Corgar established himself in the earl’s great hall, sitting in Earl Ferox’s chair, which was hardly large enough for his bulk. He propped his feet on the table and barked orders to his men as he saw fit. Crouched in the shadows behind the chair, the Chronicler pulled at the collar on his neck. Corgar had secured the other end of its chain to his own belt.
The Chronicler’s mind ached with a mixture of wrath and terror. What had possessed him to declare himself king before this monster? He bowed his head and tugged at his hair. While he lived, he must think. He must try! Sure, he was as good as a dead man here in the monster’s presence. But did that mean he had the right to give up? Until Corgar dealt the final blow, he must strive.
But the chain was almost too heavy for him to lift his head. So he crouched, gagging at the smoke, and could not collect his wits.
Suddenly Corgar reached behind the chair and dragged the Chronicler forward, dropping him like a hunting trophy upon the table. “Well now, little king,” he said, leaning back in Ferox’s chair, his hands behind his ugly head. “I have a question. You look like the straightforward sort, and I think you and I might get along well. After all, I care for this chilly land of yours no more than you care to have me in it. So you tell me what I need, and our business might conclude faster than you think.”
The Chronicler slowly stood upright despite the weight around his neck. He faced the monster, his eyes flashing defiance. But there was no point in fighting until he knew for what purpose he fought.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I need the House of Lights.”
The Chronicler could find no words of his own as the monster’s rolled around in his brain. At length he replied, “It doesn’t exist.”
Corgar had never encountered mortals before this day. He knew goblins who had found one of the little dirt creatures lost in the Wood Between. He’d been told they were great sport, loud squeakers when poked, fast runners when pursued. He’d also been told they were ignorant about the ways of the worlds, no better than mute beasts when it came right down to it.
He’d never expected them to be stupid.
“Don’t toy with me.” His right hand fell upon the great table, and his claws dug trenches into the wood. “I’m no fool, and I’ll not be played as one. Tell me where the House of Lights is, I command you!”
The Chronicler shook his head. The heavy chain pulled him down until he bowed before the monster. “It does not exist. I cannot tell you where it is, for it is nowhere and has never been.”
Corgar got to his feet. The Chronicler cringed away, expecting a strike, a deathblow even, but the goblin only shouted at his monstrous servants waiting at the other end of the great hall. “Bring in the slaves!”
A string of captive humans entered the room, staggering under the weight of their bindings. The Chronicler’s heart nearly broke at the sight of their desperate faces. Among them were several earls, men who would have seen him murdered or used him as a puppet for their own ends. Even as the Chronicler looked no more than a child when compared to them, so they appeared like children under the heavy watch of the goblins.
Corgar, however, was given as much to cunning as to ferocity. Ignoring the slaves, he studied the diminutive king on the table before him, watching his face as each of the mortals came through the door.
Until he saw what he was looking for.
“Stop!” he growled to his servants. He strode out from behind the table, gazing at those slaves displayed before him. “Take these away,” he said. “Except for that one.”
And he reached out and snatched Leta by the arm.
“Unbind her,” he commanded and a goblin hastened to obey. Corgar’s grip was more than enough chain for any human maid. She could not bring herself to look upon that dreadful face again but gazed across the room.
“Chronicler!” she cried and reached out to him.
The goblin hauled her across the room with all the gentleness he might show a side of pork, flung her on the ground before the table, and caught her by the hair on top of her head, dragging her upright to expose her throat. He drew a stone dagger.
“This one,” he said, addressing himself to the Chronicler. “This one means something to you. Something more than the others.”
“No!” the Chronicler protested. “She means nothing.”
“Shall I kill her, then?”
“No!” The Chronicler nearly fell from the table as he lunged. The chains dragged him down, but there was fierceness in his voice. “Don’t touch her!”
Leta, unable to speak for terror, grabbed at the great hand wrenching her hair, then felt the chill of the stone blade against her throat.