The journey to Boulderham was a relatively quiet one. Two cold nights, whiskey, and Durn. Durn was a great traveling companion. He was friendly and knowledgeable, telling stories of his travels and of the interesting things he’d seen and learned. He found good campsites with natural shelter from the elements, and the flaming dung actually did have a faintly sweet smell.
But as they neared the ruined hamlet she started to feel overwhelmed with dread. This was a place of nightmares for her, and the task she needed to do was a horrible one. Durn recognized her unease. In their conversations she’d told him about her experiences there. He could have tried to distract her with amusing tales but instead chose to be a steady presence at her side while she wrestled with her emotions. She appreciated that.
They reached their destination at last. She couldn’t imagine a more desolate and unwelcoming place. At least one of the buildings was a burned out shell, while others were damaged and in various states of disrepair. A thin layer of snow blanketed everything, muffling sound and muting what little color the landscape offered. More snow began to fall, and the grey skies promised a storm. She sighed a plume of frost and took the reluctant, daunting, first step toward the ruin. Durn loaded his crossbow and walked beside her.
They reached the center of the hamlet in silence. Gemma struggled to collect her memories of this place, trying to recall where she needed to go. Durn looked over the abandoned buildings with a suspicious, calculating eye. Everything looked so different from last summer, but there; she recognized the small shack she had once sheltered in with her dying uncle. From that reference point she quickly pieced together the other details about her previous stay.
She knew where her family was. She remembered trying to give them a burial, but she’d been alone, weak, and terrified. The best she’d been able to do was to deepen a small hollow and lay them together in a shallow grave. The chances of the site being undisturbed had to be almost nil, and the thought made her feel sick.
She was lost, deep in thought, wondering if avoiding an arranged marriage in New Albion was worth the price she was paying for returning here. She pondered in anguish, deep in thought while she tried to gird herself for the tasks before her, and so she was only vaguely aware of a grunting and shuffling sound nearby.
Durn heard them coming though, and his crossbow was already aimed in the direction of the disturbance. From between some buildings came a group of hobgoblins, and with them a human with his hands bound. They came to an abrupt halt upon seeing Gemma and Durn, and for a brief moment they assessed each other.
Durn had never seen a more miserable looking bunch. They looked exhausted and half starved, and only a shred better off than their prisoner, who didn’t even have a coat. Durn also noticed he wasn’t tethered to any of the hobgoblins. Durn didn’t want to contemplate the methods used to keep him moving.
The hobgoblins seemed to be sizing them up, too, but Durn didn’t wait to learn their opinions. The twang of his crossbow jolted Gemma out of her thoughts. She became fully aware of their situation as she watched a hobgoblin collapse with a quarrel in its stomach. The other three charged forward while the man with them fell to his knees.
They swung frantically, surprising Gemma with their speed. She sprang back just in time to avoid a hatchet swing, while Durn dropped his crossbow and fended off the other two with his blade. Barely stopping to think, she grabbed a coil of rope she kept on her side and flung it at her attacker, muttering an incantation she knew well. The rope seemed to come to life, writhing and coiling around the hobgoblin, virtually immobilizing him. She had another spell in mind that could finish this battle but Durn was in the way.
And he was having a hard time. Both hobgoblins had Durn at a disadvantage. One had a longsword, albeit a rusty one, and the other thrusted a spear at him from behind the protection of a shield. Durn couldn’t land a solid blow with his shorter blade. He took a risk and lunged at the swordsman but missed. In repayment the other stabbed him in the thigh with its spear, further hobbling his ability to defend himself.
Gemma took her own calculated risk. Stepping to the side, she extended her hands toward the enemies and called out more magic words as she fanned her fingers apart, just as Mistress LiAdan taught her. A sheet of flame engulfed the hobgoblins and all three fell, writhing and screaming in pain as they died. She missed Durn by inches as he limped backwards. The fat snowflakes from the growing storm melted as they landed on the burning bodies. The smell of scorched hobgoblin was nauseating.
***
Zeff buried his axe in a second enemy’s chest. He met his eyes for the split second he could spare and watched the spark of life fade away. The scythe he wielded fell from lifeless hands. A strange choice of weapon, or so he thought, until he’d almost had his legs taken out from under him by a low swing. Truly, he almost became a foot shorter, and he’d barely fended it off.
Still, it was an unusual thing to see, especially in the hands of an elf.
Dessa loosed another arrow into the fray. The bright moon was low in the sky, barely giving her silhouettes to shoot at. She hadn’t connected with a target yet, but she was threatening enough to keep Zeff from being overwhelmed. He felled a second elf while she drew another arrow. Elves! But why? The Redwood Elves were reclusive but she’d never heard of them attacking settlers, at least not in her lifetime.
The only Redwood Elf she’d ever met was Hemenele, but these seemed very different. They wore tattered, dark rags, and their faces were covered in some sort of paint that made them seem emaciated and horrible. Something about them was off, unhealthy. And they were wielding scythes, with only one archer as far as she could tell. Thanks be to Old Dead Eye; she would have quickly lost a shootout had she been outnumbered. Only the cover provided by the boulders on this hill gave her a chance of holding her own as it was.
They realized they’d become the hunted earlier that afternoon, and neither of them wanted to be the next corpse dragged away. Not knowing who was following them, they’d hurried on for hours until they found this hill, studded with monoliths like a jagged bottom jawline. It was the most defensible position they were likely to find out here. They ate, rested, and prepared to face their pursuers. The assault began after nightfall.
A third elf ran up the hill. Zeff was moving to parry the strike when one elf, who’d been lingering in the back, pointed his finger and hit Zeff with a foul looking beam of purplish light. Zeff’s knees buckled and his axe dipped too low to adequately protect him.
Dessa’s arrow hit the charging elf in the neck and sent him falling backward down the hill. She raced toward Zeff and helped him retreat even as an arrow hit him high on the chest near his left shoulder. She got them both behind cover while the last two elves screamed in rage. Zeff was stumbling, almost dragging his weapon behind him as they ran down the other side of the hill and off into the night. Hopefully it would take their attackers some time to realize the hill was no longer defended.
Dessa knew of a nearby place where they might find shelter. A ruined settlement that shouldn’t be too far, but that she’d hoped to never see, given her husband’s experiences there. She didn’t see how she had much choice, however. Zeff’s strength seemed to be returning, but he continued following as Dessa tried to steer them in the right direction.
***
How long had it been since a fire burned in this hearth? They’d sheltered in the most intact structure they could find. Durn was recovered from the spear wound and tending the fire. He’d produced a small vial from his pack and drank the contents before the hobgoblins finished twitching. The wound closed, leaving only a bloodstained hole in his pants. “Always good to be prepared”, he said.
The man they’d rescued said he was a local laborer named Tillock (rather ironic that she was doing the rescuing now!). He and a worker named Baylor had been taken prisoner when hobgoblin raiders sacked the Hood farm a few days ago. Neither name was familiar to Dessa. Now he sat before the fire, wearing a hobgoblin’s cloak out of necessity, telling them how their captors drove them across the wilds.
They were driven on mercilessly, intended to be used as slaves in the hobgoblin city-state of Tsurtsaz. But their group began to splinter when they realized they were being pursued. They couldn’t seem to agree on who was in charge as their courage disintegrated, so they went separate ways. Tillock wasn’t sure of much else, as he didn’t speak Goblin.
He and Baylor found themselves with only six captors, and they were beginning to look for a way to escape when their pursuers caught up to them. They attacked fiercely, and indiscriminately. They killed Baylor mercilessly, even though his hands were bound. Two of the hobgoblins attacked their hated enemies but were quickly cut down as well. The rest of the hobgoblins panicked and ran. Not wanting the same fate as Baylor, he ran with them.
Tillock said he’d never forget the sound of the laughter as they ran. The melodious, mocking, and cruel sound of the elves allowing them to run.