The chain piled up beside him on the floor. He studied every stone link leading from the mass beside him up to the ring on Corgar’s great belt. Everything about the goblins was stone, it seemed—their chains, their armor, their weapons. Stone should not be stronger than the iron weapons of Gaheris, yet the Chronicler had seen swords crumble into clay when they met the goblin hewers. He had seen lances break upon the hides of goblin warriors.
He hung his head, cursing under his breath. What could he, with all his book learning and his short limbs, hope to accomplish if he slipped his bonds? It would take a rare man indeed to stand up against such fiends. A rare man . . . not a freak.
The room was dark with sinking shadows; the two lighted torches served only to cast the rest of the room into greater darkness. And in that darkness, a flicker of gold caught his eye.
The Chronicler turned, startled. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He could have sworn he’d seen eyes peering at him from under one of the lower tables. Then what might have been a shadow moved and vanished. Frowning, the Chronicler sat up and craned his neck, moving slowly to avoid drawing Corgar’s attention.
“I hunger!” the great goblin bellowed, abruptly standing. The movement yanked his prisoner’s chain, and the Chronicler just avoided being struck across the face by the swinging links. “I have not eaten since we marched from the Wood. Are you beggars holding out on me? Would you starve your future king?”
“No, no, my lord!” several goblin voices replied.
“Where is Ghoukas? Did he not go searching out the larder hours ago? Fetch him! Fetch him at once!”
Goblins scurried to obey. Another—a female, the Chronicler thought, only because she was a little smaller, not for any feminine grace on her part—stepped forward and offered Corgar a draught of wine. The Chronicler smelled the richness of Earl Ferox’s finest and grimaced as the monster downed it in a single gulp and called for more.
Another flash of gold. The Chronicler moved into a crouching position, trying to gain a better view. He could have sworn he’d seen someone dart to the female goblin’s side. He could have sworn he’d seen a deft hand slip something into the wine. Surely these goblins with their night vision would spot anything peculiar much sooner than he could!
Yet they continued about their business. Corgar downed his wine and continued barking for Ghoukas. His servants and slaves bustled about in the dark, but the Chronicler could not see well enough to know what they were doing.
He thought he heard a thunk and a muffled groan.
“What was that?” Corgar growled.
“What was what, my lord?” someone asked.
The warlord did not answer. The Chronicler heard the scrape of his claws digging into the tabletop.
Another thump in the dark—soft, almost inaudible, and unpleasant.
“There’s someone here,” said Corgar, his voice suddenly thick and surly.
“There’s lots of us here, my lord” came a reply.
“No, no,” said Corgar. The chain linked to his belt swayed along with his huge body as he rose. “There’s someone . . . something . . . else.”
This time one of the goblins gave a strangled gasp. Instantly, the others were on alert, drawing their weapons. But though Corgar fumbled for his, he could not seem to get his hand about the hilt. This enraged him and he roared, “Who’s there? Who dares assault the company of Corgar at his hard-won table?”
“Aiiieee, he’s—” The voice cut off sharply.
Every goblin strained to see in the darkness, as seemingly blind now as mortals. The Chronicler fell to his hands and knees and crawled into the darker space beneath the table. He felt his captor on the other end of the chain swaying like a drunkard, ready to topple. A goblin screamed as his brother, striking out at a flicker of nothing, caught him across the face. “Sorry, there!” the inadvertent attacker said, then roared when the fallen goblin kicked him in the knees. A full-fledged brawl would have broken out, but Corgar, his voice almost unrecognizably thick, bellowed:
“Look, you rat faces, he’s there!”
All eyes, including the Chronicler’s, turned at once. Standing in the doorway of the great hall was a figure all of them recognized instantly, a figure the Chronicler knew only from books and engravings, so old and so odd as to be discounted without a thought. Yet there he stood—in flesh or illusion—larger than life and unmistakable.
Eanrin, Chief Poet of Iubdan Tynan. The Bard of Rudiobus.
His eyes alone shone brighter than his golden hair. A world of sunshine seemed to surround him in the gloom, and his red jerkin glimmered with delicate threads. He raised his arms as though to greet all those assembled, and cried out in a voice merry with smiles:
“What-ho, Corgar, old chum! It’s been some time since last we met. Come now, haven’t you a word for an old friend?”