They gathered in the kitchen. He handed around slices of toast and mugs of hot tea, which the goblins fell on gratefully. Murray wrapped his long fingers around the mug and inhaled the steam, his eyelids still at half-mast.
“Now,” said Sings-to-Trees, checking through the contents of a pack. “You said there were no people and no livestock there. Did you notice anything that was there that shouldn’t have been?”
“There was Wiggles,” said Algol, patting the kitten, who was asleep on his lap. “But he was stuck in a drainpipe, so he probably doesn’t count.”
“Anything else?”
The goblins looked at each other helplessly and shrugged.
“We’re not exactly experts on human farmhouses,” said Murray. “We tend to see them rather…err…briefly. And we usually have something else on our mind at the time.”
The elf nodded. “Well, I didn’t expect anything, but I figured I’d ask. Everyone done with their breakfast?”
More nods. The Nineteenth was not big on conversation before noon.
“Guess we should get going, then.”
Nessilka nodded. “Blanchett—can you walk? I wouldn’t ask, but I want Algol in charge here, and I’d rather have you along with us.” (This was almost true. Nessilka actually wanted the teddy-bear, who seemed to have a good head on its stuffed shoulders.)
Blanchett tested the ankle. “Much better,” he said. “The gunk helped. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You let me know if it is.” She nodded to Algol. “You’re in charge, Corporal. If anything happens…err…”
She realized that she had absolutely nothing to say to fill that gap, so she stopped.
“Will do, Sarge. Here, pet Wiggles for luck.”
“Scourge of the night, Corporal.”
“But he likes you!”
Nessilka relented and petted the kitten. She probably needed all the luck she could get.
Algol saluted. Nessilka saluted back. Sings-to-Trees watched them with an unreadable expression.
She wondered if he’d sent the pigeon to the rangers, and how he explained where he’d heard about a strange wizard.
They set out.
It was still twilight under the trees. They left dark green tracks in grass turned silver with dew, even Sings-to-Trees. Nessilka was sneakingly pleased by this. There were stories that elves could walk soundlessly and without a trace. It was nice to see that this one didn’t.
Fleabane the coyote kept pace with them for a few minutes before peeling off on some canine errand of his own.
The forest got deeper and darker, even as the sun came up, so the net result was that the quality of light didn’t change much. The ground stopped being grass and started being moss and then stopped being moss and became nothing but slick wet leaves. Everybody skidded a little on those, even the elf. And when you were that tall, whippy little branches tended to hit you in the face a lot more than when you were short.
It occurred to Nessilka that possibly the tales of elven slyness were much exaggerated…or possibly Sings-to-Trees was just a real klutz.
Except for the fact that they moved much more quietly, and didn’t fall into any poison ivy—and one of them was extremely tall—it wasn’t much different than marching through the woods had been a day earlier.
And then Nessilka heard something.
It sounded like someone talking, but it wasn’t in a language she recognized—or was it? She could almost make out the words. It had to be nearby, she could almost hear it all—was that one voice or two? What were they saying? The cadences were definitely speech, it wasn’t an animal noise or a bird song, and if she could just get a little bit closer—
It occurred to her, somewhat later, that she was hurrying through the woods now, trying to make out the words. She could hear the footfalls of the others behind her. Undoubtedly they could hear it, too, but nobody was saying anything, for fear of drowning out the words. What were they saying? She had to get a little bit closer, just a little bit, and she was sure she’d be able to make it out—
She was annoyed to find that her panting was making it harder to make out the voice. Was she panting? Yes, she’d been running, she was still running, but now she’d have to get even closer because she was wheezing like a blown horse, and Blanchett was saying “Sarge? Sarge, what is it? Sarge?” and that was maddening because he was drowning out the voice—couldn’t he hear it?
If she could only get close enough to make out what it was saying!
Sings-to-Trees could hear it, she was sure, because he was out in front of her now. The path had gotten very narrow, through steep dirt cliffs cut by tree-roots, and it would have annoyed her that the elf was blocking her path, except that he was moving fast enough that she was having a hard time keeping up. Could he hear the voice? At least he panted more quietly than Murray, who was also wheezing, and Blanchett had fallen back—probably he couldn’t keep up, with his hurt ankle, and the sounds of “Sarge?” were fading behind them, and that was good because it wasn’t drowning out the voice any more—