The Goblin Gate Read Online Free Page B

wasn’t even surprised when a firm voice interrupted.
    “He’s seen our faces. Finish him.”
    “Hey! In a fight, that’s one thing, but I can’t just…”
    They were squabbling over his murder. Jeriah felt almost too horrible to care, but some of the argument penetrated anyway.
    “…Northers didn’t save our…hang us in an instant if he identifies us.”
    “They’ll be even more likely…What was that?”
    The voice sharpened on the final words, and Jeriah frowned. There was something about their voices. An accent?
    “They’ve spotted me!” a strange voice bellowed. “Get the troop up here! Now!”
    That voice had no accent. How odd. Someone tripped over Jeriah and swore. Pounding steps. Pounding hoofbeats. The beat of pain in his head.
    Jeriah slid gratefully into the darkness.
     
    His first awareness was pain; sharp in his rib cage, an ache in his thigh. Jeriah’s shoulder felt as if it might shatter if he moved. But all these pains were dwarfed by the agony in his head, which pounded all the way to his stomach with every beat of his pulse. His stomach fought back with an urgent wave of nausea, and Jeriah discovered that he could move after all—he rolled over and vomited.
    As his stomach heaved itself dry, Jeriah became aware of hands holding his shoulders and a pan catching the contents of his stomach. A man’s voice was speaking, though Jeriah was beyond paying attention to the words. When he finished, the hands eased him down. There was a pillow, thank the Bright Gods, beneath his aching head and blankets above and below him. But the surface under the blankets was hardand lumpy. Why was he lying on the ground?
    Footsteps moved away, taking the acrid smell of vomit with them, and Jeriah caught another scent—the medicinal smell of the bitter tea his mother gave him for headaches and bruises. Demon’s teeth, he had both!
    Jeriah tried to open his eyes, but the sunset’s golden light sent spikes of pain through his skull. He could hear movement, rattling metal. Then the steps approached, and a gentle hand lifted his head.
    “Come on, lad, let’s give it a try.”
    He sipped gingerly—the tea was stronger than any he remembered—but he kept it down, and the stranger showed no impatience. “Good, lad. That’ll help.”
    When Jeriah turned away from the cup, the hands laid him down again and the footsteps moved away. He listened to the slosh of water, a few clanks, the rhythmic thunk of an ax in wood. The light on the other side of his eyelids was dimming. He really should try to see who it was. He was still thinking about it when he fell asleep.
     
    The pain of rolling onto his sore shoulder woke him, and Jeriah opened his eyes before he had time to think. A large fire danced beside him, warding off the chill. The sky was dark, with stars glittering amid bits of drifting cloud.
    On the other side of the fire a man leaned against a large pack. His hair showed more gray than brown, and fine lines creased the skin around his eyes. When he saw Jeriahlooking at him, he rose and came to kneel at Jeriah’s side. “So you’ve decided to join me. I’m glad to see it. For a while, I thought you might not! How’s the head?”
    “Better,” said Jeriah. It still throbbed, but he could think and function. He raised his left hand, since his right shoulder hurt, and found a swollen lump above one ear.
    “Aye, it’s a nasty one. Look at me, lad.” The man held up a finger and watched Jeriah’s eyes track it. “You’re seeing all right? Good. What’s your name?”
    “Jeriah Rovan. I was on my way to Linksley when they—Glory! Where’s Glory?”
    “If Glory’s a pretty brown mare, she’s tethered over there with the gray fellow.”
    Jeriah slowly turned his head in the direction the man pointed. Fiddle was watching them, but Glory stood with her head down, sleeping. There were no other horses. And where were the rest of his rescuers?
    “Is the rest of your troop still chasing the bandits?”