No, she told herself. Don't give in to fear and hopelessness. Lead bravely.

  Lead bravely. It had been what she had told herself since fleeing into the tunnels, though that very act had seemed rather cowardly to her all the same. But if she was to lead these people and ensure their survival into what so far appeared to be a very bleak winter, she must lead bravely.

  And so she tried to do just that.

  Every day she walked among the survivors, comforting those who had lost loved ones, encouraging those who were given into despair, and challenging those who were still inexperienced but able to lead.

  Just like she was.

  It was a difficult business. Thankfully, she had Mara, Felicia, and Urt to help and encourage her when she felt like giving up.

  Urt was strong and spoke little, but he was constant and Teresa found great comfort in seeing him walk among the crowd, lifting logs for fires here and gathering supplies for others there. Felicia, using many words to compensate for Urt's lack of them, was constantly reminding her that she must be, in more colorful language, the best princess Thoran had ever known.

  Mara, in her motherly and slightly overbearing way, was continuing to speak as if the Southern Republic could rebound from such terrible times as well. She reminded them all of her secret resistance and how they were seeking to undo the damage Androlion had caused.

  If for no other reason, Teresa found these words and actions on the part of these three to spur her on and lead as best she could. She would lead bravely, she decided. No matter what.

  Rubbing her hands together, she told herself that she had spent long enough time warming her cold body and that it was past time to make her rounds. She nodded at her captains around the fire and made to leave, when something caught her eye.

  There was a commotion over by the tunnel entrance.

  Putting her hand on one of her swords, she began to make her way over to where several of her soldiers had gathered. Quick and heavy footsteps on the ground told her that Benton had followed her.

  “Bah,” he said, his breath visible in the cold. “What's this?”

  “I'm not sure,” she replied, quickening her pace.

  Once they came closer, Teresa caught sight of Vera and the others she had sent to investigate had returned. Soldiers patting them on the back and welcoming them through the tunnel entrance surrounded them.

  “Princess Teresa,” she said as she caught sight of her and Benton approaching. “The goblins.”

  Visions of the grey-skinned beasts flooding the tunnels and erupting any moment filled Teresa's mind and she gripped her sword more tightly.

  “What is it, Vera?” she asked, feeling the hair on the back of her neck prickle with fear.

  “They're gone,” Vera replied shortly. “All of them.”

  Teresa sighed deeply. The goblins were gone.

  It was over.

  IT WAS MIDDAY BY THE time Teresa had emerged through the tunnel and into the castle. Though Vera had checked thoroughly, she and Benton had both begged Teresa to stay behind until an advance guard could go ahead of her.

  Begrudgingly, she had obliged.

  The first thing that attacked her senses as she walked into the light of the suns and into the castle courtyard was the terrible smell. Though she had fought in many battles, the awful smell of entire armies defeated and left to the carrion birds was never something she could overcome.

  Having found no more traces of goblins anywhere, a vast cleanup had begun. A smoky haze filled the air all around her. The people of Thoran were piling goblins into already tall fires and lining the brave defenders along the road as best they could so their families could mourn them before being buried.

  Bravely, Teresa reminded herself as she strode into the main street leading to the main gates they had fought so hard to defend. Death surrounded her, but she walked on, trying to make it to the walls. She wanted to see for herself.

  When she finally approached the gates, she allowed herself a moment to let the great price they had paid for their lives sink in.

  One great sob escaped her lips before she covered her mouth and fought the tears. Dwarves, elves, and men of all ages lined the streets of Thoran. They had given their lives for the few that remained. The mantle of leadership rested heavily on her, threatening to crush her. For a moment, she felt as if there would be no way she might ever stand tall again. Then someone put an arm around her, steadying her.

  To her great surprise, she felt the fur of Urt beside her.

  She allowed herself a few more tears before taking her hands away from her face and looking into the big, cat-like eyes that were staring at her.

  “You serve your people well,” he said. With that, he withdrew his arm and took a step back. Teresa wished he would stand closer and give her something to lean against, but the thought perished as she heard others coming down the street behind them.

  “Bloody mess,” Felicia said, surveying not only the road but the carnage outside of the walls. Goblin bodies lay piled up against the fortifications. Rocks and arrows littered the ground, as did the ladders and trunks of trees the goblins had used to successfully scale the walls.

  Everything that could be burned was being thrown into piles and put to the flame.

  Teresa couldn't help but agree with Felicia's crude statement. It was a mess.

  “Let's get busy cleaning up then,” Teresa said with an attempt at putting strength and bravery into her shaky voice. “But tonight we need to focus our attention elsewhere.”

  STARS GLISTENED IN the cold, cloudless night. It was as if they understood that the occasion needed more decoration and reverence than other nights.

  Teresa stood at the top of the castle walls, the flames of many bonfires around the city and several torches that were placed along the city street cast their light upon the mountain castle and its city. If she could just get through this, she would feel like leading her people into the next day and beyond. Everyone who wasn't on guard at the outer walls watching for any signs of straggling goblins or awaiting news from the south was gathered below. Her voice echoed throughout the city, amplified as she stood addressing them.

  “Tonight we are weary,” she began, her voice betraying her own fatigue. But she must persevere.

  “Tonight we are broken, but not fallen. We are cast down, but we are not defeated. Thoran stands, still.”

  This statement she let echo and there was a general murmur of agreement. Thoran, though battered, was still standing.

  “We owe every soul who gave their lives to defend ours and see that we stand and live here tonight, our thanks.”

  She lifted her fist into the air, then made a salute across her chest and bowed.

  Everyone in the crowd mimicked her. It was a gesture of honor. The same salute the King's Swords used themselves.

  “Our survival would have been impossible, however, were it not for the brave efforts of Madam Wishter and the Speakers who gave their lives to drive away the gray beasts and secure our safety. To them, we owe our lives.”

  Again, she saluted, and, again, those standing beneath her copied her movements.

  “Their sacrifice shall never be forgotten as long as the Kingdom of Thoran endures. We memorialize them here, tonight, and thank them for their bravery and courage.”

  She drew a breath as she gazed down at her people. They were tired. They were worn out. Every face that looked back at her was bruised and battered.

  But they must endure.

  “Let us honor them best by striving to live on. They gave their lives so that we may live. Let us live in such a way that honors their great sacrifice.”

  At this, she raised her hand, palm outward, and shouted, “Thoran!”

  It was echoed as one throughout the crowds below.

  Teresa nodded her head, and turned away from them and walked a few paces down the wall.

  Felicia, Urt and Mara awaited her there, as did Vera and Benton.

  The last of those whom she had come to trust and rely on.

  “Are you sure of your plans, Mara?” she asked, her voice sounding more weary by the moment. “We could benefit from your leadership.”

  “You have proved yourself more capable than I had previously thought,” she replied, her face nearly betraying a small smile. “Thoran will be in able hands while it awaits the princes.”

  Mara continued to look down at the crowd below and not turn her face to Teresa. It was true that Teresa felt like Mara had thought little of her before this battle had occurred, but after the events of the last week she was sure the elder from the south had found a higher respect for her. She did, however, feel that Mara was talking down to her, even in her compliment.

  Teresa nodded and turned then to Felicia and Urt.

  “And you two will accompany her?” she asked, fully aware of the answer before her question left her lips.

  “Aye,” Felicia replied. “If nothin' else, she's family.”

  Mara's mouth gave a slight twitch, as if attempting a large amount of self-restraint.

  Urt simply nodded.

  “Then I wish you all the best of luck,” Teresa said. “And I and all of Thoran thank you for your aid.”

  “I pray I will be in a position to send more in the future,” Mara said, finally turning and looking at Teresa properly.

  “You've earned a good night's sleep,” she said, looking at Teresa with maternal eyes. “I would take it.”

  Teresa did not need telling twice.

  She had hardly slept over the last week. It would be some time before she could actually rest well, she knew. The Southern Republic had sent these goblins here. She knew they had allied with the beasts before.

  How long would it be before they heard of the failure to eradicate Thoran? And how long would it be before they came for the castle themselves?

  Gazing down on the crowd, who was now dispersing to find whatever shelter they themselves could manage for the night, she also wondered if her people could withstand any more battles.

  These thoughts would haunt her day tomorrow, but, for now, Teresa Thoran would attempt to rest.

  The suns above knew she needed it.

  42: Stinkrunt at Sea

  Stinkrunt sulked as he sat on top of the rickety ship he and a hundred goblins had managed to piece together out of the spare pieces of three wrecks and the last remaining goblin vessel that had sailed to the east: Snarl Sail.

  It had taken them nearly two weeks to get the ship to the point where it wouldn't sink as soon as it got out in open sea. A few leaks in the very bottom of the boat, in which several of the smaller goblins had been shoved to stop the flow of incoming water, proved that the ship wasn't quite ready to for the journey.

  Stinkrunt had seen three larger ships sailing out of the city called Riverhead, another stupid city they had failed to conquer, and he was keen on getting home before ships started sailing back and forth again between the civilized settlements.

  They wouldn't last long against any boats they saw coming their way.

  All that remained of the massive goblin army that was supposed to have found a new base of operations in Thoran to pillage the north and south was this solitary ship.

  This is stupid, thought Stinkrunt as he clung to the side rails of Snarl Sail's railing, praying that their voyage would be swift and that the ship wouldn't sway so much in the water. He still hated sailing.

  Still, he thought as the suns shown down on them, but did little to warm the deck as a cold winter wind carried them west, you're alive.

  Stinkrunt's ability to adapt and survive, through cunning and cowardice, had seen him live to tell a tale that would highly exaggerate their defeat at Castle Thoran. He had already come up with a couple different ways to explain away how he bravely led the troops from behind their backs and sent everyone else on towards the inner gates, while he sat back and feasted on some excellent ale and roasted something or other.

  The bright wall of light that had killed every goblin it touched had appeared well in front of him and gave him and all the other goblins around him enough time to scurry away from the castle and find a way out to sea together.

  The only negative to this turn of circumstances, however, was that every single goblin aboard the ship was a stinking coward who had hoped the larger of their race would do all the difficult killing for them while they came by and picked off the almost dead.

  Now that they had turned tail and fled the east, Stinkrunt was looking forward to finding the rest of the Big Scars, which he could at least count four of on the ship, and bossing them around and settling down somewhere back in familiar territory.

  He was, after all, still the goblin big Doyen and that meant all of the others had to do what he told them to.

  At least, that's what he told himself.

  Howling and shrieking goblins on the right side of the boat brought Stinkrunt out of his daydream of ordering someone to bring him some decent food to eat. He was quite upset about this and even looked up from his vomit ready position to see what the commotion was all about.

  Having done so, he wished he hadn't.

  More than two-dozen white sails dotted the horizon, all of them bearing the banner of the Southern Republic.

  Stinkrunt had no intention of going over why he, the leader of the goblins, was on a leaky ship with a minute number of them heading in the exact opposite direction they had been instructed to go.

  “Quick!” he said, leaping to his feet and attempting to walk around the ship as if it were solid ground. The going was rough.

  “Put the sails all the way up! Use the oars! Get the wind blowing faster! Whatever it takes! Move!”

  Not that those on board needed telling, they had mostly started doing the things Stinkrunt had been ordering before he had given the commands.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that the sails were approaching them much faster than they were managing to escape. They would be on them before there was any chance of getting away.

  In his haste to speed things along, Stinkrunt ran alongside one of the rails, carrying a bit of rope he was fairly certain belonged at the front of the boat. At that exact moment, however, another goblin lifted up a giant timber and turned around to head in the opposite direction. The timber hit Stinkrunt square in the chest and sent him, as well as a few barrels and the large piece of rope, hurtling over the side of the boat and into the foamy sea.

  Stinkrunt spluttered and coughed up water that burned his nose and made his eyes swell with tears.

  He grabbed onto a barrel with a Big Scar symbol on it and struggled to stay afloat. No one on the goblin vessel seemed to notice or care that they had just left their leader to float away in open water and continued to sail on.

  He cursed loudly.

  There was nothing Stinkrunt hated more than the ocean. Well, except being the sole goblin floating on a barrel in full sight of an approaching armada of Southern Republic ships.

  The first humans aboard the forward most ship pointed him out to their crew.

  "This is stupid," Stinkrunt said out loud as he saw a few of them begin lowering down a rowboat to collect him.

  43: Sad Reunion

  Throngs of people trudged south, away from Beaton, the once glorious city now laid to waste. With winter approaching, there would be little time to rebuild and repair. Those efforts would come with the spring. For now, however, they marched as one to the south.

  Ealrin and Silverwolf stood as they watched them go. He leaned on Holve's old spear, favoring his uninjured leg. She simply had both her hands on her hips.

  “Nice of the Southerners to give anyone who asked a lift,” she said sarcastically.

  In truth, any of the soldiers from the Southern Republic that had breath still in them had sulked back to their ships and took the river south. Leaderless, they sailed away without any message or word. Ealrin had expected as much. There wasn't exactly anyone in Beaton to leave a message with. The Red Guard were without a general and Beaton was without a governor.

  With whom would they discuss how to go forward? Alric?

  He alone had emerged from the chaos. The rest of the Council of Seven hadn't made a showing yet. Alric had made a rousing speech about Thoran welcoming all who needed shelter and would gladly house refugees until the spring when they could return.

  So people took what they could carry and followed the youngest prince to the first checkpoint between the two countries: Mountain Gate.

  Ealrin could see the people snaking along the road for miles. He still stood at the ruined walls of Beaton, unsure of what to do next. He had come to Beaton on Teresa's orders, not Alric's. His loyalty was to Thoran and to his friends from there, but there was a hesitation he could not explain when it came to this prince he had spent so little time with.

  And where had Folke gone? Ealrin had not seen him since before the battle began.

  Was Thoran safe now? Was their mission accomplished? They had been sent to retrieve aid for a war they thought would be made in the south. Was all of the fight truly spent?

  These thoughts allowed his mind to wander and not think on the terrible events that had taken place here. So many had lost their lives. And for what? Androlion was dead. Some gifted Speaker had killed Rayg, or so the rumors said.

  Could peace be made after so much war?

  “Mister Ealrin!”

  He was carried away from his dreaming by the sound of a familiar voice and the sight of three rather short figures running his direction.

  Gorplin, Jurrin, and Jurgon were trotting as quickly as their legs could carry them to the spot where he and Silverwolf stood. Twelve other dwarves followed them. Ealrin let out a shout and rushed to greet them. He fell on them as they all three tackled him to the ground.

  “Friends!” he said as he regained his feet. “It's been a long time! Was it you that brought the dwarves from the west?”

  “Bah,” Gorplin said, shrugging his shoulders and holding an axe Ealrin had not seen him carrying before. “And a dragon, don't forget that. Made a real mess of Androlion's lot before them demons showed up.”

 

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