Beech and the Very Good Plan
A rescue plan takes shape at the sheepfold, but a family trapped near the mill puts Beech to the test. Meanwhile, the goblins seem to be searching for more than plunder.
Chapter Three: In Which Thinking Proves More Exhausting Than Running
Beech had been a hero for almost seven minutes, and already he was regretting the physical demands of the profession.
Behind him three goblins tore through the undergrowth, breaking branches, swearing at one another and, more disturbingly, gaining ground. The green cap he had lost in the flour-covered stable lane was no longer there to keep the sweat out of his eyes; his hair now performed that duty badly. Beech ran along a deer path that narrowed between the brambles and a fallen oak. His cloak caught on a thorn. He pulled it free, stumbled, and heard a small metal whistle from behind.
An arrow flashed past his shoulder and buried itself in the rotten trunk ahead.
Beech stopped finding the pursuit amusing.
"STAND STILL!" shouted a goblin.
"It's an interesting suggestion," Beech gasped, "but I think I'll decline."
He ducked beneath the fallen oak and plunged into a hollow choked with last year's leaves. The ground on the other side dropped sharply; he lost his footing, slid down the bank on his backside and finished behind a screen of hazel roots. He opened his mouth to complain and clamped it shut. The goblins were above him, close enough that he could smell wet leather and stale onions.
"He came this way," said the one with the swollen nose.
"Where is he, then?"
A pause. The goblin with the bow sounded irritated rather than confused. "Shut up. Listen."
Beech pressed his cloak against his chest to quiet its rustling. He could feel his heartbeat in his injured wrist. Somewhere a twig snapped under a goblin's foot, followed by the creak of a drawn bow. If he moved, the archer would see him. If he stayed and it came down the bank, there would be nowhere to run.
A sharp whistle sounded from higher among the trees. There was a bark, then another, and the thunder of paws crashing through fern.
"WOLVES!" cried one goblin.
"Those are dogs," said the archer.
The dogs did not appear interested in the distinction. They barked with such conviction that the goblins hurried back up the track, one of them shouting that wolves could wear collars if they wished.
Beech stayed where he was until a woman's voice spoke from above.
"You can come out now. Unless lying in a ditch is part of your strategy."
Beech looked up. Nella Pike, the shepherdess, stood between two large sheepdogs, her crook in one hand and her expression set somewhere between concern and resignation.
"Nella!" He climbed out awkwardly. "I was hiding."
"I'd gathered that."
"Very effectively."
"Your boots were sticking out."
Beech looked down at his stout walking boots. Even covered in mud, he remained proud of them. "Well, I couldn't very well leave them behind."
Nella pointed towards the higher woods. "Come on. There are people who need to hear what you've seen."
The old sheepfold lay in a hollow beyond the ridge. It had lost most of its roof years ago, but the low stone walls sheltered it from the wind, and a spring ran between the rocks beside it. On an ordinary day it housed Nella's sheep. That morning it held eleven refugees, three bewildered sheep, a hen in a wicker basket and Tam the night watchman, who sat on a bucket with a bandage wrapped around his forehead.
Beech recognised Berta the seamstress, young Pellin from the cobbler's, two families from the west end of Briar Glen and Old Merrick the miller, whose beard had only recently recovered from being dipped in onion soup at Harl's birthday party.
"Morning, Merrick," said Beech.
The miller looked at Beech's torn cloak and battered pan. "You look worse than you did at the tavern. That's quite an achievement."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
Nella made room beside the spring, and Beech told them what had happened. He described the ruined front door, Duchess's assault on the goblins, the grain wagon, and the mill bridge. He told them Joss had been wounded but was alive when Beech left him in the stable with his daughter. He spoke, less comfortably, about Darron holding the doorway while children escaped and about the archer who had waited for him to break cover.
When he finished, Tam looked at the frying pan. "You hit their captain with that?"
"I did," Beech admitted.
"Twice?"
"Only once. The other time he hit it."
Merrick eyed the dent in its rim. "It shows."
Nella was not smiling. "They came from the northern road before sunrise. Tam heard the horn and tried to warn the square."
Tam held up his own village horn, cracked along the mouthpiece. "I got one decent note out of it."
"Then someone struck him," said Nella. "He was lucky to get away."
Tam touched his bandage. "Didn't feel lucky."
Berta had been listening quietly beside her daughter, a girl no older than eight who gripped the edge of her mother's skirt. The child held a little carved wooden fox, one ear missing.
"They weren't all stealing," the girl said.
The adults turned towards her.
"Some of them were at the meeting hall. They made the others get out of the way. A tall one had a piece of black cloth with a white ring on it. He said they were to find the old room."
Beech felt a small unease. He had seen that same mark on a silent goblin at the bridge, and had seen it point towards the hall.
"What old room?" Nella asked gently.
The child shook her head. "I don't know. Mama made me hide."
Merrick spoke into the silence. "Someone brought them here. Someone knew when to attack."
From the ridge came a gust of wind carrying smoke. Below, Briar Glen still burned.
Beech could have imagined his own house being emptied by scavengers. He could see again Joss trying to lift himself with his good arm, and the little girl inside the stable reaching out to pull her father to safety.
"We have to get more people out," he said.
Nella nodded. "And we have to do it before the fires reach the eastern cottages."
Plans, Beech discovered, were much easier to make when they did not involve anyone getting hurt.
He had once planned a new shelf for his pantry. It had gone badly, but nobody had required bandages. This was more complicated.
He borrowed a stub of charcoal and drew Briar Glen on a flat stone. The drawing resembled a badly shaped turnip, but everyone knew the place well enough to recognise the tavern, the meeting hall, the millstream and the lanes running behind the eastern cottages.
"The northern road is theirs," Nella said. "We can't lead anyone that way."
"The drover's track," said Beech, drawing a crooked line behind the orchard. "It passes Fenner's garden and comes out below the mill. The hedges are high. A person could use it without being seen from the square."
"There's a fallen gate across it," Merrick pointed out.
"I know. I was asked to mend it."
Merrick raised his eyebrows. "When?"
"Before harvest."
"It's nearly winter."
"I didn't say I'd mended it."
For once, the miller let the matter rest. The collapsed gate could be moved aside by two people; its posts were rotten enough that Beech knew precisely where to lever them loose. Nella would lead the refugees along the track in small groups, with her dogs to warn of trouble.
At the eastern end of the mill road stood the old cattle pound: a high stone enclosure with a heavy oak gate facing the lane. Inside, a low feed shed stood against the back wall. A narrow service wicket beyond it opened into the mill yard, but its bolt was on the yard side. There was also a stone step by which someone could reach the shed roof and climb down into the yard.
"We could draw the goblins into the pound," Beech suggested, keeping his finger upon the drawing. "Close the main gate, and leave them to shout at the walls while everyone gets clear."
Tam considered this. "With what bait?"
Everyone looked at Beech.
"Ah," he said. "Yes. I was afraid you might."
Nella leaned closer. "You cannot do it alone. If they close the gate before you reach the feed shed, or if you miss the step—"
"Then I shall have an unpleasant afternoon. I understand."
Merrick tapped the stream. "And there's the sluice. If I raise the mill gate, water will pour into the lower mill track. The deep channel stays below the cottages, but it'll make that road hard for goblins to rush across."
"No water near the houses?" Beech asked sharply, thinking of Joss and the wagon.
"Not if I open the proper gate. I'm a miller, lad, not an idiot."
"No offence meant. I've been doing rather a lot of both jobs today."
There were too few of them to attempt everything at once. The plan, therefore, became simple enough to remember. First, find the people still hiding in the eastern houses. Second, bring them out by the drover's track to Nella's sheepfold. Third, when the route was clear, use the cattle pound and sluice to draw a part of the goblin force away from the village and hold it long enough for more families to escape. Nella had sent Pellin's uncle south on a pony before Beech arrived; the king's nearest garrison lay two days' ride away. They needed time, not a glorious final battle.
Nella assigned the jobs. Tam would return to a lookout on the ridge, where his eyes were more useful than his broken horn. Merrick would reach the mill by the back fields and inspect the sluice. Nella would arrange the evacuation, and Beech would scout the pound and find either Harl or Darron to coordinate help from inside.
"And don't attack anything just because you happen to have a frying pan," Nella warned.
Beech considered this. "I'll try not to."
Tam insisted the operation needed a name. Beech would have preferred that it needed fewer goblins. But Tam was insistent, and Beech was hungry, and so it was agreed, amid some protest from Merrick, that they would call it Operation Breakfast.
"It's not a proper military name," said Merrick.
"We haven't got a proper military," said Beech. "I think it fits."
Before they parted, Merrick handed him a coil of stout cord. "You'll think of a use for it."
Nella gave him bread and a wrapped piece of cheese, with a warning that the food was intended to last longer than the journey downhill. Beech took both gratefully. The last complete sausage from his own bag had already disappeared during their conversation, though he could not recall making a decision to eat it.
Beech set out through the ash woods as the sun climbed towards midday. The smoke had thinned enough to show the eastern edge of Briar Glen. The cattle pound was still intact, its main gate closed. The feed shed roof remained in place, and he could see the little service wicket beneath it. So far, at least, his plan had not suffered from contact with reality.
Then he heard a child coughing.
The sound came from the old grain store behind the mill. The building's front doorway was jammed by a broken handcart, with charred straw smouldering against the lower wall. Someone inside called for help, very quietly.
Beech recognised the voice: Mara, the cooper's sister, who worked in the bakery. He hurried around the building and found the rear delivery shutter closed. It was an awkward piece of joinery, hinged from above and held down by an iron pin beneath the frame. He had fitted it himself three years earlier, after Mara complained that the old shutter let in rain.
It had been excellent workmanship. Too excellent, apparently, for someone trapped inside to force it open.
"Mara? It's Beech. Who's with you?"
"My boys. And Elna's apprentice. The front's blocked. There's smoke coming in."
Beech looked towards the mill road. Goblin voices sounded nearby, growing louder. He put down the pan, drew his kitchen knife and slipped its tip beneath the iron pin. It shifted a fraction, then stopped. In his haste, he scraped the back of his left hand against a nail. Blood appeared across his knuckles.
He swore softly and put the knife back. The blade was sharp, not a crowbar, and he had no desire to snap it. Instead he took Merrick's cord, looped it beneath the latch, braced one boot against the brickwork and pulled. The pin rose just far enough for him to work it free with the knife's point.
The shutter swung upward. Heat and smoke rolled out.
Mara's face appeared beneath the sill. Behind her were three pale, coughing children, one small enough that she had been carrying him. Beech knotted the cord about the shutter handle and secured it to a wall hook so the shutter would stay open.
"Out. Quickly. Don't stop for anything."
The first boy climbed through. Beech lowered him to the ground, then helped the apprentice, whose eyes streamed from the smoke. Mara passed the youngest out, and Beech caught him awkwardly against his chest. The child was shaking so hard that his teeth clicked.
"Where's your mother?" the boy whispered.
"Right here," said Mara, squeezing through the opening. "I'm here."
From the far end of the lane came an order spoken in a harsh, deliberate voice: "Check behind the store. Nobody leaves."
Beech looked up. A goblin with a short bow had come around the corner. Its leather vest bore the white broken-ring mark. There was no laughter from this one, no jostling or argument. It drew, aimed and fired before Beech could even lift the pan.
The arrow struck the timber above Mara's head. A shower of splinters fell across the children. The goblin was already fitting another arrow when Beech forced the shutter down between it and the family. He seized the children by their hands and dragged them around the mill's rear wall, where thick ivy concealed the beginning of the drover's track.
An arrow clipped the stone beside his elbow. Beech felt the wind of its passing. Mara caught the smaller boy and pulled him close. For one terrible instant they all stood pressed against the wall, unable to move while the archer approached.
Then a dog barked from the orchard. Nella appeared beyond the ivy, her crook raised, one sheepdog at her heel and another ranging ahead.
"This way," she said, taking the smallest child from Mara. "Keep low."
Beech pointed towards the fallen gate. "There's a rotten lower hinge. Push there and it comes free."
Nella glanced at him. "Another repair you hadn't finished?"
"You're very welcome."
She gave the faintest hint of a smile and vanished with the family into the hedge. Beech remained until he heard the children moving safely away. Only then did he return for his frying pan, untie Merrick's cord and close the empty shutter, buying them a few precious moments if the archer came searching.
A narrow strip of Mara's shawl remained caught on a nail. Beech tore it free and tucked it into his pocket. He would return it when there was time to discuss such things.
It was the first useful thing he had done that morning which had not depended on a goblin tripping over its own feet. He was pleased about that. More than pleased, in fact. But the children had been very nearly killed, and he could still hear the smallest one coughing.
He had a plan now. He also understood just how easily it might fail.
From the mill's rear wall, Beech could see the road through the lower branches of a hazel bush. A half-dozen goblins were arguing over a barrel. At their centre stood the red-cloaked captain, helmet dented and axe in hand. His limp was slight now, but Beech could see that his swollen nose was no better.
One goblin lifted the barrel's lid and sniffed. The captain tasted a drop, spat, and roared, "VINEGAR!"
Beech almost laughed. Then he saw a marked goblin hurry up the road towards the captain and point to the meeting hall. The captain's expression changed. He stopped shouting at his soldiers and listened, his annoyance giving way to something like apprehension. The two spoke too softly for Beech to hear. The messenger returned towards the hall; the captain sent two of his group after it.
Whatever they were doing there, it mattered more to them than vinegar. Perhaps it mattered more than the raid itself.
Beech pressed one hand against the cool mill wall. The cattle pound lay just beyond the road, its gate still reachable if Nella could help. Somewhere close, Merrick would be working towards the sluice. And somewhere in the village Harl and Darron might still be alive.
He could not save Briar Glen by running alone. He would have to trust the others—and give them something worth trusting in return.
Quietly, he adjusted his cloak, checked that the kitchen knife sat in its sheath and shifted his frying pan to his left hand. The blade caught against the pan's dented rim.
CLANG.
The sound echoed off the stone walls.
The captain's head turned at once. He stared towards the hazel bushes and drew his axe back against his shoulder.
"THE PAN!"
Beech closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
"Oh, for goodness' sake."
End of Chapter Three
The story continues.
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