37

Otherwhere and somewhen, Grey Fang positioned himself between a slavering gnoll and six terrified goblin kitts. His heart hammered like a dwarf's forge as he shuffled through bones and detritus, lifting his staff and readying magic. The gnoll prowled forward, its laughter see-sawing from low chuckles to helter-skelter hysteria.

Its hulking, hunched shoulders brushed the roof of the mobile prison cell. The fanged head was carried low on a long, maned neck. Ropes of blood-flecked spittle hung from its jaws, which blasted the stench of a bog-corpse. Its manic giggling rose in pitch as it slunk toward Grey Fang, for terror, shock and pain added real savor to meat.

Suddenly, the gnoll lunged. Grey Fang raised his staff and released a scrawled sigil, shouting "Rise!" in a voice that quavered not at all. At his command the stone floor softened, flowed and then mounded itself like a wave crest, overtaking and seizing that hurtling gnoll.

At a sign from Grey Fang, the liquified stone hardened again, entombing the hideous creature. Not before its taloned paw raked the goblin's face, though; tearing one eye from its socket and laying open his flesh to the bone.

Grey Fang stumbled backward as Pretty One, Black Gut, Squinty and Dogbait rushed to his aid. Pretty and Squinty threw stones at the gnoll's exposed muzzle and paws. Black Gut carved out a pit between Grampa and the trapped beast with a trio of void-bombs, shrieking, "Boom! Boom! Boom," as he did so.

Dogbait stanched the blood flow with heal moss and spells, helping the blinded old wizard out of the cell and back to their tunnel stub. Squinty, Black Gut and Pretty One tumbled in after them, shrill alarm cries barely audible over the gnoll's anguished howling.

What seemed like forever passed before their section of corridor moved away from the ravaged cell, cutting off noise from outside and killing those bone-chilling howls.

Grampa… Grey Fang… was too badly injured to speak or to give them directions, so Pretty One took immediate charge.

"Snaggle, Twitchy, stay with Grampa. One o' yuns ter each 'and. 'Ee'll need ter be guided," she ordered, doing her best to sound confident. "Dogbait, see ter 'is wounds. Pack 'em tight with spider silk n' blood seal. Squinty, stand watch. This 'ere bit o' tunnel's gonna hit sumthin' else sooner or later, an' then we c'n scurry on out… but Grampa's gotta be in shape ter move, when it does."

Dogbait was already hard at work, pulling wadded heal moss out of his belt-pouch, chewing it up properly and then gently smearing the resultant paste over Grey Fang's mangled face. The Gnoll's claws had gouged deeply through flesh, tendons and nerves, causing a ragged and filthy wound; its edges gaping and flexing whenever their grandfather struggled to speak. One eye was missing entirely, the other swollen shut; scraped bone showing at forehead, cheek and chin.

The heal moss took root and spread, forming a living bandage that drained away poison and flesh-rot. It also numbed pain, easing the wizard's agony. A sprinkle of blood seal and several layers of spider silk finished the dressing, along with the chant they always uttered to help an injured one feel better, quickly. The other kitts joined Dogbait in murmuring,

"Heal, heal, drain n' seal, the sooner ya rest, the better ye'll feel. There's sneakin' ter do, yet, n' treasures ter steal, so rest up, Ol' Grampa, n' heal."

That there was pure magic in them words, passed on from mother to kitt for generations out of mind, every one of them fiercely believed.

"There now, Grampa," said Pretty One afterward, taking his hand. "Settle an' rest. Me an' Dogbait an' Squinty 'll get us on 'ome ter the burrow."

And then? With no Gildyr to guide them and no rescued elf-lord to trade? With Grey Fang terribly wounded and gnolls around every corner? What could six goblin kitts possibly do next?

Pretty One shivered, but resolutely thrust fear from her heart and mind. The others needed her to be strong; to lead them until Grampa recovered.

As if sensing her decision, Grey Fang tried to say something, but the heal moss and his own badly gashed face wouldn't let him. Instead, the old goblin reached into his sack and pulled out their family relic, the Old Lady's rib.

Groping for Pretty One, Grampa pressed the relic into her hands. Pretty One straightened her spine and set her shoulders, accepting heirloom and authority.

"It'll come right, Grampa, I promise," she told him. Told all of the anxiously watching others. "We'll 'ead fer the lake cavern. Tis closer, an' there's old diggins' ter lay up at. Gildyr c'n find us there as well as 'ee could at 'ome. Ee's been there before."

They had only to wait for their tunnel stub to grind through the mountain, back to a juncture she recognized. That was all, just sit tight and wait. In the meantime, she would do her best to keep the others' spirits alive; being their hope and their backbone, till Grampa could take back over, again. And if he never fully recovered, or died of gnoll toxin?

Pretty shook her head. Grampa always told them: "Rot starts from inside, away where no one else c'n see it. A little fear, a little anger, a touch o' jealousy… soon spreads ter th' whole clan."

She handed the Old Lady's relic around, giving everyone a nice, long chew. Then,

"You lot get some sleep," said Pretty One. "We gotta be ready ter move at a moment's alert."

Ready to run fast and far, if it came to that. Time underground did not pass the same way as above, closeness to stone making everything slower… but, to Pretty One's figuring, they spent about three sleep cycles in the tunnel stub, eating, drinking and caring for Grampa at one end, voiding their waste in the other. Holding their breath and hiding through dangerous intersections, until they were safely past well-traveled lanes. Finally, the stub ground up against the vast lake cavern. Lots of fine memories, there, of a time when the diggings were crowded with folk and their scampering kitts. Now the big cavern was empty. Or, almost.

Hurrying out of that dark, slow-lashing passage, Pretty One helped carry Grampa into the glow of fungus and worms. Out where water lapped gently and kin-scent still lingered. But there was another, fresher trace laid over the ghosts of lost friends.

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Pretty One smelt him and his dinner; saw the banked coals of a cook fire before she saw him. Elf, smelling strongly of pain, hunger and worry. Not just any elf, either. Junior, himself, or Pretty's head was a rotten turnip.

She froze, momentarily, but the fugitive high-elf did not. There was a sudden whooshing noise and a sharp grunt. Then a sling-missile keened through the air, striking Black Gut full on the shoulder, snapping his collar bone. The kitt squealed and collapsed, but there was no further attack. Instead of lofting another missile, the elf doused his fire and melted into the shadows; gone in less time than it took Pretty to catch and prop Black Gut.

"Ee's 'ere," she whispered. "Bain't eaten by gnolls, after all… an' 'ee surely knows 'eal magic… or someone does, if we gets 'im back ter 'is kin."

Pretty One shifted poor, squalling Black Gut onto Dogbait and Squinty.

"We'll find us a safe, 'idden burrow not far from the water," she said. "Then, oncet yer all settled in, I'm goin' after 'is lordship. Ee's our key ter fixin' up Grampa an' Black Gut."

"Ee's dangerous, Pretty. Kill ye flat dead as soon as look at ye, 'ee will," said Dogbait, while packing moss around Black Gut's snapped bone. "Old Lady's blessin' ee ain't kilt poor Boom-boom!"

"Stay 'ere," agreed Squinty. "We c'n just wait fer Gildyr, like Grampa said."

But Pretty One shook her head.

"Ee wants out. We c'n show 'im the way. 'Ee's 'ungry, an' we 'as food. 'Ee'll listen. 'Ee's gotta."

She'd run him down and make him listen, because everything that mattered depended on making this work.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

…Which explained why Lerendar, consulting his map, spotted a lone, persistent stalker. Sometimes shaken off track in the shift and tangle of passages, but generally less than a furlong behind, for candle-marks time, and then a full day.

He set a few hasty snares and some deadfalls, but the pursuer was clever or lucky; evading all that one elf could throw at him. Lerendar was sick to death of darkness and rat-stench and tunnels. Tired of fleeing his unseen pursuer. Finally, at the butt-end of a long, curving tunnel, he chose to stop running.

Sling in hand, smooth stone at the ready, all three shades in boiling possession at once, he faced his assailant like a warrior, not like scurrying prey. Stood well enough forward of the stone wall to give himself plenty of sling room. Had his makeshift fishing spear planted head-down like a javelin, ready to throw.

Thanks to Bony, Legless and Tendons, he could see and hear outside of his normal range. Something was scrabbling closer, but fitfully. Nervously. It glowed deeper than red in his dark vision; huddled and furtive and small. Goblin. Young and female, by scent.

Lerendar made use of the shades' power to stand himself upright. Began swinging the sling-pouch and shot in preparation for casting. He could see the glow of her yellow-red eyes, follow her scuttling progress as she darted forward to place something onto the ground between them.

Then, uttering a faint squeal of genuine terror, the goblin scrambled back into the shadows. Trap, most likely. Some cursed or poisoned object, possibly spelled to explode when touched. Lerendar wasn't a fool.

Yet… all of this time, and she hadn't attacked, nor driven him into a party of skulking gnolls. The shades were deeply uneasy, but seemed not to sense any danger. Two were for leaving as soon as the circling room ambled past. Wasn't unanimous, though, for Bony sighed,

'A gift,' in a voice like papery, wind-rattled leaves.

Sling still in hand, trying to make it seem that his crutch was a weapon, the elf came forward a pace or two. Close enough to see, on a clean bit of scraped hide, another flask of that rank, fizzy wine alongside a loaf of flat and leathery bread; same as he'd had, day after day in his cell.

'Food,' whispered Bony, inside of his head. 'Drink.'

He could not lean over to pick anything up without toppling forward; revealing the extent of his injury. Nor had he the magic to simply waft objects over, as Shorty and Mom did. Honestly wasn't certain what to do next, though it seemed he was being propitiated. Offered to, like a god. There was even a small, polished gem. Pried from a captured weapon or helmet, no doubt, for it looked like a pommel or crest ornament. In the darkness, he could not see color, but very much wanted it not to be red; not part of some fallen Tarandahl's gear. Seething with anger, frustration and hate, Lerendar snapped,

"Why do you follow me?!"

Question: What separates a high-elf from the chaos and cruelty of the Seelie Court?

Answer: Not much. A decision to leave the Fey-Wilds behind; sacrificing eternity, power and direct access to the gods (their parents) for a chance to wander the earth and breathe free.

Many generations separated Lerendar Tarandahl ob Keldaran from the glory and terror of Avalon. His magic was little more than a spark. Yet he was elvish. mighty, and sometimes compassionate.

For just an instant he saw, not a quivering she-rat but a terrified child, trying the last, most desperate thing she knew to get help. Daring to speak to an implacable enemy god.

"We… we c'n show ye th' way out, Yer Lordship," she begged, almost sobbing. "We c'n get ye past them patrols an' back ter yer own folk."

The shades fell to arguing inside of his head, sounding like wind in the battlements. Only Bony believed her, but…

Wind. What he wouldn't give to feel the air move, again; see sunlight sparkle on water; reach and warn the people he loved.

"How does this benefit you?" he demanded. The circling room would arrive soon, Lerendar knew. If nothing else, he could step in and away from that cringing young goblin. Try to lose her again, in the scribble of passages.

"We needs yer magic, Milord. Magic fer healin'. Fer putin' an end ter th' gnoll curse. There b'aint but a few of us left, Mighty Lord. Ye've won. We c'n fight yuns no more. Please… just let us go. Stop the gnolls. Heal Grampa an' Boom-Boom."

The high-elf glanced down at his own splinted and shade-strengthened leg. He was no master of heal-craft, as all but an idiot she-rat could see. Inside his mind, Bony was winning that furious argument, with Tendons now swinging over to team: trust the goblin-child.

The girl seemed to realize that he was possessed, watching as different minds emerged and drew back, again. Wrapping both skinny arms tightly around herself, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, mutely awaiting the verdict.

Three of those people were dead at the hands or neglect of their goblin captors. The high-elf still lived, but had lost freedom, health, his future as Silmerana… his father and friends to goblins and gnolls. Very far from a sympathetic audience.

"You speak of a gnoll-curse. How does one end it?" Lerendar probed, turning a bit to face the oncoming chamber.

The goblin looked up at him through her mane of matted and fawn-spotted hair. She seemed to sense that Lerendar's decision swayed on a knife's edge. That it could swing either way, depending on how she presented things.

"Grampa… Grey Fang, that is… said that the ritual must be undone, played out in reverse with th' blood an' entrails an' life returned ter th' sacrifice, an' the oaths un-chanted, Mighty Lord. Such as us could never manage all that, but if there's a mage o' power amongst yuns…"

Shorty. Valerian could mutter and wave away any such hideous curse, three out of four felt positive. Especially with Bony's guidance.

Lerendar shifted his stance, from both legs to leaning heavily on his crutch. He was so very cold; his vision beginning to swim and grow dark. Had either to flee and sleep off the effects of possession, or trust a seemingly genuine offer of aid. In the end, it was Bony… Prince Kalistiel… who decided.

"Lead on," said the shade, through his still-living friend. "This one will need rest… and we are here, surrounding you, whether you see us, or not. Trifle, betray him, and learn the extent to which a goblin may suffer."

Very wide-eyed, Pretty One nodded assent.

"We've already learnt that," she whispered. "Ain't much more yuns c'n teach us o' loss, Milords."

Then, clambering back to her feet, she gathered the offerings and tucked them away, saying,

"This way, Mighty Ones, quiet an' quick as yuns c'n manage. We'll stop fer rest whenever ye says ter."

And then, glancing frequently backward, the small goblin girl set off, hope limping slowly along in her wake.