An army of goblin soldiers.
My own soldiers open the gate of the inner wall of Yregar, and we ride out hard and fast to meet the wagons as the villagers all look on. Hundreds of gaunt and dirty faces line the streets, all of them depending on me and those wagons to be full and undamaged.
As we approach the outer wall, I slow Nightspark to a walk, the murmuring of the soldiers keeping watch on the wall drifting down to me as they worry amongst themselves.
“—at least a hundred of them. If we're under attack, they're going to win. Look at the size of that one! Since when did goblins get that big? They can’t be out of food—”
“Open the gates,” I call out, and the soldiers startle to attention, too distracted to have taken notice of our approach but moving to do as I command without question. Their preoccupation is a lapse, but one I won’t punish too harshly as they were focused on the approaching army, as they should be.
Tauron sends me a sidelong look. “Should we really let them in? If there are a hundred of them, and three of us waiting to welcome them, should we not have more soldiers down here? This is the perfect time to kill you and take Yregar for their king.”
The Fates sing under my skin, whispering to me in a language long forgotten but the meaning clear. “If the Goblin King wanted to take Yregar Castle, he would simply cross the fae door and take it. He knows exactly how dire things are here.”
Roan's mouth firms into a disapproving line, but loyally he doesn’t contradict my word as the gates open.
We’re humbled by the sight of the goblin troops, lined up perfectly as they surround the fleet of wagons carrying the supplies in a protective wall of heavily armed and fierce-faced soldiers. Darick rides at the head of the group with one of the goblin soldiers alongside him, and as they approach the gates, the lead soldier calls out an order in the harsh goblin tongue. The rest of the soldiers stop outside the walls, pulling their horses up short in perfect rows. It’s a powerful display of an obedient army, ruthlessly bred and trained to do their king’s bidding.
Darick and the goblin leader walk through the gates of Yregar together, the wagons following them by magic as though a horse pulls them all. They approach us without preamble, Darick bowing his head deeply and, after a moment of tense silence and a steely gaze, the goblin soldier does the same, paying his respects, if somewhat grudgingly.
“Your Highness, I’ve returned with the supplies from the Western Fyres. The goblin army escorted me through their lands just as the Goblin King promised, but when we arrived at the border, there were witches waiting for us there. They knew of our movements and were prepared to take the supplies and keep them as their own. The goblin soldiers killed them all and escorted the supplies the rest of the way through the kingdom to Yregar.”
The soldier doesn't move or speak, and I assume he doesn’t know the common tongue. The Goblin King himself doesn't speak it, and it’s obviously not the language used in his lands, so there’s no reason to assume otherwise. I incline my head slightly, a thank you given just as grudgingly as he had bowed to me.
I speak, even knowing he probably can't understand me. “We thank you for your gracious assistance and the Goblin King for his honorable aid to Yregar and my household. I offer you and your people the hospitalities of Yregar Castle to rest before your long journey home.”
I see Tauron’s hand twitching on his reins at my words, but the goblin soldier’s face remains unmoved, his eyes deep pools of darkness as he takes his measure of us all. There’s no recognition there, nothing but a shrewdly assessing gaze as the silence grows between us.
Darick glances between us before he settles his gaze on the soldier, shifting in his seat as he murmurs, “I know a few words now in the goblin tongue, just enough to make it through the journey. I can try, Your Highness?”
It's a question, and an apprehensive one, but before I can answer, the soldier finally moves, rolling his shoulders back and sharpening his already perfect posture to the exacting edge of a sword. He’s fluid and graceful in a way we don’t think of goblins as being, and my own hand moves toward my sword on instinct alone. After almost a thousand years of war and politics, I’ve become adept at reading people, and that movement from him tells me a lot.
This soldier is far more dangerous than he looks.
He gestures to one of the wagons, small and covered, and says slowly in the common tongue, “For the witch. A gift from the Goblin King.”
* * *
No matter how we question the goblin soldier, he doesn't speak another word to us, as though he was instructed by the translator to relay the Goblin King’s message and only the phrase he would need when he came before me.
They didn’t choose to stay with the wagons on a whim.
“This wagon was picked up from the Western Fyres along with our supplies. The goblins are trading with them as well. The soldier added some packages to it, but I don't know what's in them,” Darick says under his breath, soft enough for only high-fae hearing.
I give the soldier a once over before I nod my head again, turning our horses to lead the way into Yregar. The soldier follows, leaving the army waiting outside the castle walls without concern. It's an act of good faith on his part, doing everything he can to appear nonthreatening, and it doesn't raise only my suspicions. Roan’s shoulders are tight as he rides at my side, and Tauron practically vibrates in his saddle.
As we make the slow ascent to the castle with the wagons behind us, the villagers all stand and stare as the rations go past. There's no relief in their faces, just a stony silence as we move through. It looks just as desperate here as the situation truly is.
The soldier is careful not to show too much interest, his eyes fixed on the castle ahead as we reach the courtyard. Coming to a halt at the main steps, I find Firna and Tyton waiting for us there. Both of them look apprehensive as they stare at the soldier.
“Bring me the witch,” I say to Tyton, and though his eyebrows rise he turns without question.
I send Darick off to rest while Firna instructs the staff to begin to unload the wagons, her eyes steely as she takes note of the stock and watches it all like a hawk as the maids take it in. Food is far more precious than gold; if that wasn't abundantly clear to us before, it is now. No matter how well we treat them, the servants could be driven to steal. There's every chance that, in their desperation, someone might pocket some rations. I might not excuse it, harsh punishments already prepared for any who might try, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why it would happen.
Footsteps sound around the side of the castle, and the goblin soldier swings down from his saddle, acute interest lighting his eyes as the witch steps into the courtyard in front of him, Tyton leading the way and Reed following closely behind her.
I have to clamp down on my temper when she greets him in the goblin tongue, bowing before a simple soldier with such respect. Rage just keeps boiling inside my chest at them both as he bows back, a smile tugging at his lips as he answers her.
She seems taken aback by his words, and when she glances at me, the softening she showed in his direction vanishes as though it had never been. “He says he has a gift from the Goblin King for me. An early midwinter gift.”
