The fact that a goblin couldn’t possibly catch a deer on foot had apparently not occurred to him. The deer ran, he ran, they broke into a clearing in the woods, and then he put his foot in a hole and went down hard.
Weasel’s first thought was that he’d broken a leg, but she didn’t get close enough to see, because the other occupant of the clearing had straightened up at that point.
It was an elf.
The elf had gone over to Thumper and crouched down, and Weasel didn’t know what to do. Was he killing Thumper? Was Thumper killing him?
Minutes dragged by. If it had been anyone else, Nessilka would have wondered why they didn’t attack, but she wouldn’t have put Weasel up against an injured field mouse. Sure, a sling could kill somebody if you used it right, but she’d have laid odds the thought hadn’t even occurred to the little goblin.
The elf stood up with a grunt. An unconscious Thumper was slung over his shoulder. There was blood on the goblin’s head, and a crude bandage. Bent nearly double, the elf made his way slowly across the clearing, and into the woods.
At this point, Weasel proved her worth completely. She knew she couldn’t track the elf once he was gone, and she was pretty sure no one else in the Nineteenth could either. Quick and quiet as her namesake, she followed.
The elf had gone for nearly a mile, stopping occasionally to rest and set Thumper down. Weasel noted that the elf was being surprisingly gentle with his captive, and that he checked bandage, pulse, and pupils at every stop. It wasn’t the behavior she’d expect from elves, but then, she’d never seen one anywhere but the other end of a sword before.
At last, the elf emerged into a large meadow, bright with wildflowers and dotted with bumblebees. On the far side, a large cabin rose under the trees, surrounded by a neat garden and a ramshackle barn.
The elf set Thumper down and went to the barn. As soon as he vanished, Weasel darted out and shook Thumper’s shoulder, but the big goblin was out like a light. His forehead was sporting an enormous lump. Either the elf had clobbered him a good one, or he’d smacked his head on a rock when he’d fallen in the meadow.
The elf re-emerged from the barn, pushing a wheelbarrow. Weasel dropped low and scurried back to the tree line. As she watched, the elf set Thumper into the wheelbarrow and took him up to the cabin.
Weasel had watched only until Thumper vanished inside the cabin, and then had turned and run like a rabbit back to the Nineteenth.
It took all the way back to the clearing to get this story out of the agitated Weasel, and even then, seeing the scene helped solidify the details.
It was a very pastoral clearing, one of those that look lovely and lush and green and turn out to be sopping wet marsh under the plants. Sweet flag irises poked up proudly over the long grass. Nessilka went over the ground carefully, and found the hole. It had a large goblin footprint in the mud at the bottom of it. A handprint skidded off to one side.
There was a rock the size of a pig directly in front of it, with blood on it.
“Hmm.” Murray crouched down and looked. “I’d say he stepped, fell, tried to catch himself, his hand slipped, and he whacked his head. And then the elf came up here.” He pointed to a line of heavy bootprints.
“Believe it or not, I could probably have figured all that out on my own,” said Nessilka a bit dryly.
“Sorry, Sarge.”
“It does mean that the elf probably didn’t hit him. Which may mean he’s not violently opposed to all goblins. It’s possible we’ll be able to get Thumper back peacefully.”
“And if we can’t?
Nessilka stood up and looked around at the other seven goblins. The teddy-bear and Wiggles the kitten watched from atop their respective owner’s heads. They did not look very war-like, but they were what she had.
“Then,” she said, “we’ll get him back by any means necessary.”
The elf was out in his garden, with his back to them. As the goblins approached, he straightened, rubbing his back and grimacing. Nessilka couldn’t blame him—lugging someone Thumper’s size over his shoulder must have been agony.
Nessilka figured stealth wasn’t exactly called for here. She cleared her throat.
He turned around.
Eight goblins in a tight knot, bristling with swords, clubs, and boards-with-nails-in-them, faced him.
The elf was about six feet tall and lanky, with white hair in a loose braid and quizzical eyebrows.
His clothes were odd. Elves usually looked immaculate. It was how you could tell they were elves. You could cut an elf’s leg off, and he would contrive to make it look as if two legs were unfashionable. Elves were just like that. It was one of their more annoying traits.