Well, they knew ale at least. Good, strong ale for quaffing after hunts, and Ghoukas and his friend had quaffed large quantities while inspecting the larder. Muttering and cursing, anticipating a beating for his failure to provide Corgar with exactly what he wanted when he wanted it, Ghoukas proceeded at a lagging pace, decidedly ale-sick.
A vague part of his brain noticed dimly that the passages were strangely deserted. Distantly he heard goblins shouting orders to human slaves laboring at tearing down the castle. The maggots were so puny, it would take them weeks to accomplish the task!
A rustle and thumping of booted feet drew Ghoukas’s attention. Down the nearest staircase came one of the human females, prodded from behind by a goblin.
“Hey! Krikor!” Ghoukas called, his ale-dimmed eyes blinking blearily but able to recognize his friend’s armor. “Hallo, brother!”
The goblin’s violent start knocked his helmet askew, and in his haste to clamp it back down on his head, he dropped his spear. It was this dragon-blasted cold and the stink of mortality, Ghoukas thought. It got into a fellow’s blood and made him jumpy.
“Krikor!” he said again, swaying his way to the foot of the staircase. “Remember me?” More than willing to put off his unpleasant duties, Ghoukas began climbing the stairs to meet them. “Look at the sorry piffle these mortals eat. Would you believe it? Want to try a bit? It’s vile! Something to tell the folks back home about.”
He reached out to slap his friend’s shoulder, but the goblin dodged, and the little mortal female ducked away, pressing herself against the banister, her skirts gathered up in a bundle to her chest but still falling nearly to her feet. Ghoukas turned to her, looking her up and down. She was so little, she scarcely reached his breastplate! But unlike the pasty mortal womenfolk he’d seen all day, she was a nice brown and healthy looking.
Ghoukas tipped back his visor, revealing a hungry face. “Are you taking this morsel to Corgar? He’s ordered all the mortals put to work, you know. A shame, really. A beastie like this might have other uses.”
He leaned down. The girl tried to back up the steps but tripped over her skirts and sat down in a pile of petticoats and brocade. Ghoukas laughed. “Pretty!” he said. “I think she must be pretty. What do you think, Krikor?”
The goblin said nothing. Ghoukas turned to him, his huge eyes narrowing, his stony brow wrinkling into puzzled crevices. “I said, what do you think, Krikor?”
Silence—other than surprisingly light breathing from behind the helmet. Ghoukas frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said, his addled brain slowly catching up. “Wait a minute, you’re not—”
Suddenly he dropped the food, snatched the helmet away, and stared at the pale human face with the shock of bright red hair.
Then Mouse leapt on his back, managing despite her heavy skirts to get purchase on his shoulders and cling there. Ghoukas roared, surprised, and twisted about, trying to loosen her grip, but she clung with the tenacity of ivy, and Ghoukas could not reach her to pull her off.
Alistair, moving heavily in his armor, picked up the goblin spear. He breathed, timed his stroke, then swung the stone spearhead and struck Ghoukas such a blow across the face that the goblin stopped, his vision whirling.
“Jump!” Alistair cried to Mouse, and though she did not understand, she obeyed, sliding from the goblin’s back and landing in a cushioned cloud of skirts. Alistair struck again, and the goblin, not so impervious to one of his own weapons as to those of mortals, tumbled down the stairs. He landed at the bottom, lost in a stupor.
Alistair assisted Mouse to her feet, and they both stared down at the hulking form of Ghoukas.
“Nicely done,” Mouse said, grinning up at the young lord.
He understood her smile, if nothing else, and smiled back. Then he reclaimed his helmet. “We’d best hurry,” he said, indicating the passage with his spear. “If the cat missed this one, we don’t know how many others might have slipped his notice. I don’t know that we can repeat this little performance.”
Mouse took her place as the captured slave, and the two continued on toward the great hall. All was gloomy, lit only by the dimness of moonlight through the windows. The air was thick with things unseen.
The Chronicler crouched behind Corgar’s chair, his senses dull. For hours, it seemed, Corgar had sat with his feet up, barking orders to goblins, sending them skittering about Gaheris at his whims. He had ignored the Chronicler’s existence since Leta was dragged from the room, and for this the Chronicler was grateful.
His manacles were large and appeared too loose for his small hands. Yet, although the stone neither shrank nor expanded, they held him fast.