by Jean Rabe
“By the blessed memory of the Dark Queen’s heads,” Grallik murmured. A shiver raced down his spine as he glanced from one peak to the next and the next. “What more can happen?”
“Guardian Grallik!” The arrival of the two Skull Knights broke the musings of the wizard. “This is an affront, ordering us here when our brothers are …”
“Dying,” Grallik supplied the word for the taller man, the one who’d been at the goblin pens when the quake struck and the slaves escaped. The man’s face looked skeletal, his eyes and cheeks all the more sunken by dust and dirt.
“Dying, yes,” the gaunt man spit.
“Aye, Siggith of Jelek, your brothers are wounded and dying and need your immediate care. But all of us could die and Steel Town will be dust forever if we don’t tend the slaves.”
Siggith’s lips curled into a snarl.
“We have lost too many brothers already,” Grallik continued in a more conciliatory tone. “But we can no longer trust the slaves.”
“They could rise up again and …” Siggith did not finish the thought.
“Wise, Guardian Grallik,” Horace, the stocky priest, said. He was an Ergothian with dark and smooth skin. He’d been sweating heavily, and his face was scored with salty streaks that could have been tears for lost comrades. Though Horace’s posture was straight, there was fatigue in his eyes, and a sense that the priest was thoroughly overwhelmed.
“I appreciate your devotion to the wounded, Horace,” Grallik said. The wizard had seen the priest working to the point of exhaustion. Still, he did not care much for the Ergothian.
Horace had admitted once in Grallik’s presence that he joined the Dark Knights only because his brothers did and had pressed him into service, and that he revered Zeboim and never worshiped Takhisis. When his brothers died, Horace requested that the Order to post him on the coast or in Ergoth. Grallik believed that, when the time came, if the Order had other ideas, Horace would quit and likely return to the far island anyway.
Siggith? He was more loyal to the Order, as loyal as Montrill. Grallik had far more respect for Siggith.
“The pens are gone, splinters,” Siggith said. “I was trying to heal some of the slaves when the quake struck. For all my efforts, they practically trampled me. I’d flay them all if it was within my power, but …” He fixed his gaze on Grallik. “But the camp requires them, as you say. And with the pens in splinters, something must be done to hold them here.”
Three men walked past them, their clothes in tatters and their hair so matted and filthy Grallik did not recognize them. One was talking about his wife, who was wounded and near death. He looked up and stared coldly at the Ergothian priest, then moved on.
“The tavern man, his family, and some others are gathering wood now to help reconstruct three of the pens, Horace,” Grallik explained. “They’ll be using timber from the stables.” He had no need to explain his orders but felt compelled to confide in the priests, thinking his openness might make allies of them. “Fortunately or not, we won’t be needing five pens this time-not until we’ve acquired more slaves or recaptured the ones that have escaped.”
“Recapture?” asked Siggith skeptically.
“Wooden fences will not be enough to hold them.” The Ergothian smoothed at his robe, a nervous gesture Grallik had noted on other occasions. “We cannot spare enough knights to guard the pens. It’s a wonder they all didn’t bolt when they had the chance. A wonder that we didn’t lose all of them.”
Grallik considered boasting about his fiery wall that had blocked nearly half from escaping. Certainly they had witnessed the fire. The air still stank of roasted goblin flesh.
“Most of the slaves are dull minded and weak willed, thank Zeboim,” the Ergothian continued. “They have been so long under our thumb, they lacked the courage to run.”
“Perhaps,” Grallik said.
“Or perhaps they fear what’s out there more than they fear us. The ogres. Starvation.” Siggith let out a raspy sigh. “Minotaurs. We’ve told enough stories about the minotaurs that the goblins should fear them. Any sane creature would fear the horned race. But you want us to put even more fear into the goblins, eh, Guardian? You want us to … convince them that it is in their interest to stay.”
Grallik nodded. “For the sake of Steel Town.”
The wizard looked beyond the priests and to the glowing peaks. The streams of lava had thickened. It was not his imagination. And the crests glowed brighter than he’d seen them in quite a long time. The vivid color reminded him of the glowing ingots he had culled from the ore.
“Aye, Guardian Grallik, for Steel Town and the Order,” Siggith said.
The two priests headed shoulder to shoulder toward the slaves. Already the tavern owner and his son were reconstructing a corner of the center pen, flanked by two knights who aided and shielded them. Ten more knights were on the eastern side, working similarly. Swords out and at their sides, they offered a meager defense against the greater number of goblins. But so far the goblins remained docile.
Some slaves grew uneasy as the Skull Knights neared, a few shouting “murderer” and “youngling slayer” in the common tongue so the priests could understand their insults. They pointed to the gaunt priest. Still, they made no move to escape, though they grouped together and shook their fists. A hobgoblin raised his clawed hands and growled a string of harsh words that none of the knights could translate.
The Ergothian tucked his chin to his chest and started chanting loudly, the melody barely heard above the goblins’ chattering and the sound of digging-laborers working on reopening the new well. The priest crossed his arms in front of his considerable chest, then dropped them to his sides. He’d taken his gloves off, and his dark hands were growing pale and shimmering, beginning to look like molten silver.
The gaunt priest copied him, his hands also starting to glow. The Ergothian spread his fingers and pointed them at the goblins. The slaves huddled together defiantly and at the same time they backed away, fear etched on their faces.
The glow spread from the priests’ hands, forming two misty clouds that thinned as they spread across the mob of slaves, then slowly descended upon them. The silvery mist shimmered like dew on wet grass, and some of the goblins licked at the vapor, thinking it might be water.
“Steel Town is home,” Siggith droned. His words were honeyed and melodic, and the goblins stopped their chattering to listen to him. Most stared unblinking, mouths falling open, but a handful appeared resistant to his charm.
Grallik had seen the priests perform that spell once before, many months past, when a newly-arrived clan of unruly goblins had tried to resist orders to work a double shift. As before, the wizard admired the divine magic and wished he had such powerful enchantments at his fingertips.
“Home is safe,” Siggith intoned.
“Home is food and protection and fellowship,” Horace said. “There are no ogres in Steel Town.”
“Home,” one of the younger goblins called out. “Steel Town is home.”
“Food is in Steel Town,” another barked.
“There are no minotaurs in Steel Town,” Siggith said. “Home is safety. Home is water and work. Home is where you belong. Home is where the Dark Knights protect you.”
“Steel Town is protection,” mumbled a wizened goblin in the front rank. He grinned vacantly, showing only a few intact teeth. “Protection is good. Home is good.”
“There are no ogres here,” Siggith repeated. “No dragons.”
“Yes, home is safe.” It was the Ergothian’s turn. His voice was deeper and had an edge to it, and most of the goblins covered by his cloud of mist were entranced and started to sway.
If the priests were able to sustain their spell for longer periods of time, it might envelope all of the slaves and bound them all as surely as steel shackles, Grallik reflected. But some of the stronger-minded goblins appeared immune, and they visibly resisted the magic, gritting their teeth and closing their eyes. Some poked at the
ones in a trance, trying to rouse them, but to no effect.
“Home,” the Ergothian droned, “is a place that slaves should never leave. There are ogres and minotaurs and far, far worse beyond the boundaries of Steel Town. Digging beasts running loose, earth dragons you call them, they are out there.”
“Steel Town is home,” another goblin called out.
“You must never leave home,” the Ergothian said, echoed by Siggith, whose voice was not as commanding as Horace’s.
“Wrap your minds around the notion of Steel Town as home!” Horace shouted. “Take home into your hearts. You must never, never leave Steel Town. Death awaits you in ogre lands. You are safe here. The knights protect you.”
“The knights will bring you water,” Siggith said. He instantly had the attention even of those resisting the magic. “The well is being reopened, and soon fresh water will be brought to you. There is no water outside of Steel Town. And the water we offer here will be cool and good and sweet.”
The last statement made Grallik snort derisively. Many goblins knew there were pure, clear streams in the mountains. But there were ogres, too, in those mountains, and both priests mentioned the terrible ogres again and again.
When the priests were finished with their divine magic, the few knights posted as guards had a more docile crowd of prisoners.
The Ergothian Skull Knight reported to the wizard. “Guardian Grallik, the divine incantations we cast are strong and persuasive, but they are not all-encompassing. Some of the slaves will shrug them off before morning, and we will have to refresh the spells. Fortunately most of … these pitiful creatures have been cowed by the mines and the whips. The incantation will reinforce their low esteem and dwell inside them for a long, long while.” He shook his head as if clearing some cobwebs. “Our spells are taxing and will limit the healing we can perform the rest of this night.”
“But the spells were necessary,” Grallik said.
“Aye, Guardian.” The Ergothian nodded good night and made his way to the new infirmary. Moments later, the other Skull Knight followed.
The wizard stood silent for some time, watching the slaves milling, the tavern man and his son constructing a corner of a pen, and the knights patrolling along the east border of the slave area. He looked for the red-skinned goblin, finally spotting her. She was ruddy with health, though she looked overly thin. Her elbows and knees protruded as if her skin were stretched too tight over her bones. Somehow she’d acquired a scrap of cloth, which she was wearing like a tabard. There was something about her that intrigued him … something, not only her ability to predict the quake.
Her head looked too large for her neck, her shoulders exaggerated. She might have been beautiful in goblin terms or horribly ugly. Grallik knew so little about the creatures.
She stared back at him, unblinking and with an unreadable expression. Grallik wondered if she had a name-if any of them had names, for that matter. The other goblins gave her a little space, perhaps out of respect. Were the camp not in such chaos, Grallik thought he might approach her and try to communicate with the slave. He wanted to know how she guessed the second quake was coming and how she had moved the earth under his fire wall so a goblin could escape. Did she really do that? Or had his mind been playing tricks? Could she tell him anything about the strange behavior of the volcanoes?
Did she have some divine spark like the Skull Knights? Was she a shaman to whom magic had been born, as in some men?
He’d been born with an arcane spark, but it had taken years of cultivation to master various spells. It seemed to come so naturally to the Skull Knights and, perhaps, to the red-skinned goblin. The question continued to preoccupy him: Was magic stronger in some creatures? Strong enough that it came naturally and without effort? The red-skinned goblin had no tomes, powders, or talismans, yet she had some power.
“Are you a creature of magic?” He spoke the question aloud, knowing not one of the goblins could hear him.
The rational part of the wizard, that part that had studied under high-ranking Thorn Knights and, before them, Black Robe masters, believed that the most powerful spells-the most powerful spellcasters-were molded by diligent study and practice. But if he’d heard her correctly, if she had predicted the quakes, and if he’d truly seen her part the earth beneath his flames with her fingers, then that red-skinned goblin was a shaman with some sort of primal power.
He felt the brush of something against his scarred hand, and it sent a shiver through him. He glanced down and saw that a silk handkerchief, singed and dirtied, had floated on the breeze and touched him. He blinked and looked back to the slaves. The red-skinned goblin had melted into the throng.
17
SLAVE ROBBERS
Saro-Saro sat cross-legged on a patch of dirt in the shadow of the rise. He scratched at the ground with his narrow, crooked fingers, drawing stick figures and trees then erasing them. He brushed his hands on his threadbare tunic, which had belonged to a child in camp who had outgrown it. Little more than a rag, it was filthy and sweat stained, but it was still better than what most of the goblins wore.
Saro-Saro tipped his head back and sniffed. The air was dry, the clouds high and thin, holding no hint of rain. “Stink,” he pronounced. “Not so bad as Steel Town, though.” He opened his mouth, waggled his tongue, and gulped in the air. Then he returned his attention to digging in the ground in earnest. Moments later, he was rewarded by finding a thick grub. Like a prize, he held it up and made sure some of his fellows saw his treat. Then he popped one end in his mouth and bit it off, sucking on the juice before finishing it.
The goblins and hobgoblins had spent the day in the foothills, sleeping, tending to their injured, and searching for food, namely grubs, insects, and roots. Direfang wanted to return to Steel Town for better food, water, and the remaining slaves, but as of the previous night, he had no support.
It was not that the escaped slaves didn’t want to rescue their brothers, they just didn’t want to do it that night. They’d run far and were suffering, and Direfang’s words could not inspire them. Many of them were too exhausted to go any farther, and some simply could not because of their injuries. So Direfang posted sentries, while Moon-eye chattered worriedly about ogres and minotaurs until he fell asleep.
Though they searched hard in the immediate area, they found no water. But there was juice in the grubs and millipedes that were plentiful several inches down in the earth, and that helped.
When the sun started to set and the goblins showed signs of restlessness, Direfang tried again to rouse them.
“Hobgoblins, goblins, are still in Steel Town,” Direfang said.
“Mudwort still there,” Saro-Saro added.
“Food, water, clothes, all those good things are in Steel Town too,” the hobgoblin continued. “All of those things could be Saro-Saro’s and Brak’s and Folami’s.”
“Moon-eye’s too,” Graytoes cut in.
“Very thirsty,” Moon-eye added.
“Thirsty,” Saro-Saro admitted. “Bug juice is not enough.”
“Moon-eye’s Heart needs water,” said the one-eyed goblin.
“Thirsty, but not stupid. Only goblins with sour, mad minds would go back to that hell place,” another countered.
“Not go either,” Spikehollow decided. “Maybe stay here and live. Or go south and live.”
Rescuing their fellow slaves simply didn’t motivate them, Direfang realized. He had tried to stir them up with words of revenge and retribution, but he got better results with his persistent references to the water and food in Steel Town.
“Thirsty,” Saro-Saro repeated, waving his spindly arms around to quiet those nearest to him. He held up the skin of a grub he’d sucked empty. “Hungry for better things.”
Direfang tried appealing to their pride. “Goblins can be enslaved but not be defeated,” the hobgoblin said. “Now there are too few knights, too many goblins.” He talked about how easy it would be to crush the Dark Knights who had treated them so
cruelly for so long. It would be easy to take all the water and food and supplies they wanted.
“Unprepared the Dark Knights will be,” Direfang said. “So very busy cleaning up Steel Town and tending the wounds of the hurt ones. The Knights will never expect the goblins to come back, fight.”
By that time he had persuaded most of the escaped slaves, with only a handful still grumbling their objections to his plan.
Direfang selected thirty goblins from among those who volunteered to accompany him. Then, after thinking it over, he ordered most of the others to follow him and the volunteers at a distance as they made their way back to the camp.
“But not all the way. Not yet. While it is dark, can be quiet and fast,” he said. “Later comes the attack, when the clouds are thickest. Be quiet and be fast and be strong.”
“Strong and fast!” Brak shouted. “Strong and fast with Direfang!”
“Angry and fast!” Spikehollow added. “Very, very angry!”
“Thirsty!” Saro-Saro barked. “Angry and fast and thirsty!”
When Direfang finally had them whipped into a fervor, he took off at a run toward the knights’ camp, not wanting to give the goblins a chance to change their minds and realize it was a very dangerous, perhaps very foolish, endeavor.
Direfang only half believed his own words about how easy it would be to surprise the knights. He had doubts himself whether it was a wise or stupid thing to do, to jeopardize their escape and return to Steel Town. But he thought of Mudwort and it made him sad and angry to leave her behind.
He’d tried to inspire the others just so he would have the advantage of superior numbers. Alone, he didn’t have a chance of success.
“My mind sour too, maybe,” he mused to himself as he jogged toward the camp, followed closely by the thirty volunteers and, farther back, by the horde of goblins. He mulled over his plan. “Mind is foggy to consider this. Mad? Could be mad.” It would have been easier to find a stream in the mountains or to raid a merchant wagon for supplies. But he had convinced himself that he couldn’t abandon Mudwort, and furthermore, he had convinced himself all the slaves should be free.