Goblin Nation

by Jean Rabe

  Direfang squared his shoulders and stared down at Skakee. “It is time for Skakee to leave this city. There is no place for such a goblin that fights with old ones over an accident. If the house had been built better, the wall would not have leaned. The fault is not with Rockhide. The fault is with Skakee for starting a fight. The wall could have been repaired. Should leave now,” he said, each word hard and distinct, “while Skakee still breathes.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  She sucked in a great gulp of air at the threat to her life and scrambled backward, kicking up dust and bumping into the legs of her fellows. She broke into a sob and whirled, pushing through the goblins behind her, little feet thudding against the dry ground and sending up puffs of dirt.

  The arguing grew louder, and Direfang gestured to Grallik. The wizard nodded, sending a stroke of fire down behind the assembly. The scent of burned earth filled their nostrils.

  “Skakee did wrong,” Direfang said loudly. His throat ached from the effort; he felt weary. “Skakee was punished. Simple.”

  “Direfang had no right,” one of her clansmen risked speaking up. “Direfang cannot—”

  “Cannot keep order?” the hobgoblin asked. He took a step toward the bold goblin and bent low to stare him in the face. “Someone must keep order, Grimstone, or chaos will rule this city.”

  THE STONETELLERS

  The Rebellion

  Death March

  Goblin Nation

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to Patrick McGilligan, Margaret Weis, Cam Banks, and Jamie Chambers for giving me encouragement and for providing background information on Krynn’s magnificent goblins. And thanks to Elizabeth Vaughan, who talked me out of killing one goblin too many.

  DEDICATION

  For Stephen D. Sullivan

  In another reality, my friend, you would

  have made a very fine hobgoblin.

  1

  THE STONETELLERS

  RAGE OF BLOOD

  It looked like a wolf, but it was the size of a mountain pony, stocky, and covered with coarse, black fur streaked with blood. Despite his keen hobgoblin senses, Direfang had not heard it approach. He’d been alerted only when it snarled as it loped toward him, inches-long fangs glistening from saliva and back legs propelling it off the loam and into him, the impact knocking his axe free and slamming his head against the hard ground. The beast pinned Direfang’s shoulders to the earth and sunk its teeth into his thick neck.

  Its breath was as foul as stagnant water, and its body reeked of long dead and rotted things. The odors hit the hobgoblin like a pounding wave. Direfang fought for air and tried to shove his arms up to pitch the dread thing off him. But it was stronger and heavy, its nails digging into the hobgoblin’s chest as it clamped its jaws tighter. Direfang hadn’t had time to call out a warning to his companions, though he heard others’ warning cries as he struggled—shrill, angry, frightened hoots from the goblins who had been toiling with him. Some called for everyone to flee, others to join the fight; one shouted hoarsely that Direfang needed help. But no one came to the hobgoblin’s rescue.

  From the snarls and howls rising around him, Direfang could tell there was more than that one overlarge wolf that he was finding impossible to dislodge.

  “Not … die … this … way,” Direfang managed.

  He reminded himself that he’d fought Dark Knights and ogres and survived an insidious plague, all of those opponents more formidable than that one creature. The muscles bunched in his arms as he wedged his hands farther under its chest. He gritted his teeth as the beast ripped a piece of his flesh free and its jaws shot toward his throat again.

  “And … not … die … this … day!”

  Direfang redoubled his efforts and pressed up again, finally moving the creature just enough so he could get out from under it and shove it away. He got to his knees as it came at him once more, teeth clacking and its deep, throaty growl intensifying. Direfang batted it back with both fists. The hobgoblin felt blood running down his neck and chest, warm and sticky and considerable—no doubt the reason he felt light-headed. He instinctively raised a hand to his wound as if to staunch the flow then stopped himself and used both hands to instead grab the relentless beast by its ruff.

  The creature was incredibly vicious if not crazed. Direfang sensed madness about it—staring at its red eyes with no visible pupils fixed on him, lips flecked with foam; there was a constant rumbling in its chest as if it were a smelter being stoked.

  “Bloodrager!” Direfang heard someone call. Grallik, he thought, as the voice did not belong to a goblin. “They are bloodragers!”

  So the creature had a name and a seemingly fitting one. Direfang fell back on his haunches as the bloodrager drove forward and nearly knocked him prone. He barely managed to keep it at arm’s length.

  “Not … this … day!” the hobgoblin repeated, twisting his fingers tighter into the fur and wrenching its head down and around. He was trying to snap the bloodrager’s neck, but that was proving elusive. He took a different approach, letting the creature come uncomfortably close and feeling its hot, fetid breath on his face as he prepared to use its momentum against it. Direfang got beneath the beast and pushed it up and over so it landed on its back. The hobgoblin jumped to his feet, fought against the dizziness, and prepared to meet its next charge.

  In that instant, Direfang got a quick look at the chaos around him. At least a dozen bloodragers had descended on the goblins who had been working to clear a stand of trees. There’d been more than a hundred goblins there heartbeats before, but many had obviously fled. There was Grallik too. The half-elf wizard had his back to a dead tree and was gesturing at one of the largest bloodragers.

  Direfang heard a whoosh of fire and knew it emanated from Grallik, but he looked away as his own foe drew all of his attention, its feet churning then leaving the ground as it leaped fiercely at him. The hobgoblin ducked and slammed his fists into the creature’s rib cage. The impact knocked the air from its lungs, and it dropped to the ground, shaking its head and trying to regain its balance. The hobgoblin didn’t give it the opportunity. In three steps he was on the bloodrager, hands finding and gripping its slimy muzzle.

  Its stench seemed somehow stronger, competing with Grallik’s smell of fire, the singed flesh, and the hobgoblin’s leaking blood. Direfang fought to keep from retching. Sweat streamed into the hobgoblin’s eyes, making everything look fuzzy. He threw his head back and gasped for fresh air, all the while keeping a firm hold on the bloodrager.

  “Fight the bloodragers! Don’t run!” Direfang hollered. “Stay and fight! Stay strong and win!”

  “Stay and win!” shouted Knobnose, a potbellied young goblin who’d been trying to fight his way toward Direfang. He wielded a bent axe he’d been using to chop at a tree. “Win for Direfang!”

  “Win for the Flamegrass clan!” cried an orange-skinned goblin.

  “Win for Rockbridge!” bellowed a gray-furred goblin with a long, bent nose.

  “Be fast! Be deadly!” became a chant that started with members of the Fishgatherer clan and spread to the rest.

  “From the sides! From behind it!” Direfang managed to shout. “Stay away from the teeth!”

  Then Direfang forced the cacophony to the back of his mind and with his waning strength managed to pry the bloodrager’s jaws open. The hobgoblin marveled at the muscles in the specimen and felt them ripple beneath his fingers. The creature shook wildly, and its teeth sliced at Direfang’s fingers. Despite the new pain, the hobgoblin held on tighter.

  “Die … this … day … monster!” He opened the jaws wider still. “Die now!” One more effort and he broke the bloodrager’s jaws with a loud crack, sending it into even greater contortions. He drove his fists into th
e beast’s sides rhythmically, like a drummer setting a cadence. Even then it whipped its head back and forth furiously, its bottom jaw hanging grotesquely loose and a thick line of blood running over its lower lip. It twisted its neck over its shoulder, and its hellish red eyes locked onto the hobgoblin. Direfang kept pounding and felt its ribs snap.

  “Fight close!” the hobgoblin commanded as he risked a glance around. “Fight together! Be fast!”

  “Fast and deadly!” Knobnose shouted. “Fast and win!”

  Direfang continued to snap orders at the goblins close enough to hear him. Only a few balked, hesitant to step near the bloodragers, and those were mainly goblins who had joined the band in only the past handful of days.

  When the beast finally collapsed beneath Direfang, he continued to strike it with one fist, still feeling it feebly wriggle beneath him. He pressed his free hand hard against the jagged tear in his neck, blood still flowing over his lacerated fingers. There was no healer with their workforce, and so Direfang realized he very well could die that day.

  There was another whoosh of flame then another. Screams and howls followed. Direfang glanced up from his motionless foe. A half dozen bloodragers lay dead, caught by Grallik’s bursts of magical fire and hacked up by the goblins who wielded axes.

  The remaining bloodragers were being contested by goblins who continued to wail their shrill war cries. Goblin corpses were scattered across the loam. It was as gruesome a battlefield as Direfang had ever seen.

  Growing weaker, Direfang awkwardly pushed off from the carcass and stood, holding his palm tighter against the wound on his neck. He felt flaps of skin and swore he could touch the muscle beneath.

  He looked for his axe, spotted it, and grabbed it up with his free hand. Then, without hesitation, he clumsily charged at the closest bloodrager. It was snapping at a quartet of goblins. Direfang saw an opening and hurled his axe. It cleaved into the beast’s side and brought a shrill, piercing howl. The goblin foursome descended on the beast to finish it off, and Direfang stumbled toward the next bloodrager, a long, skinny one that was threatening Knobnose and his clan members.

  A crackling noise pierced the din and stopped the hobgoblin, followed by a boom of thunder and the smell of something sharp and acrid. Then there was another loud crack, followed by a third and a fourth. Out of the corner of his eye, Direfang saw a thin bolt of lightning lance overhead and strike one of the bloodragers. A whoosh signaled another blast of fire from Grallik.

  Mudwort was responsible for the lightning strikes; Direfang knew that without seeing the red-skinned goblin shaman. She must have heard the commotion from their nearby camp and come running—along with dozens and dozens of others. Suddenly the ground was covered with raging goblins and hobgoblins. Their battle cries rose deafeningly.

  Direfang no longer tried to command the horde; they were frenzied and beyond listening, a sea of small, furious bodies swarming around trunks and over the remaining bloodragers. He sank to his knees and pressed both hands to his neck. He closed his eyes for just a moment. It would be so easy to give in to his pain, he thought. Just keep his eyes closed and pass from the bothersome world. His life was still flowing out over his fingertips. “So very easy,” he whispered.

  But nothing had ever been easy for him, and he would fight for life if for no other reason than to stay with his army and lead it to its destiny—fulfilling his duty. Yet his fingers were so slick with blood, he had a hard time holding them in place.

  “Fight,” he whispered. “Fight and live.”

  “Yes, live. Be well, Foreman Direfang.”

  The hobgoblin pried his eyes open; they were sticky with sweat and grit. A young human woman stood over him, pale hands shiny with magic.

  “You are gravely wounded,” she said. “But you are not yet beyond my touch.”

  Her name was Qel, and Direfang knew very little about her. She looked little more than a child, small and delicate with silvery-white hair that fell to her shoulders. She’d joined his army when they had stopped at Schallsea Island so the mystics could cure some of the goblins suffering from the plague.

  Direfang was not fond of humans, but he knew the goblins had no healers among them, so he had accepted her presence. He had been magically healed before, by an Ergothian priest of Zeboim who had traveled with the goblins for a time. That magic was warm and soothing and powerful. But Qel’s vibrant touch felt much different.

  A chill passed from his neck to his toes, bringing out goose bumps and causing him to tremble and his teeth to chatter. There was nothing soothing about her healing; he felt uncomfortable and suddenly itchy, like tiny insects were crawling across his skin, most of them centered on his neck. He was tempted to brush her hands away, not sure if he could trust her. But he sensed that without her ministrations he would die from loss of blood. So he endured the prickly, cold sensations for countless long minutes as the cacophony continued around him.

  It seemed as if all the goblins were chattering, their conversations an irritating, indecipherable buzz. There was the faintest clicking sound of branches nudged by the wind and the single cry of some hunting bird. Then there was his heart, pounding loudly in his ears. All of the sounds stirred together caused his head to ache.

  Then he felt Qel’s hands flutter down his arms and grasp his fingers. She squeezed them and made them feel as if they’d been thrust into an icy stream. She was healing them, he realized, but her ministrations hurt nearly as much as the wounds themselves.

  “You need rest,” Qel said a moment later, stepping away. Her hands were covered with his blood; she bent and wiped them on the grass. “I’ve others to tend to.” She gave him a faint smile and retreated to the base of an oak that had been damaged by Mudwort’s lightning. Two injured goblins were propped against it.

  Direfang waited a moment more before lumbering to his feet, the pain lessening. He looked away from the scattered bodies as he headed toward Mudwort. For the moment, he did not want to consider how many had died. He would learn the tally soon enough. Then the air would be filled with more fire and the pungent odor of fallen, burning goblins. Voices would be raised in memory of dead clansmen. The ritual of death and remembering would be repeated, as it had been so often, too often, on their journey to freedom.

  Mudwort was sitting next to Grallik; both had their heads bowed, and their lips were moving as if they were conspiring. The mass of goblins whooped and danced victoriously around the bloodrager carcasses. The army would dine well that night.

  “Foreman.” Grallik acknowledged Direfang’s approach. The wizard always referred to Direfang as Foreman, either as a measure of respect or simply because it had been the hobgoblin’s title when he slaved in the mine. Grallik had been his enemy then; while Direfang didn’t think of him as an enemy since the slave camp, well, Direfang still wasn’t sure what he was.

  “Grallik, Mudwort.”

  Mudwort did not look up.

  The hobgoblin sat cross-legged in front of them, his back to the dancing throng and the goblin corpses. Direfang was still weak.

  “Bloodragers, these things?” Direfang placed his big hands on his knees. He noticed that the cuts on his fingers had mended. The last of Qel’s magical chill suddenly vanished. She had done her job well. “Is this forest filled with these bloodragers?”

  Grallik shook his head.

  Direfang studied the half-elf wizard, as if the scars on the left side of the man’s face comprised a map. More scars ran down the man’s neck and the left side of his body from a fire long ago, the hobgoblin had heard. The wizard’s shirt concealed the worst of the horrible marks.

  “No, Foreman. Bloodragers are a rare thing. I’d only ever spotted one during my youth, and though that was a long while ago, the image and the subsequent vivid tales I’ve heard made me recognize these creatures as the ’ragers.” He paused and looked around Direfang. “Bloodragers are the dark side of the woods, nature twisted by magic and fueled by something beyond this world.”

  “Explai
n,” Direfang said.

  Grallik sighed, a dry sound that melted into the clicking of thin branches directly above. “Dire wolves, Foreman. Bloodragers are dire wolves infected by some arcane disease, perhaps on purpose, perhaps a magical experiment gone awry. The latter is more likely, I think. Terrifying and thoroughly feral, they live only to kill. There are not thought to be many of them in the world. But … perhaps … that belief is incorrect.”

  Direfang nodded. “There were many here, wizard. Far too many, in fact.” He paused, thinking. “Is the flesh …”

  “Harmful? Diseased?” Grallik shrugged. “I’m certain the woman or the gnoll will have some enchantment floating around in their heads that can make the meat safe to eat. Pray that you cook it this time. I’ll not eat it raw. No more. I’m done with such fare, and I’ll …”

  Direfang shut out the rest of the wizard’s words as he glanced over his shoulder, still avoiding looking at the goblin corpses. Some of the goblins had started skinning the bloodragers, with a reasonable amount of care, he noted. They were obviously trying to preserve the hides. A few months past, Direfang knew they would have simply hacked into the bodies for the choicest pieces of meat and left everything else to rot with no thought of the future. His followers were finally thinking differently, planning ahead, and that was a good thing, he thought.

  Qel tended a fallen hobgoblin. A few yards beyond her a creature busied itself—one that Direfang considered even more hideous than his scarred and battered self. Appearing a little taller than a hobgoblin, it had green-gray skin covered with thin fur and a head that resembled a hyena’s. A reddish mane sprouted from the top of its head and ran down its neck. Grallik had called it a gnoll, and it had introduced itself as Orvago.

  Like Qel, the gnoll came from the Citadel of Light on Schallsea Island and had volunteered to accompany the goblins to the Qualinesti Forest. And, also like Qel, the gnoll was a healer, though not of the same cloth. “One of Scanion’s druids from the Animism Lyceum,” Qel had explained to Direfang. The words meant nothing to the hobgoblin. The only thing that mattered was that the hideous gnoll was useful and could tend the injured.