The band of goblins moved with coordinated agility along the outskirts of the marsh patch, leaping across great puddles or sliding beneath low hanging branches in trios. The three in front would suddenly but fluidly yield their position and shift deeper into the shadows, allowing the three in the middle to rush to the fore of the group.

  Completely obscured by the silhouettes of swamp shrubs and gnarled trees, the formerly forerunning trio deliberately slowed their pace, allowing the three goblins in the rearguard position to increase their speed and assume the middle position. Like part of the dreary night they moved through, the short humanoids – probably standing a few inches above three feet - disappeared into the shadows they passed, seeming to spill out of dark itself when the moonlight caught them in the open spaces between shadows.

  Each raider carried a morning star or flail and some also toted a bundle of javelins held together by a slipknot. They ran, leapt, turned, and even slid with barely a sound.

  An observer might have mistaken them for elven children because of their height and lanky build, if not for the length of their arms. Their hands fell past their knees when left to hang, for their arms were nearly as long as their legs.

  The cycle of rotation would continue for as far as the nine goblins intended to travel this night. Not particularly strong creatures, goblins had legendary endurance and could cover a score of miles in this terrain, almost double that in the open flat bottoms nearby.

  The constant cycling of group positions served a twofold purpose in the ranks of goblin foot soldiers and raiders. First the continual motion within motion, the immediate changes in speed, forward and lateral maneuvers in the broader context of running from here to there kept each individual sharp and adaptable. Second the tempo changes allowed each unit to press the overall action forward, then recover at a slower pace, gradually building back up to their top speed for another hard push.

  Highland goblins had their gorhounds and zhaikos. On the Khelt and in the southern portions of Ziliador and Maer Dane wild boar were often used as mounts. For the northern lowland members of the species, travel almost always happened by foot, save the occasional use of donkeys for moving heavy supply loads.

  On the stone-laid road that ran adjacent to the marsh plodded three box wagons, each drawn by two draft horses with a human driver and loader seated on the bench behind the horses. In the back of each wagon rode an armed guard and three mounted fighters accompanied the small train; all the warriors were also human.

  An ambitious target for nine goblins, the merchant convoy led the bandits by about two-hundred yards. That distance could be closed by the goblins in a matter of minutes while retaining stealth or in less than a minute with a mad dash.

  While the three mounted warriors provided a potentially significant problem for the small attackers, the goblins would likely use the horses to their advantage. They could startle the horses with a bit of goblin grotty, a nasty and unsophisticated sort of magic all goblins possess, or perhaps a quick bite.

  Even trained war horses revile goblinkind and are susceptible to their magical mischief and malice. Once the steeds were sent into a fit or fled the wagon train the nimble bandits would likely kill the guard in back of the last wagon in the line.

  It would then be a simple matter of getting a trio onto the wagon to begin hurling selected wares onto the road to be sifted through and picked up by the others. Even if the horses were brought under control quickly or refused to spook in the first place the merchants would probably accept the partial loss of a single wagon’s inventory in exchange for the other two and the lives of the remaining humans.

  The whole assault could begin and end in just over a minute. The goblins would fade back into the night to count their loot and plan their next raid.

  The wagon train continued haplessly on its way. The trailing goblins had the wind in their faces, so the horses could not catch their scent. Perhaps weary from the day’s work, neither the merchants nor their armed escorts had any inkling of the danger steadily closing the distance from behind them.

  Leap-frogging and shifting, gaining speed and slowing down in their groups of three the goblins advanced. In short order they were close enough to hit either of the horses drawing the rear wagon with a javelin should they take the notion.

  It seemed as if one goblin might do just that as he slid a javelin from his bundle and balanced it in his throwing hand. The other two goblins in his group lowered their heads and began to close on the rear wagon. The javelin wielder skipped a step to hop onto one foot, bringing the javelin back across his body, and with an expert motion caught an arrow through the neck.

  Clutching its wound with both hands the goblin dropped like a stone. The two sprinters ahead of him each took an arrow to the center of the torso; the twin impacts thumped at almost the exact same instant and both runners crumpled into a chaotic forward roll.

  The middle trio of goblins broke ranks and scattered to avoid their fallen and rolling comrades. Their heads whipped in every direction, trying to discern the threat. One of them went stiff as a board and collapsed, an arrow shaft protruding from the center of its brow.

  The remaining two skidded briefly to slow themselves and then bolted in the opposite direction they had been running. They presently tumbled over the fallen body of a goblin from the rear group.

  Cursing, they scrambled to their feet as the last rearguard goblin collapsed with an arrow piercing its lung. Another arrow zipped between the two fleeing bandits to rustle and tear through the foliage of the wetland.

  By now the lead goblin had dropped his weapons and cared only about escape. Before its third footfall landed two arrows crisscrossed through its midsection.

  The last of the nine goblins, still holding its morning star, saw its life pass before its eyes. Its body synchronized with the surge of its panic and it reached a speed attained by very few goblins in the history of the race.

  The arrow was both faster and travelled on a leading trajectory to cut the goblin off. The missile penetrated the runner’s side below the rib cage and sank a foot or more into the innards, tearing the organs asunder as it passed. The goblin’s feet did not touch the ground again; it splashed facedown into the marsh.

  The mounted guard flanking the rear wagon turned his horse in the direction of the ruckus. He scanned the darkness, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  A second rider came to his side. “What is it?”

  “Don’t know.” said the first rider. “Could have been a wild animal I suppose.”

  The second rider nodded. Turning his mount back to the direction of travel he called out “Everyone be sharp! Got some noise back there, possibly local fauna but we’ll have our heads on a swivel just the same!”

  Hōz’b’nahzioh watched the wagons continue down the road until he was sure they were out of hearing range. Still breathing heavily from all the running he turned towards his companions.

  Seven feet tall, average for his race, the blue elf’s sky-hued skin glistened with perspiration. He shouldered his bow, which was longer than a shortbow but smaller and lighter than a longbow and sported two strings.

  Uncharacteristically for his people, he carried a Thrumbric, a broadsword of old Umbrige make, and a Baaltaran Gladius. He often said this selection of blades “covered all the bases without getting fancy”; he further preferred the durability of steel to the lightweight, somewhat mystical Ithildrin favored by many elves..

  His long hair was either black or dark blue or deep purple, per the lighting and the angle of viewing. Web-like markings – sacred runes – peeked out from the hair around the edges of his face.

  Another blue elf in an extravagantly colored waistcoat with a high, stiff collar that reached his jawbone also breathed deeply and rapidly. His light orange hair, combed over to one side, formed a half-circle fan that ended with a sharp point over and past his left eye. He wiped the sweat from his own brow.

  The high elf that finished the trio was a full foot shorter than her compatriots. Her blond hair hung in tightly curled rings around her round, almost chubby cheeks.

  Her face wasn’t fat. Just round.

  She wore a plain brown robe tailored in many sizes too large. It hung like drapery from her nearly-wide shoulders; only part of it fell upon her round hips before dropping loosely to her feet.

  Her hips were not large. But they were certainly round

  She surveyed the line of dead goblins about one-hundred yards away and running maybe fifty yards from the first dead goblin to the puddle the last had fallen into.

  “Very good. Skewered them all.” the female observed. “Whose organ is now presumed to be the longest?”

  Taking his cue Hōz tossed a gold crown to the other blue elf, who caught it. “Well done Tterwa T’ridtius.” Hōz conceded. “You hit five to my four. You should be the ranger and let me be the unemployed poet.”

  “I think not.” replied Tterwa T’ridtius. “More than skill with a bow is needed for your work and the hopeless cynic cannot hope to fulfill the task of the Oran Dan Chahd.”

  Hōz shrugged. “If you say so.”

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Terwa looked back the way they had been running for the past two hours. “How far did we shadow those goons do you think? Twenty odd miles?”

  “About right.” said the female. “Adorable that we had to run instead of take the mounts.”

  “They would have heard the horses, my dear.” said Terwa.

  “Of course.” the female said with a dramatic flare. “There’s a racially insensitive joke there somewhere you know?”

  “What?” Terwa wrinkled his face.

  “Why did the alfar run twenty miles instead of take their horses?” the female went on. “I don’t know, why?” she said in a lower voice. “Because they were too proud to be loud. Or here’s one, because they didn’t know about silence spells.”

  “Come now Shashizzleshay.” Hōz prodded. “Has the soft life of a, what do you call yourself again, an instigator? Has the soft life of an instigator left you so… well, soft?”

  “Initiate.” Sha corrected. “And it’s not what I call myself it’s what I am .”

  “And it’s what has made you soft and pitiful.” Hōz added.

  Sha grunted dismissively. “I don’t find sport in killing, that doesn’t make me soft.”

  “How very virtuous of you dear.” Hōz mocked. “It would be a respectable trait if you wouldn’t need to prattle on about it regularly. At the very least stop trying to take the fun out of wanton murder for those who still enjoy it.”

  Terwa laughed. Sha scolded him with an icy glare.

  The former cleared his throat. “Being a bit harsh on my aulivesá aren’t you, oh ranger of the northern duchy?”

  “I’m telling her what she needs to hear, oh derelict and bard-impersonator of the open road and it’s not my fault you married her.” Hōz retorted, his tone less playful than the others would have preferred.

  “What bitterness.” Sha observed.

  “Nothing a little meditation and belittling others for their spiritual inferiority won’t remedy I expect.” Hōz didn’t back down an inch.

  Sha started walking back to the west, the direction of the camp. ”I’m going back now. Don’t be long behind me Terwa.”

  “You heard her Terwa.” Hōz jeered.

  “What’s become of you Hōz’b’nahzioh?” Terwa asked bluntly. “Always mocking and spiteful. You insult my spouse openly with no regard for my obligations.”

  “I’m old.” Hōz explained as he checked the fastening of a few pouches hanging from his shoulder harness.. “I’m tired. Bitter? Indeed. These five-thousand years have broken my heart many times over, shown me the utter futility of it all, and filled me with derision.”

  Terwa looked on his friend with compassion and shook his head. Hōz tested the fit of his quiver, then ran his fingers over the fletching of the arrows crammed tightly into the leather tube.

  “Per your obligations to your spouse,” Hōz winked at his friend. “It is unkind to threaten a friend and unwise to threaten a superior warrior.”

  Terwa nodded, then gestured to the west. “Return with us?”

  “Thank you.” said Hōz. “No. I need to visit Daegna Teann.”

  “Fortress Teann?” Terwa balked. “You prefer that dreary place to drinking with me?”

  “Actually.” said Hōz.

  Terwa instinctively looked away, inwardly bracing for the scathing remark to come.

  “No.” the ranger surprised him. “I’d much prefer to sip and sing with you and your lovely aulivesá, but I can’t. I’ve work to do.”

  Pleased with the turn of his friend’s attitude, the poet said, “I have treated paloderm mind you, soaked in that Al Dandi mushroom ale.”

  “Oh my.” Hōz frowned. “You’ll never recover from that.”

  The two laughed. Then the ranger’s friend spoke.

  “Hōz I really thought you’d come back with us, and that’s why I didn’t mention this before now.” Terwa handed over a piece of black fabric. “We found this at a trade pavilion between Pisca S’Gach and Asmoth Snan.

  “Ah the pavilions.” Hōz shook his head. “They’re the glue that keeps our variant peoples together in this wide world, so they say.”

  Hōz looked at the cloth, which had imprinted upon it a magical script that glowed silvery-blue. The elf saw two lines. The first read Fzierzdant three-hundred gold; the second line read Hōz’b’nahzioh five-hundred gold.

  “Are you surprised?” Hōz asked. “You knew the Nokturim had a price on my head.”

  “I didn’t know it was a small fortune.” admitted Terwa. “More even than they’re offering for one of their own whom they call traitor.”

  “I always took umbrage to the fact that Fzierzdant was worth the same as I.” Hōz half-smiled. “Good to see the dark elves have finally seen the value in the head of an enemy who kills one of their royals.”

  “It was posted discreetly of course. If not looking for it one would never have found it.” said Terwa.

  “But you were looking for it.” Hōz pointed out.

  “Of course I was. It’s been a long time the pavilions have been absent this region.” explained Terwa. “I should think you’d appreciate someone looking out for you.”

  “I appreciate you Terwa.” Hōz explained. “Always. I just hate for you to spend valuable time looking after me when you could be practicing your verse – you really do need the practice.”

  “So you aren’t bothered by this?” Terwa sounded incredulous.

  “What’s the bother? A few dark elf assassins likely prowling the area in search of me?” Hōz put the cloth in his pocket. “The advantage is mine here. They’ll stand out like a bruise on the ass of an albino princess among the people of the duchy.”

  “True.” Terwa shrugged. “And in those stretches of desolation where there are no people to contrast with?”

  “It’s a terrifying prospect in a way.” the ranger touched the hilt of his sword; an elaborate rune covered the back of his hand and wrist; shaped like a question mark or shepherd’s crook and made from hundreds of spirals in one continuous line. “If I were really caught up in the idea of living another thousand years I’d be worried.”

  Terwa said nothing, for he knew the A’siergaditks was real; knew he could say nothing to help his friend. Hōz was the oldest living elf he personally knew, though he was aware of a few who were even older; dignitaries, rulers, and priests mainly. When an elf reached a certain age, he or she could become disillusioned with the living world and its troubles; eventually the great suffering known as A’siergaditks – meaning infinite sorrow and emptiness – may manifest.

  For this reason truly ancient elves of the immortal sub-races were rare. They tended to either withdraw from contact with other beings or take their own, long lives to end their suffering; on rare occasions they found the path to ascension and transformed into a higher form of life on another plane of existence.

  “I must go.” Terwa finally said. “Good to see you again, and I hope to do so yet again.”

  “Good to see you.” said Hōz. “Give my love to Sha, until next we meet.”

  Terwa nodded and said “T’Kar’Lo’i”. The phrase meant roughly the same in all the elven languages: “One of the people” or “one of my own”.

  “T’Kar’Lo’I” replied Hōz.

  The two elves turned and walked their separate ways.