The Goblin Gate (2 page)

“But what about Tobin? I have to…to…”

To do what? Master Lazur wasn’t powerful enough to cast a gate spell alone, and even if Jeriah could open a gate, how could he locate that deadly Otherworld? Or get his hands on the spells to keep his brother and the sorceress alive till they could find a way out?

If he left Master Lazur’s service, the spells that might save Tobin would be out of reach forever.

“Wait, don’t send me home! I want to serve the Realm.” Even to his own ears, it sounded false.

“Talk to your father first.”

“But—”

“I won’t keep an assistant who won’t obey me. Go home. Either for one month or until your father releases you.”

Jeriah’s fingers clenched into fists, but he couldn’t let the priest dismiss him. Those spell notes were Tobin’s only chance. He had to return to the priest’s service, play a waiting game.

Tobin would probably die before a waiting game ended. And even if he could get the notes, how could he open a gate into the Otherworld? Much less find his brother in time?

A strangled sob tore through the constriction in his throat.

“Jeriah.” Master Lazur reached out, lifting Jeriah’s chin till he was forced to meet the man’s eyes. “Sacrifices have to be made if good is to prevail. I can’t have you opening gates into the Otherworld. There’s a goblin army there, and a dozen condemned hedgewitches, and who knows what else! Even if you could open a gate, you’d never find Tobin in time. He saved the Realm. It was a noble sacrifice, even if he didn’t know he was going to die. It was his choice. Let it go.”

Jeriah jerked his head away and stumbled to Glory, hiding his face against her warm brown neck.

You’re wrong. It’s my fault he was here. It’s my fault he ever got involved in this mess.

But it wasn’t Jeriah’s fault that Tobin had gone leaping into the light. It had all been working out fine, before his brother
had gotten involved with the sorceress and her accursed goblins. It was their fault!

Jeriah heard the creak of leather as Master Lazur swung up into the saddle. He was leaving.

It didn’t matter whose fault it was. They were leaving Tobin to die, he couldn’t endure that, couldn’t accept it, couldn’t let it happen. He
wouldn’t
let it happen.

No.
Jeriah lifted his head, and the resolve settled into his bones like cooling iron.
No matter what it takes, I’m going to get my brother back. Alive.

But how?

“H
AVE YOU GONE MAD
?”

Makenna glared at the knight, who was gawking at the flower-starred meadow around them. To her, it looked very like the meadows in the northern woods they’d left behind…though she didn’t recognize some of the flowers.

“Have you mislaid what’s left of your tiny wits? Why in the Dark One’s name did you come through? There are no other humans here! Do you have any idea how alone you’ll be?”

He looked at her then, and she saw him check at least two replies before he finally said, “It was an impulse.”

“An
impulse
?” Adrift in a new world, surrounded by frightened goblins who depended on her leadership, she couldn’t scream and tear her hair. No matter how much she wanted to. “What a fine, sensible reason to go putting your life in danger, separating yourself from your family, from all you’ve ever—”

Annoyance dawned in his ordinary face. “My life was in
plenty of danger where we were. Maybe I came because I didn’t want to be hanged for helping you and your goblins escape. Did you happen to think of that?”

“I told you what to say! You could have lied your way out of it.”

“After all he’s put us through, do you really think Master Lazur is that kind of fool?”

“No, but with us gone, he won’t care enough to bother about something as unimportant as hanging you!”

“And you know him well enough to be sure of that?”

In truth, she was sure. The priest was a practical man, when all was said. Though others, the ones who weren’t so practical themselves, might not have seen that as clearly as she had.

But if that was his reason, why hadn’t the crazed lordling said so in the first place? An impulse. Bright Gods.

Makenna pressed her hands over her eyes and let it go.

“I don’t have time to deal with this now. We need the Greeners to sort themselves into order and figure out what we can eat here. And we need someone to scout for water, and a good place to set up camp. Cogswhallop, you…”

Cogswhallop wasn’t by her side.

“Cogswhallop…?”

J
ERIAH’S RESOLUTION HIT ITS FIRST
setback almost immediately—Master Lazur refused to relent in his decision to send Jeriah home. Jeriah argued as much as he dared, and managed to get a few more details out of the priest. But the dawn of the next morning saw him mounted, on the road to the south.

It didn’t matter. Impossible or not, he was going rescue Tobin and bring him back.

But before that, he had a promise to keep. A promise that had taken him to this busy street in Brackenlee. At least it wasn’t out of his way.

“Excuse me, goodman. I’m trying to find a horse that was sold here a few weeks ago. I have to buy him back. He belongs…he belonged to my brother.” Despite his resolve to rescue his brother, Jeriah’s voice faltered on the words. When it came to heroic action, his record so far didn’t inspire much confidence. Not that the conspiracy’s failure had been his fault—it hadn’t! But he still had to steady his
voice before he went on. “Can you tell me who might have bought him?”

“That’d likely be Lido, the blacksmith.” The old man noted the past tense—sympathy softened his wrinkled face. “He buys and sells livestock. His forge is at the end of the street, off to the left. Don’t you let him drive too hard a bargain, youngling…ah, sir.”

“Thank you.” At any other time Jeriah might have resented being called “youngling,” but this morning he felt more like an old man than a fifteen-year-old. Jeriah clucked to Glory, and she picked her way down Brackenlee’s busy main street. To go to Brackenlee and buy back his horse was the only thing Tobin had said, in that last frantic meeting, that made any sense. He’d babbled a lot about “please forgive me” and love, and how he’d explain when he got the chance.

At the time Jeriah had wanted answers to questions that mattered, like
Why are you helping the sorceress?
or even
How do you intend to get out of this without being hanged?

Had Tobin always planned to escape into the Otherworld? He hadn’t known he’d die there! Even the sorceress, curse her black heart, hadn’t known. Two months before he started to die. A few weeks at the longest after that.

His brother’s babbling about love and forgiveness didn’t seem so irrelevant now.

To Jeriah’s eyes, Brackenlee’s wood-shingled buildings looked drably similar, but the thick smoke pouring from the smithy’s chimney on this bright spring day made it easy to
locate, and Fiddle’s gray bulk stood out among the plow and riding horses in the corral. Jeriah’s throat tightened again, but he managed to form Tobin’s whistle. The gelding pricked his ears and trotted over, huffing in surprise when he saw it was Jeriah.

“Stupid horse.” He reached out to stroke the soft gray muzzle.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man’s hair formed a spiky ring around his balding head, but muscle bulged in his shoulders.

“Goodman Lido? I want to buy this horse. How much?” The man’s eyes narrowed at the noble accent, and Jeriah cursed himself for being so blunt. When he’d left home to enter Master Lazur’s service, his father had given him twenty gold pieces and a small bag of silver and copper, and told him to make it last a year. He still had most of it, but…

“You’ve got a fine eye for horses, m’lord, a fine eye. Perfect conformation for a charger. And only four years old.”

“He’s too small,” Jeriah pronounced. The horses his uncle bred were smaller than most, but they were swift, agile, loyal, sweet-tempered, and intelligent—for horses.

“He’s no smaller than the lovely lady you’re riding.” The smith’s eyes twinkled shrewdly. “And gentle as a lamb.”

“Just be glad you were introduced to him,” said Jeriah.

“Aye, he wouldn’t let the stable boy near till I told him it was all right. But that’s part of his perfect training! Why, he comes at a whistle…does a man know the right notes.”

Jeriah gave up pretense. “He was my brother’s horse. How much?” He wasn’t going to leave without Fiddle, even if he had to steal him.

“Well, m’lord, seeing you’re a brother…I might let him go for as little as thirty-five gold pieces.”

“What! That’s robbery! Ten.”

It took a long time.

“…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.” Jeriah counted aloud, dropping coins into the man’s hand. “Will you put a halter on him, or do you charge for that too, you bandit?”

“Nay, I’ll throw in the rope, and offer a free word as well. Watch out on the road, m’lord. There’s real bandits out there, who’d risk a lot for a horse as fine as this. Not to mention your sweet lady.” He stroked Glory’s neck and she lipped at his arm, begging for a treat.

A brisk breeze shook the new leaves as Jeriah led Fiddle away from the village, and clouds were building for an afternoon rain. He couldn’t return to Master Lazur until he had his father’s permission, so Jeriah had to go home and get it—no matter how horrible it would be to tell his family what had happened to Tobin.

This had been his mother’s scheme. How could Jeriah tell her it had gone so bitterly wrong? His father, even though he’d all but forbidden them to mention “the traitor’s” name, had always loved Tobin best. His quiet older sister confided in Tobin when she wouldn’t talk to anyone else, and his younger sister had loved him as much as she’d tormented him. The
whole family was…better, when Tobin was there.

And not one of them would believe Jeriah was capable of bringing Tobin home safely. Could he even tell them about his plans? Probably not.

The prospect of telling his parents and sisters that Tobin would soon be dead was so horrible that Jeriah almost wished the smith’s bandits would leap out and save him from it with a sword through the heart. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much chance of that here. There were a few lawless bands in the war-torn Southlands, but they weren’t likely to wander as far as the northern woods. The smith’s “bandits” was probably some poor wretch who’d lost his job, and taken to robbing chicken coops.

And telling his family, no matter how much it would hurt, was the least of his problems. The first thing he had to do was get his hands on Master Lazur’s spell notes—they’d probably contain some information about casting gates as well. If Master Lazur’s spells could prevent her magic from being drained, the sorceress might be able to cast a gate to get them out of the Otherworld. As far as Jeriah knew, all the priests who’d been willing to fight the cadre that controlled the Landholders’ Council had been executed when the conspiracy failed, and all the others were Master Lazur’s allies.

Impossible
…Fear of failure dragged at him, but Jeriah thrust it aside. He’d find someone to open the gate—because he had to, or there was no plan. So, assuming he could get into the Otherworld, he’d then need someone to help him
find the sorceress and his brother. Someone who could guess where she might go. Someone who knew of a way, magical or otherwise, to locate her or her goblin…Goblins! Goblins might well be able to find their own kind. And goblins had magic! Perhaps they could even open a gate, if Jeriah could give them the spell.

He glanced around at the new-leafed trees, almost expecting to see goblins lurking there, in answer to his wish. Not a chance, these days. Before the Decree of Bright Magic passed, there were goblins in every wood and farm, but those who hadn’t been driven out or slain avoided people now—and small blame to them. How could he convince the goblins to help him? How could he even get in touch with them?

Jeriah rode for almost a quarter mile, leading Fiddle and contemplating the question, before the answer struck him. He swore aloud and cantered back to town.

The smith was pumping the great bellows, coals glowing with each rush of air. He turned from the task as Jeriah rode up.

“Goodman Lido, who sold you this horse?”

“Why do you ask, m’lord? I’ve no reason to believe the beast was stolen.” The smith’s smile had vanished.

“He wasn’t stolen, I just need to talk to the man who sold him. Please, who was it?”

“I’m not rightly sure I remember. You’ll understand, I buy a lot of horses.” The blacksmith edged toward the forge’s door.

“Wait.” Jeriah held out his hand, pleading. “By St. Spiratu the Truth Giver, I don’t mean any harm to the man, or to you, or to anyone. I just want to talk to him.”

“Well, if you mean no harm to honest folk, I
might
be able to remember…”

Gritting his teeth, Jeriah dug out two silver pieces and tossed them to the smith.

“Why, m’lord.” Lido grinned. “I believe I do remember. It was Todder Yon, the tinker. He passes through here, oh, every six, nine months. He often sells horses or other stock. He gets ’em in trade, so I’d no reason to believe this one was stolen.”

How often does a tinker get a knight’s horse ‘in trade’?

“I don’t care about that. Where can I find this…Todder Yon?”

“That’s the name, but as to where you can find him…Todder doesn’t follow a regular route. This time he said he came from Wildford, so he’s not likely to go that way. You might give Stockton a try, or Millford, or Bidlow.”

“Thanks,” Jeriah muttered. “I think.”

The smith grinned. “Don’t mention it, m’lord.”

“No, sir, he’s three weeks gone from here,” said the plump serving maid. “But you might try Huddersfield, or Linksley, or Marbury. He doesn’t have a regular route.”

Jeriah groaned silently. He’d heard similar answers in every village, hamlet, and town for the past six days. Todder Yon
was here last week, four days ago, hadn’t been by since last autumn. Jeriah was spending silver as if his purse were bottomless, his clothes were no sooner dry than they got wet again, and he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the hunt began. He’d reached Millford just as the rain came on. When he learned the tinker wasn’t there, the exhaustion of a sleepless night and a day of apprehension, both spent in the saddle, hit him like a jousting lance. He’d rented a room in Millford and tossed in the lumpy bed until dawn, then set off hopefully in search of the tinker—but he was no closer to finding him now than he’d been then. The man was elusive as a ghost!

“Will you be wanting a room, sir?” the girl asked. “We’d be happy to have you stay the night.” She sounded quite enthusiastic about keeping him there, and her sidelong glace was flirtatious. “There’s said to be bandits about, and it’ll likely pour in an hour or two. You’d never make Huddersfield before it comes down.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Jeriah, who’d inherited his mother’s dark good looks, was accustomed to maids trying to flirt with him. Sometimes he flirted back, but now he had no time to spare. “I’m used to getting wet. Can you give me directions to Linksley?”

“Surely. Just take the west road out of town about a two hours’ ride, and you’ll see the Linksley road splitting off to the south. But Huddersfield is closer.”

“I know.” Jeriah dropped a silver piece into her outstretched palm. “I was there day before yesterday.”

The rain began shortly after he turned onto the Linksley road. At least the maid’s directions were better than some he’d tried to follow over the last few days.

The wind blew out of the south, pushing back his cloak and hood. Jeriah tucked the corners of the cloak between his legs and the saddle, but he had to hold the hood with his free hand to keep the rain out of his face. The hand that gripped the reins was already cold. He’d long since tied Fiddle’s lead rope to Glory’s saddle—fortunately, the well-mannered gelding gave him no trouble.

It was embarrassing, when you’d been dreaming all your life of knightly deeds, to discover that you couldn’t track down a common tinker. Almost as embarrassing as learning that just being cold, wet, and tired all the time was enough to discourage you. Tristar of South Farring had tracked the evil Maroth all through the icy wasteland of the far north and never faltered. Jeriah had wanted to quit days ago.

Raindrops spattered his face and Jeriah pulled his hood lower. If he couldn’t find a wandering tinker in his own world, how could he hope to find his brother in an entirely different one? He shook his head. These waves of self-doubt were becoming more frequent as days went by and Todder Yon continued to elude him, but he couldn’t quit. If he quit, Tobin would die.

One step at a time, he told himself wearily. First the tinker, then the goblins, then the rest of it.

Branches rustled furiously as a man sprang out from behind a tree and seized Glory’s bridle. She snorted and shied, and for a moment staying in the saddle demanded all of Jeriah’s attention.

He dropped the reins and started to draw his sword, but hard hands clamped on his elbow. A cudgel struck his right shoulder, numbing his arm, and Jeriah yelped with the sudden pain.

There were five of them, all men, with ragged clothes and dark hair.
Bandits. Why didn’t I listen?

He kicked Glory, shouting for help. She tried to rear, but two men were hanging on to her bridle, and they knew what they were doing. Jeriah struggled to free his sword arm, and almost succeeded when Fiddle snapped his halter rope and spun to kick. But one man clung to Glory’s saddle and grabbed Jeriah’s wrist just as he got his hand on the hilt.

The bandits fought in silence. Jeriah would have shouted again if he hadn’t been so busy gasping for breath. The thunder of his own heartbeat was louder than the thud of the horses’ hooves.

A cudgel struck his ribs and pain leapt up his side. Someone grabbed Jeriah’s belt and pulled; he’d have fallen if Glory hadn’t spun.

But the men clinging to her bridle stayed with her, like dogs hanging on to a tugging rag. The man gripping Jeriah’s sword arm stayed, and the rest closed in again.

A flash of regret almost broke through the panic that pounded through him. He couldn’t afford to die. Not now!

A blow that could have broken his arm missed, smashing bruisingly into his thigh. Jeriah had come north as a priest’s assistant—his armor was in a chest at home. His sword arm was pinned. Two men held Glory’s head down so she couldn’t fight, and Fiddle had run off. Another man grabbed Jeriah’s leg and yanked his foot from the stirrups. Jeriah twisted his leg, trying to kick, but the man gripping his belt heaved, pulling him down.