arranged around a central area of bare dirt and a well. She looked longingly at the latter, but had a job to do before she could drink from it.
There were about seven people in the square when they entered it, but within moments more began appearing from the houses. They didn’t look threatening; none of them even seemed to be armed.
“We’re Imperial troops,” Mazgar shouted. “Who’s in charge here?”
An older Redguard woman with frizzled white hair stepped toward her.
“I suppose that would be me,” she said. “I’m Sariah, charter-holder of Mountain Watch, such as it is.”
“Sariah,” Mazgar said, “just keep your people still for a moment. We mean you no harm.”
They went quickly house to house, despite the sudden burst of protests and complaints from Sariah and a few others in the square, only confirming what Mazgar already reckoned-that this was a bunch of farmers and hunters. Then she whistled-one short, one long, two short.
A few moments later Captain Falcus and the rest came down.
“Captain, this here is Sariah,” Mazgar said, introducing her, “the charter-holder.”
“What’s this about, Captain?” Sariah demanded. “Since when can Imperial troops search houses without permission?”
“By order of his majesty, or in time of war, lady,” Falcus said. “You and all of your people are about half a day from being dead, every one of you.”
“What are you talking about?” Sariah asked.
“Mountain Watch, eh?” Falcus said, and spat. “You aren’t watching too well.” He raised his voice. “Listen up! You people have fifteen minutes to pack. Take nothing you can’t eat, drink, or fight with, and I mean it. Any horses you have, bring those up now, and bring my men provisions.”
“What gives you the right to order us out of our homes?” Sariah snapped.
“I don’t aim for any of you to die,” Falcus said. “I intend to get you all behind the gates of Cheydinhal ahead of what’s coming. But if you delay me with this senseless prattle-if anyone does-it means some or all of you are going to die. Even now it may be too late. Now-do what I told you. Now!”
The charter-holder’s eyes widened, but she didn’t dissent anymore. Nobody ever argued with Falcus when he used that tone of voice. He might as well have been the Emperor himself.
They took turns at the well, drinking and filling their skins, and those not at the well helped gather up the grand total of six horses the village had to offer. They hooked four of them to two wagons, to carry the youngest and the infirm. Falcus and Kuur, the battlemage, took the other two.
A bit of grumbling started to resurface, and it took more than fifteen minutes, but within the hour they were shepherding forty people ranging in age from two months to sixty-something down a weather-worn track that couldn’t quite be called a road.
Mazgar and Brennus took positions along one of the wagons. Brennus looked pale.
“There’s room in the wagon,” Mazgar suggested.
“I’m fine,” he murmured. “Thank Akatosh I don’t have to carry around all that muscle and bone, like you do.”
“No, all of your weight is in your head,” she replied. “Seriously. A little rest will help you.”
“He can have my place,” a child’s voice said. “I want to walk.”
Mazgar glanced in the wagon and saw that the speaker was a little human in brown twill breeches and a yellow felt shirt.
“See?” she said. “The boy is willing to give up his spot for you.”
“Yeah,” the kid said, “but I ain’t a boy.”
Mazgar studied the short brown bangs, snub nose, and slight frame.
“The girl, then,” she corrected.
“It’s all right,” Brennus said.
“Come on,” the girl said, hopping out. “I’m seven now. I can walk as good as anyone and better than most.”
Brennus shook his head, but in the next step he stumbled.
“Well, considering that,” he sighed.
“Right,” Mazgar said. “We need you fresh when the wormies catch up to us, and that’s no lie.”
She expected a quip back from him, but he just nodded and started trying to clamber in. She gave him a little shove to help him along.
“There,” she said. Then she looked down at the girl. “Think you can keep up with me?”
“I can keep up with anybody,” she said.
“We’ll see about that.”
“You’re an orc,” the girl said.
“Is she, now?” Brennus said, perking up a little. “Here I’ve been thinking that somewhere out there a bear and a pig are living in wedded bliss.”
“What do you mean?” the girl asked.
“Don’t pay attention to him,” Mazgar said. “He’s only trying to get me to mash his face in.”
“Why?”
“Some people are funny that way,” she replied.
“Well, I’d like to see it!”
“Maybe when he’s feeling a little better. What’s your name?”
“Lorcette, but everybody calls me Goblin.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, they just always have. Mom always said I had ears like a goblin.”
“Huh,” Mazgar said. “Now that I look, you sort of do. Which one of these is your mom?”
“Oh, she’s gone,” Goblin said. “Died when I was six.”
“Mine died when I was seven,” Mazgar said. “At the sack of Orsinium. They say she killed thirty before death took her.”
“My mom didn’t die in a battle. She just got sick.” The girl cocked her head. “Who was your mom fighting?”
“Redguards and Bretons,” Mazgar replied.
“You became an Imperial soldier because of her?”
“I became a soldier because of her. I became an Imperial soldier because if it hadn’t been for the Seventh and Fifteenth legions, a lot more of us would have died. They put themselves in harm’s way for us, got the survivors to safety in Skyrim.”
“Kind of like what you’re doing now.”
Mazgar remembered the terror, the chaos, the walk that went on for weeks through bitter cold-and never having enough to eat. “Let’s hope not,” she said.
“What’s a wormy?” Goblin asked after a few moments of silence.
“What?”
“You said something about wormies catching up with us.”
“Yeah. That’s what I call ’em. They used to be people-then they died and some kind of witchery brought them back, and now they’re all full of maggots and such-so I call ’em wormies.”
She thought the girl would look scared, but instead she looked thoughtful.
“My mom is buried back there,” she said. “Do you think they’ll bring her back?”
“Nah, they like fresher bodies than that. Anyway, it wouldn’t really be your mom, just your mom’s body with a daedra in it.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To conquer Tamriel, it looks like,” Mazgar replied. “But I wish whoever it is who had the itch to do that would have chosen less smelly troops.”
“I could say the same about some of his majesty’s elections,” Brennus said.
Mazgar was preparing a retort, but then she saw his eyes were closed. “Mauloch,” she muttered. “Even when he’s asleep.”
They marched along like that, with the girl prattling and keeping good pace. When night fell, however, she and Brennus switched places. The mage seemed much better for the rest, and Goblin dropped off pretty
