by Jean Rabe
“That is the name of this …” Horace searched for the word. “Town?” he said finally.
“Reorx’s Cradle.”
“I’d have thought to find dwarves inside the mountain. You’d have been better off there. These goblins would not have found you.” Horace closed his eyes and mouthed a quick prayer to Zeboim. “And my goddess and your god willing, perhaps what’s left of your town can remain unhurt. The … foreman … is not as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.”
She returned her gaze to the priest, balled her fists and set them against her hips. “I ask only that the young be spared, and one of the mothers be spared to lead them from this place.”
Direfang, listening in frustration, catching only a few words at intervals, snarled and jabbed at the priest. “What does the dwarf say, skull man? Secret words are a dangerous thing.”
The goblins had pressed closer, some edging into the garden to the west, eyeing the vegetables and the caterpillars that crawled on them, then eyeing the dwarves. Their chatter grew louder.
The priest quickly translated what he and the old dwarf had said. “There are no more men in this village. You killed all of them.”
“But the homes?”
“Aye, they would suggest that more dwarves live here than we have been told, Foreman. You are smart to see that. This is not so small a village. Still, I can’t explain why, but I think she is telling the truth.”
Pippa and Leftear had made it to the garden and were plucking beans off a bush and stuffing them into their mouths. Saro-Saro was near them, on one of the paths, and he pointed to the nearest home and turned to his clan.
“The strange talking, it is done,” Saro-Saro proclaimed. “It is time to take. To take everything.”
A cheer went up.
13
LOOTING THE CRADLE
Direfang shot past the priest, grimacing with each step, his twisted leg still agonizing. He should have ordered the goblins back when he spotted the first one slipping into the garden.
In a heartbeat he reached Pippa, furiously plucking her up and hurling her over his shoulder back into the crowd of goblins who were moving into the garden. Olabode went next, landing at Leftear’s feet, and Direfang threw a potbellied goblin hard into Saro-Saro, knocking the old clan leader down.
“Enough!” Direfang raged at the mob, spittle flying from his lips. A handful edged forward, knives out and ready to challenge him. A goblin called Knobnose looked defiant. But the hobgoblin did not back down. He slammed his fist into Knobnose’s throat and grabbed a small goblin who had rushed in, picking her up and tossing her over the heads of the front line. “I said no killing! No more! Fighting these dwarves—women and babies—is tainted blood. Only weak and stupid goblins draw tainted blood.”
He picked up another goblin, threatening to throw him too, and the crowd stopped moving. Some stared in disbelief that Direfang would threaten his kinsmen; some mumbled that his words made sense. Finally he released the goblin and shoved him away, keeping one eye on the crowd as he turned back to the priest and the old dwarf.
“Skull man, are these all the dwarves left in the village?”
The priest had a quick exchange with the woman. “No. She says there are a few in the homes, babies and a sick old man. She’s worried that—”
“Other dwarf lied! No more men in the village, that dwarf claimed.” Direfang beckoned to Boliver.
“No more men that could stand up to you, she says,” Horace continued. “Only one very sick man, and old, and she cautions you that—”
Direfang said to Boliver, “Gather some clansmen and search the homes.” Then he pointed to the hobgoblin Rustymane, who still carried Graytoes. “You. Search the homes, and take food, weapons, anything useful. Leave the women no weapons. Gather sacks for carrying.” He paused and stared at the dwarves still circling the stone anvil. “Take everything. Everything! But no killing. No more blood. Swear it!”
“No blood,” Rustymane agreed. The hobgoblin nodded to the goblins surrounding him, most of them light brown members of the Fishgatherer clan. They followed him as he headed toward the nearest home, chattering excitedly.
“No blood, Direfang,” Boliver repeated. “No more killing. Only taking.” He repeated the command in the human tongue for the benefit of the Dark Knights, and he selected several of his clansmen and scurried off. “Take everything!”
“Everything!” they echoed.
The dwarves had started praying again, their voices shaky with fear. Direfang heard Horace talking in the unknown tongue again. From his expression, the priest was trying to reassure the ancient female dwarf who appeared to be the leader of the small band of survivors.
Saro-Saro had picked himself up and was scowling at Direfang. A line of drool spilled over the cagey old goblin’s lip, and he glared menacingly at the hobgoblin. Then his expression softened, and he awkwardly bowed, acknowledging Direfang’s leadership. But when Saro-Saro turned and went back to his clan, the harshness returned to his eyes.
“Flamegrass!” Direfang shouted, instantly capturing the attention of the orange-skinned goblins belonging to that clan. “The gardens are yours. Find sacks and blankets, anything to put the harvest in.” He glanced at the priest. “Are there animals? There must be. Skull man, ask the dwarves where the animals are.”
There was another quick exchange between the priest and the old woman.
“Foreman,” answered Horace, “she says there are pens south of the homes. They keep quite a few goats and—”
“Goats!” blurted Truak, a hobgoblin nearly as tall as Direfang. He knew only a few human words, but goats was one of his favorites. “Goats taste good! Big, bloody goats!”
“Slay half of the goats,” Direfang ordered Truak, clapping him on the shoulder. “Spikehollow, make sure only half the goats are killed. The old goblins will eat, then the others.”
“Only half the goats?” Truak sounded disappointed. “Can’t slay all?”
“Half,” Spikehollow said firmly. “Direfang will save the other half for later.”
Truak grinned and thumped his fist against his chest. “Yes. It will be good to have goats now and goats later. Direfang is wise.”
Direfang wasn’t done delegating the many tasks that were necessary. He eyed the mass of goblins, registering the ones with hostile expressions; those he would remember and dress down later. He picked three young goblins and pointed to the trees.
“See to the dead,” he told the three. “Take the wizard and make sure only the goblins burn. The dwarves can bury their men later or do whatever it is dwarves do with the dead.” Direfang repeated his instructions in the human tongue, so Grallik would understand.
The wizard started after the goblin funeral detail, Kenosh following his fellow former Dark Knight.
“Only the wizard,” Direfang said.
An unsmiling Kenosh returned to Horace’s side as the priest continued to converse with the old dwarf, calming her.
Saro-Saro fumed silently as he watched all the activity, narrowing his eyes on Direfang as the hobgoblin limped toward the stone anvil. That his clansmen, save for Spikehollow, were given no important duties in the village was a serious insult to him. It was as if Direfang had physically struck Saro-Saro. The old clan leader growled from deep in his belly as Direfang stepped between a pair of goblin children and approached the big stone.
“What do?” one of Saro-Saro’s clansmen asked him, sidling up to him. “What do here?”
Saro-Saro wiped at the drool that clung to his lips. “Nothing do here now. Do nothing but wait.”
“Wait?”
Saro-Saro nodded. Wait and plan, he mouthed. “Wait and watch Direfang,” he whispered.
Even close to the stone, Direfang could not read the writing carved on it. “Priest?”
“I cannot read it either, Foreman. It is Dwarvish and from the looks of it quite old.”
“Make the woman read it, then. I want to know what it says.”
The prie
st shrugged, touching the old dwarf’s shoulder and turning her so she could face the anvil. She glared defiantly at the hobgoblin. But Horace implored her to do what Direfang wanted, and breathed a sigh of relief when she whispered the words she read. Horace translated.
“The anvil is an altar, Foreman, carved by her ancestors when this village was founded. The original settlers were miners, for gems, I understand. When a quake rocked this part of the mountain range a few hundred years ago, and subsequently brought down the caverns they lived in, they took it as a sign from Reorx. They moved aboveground and for the most part became farmers or herders.”
Direfang snorted. “In a few hundred years, one would think there would be more dwarves than this in this place. Dwarves must breed slowly.”
“Some moved away, obviously,” Horace said dryly.
“Because Reorx said to?” Direfang scoffed. He raised his hand to touch the top of the altar, his gesture drawing gasps from the female dwarves.
“Ask where this ‘Cradle’ sits in the mountains. How far from Steel Town is it, does she know? How far is it to the sea where the range wraps around the shore like a fishhook? Ask the woman those things, skull man.”
Direfang was not pleased with the terse answers of the wary dwarf woman. His army had perhaps weeks of travel ahead of them to reach the border of ogre lands, she said, and even longer to reach the swamp.
“A year?” he wondered aloud. It sounded as though it would take longer even than a year to reach the Qualinesti Forest—two, maybe. He tried to picture the mountains and the swamp and the Plains of Dust. His army did not dare to follow any major roads for fear of alerting cities of enemies who could outnumber and outfight them, and the knights who were bound to be tracking them.
“A fool to take on this foolish quest,” he muttered to himself. The horde of goblins would be noticed—somewhere along the trail—and men would come after them.
“A map, priest. Is there one in this Cradle?”
“No, Foreman,” Horace replied after talking to the dwarf elder. “But she says her sister can draw you one. If the goblins agree to leave quickly, her sister will cooperate. Her worries are genuine and I share them, Foreman. The longer we stay here, the greater chance these women and children will be—”
Direfang waved away the rest of his words and traced the etchings on the anvil with his fingers. “Reorx had done little to help these dwarves,” he mused to himself. He turned and set his back against the stone, relishing the cool smoothness that seemed to draw some of the pain out of his body.
“Priest, tell the woman …” Direfang folded his arms across his chest and carefully detailed his instructions.
The priest knelt in front of the old dwarf, so she would no longer have to look up to meet his eyes. He spoke slowly, as he did not know all the intricacies of the gnome language.
“Your village will be thoroughly looted. The goblins will take every scrap of food, every piece of clothing, all of your shoes and anything they consider valuable. Do you understand?”
The glaring old dwarf woman nodded.
“They will take anything that might be used as a weapon because they need more weapons and because they do not want to leave you with anything that you might come after them and attack them with. Though you are few in number compared to this army, they do not want you following them and posing any threat.”
She nodded again. The light had gone out of her eyes, and the wrinkles in her face had become more pronounced. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“They will kill half of your animals now, and they will feast and celebrate before they move on. The rest of the animals they will take with them, so they can feast later.” Horace’s voice quavered as he delivered the last of the harsh news. “They will strip your garden, trampling every last plant in the process. They will carry it all away and leave you nothing to eat, but at least they will leave you your lives. I know that they will leave you that much … Foreman Direfang has promised.”
She shuddered and hugged herself as if a freezing wind were whipping around her.
“Do you understand?” Horace repeated.
“May Reorx send your souls to the deepest part of the Abyss,” she answered flatly. “May his Cradle be your demise.”
Irritably Horace turned away from her, addressing Direfang. “There must be some parchment in one of those homes … for your map.”
The hobgoblin was watching the hundreds of goblins milling at the edge of the garden. Some were sitting, a few sleeping, but most were agitated and felt constrained by his orders to stay put. Their eyes were begging, questioning, accusing. Well past them, a wisp of smoke curled up through the trees, signaling that the wizard had begun burning the dead goblins. After the goblins feasted, Direfang would hold a brief ceremony for the few who had died.
“Chima,” he mused, remembering. She’d been rash, and she had chattered often when he preferred quiet. But she had been a hard worker in the mines, never complaining to his face, never accepting her lot. He would miss her. “Too much blood.” He sighed.
Direfang’s face turned dark and hard. He needed to feed his army, and to clothe them—as goblins coveted garments of any kind, which accorded them marks of respect. And so it was good they’d come upon that village, which had been unable to defend itself. At the same time, the hobgoblin leader felt sad for the few surviving dwarves. Their homes would soon be empty.
“Priest, yes, find this parchment,” he answered Horace finally, “and find something to write with. A map is important.” He paused. “And make sure the map drawn is true. No deception from Reorx’s children.” Direfang saw the old female dwarf had heard his words and bristled at his mention of their god.
Horace lumbered to his feet and looked at the houses, unsure of where to start. Goblins streamed in and out of them, the latter with canvas sacks over their shoulders or baskets in their arms. Some dragged blankets bundled up and stuffed with junk.
“Mudwort, go with the skull man.” Direfang wanted to make sure none of the looting goblins hurt the priest—and also, the hobgoblin leader wanted the priest watched. “Mudwort! Be fast!”
The red-skinned goblin had plopped herself down in front of the crowd, watching the priest talk to the ancient dwarf woman and observing Direfang as he dealt with all of the preparations.
She jumped up, her face an unreadable mask. Mudwort made her way up one of the paths that cut through the garden, plucking a tomato as she went. She studied it for a moment, then tossed it to the priest, following her, who did not hesitate to eat it.
Direfang watched the pair walk off. He wanted to search the homes too, thinking there might be something tasty or useful inside them, some little treasure he could claim … perhaps some leather he could fashion into shoes. He’d been curious about what the Dark Knights had kept in their homes, and he wondered the same about the dwarves.
But he couldn’t leave the dwarves unguarded at the anvil; the goblins surely would descend on them. Only his presence would keep the mob in check. So later he would ask Mudwort and Spikehollow to describe what they saw and smelled, and later he would look through the spoils and perhaps find something left over.
The dwarves around him were praying again, whispering in their gravelly voices, a few rocking back and forth and closing their eyes so tightly they looked as if they were in pain.
The goblins were chattering, their prattle mingling with the dwarves’ praying and making Direfang’s head hurt. The bleats of terrified goats and sheep and the squeals of pigs cut through all the noise. The goblin voices rose in excitement.
“Food soon,” he said, too softly for anyone to hear.
Direfang did not see Saro-Saro slip deep into the goblin crowd and gather his most trusted clansmen close.
14
TREASURE
Mudwort brushed by Spikehollow and Leftear and selected one of the more promising homes that didn’t appear to have been ransacked yet. The priest followed her without a word.
The h
ome was tilted to one side, as if the dirt on one end had gotten tired of holding the stones up. It was a ponderous and ugly building, she thought, carved bricks as dark as an overcast sky, all squat-looking like the people who lived there. The only spot of color was a painted symbol on the hide door, and that was cracked and weathered. She stopped in front of the hide door and smoothed out the folds. The painting was an outline of a stern man’s face. Like the dwarf men who’d been killed outside the village, he had a long beard. She put her nose against it and made out tiny drawings of hammers and anvils entwined in the beard.
“Silly,” she pronounced it as she moved the hide aside and went inside. After a moment, Horace followed her. The home consisted of one room, a low table in the center separating the kitchen from the sleeping area.
“Reorx,” the priest explained. “On the hide, that is a drawing of their supreme god. It is said he dared to refer to Chaos as the Father of All and of Nothing.” After a heartbeat, he added, “But I understand that the gods mean nothing to you.”
She gave no indication that she’d heard or understood him and moved past the table and straight to a chest at the end of a short four-poster bed. If the priest had not come inside, Mudwort would have tested the bed, having had nothing comfortable to sleep upon for years and years; she wondered how soft it and the pillow were. She ran her fingers over the edge of the chest, eyes on the quilted coverlet that draped over the bed and fell to the floor.
She sniffed the air. It was musty and dead-smelling in that place, and Mudwort instinctively knew it hadn’t been lived in for a while. Yet there were possessions everywhere—ceramic dishes on a counter, a tall mug banded with copper, a small cask that might have held ale. The table had what she guessed was a shrine in its center: a totem of the same dwarf depicted on the hide, Reorx, circled by smooth stones she guessed came from the stream.
Whoever had moved on had left more than a few possessions behind. Maybe there was something interesting in the chest. She opened it, and out of the corner of her eye watched Horace step to the kitchen counter. The priest walked stooped over as the ceiling was low. He reached for a towel and wiped the juice from the tomato he had just eaten off his hands and face.