by Jean Rabe
What plants there were in that area were stunted. A lone tree to the north was thick-limbed but looked dead. The hobgoblin desperately needed a drink of water, and he knew that the rest of the escaped slaves were just as thirsty. After he reached the foothills, he’d post some lookouts for the Dark Knights, ogres, minotaurs, and anything that might pose a threat. Then he’d search in earnest for water and go back and find Mudwort. He wanted the shaman goblin to talk to the earth again and see if any more quakes were coming.
Maybe, too, he thought, Mudwort could talk to the earth and ask it where water could be found. Why not?
Direfang’s feet were bleeding by the time he reached the first slope. His soles were thick from working in the mine but not thick enough to protect him against needle-sharp fragments of shattered rocks that were everywhere on the ground. He climbed up several feet and sat down with a great huff, gently resting Graytoes next to him and waiting for the rest to catch up. From his higher vantage point, he could tell that not all of the escaped slaves had followed him.
Some had fled south, scattering. Others were traveling north, where the mountains were steeper. But well more than half of the escaped slaves were coming his way. He intended to climb higher as soon as he caught his breath. He wanted to climb high enough so he could overlook Steel Town.
That was still too close to the camp to suit him.
As he peered for Mudwort, Graytoes searched the advancing line of goblins for Moon-eye. She didn’t whimper for him anymore, apparently satisfied that she’d spotted him once and was certain he was alive and would eventually find her. She put her hands on her stomach and looked up gratefully at Direfang.
“Hate the skull man,” she said. “Hate the Dark Knights.”
Direfang nodded. “It is fine to hate the knights. It is a good hate, Graytoes.”
The air filled with whoops and shouts of joy when the goblins and hobgoblins arrived. They’d forgotten Spikehollow’s warning about the Dark Knights and the ogres and felt like celebrating. They seemed to have forgotten everything in their unfamiliar exuberance. Spikehollow tried to quiet them again, but his efforts were wasted.
Direfang buried his head in his hands and waited for the ruckus to subside. Indeed, the ogres would hear those shouts, if there were any nearby, and perhaps they would come to investigate. But unless there was a small army of them, they could do nothing against so many determined, escaped slaves.
“Safe for the time. Safe away from the knights. Safety in numbers,” Direfang muttered to himself. “Strong in these numbers. Safe and strong and not stoppable.”
An idea began to form.
The hobgoblin patiently waited several long minutes until the celebration died down. The lack of water played a part in the quieting, as many of the goblins became hoarse and rubbed at their throats. He heard murmurs of “water,” “free,” “Dark Knights,” and words he couldn’t distinguish.
Moon-eye had found his way to the front. The one-eyed goblin was battered and bleeding, and Direfang noticed that quite a few of those in the front rank were injured too, not only from the quake, but from bumping and clawing each other in their mad dash away from Steel Town. Moon-eye scampered up the rise, put his arm around Graytoes, pulled her close, smoothed at her face with his free hand, and sang to her, an old tune Direfang had heard in his youth. It was the only one Moon-eye seemed to know-the song he had been singing when Direfang and Mudwort found the couple in the mine. Moon-eye’s voice quieted the goblins in the front of the throng.
High sun on the dry, high ground
On goblins it shines white-bright
Chases away the bad shadows
Chases away the deep night
Late sun on the Sirrion Sea
Turns it a sparkling gold
Signals a hunt for all goblins
Keeps out the hurtful, deep cold
Moon glows pale and soft pearly
Yet goblins have no time to rest
Moon calls the dark of the evening
When the night bird leaves the nest
Low sun in the warm valleys
All goblins watch the orange sky
Looking for shadows of ogres
Knowing the time’s come to die
There were more verses, but Moon-eye’s voice dropped, singing only to Graytoes. But occasionally he looked up and met the gazes of the goblins closest to Direfang.
Saro-Saro was there, wheezing from the effort of running. Hurbear stood next to him, gasping and clutching at himself, alternating between his chest and his throat. The old, yellow-skinned goblin bent his knees, leaned forward, and made a noise as if he were retching, though nothing came out.
Direfang was surprised that Hurbear had made it that far from the Dark Knight camp. Hurbear’s legs had so often given him trouble going up and down the mountain trail to the mine.
“Free!” Saro-Saro shouted when Moon-eye was done singing. The word was picked up and repeated by the others, some loudly, some in a normal tone, until it sounded like a chant.
“The ogres!” Spikehollow shouted, finally managing to be heard. Again, he perched on the shoulders of a clansman, so the others could see him. “Quiet or the ogres will hear! Or the Dark Knights will hear! Dark Knights will come and catch Hurbear and Saro-Saro and Graytoes. The knights will-”
“No more knights! No more slavery!” Direfang said, standing, and they all hushed to listen to his words. The hobgoblin felt a little uncomfortable, seeing all of them looking up at him, some holding their breath as if they expected him to say something memorable and momentous.
“Listen to Direfang,” Saro-Saro said.
“South,” Direfang announced. “Stay together, stay safe, then go south.”
“But the ogres?” one of the goblins worried aloud.
“And the minotaurs and the Dark Knights,” Direfang added. “Dangerous, all of those creatures, and men.”
“What about dragons?” That comment came from someone in Spikehollow’s clan. “Dragons are bad. Saw a dragon to the north once. There could be dragons to the south.”
“Could be dragons anywhere,” an old goblin added.
“Everything dies sooner or later,” Hurbear said. “So Direfang says south, and to the south the clans will go.” He set his fists against his waist and nodded, signaling his approval of Direfang’s plan. “Hurbear’s clan will go south with Direfang. The better air is to the south. Better to breathe away from the Dark Knights.”
“What lives to the south?” Moon-eye asked. His clan was originally from the northwest, and he’d never been farther south than Steel Town. “More Dark Knights? More ogres?”
“More dragons?” another asked.
“What lives to the south, Direfang?” Moon-eye persisted. “What sort of creatures?”
“Yes, what lies to the south?” Spikehollow interrupted.
They waited for Direfang to reassure them. He said nothing.
“Freedom!” Graytoes answered. “Blessed freedom lies to the south.”
They all nodded, murmuring to each other.
“Sleep first?” Hurbear wondered. “Or find water first?”
Direfang shook his head. “Ceremony first,” he declared. “Honor the dead burned this night in Steel Town. Then tomorrow, head south, find food and water along the way.”
Hurbear cleared his throat and pushed gently at the goblins near him. When he had a little clear space around him, he began. “The shell destroyed, fire cleansed, the spirit reborn.” Hurbear made a fist and placed it over his heart.
“Spirits reborn!” the goblins near him repeated. Brak and Folami thumped their bellies with the flats of their hands then started up a drumlike cadence joined by many of the others.
Hurbear raised his arms, fingers spread wide, and he turned west, pointing. “Spirits fly above Steel Town. Above pain. Above the great sad. Above clans left behind. Above all things.” He repeated the message as he turned in a circle, nodding to each of the compass points. “The passing comes to all
goblins. The passing came to …”
“The child of Moon-eye and Graytoes.” Again, it was Direfang, claiming the right to speak first.
The remembrances continued for nearly an hour, judging by the position of the stars they could see and the continued lightening of the sky. While the goblins shared the memories of their many dead friends, Direfang only half paid attention. He climbed down from the rise and walked among them, looking for faces familiar to him, eyes locking on the red-skinned goblins in particular. There was no sign of Mudwort, so when the ceremony was finished, he returned to the rise so he could stand and be seen above the crowd.
“Where is Mudwort?” he finally asked, hoping that she finally would be found and come forward.
Her name was passed back through the crowd, and some of the goblins chattered about her.
“Mad, that one is.”
“Knew about the quake. Warned knights and goblins, Mudwort did. So not mad, mind not so sour.”
“Mind not spoiled and rotten.”
“Free because of the quake, free because of Mudwort.”
“Caught in Steel Town,” one finally answered. An oak brown goblin strode forward. He boasted a crooked nose and a thick, pale scar running across his forehead. “Gnasher of the Fish-Eater Clan,” he announced himself. “Saw Mudwort caught. The Dark Knight spell-weaver called forth a great wall of flame, hot as any death-fire. Mudwort dug beneath the fire wall and helped Twitch escape, but then Mudwort was caught.”
Another goblin came over. Her skin was the same hue, but more deeply scarred; she was of Gnasher’s clan. “Saw that too.” She thumped her chest for emphasis. “The wall of flame, it killed many slaves, but not so many as the quakes did. Maybe Mudwort died inside the wall of flame. Should have honored Mudwort in the ceremony. Could honor Mudwort now.”
Direfang’s aches and exhaustion all worsened in that moment, as if he’d been hit in the stomach by a mailed fist. “Mudwort is caught.” He wanted her counsel, needed her to help guide them out of Dark Knight territory by talking to the earth and discovering what stretched beyond the mountains to the south. And he needed her to find water. Mudwort was his friend, the wisest goblin he knew. And though he was free of Steel Town and did not want to go back there, neither did he want to leave her there if she had survived and was still alive. Without his protection, the knights might take revenge on her. And without her wisdom, he wondered how long he would last.
“How many more caught besides Mudwort?” Direfang wondered aloud, the half who did not race to follow him?
“Many. Lots,” Gnasher answered firmly. “Lots and lots caught behind the great wall of flame. Lots and lots left behind, still slaves. Lots were burned in the great wall of flame. Lots of slaves screamed and burned and died.”
“Slaves no more!” Saro-Saro waved his arm to get the assembly’s attention. “Freedom lies to the south. The better air is to the south. Forget the unfortunate left behind.”
“South now?” Brak and Folami asked in unison.
Direfang didn’t answer. He was listening to the faint call of a hunting bird and the soft growl of a big cat prowling in the hills above him. He registered the feel of the ground against the bottoms of his feet, the wild ground, different from Steel Town. The wind stirred the hair on the back of his neck and spun his own redolent scent around him.
He shook his head after several moments. “South, yes, but not now. First, return to Steel Town to rescue Mudwort and the others. Water and food are plentiful in Steel Town. Clothes and foot coverings too. Things must be stolen. Better that goblins have those good things than men keep it all.”
Most stared in shocked disbelief at the hobgoblin. A few spat and shook their heads as if he were mad. It had taken so much of their willpower just to reach that point of safety. To return to Steel Town was absurdity, lunacy.
“Slaves once, slaves no more,” Folami snarled. “Not go back to the slave place ever, ever again, Direfang. No reason to go back there now, ever. Forget the ones left behind.”
“Too tired to go back!” Brak agreed. “Too dark. Too tired, and so forget all the others.”
The growl of the big cat sounded again, more distant. The hunting bird shrieked again.
“The Dark Knights have weapons!” Saro-Saro protested. “The knights’ numbers are less now, but the weapons are sharp. The weapons kill. Saro-Saro will not go back to that bad, bad place. None should ever go back.”
Direfang let the protests continue for a few minutes more, then he waved his arms and demanded their attention.
“This time goblins will have weapons too,” Direfang proclaimed. “Plenty of weapons to fight the Dark Knights. So it is back to Steel Town for needed friends and needed things. It would be wrong to let the Dark Knights have any slaves, wrong to leave goblins behind.” He puffed out his chest, feeling important with the words. “Without any slaves, the mines and the town will be crippled-neither will be rebuilt. So go to Steel Town before the knights gain reinforcements, before the knights can rest and tend their wounds, before the knights rebuild the slave pens. There is no better time to strike at the Dark Knights than now. Defeat the knights, then go south to freedom, where the air is better.”
The escaped slaves stared mutely, not one nodding in agreement.
16
RECLAIMING STEEL TOWN
This camp will not be abandoned. I will not allow it.” Grallik paced angrily before the five surviving members of his talon. The quake had taken a horrific toll on the humans too. A deep crevice had opened up at the edge of the infirmary, pulling half the wounded into the gash, along with other knights and laborers and their children. More knights were working desperately to extricate the bodies.
“I am the acting commander of Steel Town, and on my watch this hellhole will be rebuilt.” Grallik rubbed his chin contemplatively, avoiding eye contact. “For the glory of the Order, Steel Town must thrive once more. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Guardian,” the five answered in unison.
Marshal Montrill had been spared, Grallik learned, but one of the valuable Skull Knights had been killed and another seriously injured, leaving the camp with only two able healers, both no doubt depleted of their magical energies.
“Will you want to dispatch more messengers, Guardian N’sera?” The talon member asking the question was Kenosh, a middle-aged soldier, originally from Solace, who’d been with the Dark Knights for almost twenty years. Grallik had served with him more than a decade earlier and knew his toughness. Grallik had requested that Kenosh be assigned to his talon when he was promoted to guardian and relegated to that place. “Half the horses remain in camp, only a few are lame and-”
A howl cut through the air, and Grallik looked between his men to see one of the Ergothians setting the broken limb of a tall young boy. The youth thrashed miserably. The priest tried to hold him down while at the same time trying to conjure his healing magic. Behind the priest, a woman shuffled past, dragging a tarp filled with something heavy.
Grallik turned away. “Yes, Kenosh, more messengers will be sent, for certain. We’ve got no alternative, we urgently need certain materials and more men. But I will not dispatch them until tomorrow or the day after, and I will even send you if you’ve a desire for more pleasant scenery.” He waited for a reaction, and in the interval the boy howled again.
“I will remain,” Kenosh finally replied with a grim smile.
“Good. In the meantime, I want a full accounting of the destruction and of the number of men lost and wounded, as well as a detailed list of goods we will need from the outpost in Jelek. And I want a precise tally of the slaves we have remaining as well as those dead or missing.”
Kenosh raised an eyebrow at the last.
“To rebuild this town and reopen the mine, we must rely on the slaves. We need to know the number of those healthy enough to work so we can set up new shifts and reassign tasks. I also want a tally of those who are injured but who may not recover fully. Those slaves that would require
too much effort to mend, they should be dispatched.” He paused. “Too, I need a list of our brothers who can speak the goblin tongue.”
“It will be done, Guardian.” Kenosh tried to maintain his proud military posture, but he couldn’t hide his defeated look.
“But before all of that, my knights, the two skull brothers who are still able and active …”
“Siggith of Jelek and Horace Branson, Guardian.”
“I must request their assistance now. Kenosh, get them for me.”
Grallik watched his talon spread out then closed his sore and weary eyes. The air was still heavy with the stench of burned goblin flesh. Dirt filled the air he breathed, and there was a trace of sulfur, though not as strong as in the first quake. He started coughing again, so hard he doubled over. He didn’t stop until he was spent, with his eyes watering so hard it looked as though he had been weeping.
There were powders in vials at the bottom of a crevice that he could have mixed and magicked to chase the horrid odors away. There were potions that would have refreshed him and allowed him to operate as if he’d just waken up from a long night’s slumber. But they were all lost, ruined. Though Grallik typically fancied himself a powerful wizard, he felt like a clueless novice. When the clean up was well under way, when the slave pens had been rebuilt, he would travel to Neraka and collect new spellbooks and casting elements. There were many wizards in Neraka, both among the Dark Knights and other organizations. They would help him replace his powders and potions. It would be costly, and at the moment he hadn’t a single steel to his name; all of his wealth had disappeared in the crevice. But he would call in favors and make pledges of coin, and he would regain some of his lost magic.
He wrapped his arms around his aching chest and glanced toward the volcanic peaks, seeing their red tops glowing through the haze. They looked, he mused, like sequins on a lady’s dress, set against the darkness. Smoke curled up from them-not unusual, Grallik knew. But there was more smoke than he’d seen before, swirling up into the sky to add to the dismal cloud above Steel Town. It was odd, foreboding.