by Jean Rabe
It was clear to Spikehollow that Saro-Saro was angry with him for not killing Direfang when he had a good chance. It was also clear to Spikehollow that Direfang had saved his life and had carried him down the mountain. Squinting as the late afternoon sun hit the side of the mountain and made the granite in it sparkle, Spikehollow looked up the hard trail they’d just come down; it was just as steep as the one on the other side.
He blinked furiously when he realized there were dozens of goblins nearby who he did not recognize from the march. Where had all the new ones come from? Was he imagining them in his fever?
“Hunter’s Ridge clan,” Pippa explained, patting him on the shoulder. “More than two hundred, Direfang said. Came from these trees, said the clan answered Mudwort’s call. Said more are coming.”
Spikehollow groaned. His legs ached even more than before. He was still cool from his damp clothes, though the bad chill had left him and his head had stopped pounding. Other than his aching legs, he felt a little better.
He heard the crackle of a fire starting to take a good hold and turned, craning his stiff neck over his shoulder. Leftear had spitted a pig and was roasting it. Spikehollow anticipated a fight as the pig was not big enough to feed even the smallest clan.
“The skull man did some tending,” Pippa said. She edged closer and felt his cheek. “Not burning so much now. The skull man helped Spikehollow some. Feeling better?”
Her face loomed large, her eyes shiny and wet, as if she’d been crying over something. Spikehollow thought about asking her what was bothering her, but he knew Pippa. She was talkative and would tell him soon enough.
“Bugteeth is dead,” she said finally.
So that was her unfortunate news.
“Bugteeth didn’t fall,” she added. “Bugteeth got sick like Spikehollow, and the skull man couldn’t help. The skull man didn’t tend Bugteeth soon enough. Direfang had the skull man tend Spikehollow first. Bugteeth couldn’t wait for healing.”
Spikehollow glanced around Pippa and saw Saro-Saro still scowling. Bugteeth had been the most loyal to the old clan leader.
“Where is Direfang, Pippa?”
“Still alive. Talking with the Hunter’s Ridge clan leader.” Pippa helped Spikehollow up when it was clear he was refusing to stay put. “Should wash those clothes, Spikehollow. Stinky stinky.” She held her nose for effect and pointed to the river.
Spikehollow ignored her for the moment, wanting to find Direfang and the source of the odd music. He stepped away and looked to the river. Goblins were lined up along the bank—some resting, some of them bathing, many of them drinking their fill, most all talking. It was like a carpet of bodies stretching to the north and south, some of them grouped into clans. They spread back into the trees too, and the music was coming from there. He didn’t see Direfang, so he decided to pursue the music first.
He tried to follow the odd notes, Pippa shuffling behind him.
“Spikehollow should wash those clothes,” she insisted.
He waggled his fingers behind him, hoping to silence her. Both hands free, he remembered he’d lost his treasure bag. A small price to pay, he decided, for breathing the air of life. He would not be able to kill Direfang. Spikehollow had a sense of honor, after all. Saro-Saro would have to find someone else in the clan to tend to the matter … or handle it himself.
Spikehollow still intended to see to Saro-Saro’s demise, but he didn’t need to worry about that just then. He was grateful he was no longer dizzy and the priest’s ministrations had helped. He still felt a little tired, and there were the aches that plagued him. But he was recovering, it was certain. And he’d not really showed signs of weakness to any of the others; he hadn’t been the one to ask the skull man for help; Direfang had done that for him.
The pines smelled heady. Even with hundreds of goblins around, the trees had a strong, sweet smell that was like nothing else Spikehollow had experienced in his life. The young goblin had not been born a slave and, in fact, had spent only a relatively short time in the mines of Steel Town. But his native land was filled with rolling hills and saw grass, and the trees had broad leaves and thick trunks. There were pines north of Steel Town, but he’d never got a close look at them or smelled them before. In the mining camp, all he smelled was sweat and dirt, the harsh scent of iron being drawn from the rocks, and sulfur when the volcanoes smoked.
“It smells wonderful,” he said, walking deeper into the forest.
“Yes,” Pippa agreed. She came up to his side and touched his arm. Was she trying to claim him? “Is this the forest Direfang was leading us to? Saro-Saro said it was much farther away.”
“Not this forest,” Spikehollow said. The trees were tall and grew close together, but from his view on top of the mountain, he knew it wasn’t a very large forest, just a strip of pine trees that paralleled the river. “But this is a good forest.”
“Why not stay here, then? Saro-Saro’s clan could stay here; the Flamegrass clan too. Might not have to kill Direfang then. Direfang can go on to that other forest. Why not stay here?”
Spikehollow thought it a reasonable question. But there were too many goblins for the small forest; it was too close to Neraka and the Dark Knights, and also too close to ogre territory.
He shook his head. “There is a better place for goblins, a safer one. Maybe Mudwort knows best.”
She pursed her lips, considering that, and her fingers trailed up and down his arm. “Good that Spikehollow is not sick anymore.”
“Yes, it is very good.” He stopped when the odd music grew louder, and he looked up, seeing bottles hanging from a tall pine. Its lowest branches were at least six feet off the ground, and as the breeze rustled the branches, the music came from the bottles.
“Why would anyone hang bottles from a tree?” said Pippa, releasing Spikehollow’s arm and coming to stand directly under a dark blue bottle with a long, fluted neck. It was tied to the tree with a piece of leather. “What a silly thing to do.”
Nothing else hung from the tree save pine cones, though farther up were several birds’ nests, old ones that had not been used in years. Spikehollow looked from one bottle to the next. Some were tiny, no bigger than his thumb, others were as big around and as long as his forearm; the bigger ones were tied on with multiple leather strands.
Some of the bottles clacked dryly against branches; others made rustling sounds against the needles. But the ones close to other bottles clinked merrily against each other in the breeze and made whistling noises from the wind sweeping across their open tops. There were more bottles than Spikehollow could count.
“A good, not silly, thing to do, hanging all of these,” Spikehollow corrected her. “It sounds good, all these bottles.”
“But why do it?” Pippa was more interested in why someone would hang them from the tree than in the bottles themselves or the silly sounds they made.
The sun cut through the branches, making some of the bottles look golden. Most were clear, but there were a few of the dark blue ones, and some were so close a shade of green to the needles that it was difficult to separate them from the foliage. There was a yellow one that was in the shape of a bird with its wings folded close to its side. The leather thong that held it to the tree was wrapped around an open beak that Spikehollow guessed someone once drank out of. Two were the color of milk and were as big around as they were tall, looking more like fat globes than ordinary bottles. The corks that used to stopper all of them were strung on threads on branches. Their movement added to the music.
“Go get Direfang,” Spikehollow told her. “Find Direfang somewhere near the river.” He moved closer to the trunk and stared up. “Direfang should see this.”
“What about Saro-Saro?” Pippa tapped her foot against the ground, making a crunching sound against the many dropped pine cones. “Saro-Saro should see this first.”
“Then go get Saro-Saro and Direfang.” Spikehollow unfastened the quilt from his neck and laid it on the ground. Then he sat on the f
orest floor, still gazing up at the unusual sight.
He spotted a dark red bottle, the only one of its color. It had a knob at the bottom and top, and was thinner in the middle, almost shaped like an hourglass. He thought that the prettiest one, the sun making it look wet and inviting like a sweet apple.
Several minutes later, a crowd of goblins had gathered around the tree along with three hobgoblins Spikehollow had never seen before. He heard one with a pockmarked face call the young one Ruffem. Saro-Saro arrived, muscling his way to the front and snorting scornfully.
“Stopped eating for this?” he asked, glaring at Spikehollow. “Stupid to stop eating for this. Lots of empty bottles. So what?” The old goblin spat and ground the ball of his foot against a pine cone. “Stupid Spikehollow.” He turned and retreated a few yards, pushing his way through the crowd. But he didn’t go far.
Direfang had arrived, and everyone awaited his reaction, which was different. The hobgoblin stared thoughtfully before he stretched up and grabbed a bottle, a long-necked clear one. He tugged, which set the bottles on the same branch to clinking and whistling in the breeze. The sounds were melodious; he tugged again and again to the oohs and ahs of the young goblins around him. Finally the bottle came loose, and he inspected it in his hand. Fashioned of heavy glass, it had a maker’s mark on the bottom and some sort of raised lettering that had been rendered when the bottle was formed. He hefted it in one palm, showing it to everyone around him who gawked at the pretty musical bottle.
“Wizard!” Direfang shouted several times before Grallik materialized. He tossed the bottle to Grallik, who in his surprise caught it awkwardly, just barely keeping from being struck by the flying object. “Huh. What is the meaning of this bottle tree?”
“A waste!” That opinion came from Saro-Saro, who had turned around and was standing, glaring at Direfang. “A waste of time is the meaning of it. This tree has nothing to do with goblins.” The old goblin spit again and turned, ambling slowly toward the river.
Grallik looked at the bottle in his hands, his fingers tracing the raised words. “It’s a glass tree,” he said finally, handing off the bottle to a tall goblin. “I’d wager it was started quite some while ago, judging by how rotted some of those leather strips look.” He pointed to a green bottle hanging from a cracked leather cord.
“A glass tree,” Spikehollow whispered to Pippa, translating the wizard’s tongue.
“What’s a glass tree?” Pippa wondered aloud.
Direfang translated her question, which was also the very next thing he intended to ask.
The wizard brushed his hands against his threadbare undertunic. “Elves probably were responsible for this one, given the fact that it’s in a forest. A glass tree was a tradition started by some Nerakan merchants many, many years ago. They’d hang bottles and pieces of glass from the few trees they passed on their trade routes. The wind blowing across the tops of the bottles was said to ward off evil influences, such as bandits. Some elves adopted the practice to ward away foul forest spirits and the like.”
Spikehollow said, “The sounds are nice, like a song without words.” He repeated the wizard’s explanation in goblinspeak to the many others collected around him.
The wizard had wound his way through the goblins and come up to the trunk, careful not to step on Spikehollow’s quilt. He pointed to a symbol carved at his eye level. “Elven for certain. Some of the homes …” He paused, caught up in a memory of his young years. “The homes where I grew up. They had these symbols carved on door frames or somewhere in their shops. It essentially is a wish for good luck and boon times.”
Direfang joined him. “Can hardly see it, that faint symbol.”
“The bark’s growing over it. I don’t believe there have been any elves around here for years. There are more carvings higher, but they are even harder to recognize. Some are names, some of them symbols.”
“So the bottles belong to no one. Not any longer.” The hobgoblin scratched his head and reached up, and standing on his toes was able to grab one of the darker blue bottles. He yanked it hard, and the cord snapped, the motion again setting many bottles to clinking and whistling. “Wouldn’t matter if the bottles did belong to elves.” He turned to face the crowd. “Take everything. The bottles will be good to hold river water when there is no more river to drink from.”
Direfang pulled down a few more then returned to the river, passing by a group of Hunter’s Ridge clan members who called out to him about how pleased they were to join the hobgoblin’s army.
Pippa came back to Spikehollow. She touched his arm gently and nodded to the tree. “Which bottle for me, you?”
“The red one,” Spikehollow said. “The only red one on the tree.”
She brushed her hand against his cheek, scampered to the trunk, and tied her shirt around her waist so it would not tangle in her legs. Then she started to climb.
Some goblins stood on their taller kinsmen’s shoulders so they could reach the lowest-hanging bottles. Others followed Pippa’s example and climbed. Grallik watched them for a moment then reached toward the tall goblin he’d given the first bottle to. He plucked it from the goblin’s hands.
“This one is mine,” the wizard said flatly, looking around fiercely. “Foreman Direfang gave it to me.” Not waiting for an argument, he left. “And someone best tell Horace and Kenosh they should come here—soon—if they want their own bottles.”
20
MUDWORT’S PRICE
The sky was as red as Spikehollow’s bottle. The setting sun had colored the low-hanging clouds crimson, and the goblins stared at it, oddly quiet. They’d left the shade of the pine trees days before and were at a point where Mudwort said the river would soon widen and head straight to the sea. More goblins and hobgoblins had joined them, the army’s numbers swelling to close to two thousand.
Where had they all come from? Direfang asked Mudwort days past.
Mudwort shrugged and found something to busy herself with. She did not want to tell Direfang that she’d been calling through the stone to their kinsmen, summoning them to join the horde.
She sat apart from the rest of the goblins, her thoughts churning. Direfang had confessed to her that he’d changed his mind about the Qualinesti Forest. It was too far away; the clans would drift apart long before they reached the place. And she hadn’t been able to find a faster route to travel to the forest.
“There are too many of us now,” he told her. “We will attract attention if we march directly to the Qualinesti Forest. So we will go first to the Plains of Dust … if this army will walk that far.”
Mudwort wanted—needed—to reach the forest. She couldn’t tell Direfang why because she couldn’t provide a solid reason to herself. But her mind had touched something there when she’d been looking for a home for the army, when she’d mingled her magic with Moon-eye’s and Boliver’s. And that something lured her; she couldn’t say why, but she couldn’t resist.
Her fingers drummed across the ground, twirling in the grass as she softly hummed. She’d heard some of the newcomers speculate that something bad was coming because the sky had turned the shade of blood.
They were silly to be superstitious.
There was no nervousness in the ground, so Mudwort was not worried about any “bad somethings.” She was instead worried about Direfang turning his army of goblins away from her goal.
It had become so easy to let her mind drift through the earth and flow like water in any direction she wanted. It was easier still when she held one of the uncut blue stones from her pouch. There was an uneven fracture to that particular stone. It was the color of one of the blue bottles that had been plucked from the glass tree, but it was clear on one end and darker at the bottom. There were others in the pouch that were prettier, but that one had already warmed to her touch; she held the blue stone pressed against her palm.
She thought she might look in on the shaman Saarh, journey through the stone and years and find the cave again. But since sh
e had established that the cave and the shaman were lodged in the past, that wasn’t an immediate concern. There would be time for such matters later. She had a much more important mission at the moment.
Her mind traveled southwest, flowing through the sea when she came to it and hurrying along—she didn’t like the sensation of being surrounded by water. She touched the shore of the swamp and continued due west. Faster and faster she traveled through the earth, ignoring all the interesting things she came across that had been buried in the ground by men or by time.
She came upon another range of mountains, and her senses rose as she touched them, feeling limestone that had been veined and pocked on the surface by heavy rains and deeper by underground streams. There were sections of sandstone too, and graywacke, basalt, and obsidian, the last of which was cool and smooth and almost tempted her to stop her travels so she could enjoy the sensation.
Abruptly she reached the forest, which began on the other side of the range. Her mind skimmed the surface of the ground, weaving around the trunks and slowing to feel the pulse of the land.
“Where is it?” she whispered to herself. “The very special something is here. Somewhere here.”
Mudwort was so engrossed in her search she didn’t hear the wizard and Kenosh approaching her. Both had been sitting nearby, watching her. Grallik cautioned Kenosh to keep quiet as they crept closer.
She’d only journeyed there once before, that time when she and Moon-eye and Boliver had looked for a land for all the goblins to live in. They were inside the top of a mountain when they cast that seeing spell; she couldn’t recall the name of the place in the mountain, but the skull man had told it to her—a place of religious or arcane significance for humans. She couldn’t remember why it was so important. But she remembered the priest said it was a repository of power, and the magic had come easily to her there.
“Where is it? What is it?”
Refusing to give up, she sent her mind deeper into the ground, teasing the very ends of the roots of the great trees. She felt water rushing over her, the earth damp and rich there, and she passed through ground that was so hard packed it could pass for stone. Mudwort was growing tired; she had put so much energy into her spell. Her palm ached from pressing the blue stone so hard against it.