Free Nine Goblins by T. Kingfisher

Not when
it’s the only source of wood for miles. No. There’s only one reason
people don’t cut down a forest. Somebody already owns it. And who
lives in forests?”
    Nessilka felt a cold prickling crawl down her
spine. “You mean—”
    Murray nodded. “ Elves...”
     
     
    They kept walking.
    There is only so long that you can clutch
your weapons and wait for white-faced figures to leap from behind
the trees. For the Whinin’ Niners, this was about forty-five
minutes. Maybe there were elves. If there were, they’d probably
find out soon enough. In the meantime, poison oak was a more
immediate concern, and harder to spot.
    Nessilka called a halt in the late afternoon.
“Okay, everybody take five.” She looked around the Whinin’ Niners,
and sighed.
    Most of them were doing okay, but the two
recruits and Blanchett were about done in. The recruits were just
not used to sustained marching, but poor Blanchett was grey-faced
and sweating from having to cover the irregular terrain on his
crutch.
    “Blanchett, sit down before you fall down.
Yes, that goes for the bear, too. Mishkin, Mushkin, sit. Murray,
you still want to try raiding a farmhouse?”
    Murray nodded.
    “Okay. Murray, you’re in charge. Algol,
Gloober, go with Murray. Don’t take any unnecessary risks. I’d
rather nobody saw you at all. Stealth is more important than clean
clothes.”
    She wracked her brain for anything else
useful to say.
    “Gloober, get your finger out of there.”
    They waited.
    “And good luck.”
    The three saluted and moved off towards the
fields.
    “Weasel, you and Thumper go see if you can’t
find something to eat, and keep your eyes peeled for anything that
might make a good campsite. The rest of us will wait here.”
    The pair saluted. Nessilka watched them go,
the tiny little Weasel and the slab of muscle that was Thumper.
    “Okay, troops,” she said, turning back to
Blanchett and the twins. “You three rest up. That’s an order.
Blanchett, will the bear mind if I borrow your helmet?”
    There was a brief consultation. “He says it’s
okay, Sarge.”
    “Good. I could really use some tea.”
     
    Making tea in a used orc helmet recently
converted to teddy-bear sedan chair was an experience, but good
sergeants learn to improvise. The hard part was getting the helmet
clean. Who knew that Blanchett was using so much hair gel under
that thing?
    She had just gotten the water boiling when
she heard a rustling in the bushes.
    It was Murray. He and Algol and Gloober
emerged from the woods, looking thoughtful. (Well, Murray and Algol
looked thoughtful. Gloober had his finger up his nose again.)
    “That was quick,” she said.
    Murray tugged at his ponytail. “Sarge…I think
you better come look at this.”
    “What is it?”
    “There’s nobody there.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “That’s good, right?
They stepped out. We can grab the laundry and nobody’ll be the
wiser.”
    “No, Sarge, I don’t think they stepped out. I
think…”
    He fell silent. Algol put a hand on her
arm.
    “Sarge,” he rumbled, “you really better come look at this.”
    “Okay. Gloober, stay here. Everybody, lay
low, keep quiet, don’t start any large fires.” She cast around for
the next most responsible person on the chain of command, and
sighed. Oh well, no help for it. “Blanchett, the bear’s in
charge.”
    He made the bear salute. “He says he’s
honored by your trust, Sarge!”
    Nessilka nodded. He can’t be any worse
than some of the generals…
    “Let’s go.”

 
     
     
     
ELEVEN
     
    Sings-to-Trees had finally finished every
small chore to be done around the farm, and by mid-afternoon,
too.
    This was so unusual that he sank down into
the rocking chair on the porch with his eyes closed, because he was
fairly sure that the moment he opened them, he would see something
he’d forgotten, and then he’d have to get up again.
    Fleabane ambled over and flopped down at his
feet. Sings-to-Trees dangled a hand over the