Smoke in the Hills – Part Three

This is part three of an ongoing series. Follow the links to read part one and part two.

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Ada Torfmoss did not resist when the goblins took her. One halfling girl could not hope to resist twelve goblins. She knew there were precisely twelve because she had counted them. They rode large, wire-haired dogs, of which there were thirteen. She had wondered if they were going to put her on the extra, to be led behind one of the warriors. They did not. Instead, she rode double in front of the smallest goblin. His name seemed to be Dazza, and she thought he was also younger than the rest.

They rode north, but just as her home disappeared around a bend, they cut left. That made sense, she thought. Goblins came from the west, so they must be going back that way. She was wrong again.

The thirteenth goblin simply appeared, carrying the box in which Mother kept their medicines. Passing it off, he mounted the extra dog. The way the others looked at him, the way they fell silent, as if waiting for some pronouncement, he might almost have mounted a throne. He was not the largest, but there was strength in his limbs, and he moved with a panther’s ease. His body was criss-crossed with scars, including a long one that started on his forehead, skipped the corner of his right eye, and drew a line down his cheek.

“Noys yakka,” Dazza said. Ada knew that was a compliment. She couldn’t speak goblin, exactly, but she had fallen in love with stories of the western desert as a young girl, and soaked up every trace of the language she could find.

The other smiled briefly in acknowledgement, then turned to a lean, graying goblin who, she thought, asked where they were going. That old one called the scarred goblin, the leader, “Dzowi.”

“Upwoiz,” Dzowi replied, pointing back in the direction they had been going before they turned to meet him. “Skada padik.”

They moved instantly to obey, their thirteen long-legged dogs loping through the brush in single file, over dusty hilltops and across the cool creeks that trickled through the vales. They wound their way north, where the valleys widened and the hills stretched apart, where the cattle country of the halflings faded and open plain began. For hours they ran, never stopping, only ever turning to check for pursuit as they crossed the highest hilltops. Even that was done deliberately, in a pre-planned way. The old, lean one pulled his mount to a stop and stood in the saddle to check first the south and then the west. After, he would gallop to Dzowi at the head of the line to bark out a brief report.

Part of Ada was terrified, but another part was impressed by the discipline of these warriors, of these people her countrymen called savages. Despite riding through a land full of their enemies, they were calm and purposeful. Now, in a strange and open country with few, if any, landmarks, they did not hesitate or second-guess their course.

Their only stop that day was deep in the open country. Everyone dismounted and began passing around water skins and tending to their winded mounts. The old one, Batla, spoke urgently to Dzowi about something. The word “kuwi” came up. They were measuring distance. The chieftain raised a hand to cut him off, then walked over to Ada. He held out a waterskin.

“Drink,” he said.

She did.

“Good?” he asked, slapping the inside of his thigh with one hand, then pointing to hers.

“Good,” she said. She was a little sore, but had been far worse.

He seemed impressed by that. Then, as an explanation, she offered one of the goblin words she knew.

“Jilaru.”

Behind her, Dazza burst out laughing. Dzowi smiled, but it was short-lived. Batla was at his side again.

“Tu-kuwi, Dzowi,” he croaked.

The chieftain lifted his hand, and silence fell over the raiding party. He spoke to them in short, stark sentences. He was telling them how it would be. No one spoke, but many eyes turned to Dazza. She thought those were looks of pity. The youth began to say something, but Dzowi cut him off with a gesture. He walked past Ada and took the younger goblin a little ways apart from the rest.

She watched as they talked, and suddenly understood. They looked so much alike. The one was older, more confident, the other young and eager, but the faces, the build, the way they carried themselves was the same. Not father and son, she thought. No, they seemed much more like an older brother and a younger. Dazza tried to argue, but Dzowi did not let him. The youth composed himself, standing straight, face stoic. But there was a glimmer of tears in his eyes. He nodded.

The chieftain walked back into the circle of warriors, most already mounted. He went to the warrior who carried the medicine box and took it.

“Jilaru,” he said, beckoning her over. He opened the box. “Red sick?”

Ada’s breath caught in her throat. The red plague was a childhood disease. In civilized lands, there were medicines to treat it, but elsewhere it was deadly. She reached in and touched one of the bottles.

“Two times,” she said. “One day.”

Dzowi nodded, his eyes searching her face. Did he really rely on her, an enemy and captive, to save the lives of his people?

She pointed to a second bottle. “After. One time, three days.”

He called Dazza over and had her repeat the instructions. Dazza listened and repeated them back. Then Dzowi gave him the box.

The younger goblin went to his dog and mounted. He turned back to his brother and said something Ada did not understand. The words had the heavy sound of ritual to them. Dzowi answered, just as solemn. Dazza gave a sharp whistle and his dog rushed at full speed towards the west, towards a the rising column of dust.

They all watched him for a time, growing smaller, his shadow long as the sun neared the horizon. Then Dzowi bent down and scooped a handful of dust from the ground. Rising, he poured the dust on his own head, chanting something. The others followed suit. Their faces were grim. The chieftain mounted and turned to the north. He extended a hand to Ada.

“Jilaru?” he asked.

She took his hand and mounted the dog behind him.

“What did that mean?” she asked as they set out again. She had to phrase it several different ways, but he didn’t seem to understand. Then she touched the dust on the top of his head. He was silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the north. Then he told her.

“Dazza go. Tribe go. They live. Your people come. We die.”

 

The story continues in part four.