the second seemed to reach places inside him that ordinary warmth had not.

Across the table, Robin straightened a little. “What is in this?”

Kuzma gave him a look that suggested he was welcome to drink it without conducting an investigation. Darya pushed food towards them. For several minutes, they ate.

The room grew warmer as more of them gathered near the hearth. Faces that had looked grey with fatigue began to recover a little colour. Even Nevyn, who had said very little since returning without Hadig, accepted a second helping.

Eek watched this improvement with interest, finished what was in his bowl and announced that he would take the tower.

“I shall keep everyone safe.”

Sarki looked up. “Keep your head down.”

“That is usually part of it.”

Eek had scarcely settled behind the parapet when he saw movement outside. Two goblins stood near the edge of the yard, dark shapes beneath the trees. He pointed. Eldritch power cracked through the rain and struck the ground well short of them.

The goblins remained where they were. Eek narrowed his eyes. He adjusted his position, raised his hand again and took rather more care.

The second blast caught one of them squarely. Its companion vanished into the darkness before Eek could try for another. He waited, pleased with himself. Then, deciding that the surviving goblin ought to understand the full extent of its defeat, he climbed onto the rampart and performed a vigorous series of gestures in the direction of the woods.

Most involved his hips. There was no visible response. Eek found this disappointing.

Downstairs, Robin set down his cup. “We should go after Hadig.”

The words drew everyone’s attention. Sarki leaned forwards slightly.

“We could reach their camp quietly,” Robin continued. “Find where they’ve put him. See whether there’s a way to get him out.”

Aldren looked at him. “We don’t know where the camp is.”

“Then we find it.”

“The owl was trying to do precisely that.”

Robin’s exhaustion sharpened his answer. “And flying about until those bats found him didn’t tell us much, did it?”

Aldren became very still. For a moment, even the work at the hearth seemed too loud.

Robin glanced at him, but pressed on. “I mean we need eyes on the ground. Sarki and I can get close enough to learn something useful.”

“Bruce was useful,” Aldren said quietly.

Sarki shifted in his seat. Nevyn spoke before Robin could answer.

“I’ve already sent Gwain. And I could help scout the camp.”

Robin looked towards him. “You?”

“I can do more than walk up to it.”

Sarki considered that, then nodded. “I’ll stay. Someone should remain here who can watch the approaches.”

Cecelia folded her arms. “Hadig sacrificed himself to get Nevyn back. Now you want to open the door and send Nevyn out again?”

“We cannot leave him there,” Robin replied.

“And we cannot keep losing people.”

Xosh’s expression had darkened at Hadig’s name. “I called upon Ubato to heal him. He had barely opened his eyes before he ran straight back into the fight.”

“He saved me,” Nevyn said.

“Yes,” Xosh replied. “And now we are discussing how many more people should go out to save him.”

Aldren put his cup down carefully. “We should not leave him to the goblins.”

Cecelia turned towards him. “I am not suggesting that we forget him.”

“Then we must find him.”

His voice was firmer now, carrying something beyond the shock that had held him silent in the tower.

“He is alive out there, or may be. We know what these creatures are willing to do. I cannot sit beside a fire and decide that he has already given us enough.”

No one had an easy answer. 

At length, Robin reached for his bow. “We look. We stay hidden. If we cannot help him, we come back.”

Cecelia held his gaze. “Then come back.”

Taking the barricade apart was an uncomfortable business. Every removed brace felt like undoing something they had earned at considerable cost, and Pytor watched the opening widen with evident misgivings. When there was enough space, Robin slipped through. Nevyn followed.

The door closed behind them. They worked around the back of the farmhouse to conceal their departure, keeping close to the walls before crossing the yard. Within a few paces, Robin seemed almost to disappear. His movements fitted themselves into the darkness, each step placed with such care that Nevyn could scarcely hear him.

Nevyn tried to follow his example. A stick broke beneath his boot. The crack sounded appallingly loud.

Robin stopped. To his elven ears, it seemed entirely possible that the goblins at the far end of the forest had heard it, discussed it and begun putting arrows to strings.

Nevyn froze, then whispered, “Sorry.”

Robin closed his eyes briefly. They continued. This time the ranger left more space between them. Soon Nevyn had no real idea where he was. He could occasionally detect a movement that might have been Robin, but it might equally have been a branch shifting in the rain. He kept to the route they had agreed upon: through the gate, then north, searching for tracks that would lead towards the camp. Ahead lay an open field and, beyond it, the shelter of the trees. They were only a few feet from that shelter when the arrows came.

Three goblins rose from their hiding places. Nevyn heard the first missiles pass him before he understood what they were. Robin twisted aside, but one arrow caught him with a sharp, glancing strike.

“Down!”

Nevyn raised a hand. A row of dancing lights sprang into being, pale globes hanging above the wet ground. For an instant, the ambushers were plainly visible between the trunks, bows already bending for another shot. Nevyn saw them. So did Robin. Then two arrows struck the druid. He gave a short, startled gasp and folded into the grass. The lights went out.

Robin reached him in the dark. “Nevyn?”

No answer. He caught the druid beneath the arms, hauled him up and shifted his weight across his shoulders. Pain flared where the arrow had struck him, but there was no time to examine it. He ran.

Behind him, the goblins shouted. Robin crossed the field with a speed that would have astonished anyone who had not seen an elf frightened for a friend. Mud slid beneath his boots. Nevyn’s weight dragged at his shoulders, and the farmhouse seemed impossibly far away. Another volley hissed after them.

On the tower, Eek saw the movement and recognised enough of it to become alarmed. He flung out his hand. An eldritch blast tore across the field and caught one of the goblins in a burst of destructive power.

Inside the house, the sound brought everyone upright. Sarki was already moving towards the stairs. Aldren seized his staff and headed for the first-floor windows. Below them, Cecelia began pulling at the barricade.

Robin stumbled as another arrow grazed him. He recovered without falling, tightening his grip on Nevyn, and kept going. From upstairs, Aldren saw a goblin rise to shoot. He cast.

The firebolt struck in a sudden orange flare, lighting the creature and the wet brush around it. From the tower, Sarki found the illuminated target and loosed. The goblin fell.

“More!” Eek shouted.

Aldren looked beyond Robin. Shapes were moving at speed across the dark ground: goblins, a much larger figure among them, and above them the unmistakable beating wings of bats. Five. His stomach tightened.

From somewhere in the woods came the long, rising howl of wolves. Eek’s next blast vanished into the night. Aldren struck another goblin with fire, forcing the approaching creatures to scatter and duck. He could not tell whether he had brought it down, but the moment’s hesitation was welcome.

Robin was slowing. Thirty feet from the shelter of the tower, with Nevyn still limp upon him, he could feel his strength beginning to fail. Three bats broke away from the others. They swept towards him.

Xosh and Cecelia came through the opening together. Xosh raised her hand towards the shapes overhead while Cecelia hurried to Robin, lifting her shield between him and the descending wings.

“Keep moving!”

A bat veered away from the steel rim. Another passed so close that Robin felt its wings brush the air above his head. On the tower, Eek aimed towards the large figure running behind them. His spell missed its intended target but caught the two bats flying nearest it, provoking a furious burst of shrieking.

The three above Cecelia turned. They climbed towards the tower. Below, the larger figure raised its head.

“EEK, YOU MORON!”

The voice carried beautifully.

Eek peered over the parapet. “Oh.”

Hadig was running towards the house.

For a moment, Aldren could only stare. The fighter was stumbling, battered and plainly exhausted, but unquestionably alive. Behind him, the goblins were slowing while the bats continued their pursuit. Questions would have to wait.

Above Aldren, Eek cried out. Two bats struck him almost together, claws catching at his clothing as he reeled away from the parapet. Frost spread across him in a sudden sheath, pale and glittering in the dark. Then he retreated. Sarki stepped into the space he left, drawing his longsword. His first swing cut through empty air. The bats wheeled above him.

Aldren left the window and hurried towards the tower stairs, hearing claws scrape stone and the sharp impact of something striking the parapet. When he reached the top, Sarki was turning beneath a confusion of leathery wings.

Three darts of force leapt from the wizard’s hand. They struck, but the wounded bats remained in flight. One swept low towards Sarki, still crusted with the killing frost it had gathered in its attack upon Eek. Its claws reached for the ranger; its wings faltered. It hit the stone at his feet and lay still.

Below, Hadig was fighting to keep moving. A bat darted at his head. He flinched, swung a bare fist and missed. Another snapped at him from behind. Xosh called down Sacred Flame. Light flashed through the rain, but the creature twisted clear of the worst of it.

The attempt bought Cecelia enough time. She reached Hadig, caught him with one hand and drove healing warmth back into his battered body with such brisk force that he staggered.

“Walk.”

He opened his mouth.

“Now.”

A bat came at them. Cecelia smashed it aside with her weapon, then raised her shield and guided Hadig towards the entrance. Behind them, the goblins had stopped advancing. They watched from the dark, apparently content to let the bats continue the entertainment.

Robin got Nevyn into the kitchen. Darya swept bowls and cups aside as he lowered the druid onto the cleared surface. Kuzma was beside him almost at once, her hands moving with practised urgency.

Robin stood bent over the table, trying to draw enough breath to speak. “Two arrows.”

Kuzma leaned close to Nevyn’s face. Darya touched his neck. Neither woman said anything.

Robin saw the stillness of his chest. “He’s not breathing.”

Kuzma gestured sharply for room. From the tower came another shout. Robin looked towards the stairs, then back at Nevyn. Darya was already working beside the old woman.

“Go.”

He snatched up his bow.

Sarki’s sword caught a bat as it swept across the parapet. The blow sent it spinning away, but the opening cost him. The remaining creatures came in before he could bring his guard back, striking at his face and shoulders.

He staggered against the stone.

Aldren lifted his hand.

Sarki fell.

Fire burst from the wizard’s fingers and engulfed one of the diving shapes, scattering burning fragments of wing into the rain.

Eek scrambled towards the fallen ranger. For once, he had no remark ready. He knelt, reached out and whispered the words that would hold Sarki at the edge of death.

A bat swung round for another attack. Robin emerged from the stairwell. He drew, loosed and sent it crashing onto the tower floor. Then there was only rain, ragged breathing and the faint crackle of dying embers. Aldren dropped to his knees beside Sarki and searched through his belongings with shaking hands. The healing potion. He pulled the stopper free, lifted the ranger’s head and carefully poured.

Outside, as Cecelia backed towards the house, keeping her shield between Hadig and the circling bat, she became aware of faces watching from beyond the reach of the lamps. Goblins stood among the trees, nudging one another and pointing whenever the creature swooped; farther back, a few wolf riders waited with their mounts shifting restlessly beneath them. None moved to join the attack. One goblin gave a shrill cheer as the bat darted towards her, and Cecelia tightened her grip on her weapon, sickened by their enjoyment. She kept retreating, unwilling to give them another fallen defender to celebrate. The final bat circled once, searching for an opening. She kept her shield raised. It dipped towards them, reconsidered and turned away, disappearing into the night. 

Hadig watched it go. Then Xosh stepped in front of him. He looked at her. For a moment, neither moved. Rain ran down her face and shone upon the bronze edges of her armour. Hadig seemed about to say something.

She slapped him.

The sound was startlingly clear. Then she turned and walked back into the house. Hadig remained where he was for half a heartbeat.

Cecelia pushed him towards the door. “Inside.”

The barricades went back up. Pytor and Taras fitted the braces while the others gathered in the kitchen. Sarki came down slowly, supported where he needed it, and Eek followed with his red hat bent and his usual confidence entirely absent. Hadig entered last.

There were questions waiting for him—how he had escaped, where he had been, what had happened in the camp—but no one asked them.

Nevyn lay upon the table.

The cups of tea had been pushed to one end. A piece of bread lay on the floor where it had fallen when Darya cleared the space. Kuzma stood beside the druid, and something in the set of her shoulders brought Aldren to a halt.

Robin moved closer. “Kuzma?”

The old woman looked down once more, then turned towards them.

“He’s dead.”

The Price of Going Back

Here is the next part of the adventure. Unfortunately I missed this week again - I was on school camp wrangling 60 kids. However this meant after camp (Friday) I had only ten kids and an opportunity to use the fabulous notes by Blogger Pooch (with a couple of other snippets from others) to create this chapter. Another big thanks to Pooch for reading and checking this post.  

Chapter 17

The Price of Going Back

Nevyn’s heels dragged furrows through the mud. He twisted against the hands gripping his arms, trying to wrench an elbow free, but the goblins had learned from his last burst of magic. They crowded close, pulling him off balance whenever he managed to plant his feet, while another seized the back of his clothing and hauled him towards the trees. The farmhouse lamps were growing farther away. Between the moving bodies he could still see Cecelia and Xosh, and beyond them the pale flicker of Aldren’s magic.

“Put me down,” he gasped.

One of the goblins grinned at him. Nevyn suspected it understood perfectly well.

Nearby, Hadig lay where the arrows had brought him down. Xosh stood over him, her mace ready, but there was no time to fight her way through every enemy between them and Nevyn. She looked towards the trees, then down at the fallen fighter, and began to pray.

There was little ceremony in it. Her voice was low, urgent and fiercely insistent, the words addressed to Ubato with the conviction of someone who had reached the end of what she could accomplish alone. Rain ran over her bronze armour and dripped from the ornaments in her braids as she pressed a hand against Hadig. Warm light gathered beneath her palm.

Hadig drew a sudden, ragged breath. His eyes opened. For a moment he stared up at Xosh without recognition. Then the sounds of the fighting reached him, and he tried to rise.

“Wait,” she said.

He saw Nevyn. Xosh felt the muscles beneath her hand tighten.

“Hadig.”

He was already reaching for his weapon.

Cecelia had troubles of her own. The goblins had seen how effectively several pairs of hands could overcome a stronger opponent, and now they were trying the same thing with her. One caught her shield arm while another grabbed at her belt. A third circled behind her, searching for a purchase on her armour. She drove her elbow backwards and felt it connect, then stamped hard upon the foot of the goblin at her side. Its grip loosened long enough for her to turn, but another immediately took its place.

From the tower, Robin saw what they intended.

“They’re taking Cecelia!”

Sarki’s next arrow struck the goblin behind her. Eek leaned over the parapet and sent a crackling blast into the knot of attackers, forcing one to release its grip and stumble away. Robin drew and loosed again, ignoring the ache in his shoulder. Far below them, Aldren stopped long enough to aim. He dared not cast carelessly with Cecelia in the midst of them. Through the rain and the confused movement, he waited for a goblin to pull clear of her shield. Then he struck.

Fire flashed across the wet ground. Cecelia tore her arm free, brought her shield into an attacker’s face and cut at the hands still reaching for her.

“Back to the house!” Aldren shouted.

She heard him. So did Hadig. Unfortunately, Hadig was running in the other direction.

He reached the goblins carrying Nevyn before they expected him. One turned at the sound of his boots and had just enough time to raise a blade. Hadig swept it aside and brought the creature down, driving through the space it left with a roar that made the others recoil.

Nevyn dropped awkwardly to his knees. The hobgoblin in the yellow dress stepped forward. Up close, the disguise was even more offensive. The wet fabric clung badly over a warrior’s build, and its torn hem tangled around heavy boots, but the weapon in the hobgoblin’s hand was entirely practical. It met Hadig’s attack with a sharp clash of steel and immediately pressed back.

The goblins hesitated between their captive and the fight. It was enough. Nevyn folded in upon himself. For an instant there was a young man kneeling in the mud, bruised, soaked and struggling for breath. Then he was gone, and a dragonfly darted between the reaching fingers. A goblin clapped both hands together. Missed.

The dragonfly rose, its wings catching a brief glimmer from the farmhouse, and shot away into the rain. Hadig saw it escape. The grin that crossed his face lasted only a moment. The hobgoblin struck. Already wounded, sustained by healing that had scarcely had time to settle into his battered body, Hadig could not turn the blow. He staggered, tried to recover and was struck again. His weapon dipped. Then he fell. The goblins surged around him at once.

Aldren saw Hadig disappear beneath them. For a heartbeat he believed the fighter was getting up, that the movement ahead was Hadig throwing his enemies aside as he had done so often before. Then he saw the dragging legs, the lowered head, the hands gripping armour. They were carrying him away.

“No.”

He took another step forward. Beyond the struggle, wolves were moving through the dark. There were too many of them. Their riders had begun spreading across the approach, filling the spaces between the trees and the yard. Any path towards Hadig would soon become a path through them, and Cecelia was still fighting clear of the last goblins trying to seize her.

Xosh caught Aldren’s arm. “We have to move.”

“They’ve got him.”

“I know.”

He looked at her, furious with the words because there was nothing in them to argue against. She knew. Cecelia knew. Above them, the rangers knew, and their arrows were still falling towards the retreating goblins. Hadig was being taken into the woods, and none of them could reach him. Aldren stumbled backwards with the others.

They reached the farmhouse in a rush of wet boots, strained breathing and shouted warnings. Nevyn regained his human shape inside, appearing so abruptly that Pytor nearly struck him with the timber he was carrying. The druid caught the wall to steady himself, looked towards the opening and understood who had not returned.

“Hadig?”

No one answered quickly enough. Cecelia backed across the threshold with her shield raised. Pytor shoved the table into position beside her, and together they forced the entrance closed, wedging furniture and braces into the space through which their companions had so recently charged. Aldren stood just inside, staring at the barricade.

On the other side were the yard, the woods and Hadig. Pytor drove a brace home with the heel of his hand.

“Help me.”

Aldren blinked, set down his staff and took hold. They pushed until the timber held.

For several minutes, the only conversation consisted of practical questions. Who was hurt? How badly? Had anyone seen Hadig move after he fell? How many had carried him? Which way had they gone?

Nevyn sat with both hands hanging between his knees.

“He came back for me.”

Xosh leaned against the wall, exhaustion settling heavily upon her now that there was no immediate enemy to strike.

“Yes.”

“He shouldn’t have.”

Cecelia looked up from examining a wound. “He gave you the chance to escape.”

“And now they have him.” Nevyn replied. The words stayed in the room.

At length, Cecelia said, “There is honour in risking yourself for another.”

Xosh turned her head. “There would have been more use in both of them returning.”

“Kelemvor does not look poorly upon sacrifice.” said Cecelia.

“Ubato has just spent power putting that man back on his feet,” Xosh replied. “I doubt he considers this an efficient use of the result.”

Despite everything, Aldren glanced towards her. Cecelia’s mouth tightened, although whether in disagreement or the effort not to smile was difficult to tell.

“Some things are worth more than efficiency.”

“Yes,” Xosh said. “Which is why I would prefer we kept them.”

Nevyn bowed his head. Neither priest offered an answer to that.

Aldren found Bruce beneath the sheltered eaves. The owl turned towards him, bright-eyed and whole, and Aldren felt a familiar unease beneath his relief. He had already summoned this companion back from one violent ending. Somewhere in the muddle of the night, Bruce had become Bruce the Second in the others’ conversation, as though a number might make the loss easier to account for.

Aldren lifted his arm. Bruce stepped onto it. “I need you to find him.”

He spoke aloud, although he did not need to. It seemed discourteous to send a friend into danger without at least explaining why.

“Follow where they went. Look carefully. Stay high when you can.”

Bruce’s talons tightened gently against his sleeve.

“And come back.”

The owl launched into the rain. For a little while, Aldren followed him through their shared awareness: the farmhouse falling behind, the pale scars of disturbed mud, a broken branch where something heavy had been carried between the trees. Then Bruce passed beyond the reach of their link. Aldren opened his eyes to the dim room. Now he could only wait.

Bruce found the camp deeper in the woods. Small fires burned beneath whatever shelter the goblins had contrived, their light catching wet faces and crude weapons. The place was restless with argument. Goblins crowded around one another, gesturing towards the farmhouse, towards the wounded and towards the hobgoblin who stood among them with the remains of the yellow dress still hanging about its legs.

Hadig was there. He had been tied securely, his broad frame awkwardly arranged against a tree. His head hung forwards, but he was alive.

Nearby, wounded goblins were receiving attention that owed more to enthusiasm than skill. One howled while a companion pulled at an embedded arrow. Another tried to crawl away from the goblin approaching with a strip of dirty cloth. A third lay perfectly still, perhaps hoping to be overlooked.

Bruce shifted along his branch. Below him, the argument grew louder. Then something moved above the camp. Five dark shapes unfolded out of the night.

The owl launched before the first bat reached him. It swept through the space where he had perched, wings beating with a heavy, leathery sound. Another came from above, cutting across his escape.

Bruce dropped beneath it.

Branches rushed past. Rain struck his face and feathers as he turned between the trunks, choosing gaps that demanded sudden folds of his wings and sharp changes of direction. The bats followed. One passed close enough for him to feel the disturbance of its flight. He twisted around a tree, climbed, then dived beneath a low branch. Behind him came a brief collision of wings and leaves, but the pursuit continued. The farmhouse lay ahead, he knew the way. Bruce flew harder.

Through the woods, the chase became a succession of narrow escapes: a dark wing crossing his path, claws reaching, a trunk looming out of the rain. He slipped through a fork in the branches that forced his pursuers apart, gained a few precious moments and drove onwards.

A faint light appeared between the trees.

Home.

Aldren felt the connection return. He straightened so suddenly that his chair scraped across the floor. For an instant he was flying again. Trees. Rain. The farmhouse lamps ahead. Fear.

“Bruce?”

A shadow filled the edge of that borrowed sight. There was a violent impact, a tumble of wings, and the connection vanished. Aldren remained standing with one hand extended towards the window. No one spoke.

He reached for the familiar presence again, although he already knew what he would find. There had been no time for images of a camp, no opportunity to understand where Hadig was held or what Bruce had seen. Only flight, pursuit and that final terrible interruption.

Nevyn rose halfway from his seat. “Aldren?”

The wizard lowered his hand. “He nearly made it.”

His voice was quiet enough that the rain almost swallowed it.

During these proceedings, Eek had concluded that the yard remained insufficiently on fire. He had been considering the matter for some time. Goblins disliked being shot, certainly, but he felt there was room for a broader discouragement, and the bodies outside offered possibilities that no one else seemed willing to discuss.

With attention divided between the wounded, the barricades and Aldren’s scouting attempt, Eek slipped away to put his idea into practice. Moving a corpse proved more difficult than he had anticipated. The goblin was small, but it was also wet, uncooperative and attached to several pieces of equipment that caught upon every available obstruction. Eek dragged it a short distance, stopped to recover his breath and looked towards the trees. Nothing moved. Encouraged, he dragged another into position. Then came the oil. He poured carefully, trying to arrange matters so that the eventual blaze would be both impressive and, from his perspective, safely distant. An arrow struck him.

Eek made a small, outraged noise. He had barely turned when a second hit. Above him, Sarki heard the cry and looked down.

“Oh, for—”

Eek hurled a blast of magic towards the woods. It struck somewhere among the branches with considerably more noise than accuracy.

Robin was already drawing.

A goblin archer shifted behind a tree, exposing enough of itself to loose again. Robin’s arrow reached it first. Farther along, Sarki found the second shooter and sent it tumbling back into the dark. Eek looked from the trees to the tower. Then at the oil.

“Inside,” Sarki called.

“I was nearly finished.”

“Inside.”

Eek abandoned his work.

By two in the morning, the farmhouse had settled into an exhausted watchfulness. Eek’s wounds had joined the evening’s growing collection. The barricades stood. Pytor’s family remained behind them. Nevyn sat where he could see the door, listening whenever a sound rose above the rain. Hadig had not returned.

Aldren stayed near the window for a long time after there was any reason to do so. Eventually he drew the shutter partly closed and rested his hand upon the sill where Bruce had perched. Above him, Robin and Sarki watched the northern approach. Eek crouched behind the parapet, unusually subdued. Somewhere beyond the palisade, the drums continued.

Four hours remained until dawn. Between the farmhouse and the first light lay the woods, the goblins and their captive.