The War Of The Lance by Michael Williams, Richard A. Knaak, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Read Free Book Online Page B

of the wine
     casks they'd taken from a farm near the outskirts of Twisting Creek, basking in the
     natural satisfaction hobgoblins get from killing unarmed farmers - like my cousins, Garayn
     and Klart.
    I licked my lips and felt for the leather waterskin on my belt, preparing to untie it, but
     found the water was already low. I released it and leaned back against the rock face,
     keeping my arm close to my side so that the hobgoblins above wouldn't notice the movement
     in the dim light. My fingers closed over my sword hilt but stayed relaxed. The glow above
     the plain to the west was almost gone; Lunitari was a low, red crescent on the horizon,
     the only moon visible. Far overhead, the pantheon of gods was played out in the
     brightening stars. It was beautiful, but I could tell there'd be rain by tomorrow night.
     Scouts know these things.
    “S'all gone!” called the hobgoblin again. “N'more sun!”
    Several distant shouts came back, all curses in the coarse hobgoblins' tongue. “You
     basdards wanned me d'be a lookoud, and I'm looking oud!” the hobgoblin roared back hotly,
     then laughed again. He sounded as if he had a broken nose. “Bedder look oud for th' sdars!
     They're coming da ged ya!”
    I'd gotten here only an hour ago but had already heard enough. About a dozen hobgoblins
     were camped out on this hilltop, near Solanthus's eastern border. Twisting Creek was two
     days to the southwest. On the other side of the low hills to the east, beyond the Garetmar
     River, was unclaimed territory populated by bandits, deserters, and hobgoblin garbage.
    A hobgoblin snickered, then drunkenly mumbled a phrase that the wind carried away. Soon,
     both sentries would be dead to the world. They had nothing to fear that they knew of. They
     had been clever enough to raid light and avoid attracting too much unfavorable attention
     from Twisting Creek's militia. Hit fast, grab loot, and run - the same old formula. The
     hobgoblins had burned a few barns, killed some horses, and stolen some odds and ends
     before scurrying off. They didn't want a fight. They just wanted to rub it in that they
     were around.
    I was Evredd Kaan: dark hair, dark eyes, good physique, ex-scout. I'd been out of the army
     since Neraka fell and my unit was disbanded. After that, I'd gone home to the city of
     Solanthus to find it mostly in ruins. I worked for a year on labor crews, shoveling ashes,
     rubble, and bones, sometimes taking night shift as a militiaman in a city overrun with
     beggars who stole to survive. Finally, I just quit and headed east for Twisting Creek,
     where my parents had lived years ago before fever took them. I worked on my uncle's farm
     and maintained the wagons for his trading business, which suffered more than a bit with
     the obnoxious hobgoblins around.
    Three nights ago, the hobgoblins killed their first humans. Laughing Garayn and brooding
     Klart had been walking back from an evening in town when they were shot dead with
     crossbows. A hobgoblin dagger was found in one of the bodies. I watched as my neighbors
     wrapped my cousins for burial, then I went to my uncle and said I
    would be leaving for a few days. “Family business,” I said. “Don't do anything foolish, my
     boy,” my uncle urged.
    He was a big man with a pouchy face, hook nose, and receding hairline. Twisting Creek had
     been lucky enough not to be sacked and burned during the War of the Lance, ended just two
     years ago, and my uncle's business had survived. But now his two sons had been taken away
     from him, his life permanently scarred by the bad elements still roaming the land. “You're
     all I got left, Evredd.”
    “What I do,” I said tersely, “won't be foolish.” His eyes glazed over. His hands moved
     around the valuables on his desk, touching them reassuringly. Tears squeezed from his eyes.
    “There's been killing enough,” my uncle pleaded. “Let it go.”
    Needless to say, I didn't