The Blacktongue Thief

47 The Pull

We skirted the chain dividing the goblin quarter from Grevitsa proper, not because we wanted to be so near the biters but because that was the easiest way to find our guesthouse near the bakery again.

But we weren’t home smelling mutton pasties yet.

We were still following the chain by the goblin quarter with a different smell entirely in our noses. If you haven’t smelled goblins, I can’t tell you what it’s like, because it’s like nothing else from our world. We’ll just say you might gag the first half dozen times, and you’ll never forget it.

One of the things to know about Malk is that he looks like he fought in the Goblin Wars. It’s not just his fingers and his age. It’s in his eyes and in the way he moves. People can tell. And so can goblins. As we skirted the chain, the smell of the biters doubtless stirring memories for him and Galva, a goblin began walking along with us on its side of the chain, keeping pace with us. It was a larger one, more than four feet tall, its gray-brown hide scarred and puckered as if by fire. It seemed at first to be minding its own business or, rather, like it wanted us to think so.

A Molrovan called something to us from his window, motioned at us. Clearly a warning to move away. Seemed like a good idea to me.

“Maybe we should get farther away from the chain,” I said.

“Why, ’cause a’ him?” Malk said. “Fuck him.”

He walked a little closer.

So did the biter.

“Get away from that thing, you idiot,” Norrigal said.

“Nobody’s telling you where to walk,” Malk said.

“You’re right,” said she and crossed the muck in the middle of the street to walk in the dryer bit on the other side.

I wanted to cross with her only slightly less than I wanted not to seem like I had her ring in my nose, so I kept walking near Malk, but I said to Galva, “You think this is a good idea?”

She shook her head but kept walking on the chain side of the street. I noticed that other shapes were stirring on the goblin side, some two or three of them now keeping pace, but a bit farther off.

Now it spoke. It didn’t look at us, but said, “Molroviniy?”

Were we Molrovan.

When we didn’t answer it said, “Untheriy?”

Were we from Unther.

“I’m from ‘go fuck yourself, biter.’ Where are you from?”

It said, “Holt. You Holt man, blondie.”

“Don’t talk to it!” Norrigal said.

“Galtia. What’s it to you?”

“I know you. From war.”

“I doubt it.”

“This is enough,” Yorbez said, tugging at Malk’s elbow, but he shook her off. She shrugged and crossed to walk near Norrigal.

Several Molrovans had gathered on our side and were speaking to us, clearly calling us away, but there was one laughing and pointing us toward the chain. I wanted to cross the street but knew damned well Malk wouldn’t.

“What are they saying?” I asked him.

“Warning me I’m going to get in a pull.”

“What’s a pull? And would you please get on the less stupid side of the road over here with me, please?

“Fuck that biter if he thinks I’m crossing a road on his account,” he said and glared at the goblin, which still wasn’t looking at him. If it had pockets, its hands would have been in them, such was the air of nonchalance it was trying to cultivate.

“Yes,” it rasped. “You. Friend. I eat. I eat you friend, blondie.” It showed him its teeth.

Malk reached for his sword now, but two of the shapes on the goblin side stepped forward with their wicked little crossbows. Several more showed they had knives. They appeared quickly. Galva pulled her spadín. Yorbez was crossing the street back toward us now.

But the goblin by the chain seemed unconcerned.

“No weapon,” it said. “No bite. You want, you pull.”

Still without looking at us, it raised its arm over the chain.

Malk let go his sword.

“Don’t do it, you idiot,” Norrigal said, though she knew good and well he would.

“Pull. Coward. I kill you like friend,” the thing said. “I think you scream. Friend scream. Pull. Pull!”

Now Malk grabbed its arm.

It grabbed Malk’s forearm with its other arm, sinking the hooklike talon on the left forearm in.

Malk yelled and pulled it off its feet, like a father yanking up a naughty child. He got it over the chain, but then it tangled up its feet in the chain, anchoring it. Now three or four goblins ran up, fast, they were so fast, grabbing the legs of their compatriot. They heaved and pulled it back half its body length. Malk lost his balance and headed for the chain. We all grabbed him just as the chain caught him in the thighs, and started pulling him back. But more goblins came. Now five, now six were yanking on their friend, and he wasn’t letting go of Malk’s arm for all the mushrooms in Urrimad.

Norrigal piled on, as well as some Molrovan who smelled of fish and had scales on his apron. Molrovans were coming from their houses and from the many taverns on the street. Women appeared in windows, banging pots with wooden spoons, and the alarm was taken up on other blocks. Some smaller Grevitsani held bows at the ready, making me wish I hadn’t left mine in my room, but none shot. I later learned it was death by hanging to fire a missile into Goblintown unprovoked, or to strike first with a weapon over the chain, or at any biter who had some part of his body on the other side of it. It was all very formal. This happened several times a year. Not everybody was good-hearted enough to warn foreigners about it—Grevitsani liked a good pull. It was far more entertaining than their other favorite sport, batting a dead, frozen dog around with a stick.

Malk was beginning to suffer now. Only the one goblin was allowed to touch him, and it couldn’t bite, but the stress on his back and shoulders was building. The Grevitsani did their best to share the torque around by pulling on his belt, his hair, getting under him and grabbing him by the waist. He was horizontal now, and so was the biter. The goblins had been faster piling on and were winning—Malk’s head and shoulders were over, and the one who had him by the arms grinned sharp teeth at him, even opened its mouth to waggle its rude, armored little tongue at him.

The Coldfoot guard grunted and sweated. Grevitsani had poured on now, bigger, stronger folk taking the place of the less powerful. Like me. I was roughly pried off him by a bald, beardy fellow with black teeth and upper arms the size of my thighs. I did as others did and grabbed his belt even as someone grabbed mine. Galva still had Malk by one boot. Norrigal and Yorbez had been pushed off entirely. Malk had a nosebleed. His hands on the thing’s arms had gone white. It was yelling in its own language at its fellows because now it was halfway over the chain. They were losing. If we could get the goblin wholly past the chain, we could do with it as we pleased, and nothing would please this lot more than pulling this biter’s head off. A cheer went up from our side as the creature’s knees passed the chain.

That’s when things went sour. Another goblin, a very long- armed one, slid under the chain so only its feet were on the other side, and it grabbed the arm of the boy under Malk, sinking its hook in. The boy yelled and let go of Malk, and a wave went through the goblin Horde as some of them left off pulling Malk’s goblin and started tugging the second one. This was now a two-front fight, and that was terrible news for Malk. All the mighty Molrovans who had been yanking him from his doom now left off him and grabbed the beefy lad being pulled under the chain, some of them saying his name.

I rushed for Malk’s receding legs but was blocked by others rushing to save their own. I saw Norrigal reaching for a vial of something or other, but a woman who had been beating on her pot with a spoon now hit Norrigal with that pot and knocked her down, yelling at her in Molrovan and pointing at the chain. Apparently, magic was illegal in these matters as well.

Malk yelled as his knees crossed the chain. Galva had hold of Malk’s ankle, but now a goblin unhusked Malk’s foot from his boot. As Malk slipped away, a big Molrovan man grabbed Galva by the waist and pulled her back. She screamed and flailed him with the empty boot until he was forced to let her go.

Closer to me, the Grevitsani pullers had managed to yank their boy back, without his pants, which had torn completely off him. The goblin who had grabbed him was now clear of the chain; his fellows left him to his fate and all joined in on Malk.

Galva chucked the boot at the man who had grabbed her, drew her sword now, and plunged for the chain, but she was tackled and disarmed by more massive Grevitsani, who held her until it was clearly too late. To their credit, they gave her the sword back. To hers, she didn’t kill the lot of them with it. When she swore at them in Ispanthian, they just swore back in Molrovan and went laughing to help dismember the hapless goblin.

What the men did to the goblin was no better than what the goblins did to Malk. In fact, it was worse. Malk they valued as meat. The goblin was less than shyte to men.

I gathered up Norrigal, whose head was bleeding, and Yorbez led Galva off as she sheathed the sword that had been no use to her and said a prayer of praise to her Skinny Woman. Galva was smiling. This angered me at first until I remembered that she was really a believer—she believed life was a kind of virginity, to be defended until the wedding day, then joyfully given over. Our friend Malk had been married now, and he and Dalgatha were celebrating as intimately and pleasantly as any young bride and groom. That or, if the Galts were right, he was being piped off by Samnyr, Lord of the Gloaming, to run in the Cold Forest, as free from right and wrong as any deer.

That or he was just gone.

It looked to me like he was gone.

I glanced back one more time at the scene of the fight, which was rapidly emptying. One thing you won’t know about big fights unless you’ve seen one is what a great litter they leave on the ground. Two young girls were sharing a torch, looking for the wink of silver or copper in the street, and gleaning such other items as people dropped or had torn from them. I saw one fellow, covered in goblin blood, reel the snake of his belt up from the street’s turned earth and wrap it around his muddied, bloodied pants. The meaty lad who’d been saved was now headed off to tavern with what looked like his uncles mussing his hair and laughing that he’d pissed himself.

I hated Grevitsa, and I hated goblins worse, and I hated the rashness of men that let wars and waste cull us so. I’d have liked to report that Malk died bravely saving Galva’s infanta, but no. On the thirty-third day of Lammas, 1233 Years Marked Since the Knock, Malk Na Brannyck died in a stupid bit of bloodsport in a muddy Molrovan alley, and none but us mourned him because a goblin’s death was more entertaining than a stranger’s life. Selfish Grevitsa, ugly for all your lace and amber. Stupid, witless, dear Malk; he had but thirty years behind him, and thirty more might have been purchased for the price of crossing the street.

As far as I knew, his mother was living; she’d had him at fourteen. If I ever got back to Platha Glurris, sure and I’d see her. Would I even tell her I’d met up with him again, knowing the story led here? No. He’d died on the wreck of the Suepka Buryey, which I’d heard about but not seen. That’s what I’d tell her. Better her boy drowned than got fed to biters seven years after the wars. A sorry, godsawful business either way.

It wasn’t until we got back to our lodgings that I realized I was holding Malk’s boot.

I didn’t remember picking it up.

We left Grevitsa the next day.