The Goblin Gate Page 8
Could he trust the goblin’s word? And what could he do about it if he couldn’t? If he was going to save Tobin, he had no choice.
“Then do it.”
In the morning his father asked if he’d made any progress. Jeriah said not much. His father said tolerantly that it was early yet, and changed the subject. Jeriah wished that he could find a nightstoat, so he wouldn’t look completely incompetent, but they were rare. Perhaps when no more chickens died, his father would assume the nightstoat was just passing by. Compared to the shock of losing a dozen prime fields along the west bank, the chickens would no longer matter. And perhaps his father would think Jeriah’s inability to meet his eyes was because of their fight. Perhaps.
When he brought Tobin home, none of it would matter. When he brought Tobin home, he could tell the truth and his father would forgive everything.
At night Jeriah helped the goblins, hauling away the earth they dug, scattering it in plowed fields where it wouldn’t be noticed. Sometimes he had to crawl into one of the tunnels that were eating away the underside of the dike, and pry loose a rock that was too big for them. Trapped in the narrow tunnel, Jeriah could almost feel the river pushing against the increasingly fragile barrier of stone and earth that was all that stood between him and drowning.
He was almost too ashamed to feel the terror of those underground tasks, but before he returned home in the dawn, Jeriah washed the dirt from his hands and arms as if it were blood.
It rained that afternoon, in wind-driven showers. About an hour before dark it settled to a steady downpour, the kind of rain that sent the swollen river surging.
The goblin’s original estimate had been right—it had taken three nights to dig the tunnels, but they’d done a thorough job. Jeriah half expected to find the dikes crumbling under the weight of the rising water when he arrived. He tethered Glory in the high brill grove, where he was sure no flood would reach, and peered through the curtains of rain. He could see only about ten feet; then everything faded into night and rain. There could be goblins all around him and he wouldn’t know it. The swelling river might already have consumed—A flash of lightning painted the scene with livid light. The dikes were still standing, the fields beyond them glimmering with muddy water, but that was all.
“It’s a good night for a flooding, hero, I’ll grant you that.”
Jeriah jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me,” he snapped in a whisper. The ironic nickname stung.
The goblin’s grin was barely visible in the wind-whipped darkness. “You can yell if you want—the closest humans are in those houses.” He gestured toward the doomed village.
The sickening guilt was so familiar by now that Jeriah ignored it, like the rain soaking through the shoulders of his cloak. “Are you ready?”
“Aye. All you have to do is open the gate, and your end of the bargain’s done.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Not a chance. We’re a bit small to go swimming, if that dike gives way faster than we think it will. You’d best get off it in a hurry…young hero.”
Jeriah turned his back on the goblin’s smirk and scrambled onto the dike. He could just see the surface of the river, almost halfway up the other side by now. Surely he was imagining that the dike vibrated, just a little, under his feet.
The sluice gate loomed out of the darkness. For a moment Jeriah ignored the wheel that lifted the screw, looking through the rain toward the homes he was about to destroy. He couldn’t see them but they were there, their owners sleeping safely as rain drummed on the roofs.
This was the kind of thing that knights in legends were supposed to prevent! One should leap out right now, and threaten to chop off Jeriah’s hands if he dared to lay them on that wheel.
“No one is going to die,” he muttered savagely. “Nothing is going to happen that wouldn’t happen in a year, anyway. No one will get hurt.”
Jeriah grabbed the rain-wet wheel, twisted, and felt the shuddering race of water beneath his feet. He turned it again. No one leapt out to chop off his hands.
True knights ended up with dead brothers.
The wheel was level with his head when it finally jammed—the gate wide open. Jeriah looked down at the torrent of murky water pouring through. It wasn’t his imagination; the dike was quivering. He jogged along it, moving as fast as he dared, till another flash of lightning revealed that the muddy furrows below were still free of the flood. He gave it another hundred feet, climbed down, and fumbled his way back to the grove where the goblins were concealed. Only then did Jeriah look back.
Darkness spread before him. “Can you see what’s—”
He was interrupted by a flicker of lightning, bright enough to let them see a stream of water arcing down into the spreading shimmer of a rising pond—such quiet deadliness. Thunder grumbled, and Jeriah felt a tug on the leg of his britches.
It was the smallest goblin Jeriah had seen—only half as tall as most of the others.
“Don’t be so sad,” the creature said. “They’ll be all right. And now you’ll be able to open a gate and save Tobin.”
The voice sounded like a child’s. Jeriah supposed they must have young.
“You know my brother?”
“Of course. We were all friends with him, Regg and Onny and Nuffet and me. I’m glad you’re—”
The goblin broke off and cocked his head, listening. The sound was deeper than the thunder, vibrating through the soles of Jeriah’s feet as much as in his ears.
A gasp rippled through the crowd, and Jeriah strained his eyes against the darkness. He could just make out the dark silhouette of the dike as a whole section of it leaned forward, like a giant turning in its sleep. Lightning flashed again as the river poured through a dozen fissures. The surface of the rising water churned around the gaps. Jeriah heard another section groan and fall.
“What’s happening?” he demanded.
“The water’s going up fast.” The young goblin’s voice quivered. “It’s reached the houses now.”
“You can see—”
In the direction of the distant village, a child screamed.
Jeriah was running back to Glory before he thought, leaping into the saddle. He smashed through the wet branches and galloped down the track into the water. Only then did he realize that he was shouting; in warning, for help. He fell silent to listen as the mare waded deeper, stumbling over the rough ground below the swirling currents, snorting in dismay.
If she’d trusted her rider less, she’d have balked.
Jeriah knew he should go back—he could see for only a few yards in any direction. But he turned Glory toward the sound of shouting voices and she pressed on.
The next flash of lightning showed the village off to his left—he’d been about to pass it. But Glory saw it too and increased her cautious pace, nostrils wide. Soon the dark shadow of a building loomed before him.
A toddler in a nightshirt perched on the steps, shrieking, unable to go farther without stepping into the water. Jeriah bent and hoisted the boy onto his saddlebow.
The rest of the night passed in a mosaic of action that gave him no time for any thought beyond the needs of the moment. Soon lamps lit the windows of the flooding houses, so Jeriah could at least see where he was going as he crossed and recrossed the treacherous fields.
Adults waded through the swirling currents, as the river fought to establish its new bed. Jeriah and Glory carried children, elders, and household goods, seed grain, and livestock. Glory almost went down once, setting pans clanging, and the piglet on Jeriah’s lap squealed. But there was little danger, just the grim, wet work of saving what could be saved.
The rain had stopped without Jeriah noticing, and moonlight slid through the scattering clouds. His father and the men of the estate began to help without him noticing their arrival. He didn’t realize it was over until he found himself sitting on his exhausted horse, staring at the swamped village in the cold light of early dawn with a perfectly blank mind.
The water had receded from the higher ground, leaving most of the houses on an island with almost a quarter mile of shallow water between them and the shore. It would be perfect for the goblins, but the families who had owned those homes…
When he got Tobin back, Jeriah would tell him about this. As the heir, Tobin could help him make it up to these people. In the northern woods they could have better houses than the ones they’d lost, the most fertile land. But for now…
Jeriah roused enough to listen to the comments around him. A few children sobbed. The adults were quiet, except for a group of men farther down the bank who were dragging something heavy from the water. His father came to stand beside him.
“It could have been worse.” He sounded drained, but his hand fell warmly on Jeriah’s shoulder. “Good thing you were there! No one was killed—that’s the important thing. There’s not a village on the estate that doesn’t need workers. They’ll be taken in. Right before the relocation is a bad time to lose seed, but it could have been far worse. You did well, son.”
Jeriah said nothing. He refused to tell more lies.
“M’lord.” A man from the group downriver came panting up to them. “You ought to see this.”
Jeriah’s father signaled him to follow, along with old Woder, who was their steward, and the village headman. Jeriah was, after all, the heir, responsible for the safety of the estate. He bit his lip to silence bitter laughter. Then he saw what they’d pulled from the flood and the laughter froze.
It was the gate. Most of the door had been smashed away, only part of the heavy frame still clinging to it, but the screw and wheel were clearly visible, locked open.
He should have taken an ax and broken it—let the water pour through and drown him. It would have been cleaner than this.
“Woder,” said his father gently. “You were supposed to close the west bank gates this afternoon. Did you?”
“Aye, m’lord. I closed this gate.”
“You might have gotten confused in the storm. Not…not your fault, old friend.”
“M’lord!” the old man cried. “I closed all the gates! I know the danger, and even if I somehow forgot one, I’d never raise any gate to the top like that!”
“How else could it have happened?” a villager asked.
The lord of Rovanscourt shrugged. “We’ll probably never know. The gate was rotten—the flood alone could have brought it down. No blame will be attached to this accident.” His tone made it an order and the men around him nodded. But they looked at the elderly steward with doubt and pity in their eyes.
Woder was staring at the gate, and Jeriah saw the same doubt in his wrinkled face. He was questioning himself, wondering if he had somehow—
“I did it,” said Jeriah abruptly. Something inside him ached at the sound of his own voice, but it was a clean pain, like lancing an infected wound. “I…There was a nightstoat. It darted into a burrow in the dike. I thought I could flood it out, so I opened the gate and ran to catch it when…when…” His voice faltered at the fury and disgust in every face. “By the time I realized the danger, the dike was collapsing—it was too late to do anything but get people out. I’m…”
The word stuck on his tongue. Irresponsible. Lightweight. His apology was worthless to men who’d lost their homes. Their anger seared him. He deserved it. More than they would ever know. Jeriah turned to face his father.
“Didn’t you remember that gate was dangerous?” His father sounded as if he were being strangled. His hands worked.
I got confused in the dark. I didn’t realize it would rise so fast. I was caught up in the hunt.…
Jeriah gritted his teeth and said nothing.
His father drew a shuddering breath. “You’ve convinced me, Jeriah. You really don’t care about Rovanscourt. You never have. You never…Go. I…I banish you from this land.”
The men around them gasped as the ritual words were spoken. Jeriah had expected it and didn’t flinch.
“I reject you, the land rejects you, its people reject you. You will go forth, never…”
Jeriah watched his father remember that Jeriah was now his only son—the only heir. He couldn’t banish him forever.
“You will not return until I give permission.” Rage shook his father’s voice, as he was forced to abandon the formal words. “Go home. I’ll give you a letter for that priest you’re so anxious to get back to. You’ll leave at first light.”
He spun away. Jeriah turned Glory and kicked her into a weary walk, fighting to keep his back straight under the pressure of angry eyes.
It was still early morning when Jeriah finished buckling his saddlebags and pulled his cloak over his face. He closed his bedroom door quietly—he’d managed to avoid his mother and sisters so far, and he intended to go right on doing it. He couldn’t endure any more “confessions.” He would saddle Glory, get that cursed letter from his father, and go. If he weren’t the only remaining son, he’d be leaving for good.
It was easy to avoid notice. The hall and most of the lower rooms were full of milling refugees and people who’d come to help. Children were bedded down on the floor, and food arrived from the kitchen as fast as the cooks could produce it.
Jeriah twisted through the crowd and out to the courtyard, which was even more chaotic, crowded with the goods and livestock people had saved. He sighed with relief as the stable door closed behind him, cutting off the noise. But he wasn’t alone.
Fiddle, already saddled, huffed curiously. His father finished fastening a halter on Glory before turning to look at his son. His gaze was flat, unreadable, but his voice was bleak.
“She’s too tired to ride far. You’d best take it easy today.” He tied the lead rope to Fiddle’s saddle and swung a traveling pack onto Glory’s back. “I put your letter in here.”
It would do no good to argue, not when he’d lost his father’s trust so completely. Would he have trusted Tobin? Jeriah pushed the ugly thought aside. “Shall I send Fiddle back when I reach the city?”
“No, keep him. You’re the heir. You should have good horses. Tobin has…”
Tobin has no need of a charger now.
The unspoken words hung in the stillness between them, raw with grief. Jeriah’s bitterness dissolved. “Father, there’s something…”
His father looked up, and Jeriah’s courage failed under the hard gaze.
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” He mounted Fiddle and rode out. There was no way to conceal his identity from the crowd now, so he shook back his hood and lifted his head.
Their hatred struck like stones. They fell silent as he passed; the horses’ hoofbeats were the only sound. Jeriah’s palms were damp when he finally rode through the gate, but his back was straight, his head high.
He waited in the brill grove for ten minutes, but the goblins didn’t come. Or if they did, they didn’t show themselves. Jeriah smiled grimly. He knew where to find them. He rode down the bank and urged Fiddle, splashing, into the shallow, turbulent water. The price was paid. His father would never trust him again, but at least Jeriah was free to start the process of getting Tobin back.
The village had already acquired the tattered, empty feeling of a deserted place. Jeriah pulled Fiddle to a stop in the center of the square, where several houses concealed him from the shore. He was prepared to wait for hours if need be, but the goblin came around one of the buildings almost at once.
Jeriah had never seen that expression on the dour little face before—it took him several moments to identify it as happiness.
“Hero, you’ve done it! This place will serve us just fine.”
Anger snapped through him. Fiddle felt it and shifted restlessly.
“My name is Jeriah Rovan,” he told th
e goblin icily.
“And mine’s Cogswhallop…young hero.” The creature’s eyes glinted mockingly, but Jeriah was too startled to care.
“Cogswhallop? The sorceress’ second-in-command?”
“Tinker mentioned me, did he?”
“Yes, but he thought you’d gone with her.”
“I would have.” Some of the pleasure drained from the goblin’s face. “It didn’t work out.”
Possibilities stirred in Jeriah’s mind.
“Then you must want to get back to her. Very badly.”
“I don’t know about ‘very badly,’ but I’d like to see the gen’ral again. Enough that if you open a gate, I’ll guide you to the soldier myself.”
“What if I need your help to get the gate cast?”
“Ah, that’s another bargain.”
“Haven’t I done enough already?”
The creature’s silence answered.
“Very well,” said Jeriah bitterly. “What else do you want?”
“You know what I want, human. Get the Decree of Bright Magic revoked, and I’ll do whatever I can to save your brother.”
“That’s impossible and you know it.”
The goblin’s face was inscrutable. “That’s all I want.”
When a true knight faced an impossible quest, he always managed. But slaying monsters and rescuing prisoners were straightforward tasks, no matter how dangerous. No one asked a knight to get a law repealed. He’d have to manage the rest of it on his own. And pray that this worked out better than the last plot he’d gotten involved in!
“You’ll tell me how to contact the Lesser Ones?”
“Aye, that you’ve earned. The man you want is Todder Yon. He’s got no magic himself, mind, but he carries messages between the Lesser Ones all through the north.”
“Todder Yon!” Fiddle shied into Glory, snorting. Ghostly snickers came from the buildings around him. “That filthy, demon-cursed…Why didn’t he tell me?”
Jeriah didn’t expect an answer, but the goblin said, “Likely the same reason I didn’t give you my name.”