Will Power

like these people.”

I gave him a quick look, but the remark seemed to have been genuine enough, so I said nothing and followed him.

We wended our way through the swamp trails and the light faded fast. In half an hour it was almost too dark to see. Since no one produced a torch or lantern, I edged closer to the pack and studied the ground ahead. Orgos said that “they” had good night vision. I grunted and kept walking without even bothering to ask where we were going.

We came upon a thicket of healthy young pine trees, all slender and stretching skyward like wading birds, and as I paused to study the trees, the column of goblins dwindled to nothing. I stopped, glancing wildly about and wondering if I had been led out here as part of some elaborate and ghostly hoax. Even Orgos had gone.

“What the?. .” I began. Then what I had taken to be a dark pool showed movement and Orgos was there.

“Come on, Will,” he whispered. “You’re the last.”

I approached cautiously.

“I can’t see you properly,” I said. “It’s a tunnel?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Here, take my hand. I’ll show you the way. You’ll like this place. It was hollowed out of the rock perhaps a century ago, maybe longer, and has been carefully maintained so that the swamp water is sealed out. Lately the damp has become a greater problem as the forest above it has fallen into decay. How much longer it will be livable, I don’t know. But, for the moment, it is more than just a hiding place on the enemy’s doorstep.”

“Assuming the ‘fair folk’ are the enemy,” I muttered.

“That, you will have to figure out for yourself,” he said, with the carelessness that suggested the matter was self-evident.

“As you have done?” I pressed.

“Yes, Will. As I have done. You still aren’t sure?” He asked this with a note of surprise in his voice and turned toward me so that I could just about make out the light of his eyes in the gloom.

“Not yet,” I replied a little frostily.

He was unaffected by my tone and, in truth, I didn’t know why I had taken it. He just shrugged and turned back to the descending passage, pulling me slightly toward him as he stepped down. There was a hole, no more than a yard across and almost invisible in the long grass, and in it was a tightly spiraling stairway. I fumbled for a rail, grabbed an outcrop of bare and polished rock, and lowered myself in. Feeling for the edge of each step with my foot, I descended slowly into the darkness, until I could smell smoke and candle wax. Then, quite suddenly, a yellowish light played over my feet. I took two more steps and then bent down to peer into the chamber below.

A broad cave spread out around me and firelight flickered on the walls. Voices raised in song and laughter rose from below and, if my ears did not deceive me, I thought I caught the familiar clink of pewter mugs. Things were looking up.

Briefly. The moment I made my appearance on the stairs, a strange hush fell on the chamber. Faces turned toward me and the last patterings of speech trickled into nothing but the roar of the fire. Their gazes fell on me and held me, their eyes burning quietly and their mouths closed. Somewhere one of their immense bears growled.

I faltered, and then, seeing Mithos turn back toward me, continued my descent, slowly, watchfully.

“Come on, Will,” said Mithos, with a deliberation which refused to acknowledge the change in the assembly’s demeanor. “Let’s get you a drink.”

I looked at him expressionlessly and stepped down, half expecting the two of us to be overwhelmed in a rush of hostile goblins overturning tables and chairs, shrieking and raising heavy, cruel weapons.

Instead, the swell of conversation grew again, gradually at first, returning to normal in a matter of seconds. The goblins turned back to their food and to each other and soon after that there was singing and the sound of a small harp.

I gave Mithos a hard stare as soon as the last face was turned from us. “What the hell was that? Are you so sure these are the good guys? They look like the only reason they haven’t slit my throat yet is because they’re saving me for dessert.”

“Cut it out, Will,” said Mithos, stern now.

“They aren’t exactly rolling out the red carpet. .” I began.

“Do you know how many of them you killed when you came with Renthrette to the Falcon’s Nest?” said Mithos, his eyes glittering hard and black.

“We came to rescue you!”

“And did it never occur to you that we might not need rescuing?”

“No!” I said loudly. “No, it bloody didn’t. And you know why? Because these half-animal degenerates attacked us in the mountains and did their best to kill us all. You have a pretty damn funny way of picking friends. Is it part of your bloody adventurer’s code? Do I have to hack one of your legs off before you’ll consider me a buddy, too? With friends like this, who needs. .”

He stepped up close enough that I could feel his breath on my face when he whispered, “Do you remember how that fight started, Will?”

I said nothing.

“It started,” he said in the same scarily hushed tone, “when you assumed that the beasts that had come into the cave had come to attack us, and you threw a stone.”

“A pack of wolves and some grizzlies marched into the place we were bedding down! What did you expect me to do? Offer them tea?”

“I’m just saying that you started it, and it might have gone differently. If we hadn’t given Sorrail an excuse to ‘rescue’ us, we might have all gotten a clearer perspective on this thing. . ”

“Oh, of course!” I shouted suddenly. “It’s my fault! How very surprising. When in doubt, blame Hawthorne. Thanks for the encouragement, Mithos. I’ll tell you what; I’ll just go and drown myself in the swamp, save everyone the trouble.”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“Fine. Go and drown yourself. You know where the stairs are.”

“What,” I stuttered, “now?”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Will,” said Mithos, walking away.

I had a good mind to go right back up, but it was damn cold outside and wandering around the swamp at night-or, more likely, sitting sulking just out of sight of the stairway-wasn’t what you might call a grand night out. If I didn’t manage to drown myself as threatened, I’d probably get eaten by something long and slippery. At least the goblins had a fire. I’d stay right where I was. That would show them.

It turned out they had a good deal more than just a fire. They had a banquet including roast pork, two kinds of wine, and three kinds of beer. Initially, of course, it was all dust and ashes in my mouth, torn as I was between doubt and misery, guilt and anger, but that passed fairly quickly for reasons that will become rapidly apparent. The pig was stuffed with rosemary and sage and was served with a thick fruit-based sauce. There were half a dozen different cheeses, all excellent, ranging from a firm-fleshed but delicate yellow smoked to a full-bodied blue that you could cut with your finger. There was some kind of venison pate served with crusty bread, and mushrooms stuffed and sauteed with buckets of garlic. There was a pot of highly spiced beans that warmed me more than the fire.

And then there was the beer. After the gnat’s piss they drank in Phasdreille, this was like liquid divinity. One was a lager, golden and sharp with a hoppy aftertaste that woke you up and suggested another mug. There was also an ale: nut-brown and rich with a hint of spice, like afternoon light on a leather chair. Lastly, there was a stout, full bodied and velvet-smooth, black and opaque with a head like fresh cream. I had one of each, and by the time I had gone back for seconds, I was slipping my arm around the shoulders of the meanest-looking goblins and suggesting we play some cards. I took another mouthful of the herbed pork, swilled it down with a gulp of ale, and the idea that these good fellows around me could possibly be the enemy faded like a memory from childhood. And in my inebriated state, oscillating between sublime insight and rank stupidity, the quality of the goblins’ beer seemed like a perfectly good reason to switch sides in a war.