sharpen a stick to use as a spear or take as large a stone as they can carry up into the boughs with them.
'You come out first, reacting to a predetermined event, such as the lead goblins passing a specific tree,' Brother Julius went on. The other monks nodded, for they knew Julius had fought with Master De'Unnero, the finest of tacticians, on several occasions, including during the almost legendary slaughter of powries at St.-Mere-Abelle's lower dock gates. 'We will expect the flash, and so we will cover our eyes, and then…' He paused and smiled grimly, and it seemed to everyone, even to Francis, that Julius-now that he wasn't going to get his way concerning the return to St.-MereAbelle-had put his heart into the fight.
A good student of De'Unnero, Francis noted, with just the right attitude.
Soon after, the monks were all in place, settled on their branches, with Francis farther down the lane, behind a large tree.
The minutes became an hour, became two and then two more. Though he was growing as impatient as any, Francis was glad of the delay, of the rest, that he might recover more and more of his magical energies. He didn't really believe that he would kill many goblins with his lightning bolt, but the stronger the flash, the more likely a solid and quick victory.
The sun went below the western horizon, and still the forest remained quiet. Francis understood that the goblins would gain an advantage in the dark, for the night was their favored time, so he was relieved to see Sheila, Corona's bright moon, nearly full, rising in the dark sky.
Still they waited-and Francis hoped that the other brothers remained awake!
And then he nearly jumped out of his boots, for a goblin slipped quietly past him, moving from tree to tree. Francis resisted the urge to chase the creature, understanding that this was a lead scout and that any noise from him would likely ruin their ambush. He took careful note of the goblin's movements, though, for he expected that he would see that one again all too soon.
Soon after, there came a rustling down the trail, and Francis saw the dark forms, trotting easily, crossing the maple grove.
The master took a deep breath, rubbing his hands along the graphite, finding his heart. He harbored no doubt about the course of his actions; he merely feared that he would not be strong enough to see his brothers through this fight, that they would all die out here on the road with so many important messages, of the future of the Church and of the threat of plague, yet to deliver.
In any case, it was too late to change his mind or his plans, Francis deliberately told himself, and so he crouched and focused on the leading goblins, waiting until they reached the appointed spot.
Out jumped Francis, falling to one knee and holding forth the graphite, calling out a single time-the signal for his brothers to shield their eyesand letting loose a sizzling blast of white energy, a lightning bolt that charred three of the first five goblins, dropping the next bunch writhing to the ground, and stealing the vision of all for the moment-a moment long enough for the Abellican brothers to fire their crossbows and throw their stones and spears down upon the confused monsters, then to leap down to the ground and begin the wild melee-elbows, feet, and fists flying savagely. And what a rout it seemed, with goblins falling, scrambling, shrieking, and ducking! For a moment, Francis thought the day would be won without damage to his brethren. And indeed, before the first two minutes of fighting had passed, a score and more of the goblins were down, with another score running haphazardly into the cover of the forest.
Francis called out rudimentary commands-cheers more than ordersand he leaped about, graphite in hand, his blood coursing fiercely, his heart pumping furiously, and in that heightened state of energy, confident that he could loose another equally powerful blast of lightning.
Maybe he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, or perhaps it was just a result of his heightened sense of awareness, but he sensed a movement behind him and spun about, just as the goblin who had earlier passed this spot thrust its spear at his chest. Francis gave a cry of surprise and fear and had no time to do anything but dive aside. He felt the spear tip slash, slip in, and bang against his rib. Had the goblin been carrying a better weapon, that would have been the sudden end of Master Francis Deliacourt. But the meager spear deflected off the rib and tore a longer but more superficial line as it came out along the side of Francis' chest, lodging in the folds of his thick robe instead of into his flesh.
Francis staggered to his feet, aware that the spear was at his side and that the goblin was no longer holding it. But the vicious little creature was coming fast in pursuit, yellow teeth bared.
Francis didn't try to extract the spear, but shrugged off his robe, dropping it-the weapon with it-to the ground. He brought his left arm into a defensive position before him, then drove his right arm to block and push aside the goblin's first attack. The wretched little creature snarled and drooled, its tongue hanging out of its mouth; and it hardly reacted to the sudden movement as Francis snap-kicked it under the chin, driving its jaws together and nipping off the tip of that pointy little tongue.
The dazed creature staggered backward two steps, and Francis, well trained in the arts martial at St.-Mere- Abelle, came on to take the advantage, pushing aside the skinny goblin's arms, then snapping off a left jab into the creature's face, once and then again. The goblin staggered backward, and Francis fell over it, bearing it heavily to the ground beneath him.
The goblin bit hard into his shoulder, but Francis got his hands around the thing's neck and squeezed with all his strength. It seemed to Francis to last an hour-an hour of fiery pain from the goblin's bite and of horror as the thing squirmed pitifully in his unyielding grasp, arms flailing.
And then it lay still, very still; and even in the moonlight, Francis could see the blackness of death that had come over its face.
Reminding himself that there was still a battle being waged behind him, that other goblins even then might be running at him with cruel spears, Francis wrenched himself away and staggered to his feet. He saw then that his brethren had performed well, that many goblins were down, and that any of those still near the monks, who had formed into a tight defensive circle, had no chance of gaining any advantage.
But those goblins who had run off had not gone far, Francis saw to his horror. At the left flank, a substantial group of goblins was approaching, spears up and ready to fly.
Francis dove down for his robe, scrambling for the pocket. A moment later, he lifted his hand and reached into the graphite gemstone, calling forth its power. The volley of spears flew in-he heard the cries of his brethren- and the lightning stroke fired off, dropping several more goblins, stunning several others.
On came the Abellican monks, leaping into the goblin ranks, punishing them in close combat with strength and skills no goblin could match.
Francis moved to join the fighting, but found his legs weak beneath him, and when he reached down to feel his chest, his hand came back covered in blood. He was on the ground then, suddenly, alone and vulnerable and expecting another goblin to come up and skewer him.
But then he heard Brother Julius call out his name; and a horde of monks gathered about him, defending him.
Francis reached up and gave Julius the graphite. 'Crossbows,' he managed to gasp.
The remaining goblins regrouped and came back at the defending monks, but their barrage of spears was met by another blast of lightning and by a volley of more deadly crossbow quarrels. Those surviving goblins ran, scattered, into the forest night.
'How many?' Francis demanded of Julius shordy after.
'Rest, master,' Julius replied. 'You will be tended by bandage and by gemstone, and will feel stronger in the morning.'
'How many?' came the determined question a second time.
'We have downed nearly two score,' Julius answered. 'They will all be killed, and those remaining have fled without organization and should pose no further threat to Davon Dinnishire.'
Francis grabbed Julius by the front of his robe and pulled himself up, so that their faces nearly touched. 'How many?' Francis growled.
'Six,' Brother Julius replied gravely. 'Six are dead, master, and several wounded. We must begin the healing at once.'
Francis held the grip for a moment longer, then sank back to the ground. Six brothers killed in a battle that he could have avoided. Master Francis felt breathless, and it had nothing to do with the wound in his side.
He spent a long while-perhaps an hour, perhaps two-lying there, in and out of consciousness, as the other brothers tended his wound with bandages and soul stones. When finally he awoke fully, he learned that another
