The goblin turned on him like a predator preparing to spring. His jutting jaw slavered hungrily. “Are you?” he said.
The earl’s sword lashed out. The goblin caught the blade and wrenched it from Aiven’s grasp, hurling it away into the throng, which scattered to avoid being struck. Then the goblin’s hand, large enough to crush a wolf’s skull, took Aiven by the throat and wrenched him from his feet.
“Do you think,” he said, “I cannot tell a king from a clod? Do you think I do not know the ties of blood that bind a man to his own demesne, the daily sacrifice of his heart and soul upon the altar of his kingdom? Do you think”—his voice rose to a shattering roar—“I am a fool?”
The earl’s feet kicked the air. He could not speak, could not draw breath. With another roar, the goblin brought him crashing to the stones, and Leta saw Earl Aiven’s body break. This man who was her father and whom she had never thought she loved. She saw him break, yet light, defiant, still shone in his eyes. He struggled to raise himself up. The goblin’s booted foot came down upon his chest, pressing him flat.
This man who was her father.
Leta fell to her hands and knees and crawled between the legs of those around her, forcing her way to that empty space in the center of the courtyard where the goblin stood. Even as the monster raised his weapon, her hands found the broken head of Sondmanus’s lance. Tripping over her own long skirts, she scrambled to her feet and flung herself at the goblin from behind, driving the lance into the unprotected place behind his knee.
The lance point broke.
The goblin, diverted from his killing stroke, spun around and fixed Leta with the full force of his wide, white eyes. She felt blood and spittle fall upon her skin as he reached for her. She raised the broken lance in defense, but he paid it no heed even when she thrust it into his hand. It shattered, and his long fingers closed about her neck. The next moment, her head exploding with fear and pain, she was swung off her feet and dangling at the length of his arm.
“Where is the mortal king, little one?” the goblin demanded. “You know whom I mean, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You know the king. Tell me where he is.”
For the first time in her life Leta wished she was the fainting sort so she might escape this moment. But there was no escape. The moment must be faced. She must look into those dreadful eyes, into that face both animal and human.
“Wait! Wait, please!”
It wasn’t a powerful voice of command that could inspire obedience or respect. It was small and desperate.
But it was the only voice that spoke up.
Corgar, his attention drawn from the dangling maid in his grasp, turned and looked over his shoulder. And when he did so, he swung Leta about, and she could see what he saw.
She saw a broken-down shed, great gaps in its boards, its door sagging on its hinges. Through that door stepped the Chronicler, his hands upraised in protest.
“Please!” he cried. “Put her down. I’m the one you seek. I . . . I am the Earl of Gaheris, future King of the North Country.”
The goblin’s eyes narrowed, disappearing beneath the deep furrow of his brow. He dropped Leta in a cloud of black skirts and strode across the courtyard. Fallen warriors scrambled out of his way, and he trod upon those that did not move in time. The Chronicler stood. His fists clenched, his mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide as sudden death, but he did not move even as the towering monster loomed above him, staring down into his face.
“King of the mortals?” said Corgar, his voice near a whisper. “You?”
The Chronicler nodded. “Yes,” he said.
Corgar stared.
Then he said, “I believe you.”
The next moment, his dreadful laughter filled the morning, shattering sunlight and driving darkness into every crevice of the old castle. His great claws closed upon the Chronicler’s tunic front, and he lifted him from the ground, shaking him like a rag doll in front of all those assembled.
“Your king!” His laughter was like thunder. “Your king!” cried Corgar. “Foolish, pitiful mortals! Is this the best you can find? Is this the great leader who will drive me from your lands and save your sorry hides?”
The Chronicler, his small hands grasping at the great trunk of an arm that held him, shouted, “Your business is with me! Leave the rest in peace, and we’ll discuss whatever you want. Or you can kill me now if you prefer. Only let them go.”
“Let them go?” Corgar laughed still more. “I hardly think so.”