The wagon creaked along ahead and sometimes Pocket had to help push, straining with the others, coaxing the large wheels out of a hole or over a rock. The goblins complained and cursed, spitting on the ground and cuffing each other more and more as the march drew on. They never stopped. Not for rest, not for food, and not for sleep. They crawled atop the wagon in small groups, allowed to catch what sleep they could for an hour. Pocket never took his turn, fearing he would lose the change if he nodded off. So he marched. He marched and he pushed, feet and hands beaten into broken blisters and raw, open flesh.

Panic grabbed hold of him the first time he was spoken to. He found himself staring dumbly, looking into the increasingly annoyed face of the goblin waiting for a response to something Pocket had not heard. He shrugged, hoping that would be enough. Pain shot dully into his shoulder as the speaker struck him with a hard knuckled fist.

“Don’ be a closed tight cunny!” the Red Cap complained. “What were on that ass you jumped like a hoppin’ looney?”

The repeated question drew jeers of approval and Pocket looked around, horribly aware that now some dozen faces were peering at him expectantly, clustering around him as they walked. He swallowed hard, his throat tight and painful.

“Ehrm,” he stalled and nearly choked at the deeper, rougher sound that emerged.

Another hard shove rocked him. “Come on, out with it!”

“Bloody gnome!” Pocket said quickly in a voice that was not his own.

The Red Caps made noises of disgust. Cursing with bitter ardor.

“Did you gut him?” the original inquirer pressed as the others pushed in eagerly, some struggling to walk fast enough to hear.

“Fell offa the mule,” Pocket griped. “Dashed his filthy skull on a rock!”

The laughter and back slaps went on for some time, and Pocket forced a smile. The talk died as they bent their backs to the wagon once more, each saving their breath.

Pocket grunted and groaned with his false brothers, wondering how he had saved himself. Rosheen had told him that he would be able to do such things with practice, but Pocket had not been able to practice, and the piskie had said it would take time. Surely the span of days was not enough! How had he managed it? How long could he keep it up?

Night fell, and still the goblins pressed on, using torches to light their way. Pocket tried to find a moment to sneak away, slip off the road and into the darkness, but the fear hissed in his ear, telling him he would be seen. Why would a loyal Red Cap slip away? Even if they did not see, where would he go? Which way?

No. No escape. He wore his shadows now. The best hiding place was in the crowd, just another foot soldier grinding ragged behind the wagon.