Nine Goblins(18)
Algol nodded.
“Everybody else—I want to get at least five miles away from here, and then we’re looking for a place to hole up for a bit that’s hidden and defensible. Let’s try not to leave a trail like a wounded moose, okay?”
NINE
It was a beautiful day in the forest. The birds were calling. The birds were calling a lot.
Nessilka was getting a feeling that whatever they were calling was probably the ornithological equivalent of “Come get a load of this!”
Travelling through thick woods with a troop of goblins is not unlike a nature hike with a group of grumpy toddlers with weapons.
They fell into things. They fell out of things. They attacked bushes. The bushes frequently attacked back. They startled small animals, who startled them badly in return, causing them to fall over into more bushes. They stepped on things that were not good to step on, and stepped in things that squelched, or stank, or exploded with spores.
Sergeant Nessilka watched as her troop discovered a patch of poison oak, and had to look away.
Blanchett stumped up beside her, leaned on his crutch, and eyed the rest of the troop.
“He says that’s poison oak they’re rolling in,” he informed her, pointing to the teddy-bear.
“I think he’s right.”
Murray emerged from the thicket, holding a sprig of leaves at arm’s length.
“Leaves of three…” Murray was muttering. “Leaves of three…gods! Everything has three leaves! How do you tell?”
“If you touch me with that, corporal, I’ll have you court-martialed.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
They rounded up the now-itchy troop and staggered on.
“How far do you think we’ve come, Murray?”
“Maybe a mile, Sarge. Probably not much more than that. We lost some time when Gloober stepped on the wasp-nest.”
A tree had apparently offended Thumper in some fashion. He attacked it with his maces, and then with his teeth.
“Algol, go rescue that tree. Gloober, if you’ve got poison ivy on that finger, you’re going to regret sticking it in there. Weasel—whoa!”
Weasel turned scarlet and mumbled something.
“Is that a pheasant?”
“I m-made a s-s-sling, S-sarge.” She held out a strip that, in a former life, had been a section of rancid goathide loincloth. Slung over her shoulder was a very large, very dead bird, nearly as big as the little goblin’s torso and sporting a gorgeous rainbow of feathers. “I th-thought—”
“Weasel, remind me to put in for a medal for you when we get home. Bird tonight! Can you catch another one?”
The little goblin mumbled and shrugged and stared at her toes.
“Do your best. Make someone else carry the bird.”
“Sarge, there’s a break in the trees up ahead.” Murray was already digging in his backpack. “Permission to go scout the land.”
“Permission granted. What do you call that contraption, anyway?”
“What, the looky-tube-thing?”
“Yeah.”
“The looky-tube-thing.”
“Ask a stupid question…Yeah, go get the lay of the land. Everybody, take five. Gloober, I warned you about that finger!”
Murray returned in about ten minutes, frowning. Algol supervised the application of mud to scrapes, stings, and welts. Nessilka was mentally composing a report to the Goblin High Command detailing the need for wilderness survival training for the troops.
Heading One—Poison Oak, identification of…
“What’s the good word, Murray?”
Murray chewed on his lower lip. “Not much of a good word. We’re on the west edge of a pretty substantial forest. It runs a fair way, and it curves around to the north, so if we follow the edge, we’ll get closer to Goblinhome, but not very fast.”
“What about striking out from the forest?”
“Don’t recommend it, Sarge. It’s all farmland out there between us and home—absolutely flat for a long way, practically right up to the foothills. At least thirty miles of farm, twenty more of hills. You or I could make it in a coupla days, but with this crew—” He spread his hands in an eloquent gesture that expressed, rather better than words, the general competence of the Whinin’ Niners at anything resembling stealth. “Better part of a week, in the open, with cornfields and hedgerows for cover. You know I’ll follow you anywhere, Sarge, but I think it’s suicide.”
Heading Two—Moving stealthily, practice thereof…
“And if we follow the forest?”
“Probably closer to fifty or sixty miles, although it’s hard to tell. Could be more. We’ll still have an open bit at the end—can’t tell if the woods go up to the foothills, but I don’t think they do—but we’d be under cover most of the way.”