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.