The Goblin Market (Into the Green) Page 5

  “She don’t want none of our fruits?” The source of that lethargic voice remained undiscovered, as she realized with a panicked gasp that it could have come from any one of the small army of goblins gathering together and closing in on her.

  “Says she don’ts like the sweet stuff.”

  A mingling of aggression came at her from every direction, and the horde of goblins moved menacingly forward. “Oy,” one grunted. “She don’t know what she’s missin’.”

  “Maybe we’s should shows it?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Let’s show her.”

  “And if she don’t want none of our sweetings, we’ll make ‘er eat ‘em.”

  “Yeah!” A chorus of horrible voices sounded in the night.

  “Gag ‘em down her stinking froat, Maglck!”

  Goblins swarmed in upon her from every which way, the ugliness of their gnarled, hideous hands—some green, some gray and some blackened with grime—reached out to grab at her. Bodies lunged, forcing Meredith to stumble to escape greedy fingers. One hand grasped her ankle and her body grew weightless as she lumbered backward in slow motion. Once again she was breathless from the fall, and the panic that seized her made it difficult to struggle against their advances.

  The horde of goblins descended on her like flies on a corpse.

  Meredith tried to block out the horror of what happened to her. Struggles for breath sped up her heart rate until she thought it would explode inside her. Dozens of bodies smashed tight against her, sharp nails tore at her cloak and skin and her ears burned with the rush of fear. At first she couldn’t understand what they were doing, feared that they might molest her in some hideous way, but it became obvious to her what they plotted when they began to pry at her mouth with sharp, scaly fingertips.

  Goblins toppled over each other to smash their wares into her face. Meredith bit down on her lips from the inside, the sharp sting of her teeth penetrating the flesh as she struggled to fend them off. She could barely breathe through her nose, actually sniffed stinging juices into her nasal passage when one clever goblin stood above her squeezing an overripe grapefruit into her face. Sticky nectar dripped down her face, burned her eyes through tightly squeezed lids. Other goblins threw things at her from afar, toys and meats, stones and bottles that shattered on the earth beside her, the shards of glass spraying toward her like tiny, jagged daggers. Objects bounced off of her, bruised the sensitive skin of her face, neck, shoulders and legs, but she resisted them and clamped her lips down tight.

  A familiar, yet noxious aroma permeated the air, smells she had once enjoyed like spiced plums, sugary cherry tart, sweet pear and blackberry. She dare not dart her tongue out for even the slightest taste, knowing the juice would poison her body just as it had done to her sister.

  The goblins persisted. They pummeled, pounced, pinched and trampled her until she thought her bruised insides were turned to mush. Strands of hair snapped from her scalp when scathing hands tore it away in covetous clumps. Goblins battered and beat her, and she would have screamed, oh how she would have screamed, when the sharp pierce of their biting teeth sunk into her flesh, but she cried inside instead of out, attempting to thwart their plans to destroy her.

  She lost all sense of time and place. She grew weak, knowing that soon she would die and her sister would die as well. This hurt her more than the physical atrocities committed against her flesh. In the back of her mind she heard Kothar’s final words to her, “Remember in your darkest hour I would have given you anything.”

  The weight of impossibility pressed down so hard that she nearly gave over to her fate when she realized that the goblins were losing interest. Or was she losing consciousness? The poison found its way inside her and at any moment her wits would be lost, and the goblins’ cruelty would become nothing more than a harsh, unending nightmare.

  Her body yielded to the temptation of sweet, fragrant dream, which ebbed in contrast to the pain crying out from every part of her body. She swam in a pool of crushed strawberries, and the seeds were so many she could feel them sticking like sand against her skin. There were blueberries too, and peaches so ripe their acid burned her flesh... watermelon, pears...And outside the sweet pool, hideous faces circled around her. Horrid laughter echoed away on strange wings into the never ending darkness that opened up above her.

  This is death, Meredith thought. Christina...The unspoken name choked in her throat.

  She became only vaguely aware of a strange trembling of the earth beneath her, and the distant sound of a horn blowing. Her vision blurred and faded, but she still saw goblins scurry away, fleeing this way and that, diving behind tall grass and ducking into ramshackle booths to hide.

  Reprieve, she thought, her poisoned mind toxic as the juices seeped into her pores and crawled through her veins. The thunderous rumble grew so loud, it was as though the earth itself opened up in agony and was about to swallow her whole.

  And then there was nothing but silence.

  Meredith’s mind spun uncontrollably through swirling agony. She tried to blink, but sticky lashes clung together and the burning juices made the green glow of the lanterns seem stranger than ever as they swayed on the whispering breeze. Fingers of wind fluttered across her wet skin, the chill seeping through her soaked clothing, into her bones in such a way that she knew even if she did not die, she would never know true warmth again.

  She had to get away, to escape while the goblins were distracted, but when she lifted her throbbing head, a piercing agony quaked through her entire body, and she teetered on the edge of darkness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A large shadow moved across her, darkening her already hazy vision.

  “Is it one of them?”

  "She’s an Uplander from the looks of her.”

  “Is it all right?”

  “Hard to say.” His voice was curious and melodic. “Look into her mouth, see if any of their filth got inside.”

  The prying of tiny hands worked at her lips, but Meredith pressed them together and moved her head from side to side in violent refusal. This movement took more energy than she had in her, and she was grateful when the prodding stopped.

  “Looks to me like she’s kept a pretty good clamp down on things,” the prodder noted. “Should I dowse her anyway, milord?”

  Meredith felt the firm press of hands on her, and in some places the bruises were so intense she could hardly stifle cries of agony.

  “She’s been badly beaten,” the other said. “It’s probably best. Wash the poison from her skin and hope that we arrived in time to keep it from her bloodstream.”

  In the silence, Meredith kept her eyes closed, but she could see the outline of him looming over her. His presence was strong, but calming and surreal, and though she was terrified, Merry let herself relax.

  And then it hit her. Cold water splashed across her face and neck, soaked into the fabric of her cloak and dress, and while it alarmed her, she was also immediately refreshed.

  She sat upright, spluttering and flailing and spitting water away from her mouth. The shower rained on for several minutes, shocking her mind beyond recall. As she blinked through the film of water, she realized the source of her wet awakening was a thin little pixie of a man propelled by long, but skinny legs. He raced around her and sprayed off her lap before tending to her back. She tried to focus on him, and wondered if he wasn’t some hallucination or dream.

  He paused, the water leaking out of his hose until it dribbled into a puddle in front of her. Meredith reached outward, sure that her hand would go right through the strange being in front of her, but he leaped backward in fear, crying out, “What’s it doing, milord?”

  He was remarkable to behold, she realized, with a long face and sharp nose. His round, hazel eyes reminded her of stone under water. His silver hair was plaited in one long strand that fell down the length of his back and hung beside a small quiver of quail feather tipped arrows.

  It startled her to note that he was naked
, save for the ash leaf belt that hung about his waist.

  Laughter, rich and sweet as molten honey, sounded behind her, and Meredith turned her head toward the sound, then darted her gaze back to the small man with the hose.

  “It looks as though she’s coming around.”

  Clean droplets of water dripped from the length of her lashes. She was still stunned, and wary, but took strange comfort when his hand met with her shoulder.

  “Do you understand me?” He spoke in slow, deliberate tones.

  Meredith lifted her cold hands to rub at bleary eyes.

  In the same thoughtful tone, he went on to ask, “You’re from the Upland, aren’t you?” He pointed toward the sky, and Meredith followed the tip of his finger. “Could you tell me your name?”

  Meredith’s eyes wavered between clarity and hazy blur. Beyond the small man with the hose she watched the lanterns sway, bathing them all in a sickly hue. She lifted her face, her gaze immediately trapped by the otherworldly green of his eyes. Head tilted, a thick lock of hair the color of oak bark fell across his olive-toned forehead, but did not disguise his curious, exotic stare. He wore a strange crown of golden oak leaves intertwined with silver maple, but the greatest surprise was the bud of antlers, like those on a young stag, sprouting from each side of that crown.

  He cocked his head further, and in the silence they contemplated one another. Meredith felt no threat or fear in his company, but a great sense of serenity and security.

  He was familiar to her, as though she had known him all her life, had heard the honey of his laughter, felt the warmth of his breath on her face. She did not need to be near him to know he smelled strongly of earth and wood—like the forest after a spring rain.

  “Perhaps it does not speak,” the pixie mused.

  “She speaks,” the green one replied. “She simply chooses not to at the moment.”

  “You think her bewitched, milord?”

  His soulful eyes shimmered as his mouth drew into grin, “My guess is she understands us perfectly well, but knows not quite what to make of us.”

  Meredith looked between them and waited for the pixie’s reply, but the slender little thing only crossed his arms atop his belly and leaned in to further inspect her with wide, dark eyes.

  “You don’t suppose she's affrighted?”

  The stag-man stood up and Meredith focused on him in his entirety. He appeared human enough in body, save for the greenish hue to his flesh, which moments earlier she had attributed to the lights, but was surprised to find this coloring was natural. There were also the antlers, which made him everything but human, and Meredith didn’t know what to think.

  He leaned toward her and with a mischievous grin asked, “Would you say you are affrighted, milady?”

  The spiraling sickness from the poison fruit made this very extraordinary scene before her seem absurd, and though she couldn’t be wholly certain, she was almost positive she was dreaming. Maybe she was hallucinating from the poison in the goblin’s fruit, or perhaps there were no goblins at all, no goblin king either. She was really just tossing and turning in her bed, afflicted with the same illness that consumed her sister.

  Her lower lip shuddered in preparation for speech, but she couldn't make her voice come out.

  The pixie moved forward to speak again, but the green man held him back.

  “Frightened,” she nodded at last. “Yes,” she drew herself upright and rested at a slant on her elbows. A sickening plop of fruit oozed down her back, and she shuddered with chills. “Very frightened.”

  “Ah, so she does have a voice.” The green man grinned.

  “Of course I have a voice, but I am not myself, you see.” Words felt strange in her mouth, as though her tongue was too fat and her brain turned to mush. “I am not thinking clearly at all, and I am not even sure that you are really there.”

  The pixie’s laughter was sharp and sweet, but turned quickly into fitful hysterics.

  “That is quite enough, Gwydion.”

  Despite the pain in her head, Meredith sat up. “How do I know you’re not another hallucination? Some form of goblin treachery?”

  “Now, I feel terribly insulted.” His laughter diminished. “As though I would affiliate with any type of goblin filth, even the hallucinatory type.” He turned toward his master. “I fear this trip was wasted and this mock-up of a damsel in distress is little more than a goblin herself, in disguise and waiting to strike.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” she cried. “I am no goblin!”

  “How can we be sure?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” she retorted. “How do I know you’re not goblins?”

  The pixie ascended to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest. The slight curve of his spine indicated great pride and insult, but the fact that he barely met her chin and was splattered in mud caused Meredith to suppress her amusement.

  “Well,” she huffed, “I don’t look like a goblin either.”

  The green-skinned one had not stopped grinning since she’d spoken, Meredith noticed, and it was he who held a hand out and offered to help her stand.

  “I think it’s safe to assume that none of us are goblin-kind.”

  She studied his hand, the slender fingers and dirt blackening the area beneath his short fingernails. As his index finger twitched in impatience, she noticed the scars that decorated his skin and wondered just who… or what he was. She reached in and accepted his hand, and as he helped Meredith to her feet, she winced and moaned in agony with the stretch and flex of every muscle.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded. “Now, if we are all agreed not to be goblins, I feel proper introductions are in order.” Still clutching her hand, he bowed dramatically low before her and said, “I am Him.”

  “Him?”

  “Him of the Green,” he elaborated as he came back up to meet her eyes. “At your service, milady.”

  Having already suffered the offense of the little one by wondering if he were a goblin hallucination, Meredith felt she could not question the validity of a name like Him.

  “And my noble companion and servant is Sir Gwydion Dale, ranger and goblin slayer.”

  “Sir Dale,” Meredith gave in to a small curtsy. “I am Meredith, Meredith Drexler.”

  “We are please to make your acquaintance, Lady Meredith, Meredith Drexler.” Him lifted her hand to his lips and left a tender kiss atop her knuckles.

  Before she could even linger on the gesture, or feel the low simmer of her blood, the pixie interjected. “Uplanders! What strange folk to name their children twice.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Meredith, Meredith Drexler,” he repeated her name back to her. “Would it not have been more logical to name you Meredith only once? It seems rather redundant.”

  “But they did name me Meredith only once.”

  “You said...”

  “Nevermind what she said,” Him interrupted. “What brings you Underground, Meredith Drexler?”

  “Underground?” she played that word over in her mind, and then craned her neck over her shoulder to look for the small hill where their cottage rested. All that lay behind her was the Goblin Market—a hideous broken mess of upturned carts, pulp and bruised fruit. She scanned her surroundings for some sign of home, but there was nothing familiar about the world around her at all. “I...” she paused for a moment to try and gather her thoughts. “My sister was taken by the goblin’s king, Kothar.”

  “Kothar,” Him and Gwydion replied in simultaneous disgust.

  “You know of him?”

  “Indeed,” Him replied. “You say he took your sister?”

  “Yes.” Meredith felt the breeze now on her skin, and it chilled her in her soaked cloak and dress. “He said I was to be his bride, but when I refused him, he took her. Now I am on my way through the Darknjan Wald to find his castle.”

  “The Darknjan Wald?” Gwydion shrieked. “Are you mad
, lady?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Him intervened, “The Darknjan Wald is beyond dangerous, Meredith. None who enter are ever seen again, and those who do manage to make their way back to its edge are never the same.”

  “I cannot leave my sister to die by his hand. He should have taken me in her stead. It was me he wanted.”

  “You?” Gwydion turned over his shoulder and looked up at Him.

  “You are her,” Him astounded. “She for whom he searches… for whom this entire hideous market was created.”

  “I don’t understand."

  “There is a story as old as the war that divided our kingdom. I can’t explain it, not in anyway that would make sense,” he shrugged. “My brother, Sylvanus, he is the Great Historian. I am a simple hunter with no tongue for lore. I can take you to him. It isn’t far, and you’ve been injured. There are healers there, and rest.”

  “Milord, I must advise against this... Sylvanus will not be...”

  “Quiet yourself, Sir Gwydion Dale!”

  Abashed, the pixie withdrew and muttered under his breath.

  Meredith wanted to resist, feared that any time wasted would further doom her sister, but at the mere mention of her injuries, the stings, aches, throbs and pains awakened all over her body. The uncertain blurriness of her once poisoned mind made her feel as though she were one step away from defeat already, and when she looked into Him's eyes, his deep gaze seemed to comfort her.

  “I will take you to meet with Sylvanus, and after you have rested, I will show you to the Darknjan Wald myself.” Him promised.

  “Are you mad, milord?” Gwydion nudged his companion in the shin with an elbow. “The Darknjan Wald?”

  “It is her eyes.” Him didn’t look away from her face. “They enchant me, compel me.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Gwydion said.

  “Not now, Gwydion.” Him twitched his leg, shoving the pixie away. “What do you say? Finding the Wald alone will be nearly impossible for you as it is. You will have rest and a guide, fresh provisions, as it appears that yours have been tainted.” He gestured toward the pack she’d brought, the soaked crumbs of bread and the squished cheese lie in puddles of toxic juice.