by Jean Rabe
Direfang slowly stood and locked eyes with the gnoll. “The flesh of the bloodragers must be made safe, understand?” the hobgoblin said as he neared. “The carcasses of these things will be devoured before sunset. No goblins should get sick from eating the meat.”
Without waiting for a reply, the hobgoblin turned and sought an old goblin named Rockhide, whose mind was sharp but his limbs feeble and covered with ugly, brown age spots.
“Watch the feast,” Direfang told him.
The old goblin’s chest swelled as he realized Direfang was giving him something important to do.
“Make sure the bloodrager bones are collected for tools.”
Rockhide nodded. “Collected and cleaned.”
“Make sure the hides are well scraped.”
“Tan the hides,” Rockhide said. “Use the hides.”
Direfang trembled and planted his feet farther apart to steady himself. Qel had indeed mended his gashes, but she could not replace the blood he’d lost. That would take time. He still felt weak.
“And watch the wizard.”
Rockhide twisted his head until he spotted Grallik next to Mudwort. When the old goblin turned back, Direfang was gone.
2
THE STONETELLERS
DIREFANG’S MONUMENT
Twice the height of the goblins in his ragtag army, Direfang presented an imposing figure as he strode around. His dark gray hide was covered with thick, bristly hair, save for bare patches on his arms and chest that bore wide scars he’d gained from toiling in the mines.
It hadn’t been very long since he’d been a slave for the Dark Knights in Steel Town—a month or two maybe, but time blurred in his mind like the indistinct forms of the trees wrapped in the early morning fog. Then the earthquakes had come and collapsed the mines, the volcanoes had erupted, and in the midst of all the terror and devastation, he’d fled with the other goblin and hobgoblin slaves. He’d led them all away from that hellish place and brought them to where they were. And then the bloodragers had come …
The journey was a road, and once he’d started down it, he found that he could not turn back. His destiny was set; he hoped he’d made the right decision regarding the forest.
Neraka was blessedly so very far away.
“Free,” he whispered. “Free finally.”
Most of them had arrived on ships that had been bought with accidental gains and subsequently released to their captains.
He wondered if, after the previous day’s slaughter, he should have instead ordered the captains to sail them all to Northern Ergoth. The old goblin nation of Sikk’et Hul was there. Life might have been uncomplicated on that big island, no bloodragers to worry about, and no building from scratch.
His goblin army could have been absorbed by Sikk’et Hul.
Made a part of something else.
It would have been easier, but it wouldn’t have been their own, would it? It would have been wrong, he felt.
Instead he’d chosen a different road to take his life down, and there was no turning back. A new goblin nation was his goal.
Perhaps that was why he’d never mentioned to the others the possibility of traveling to Sikk’et Hul as they wended their way south through the mountains, leaving what remained of Steel Town. He didn’t want to go to Sikk’et Hul. He wanted to go somewhere and start afresh.
Too, Mudwort had insisted on traveling to that forest, and he’d always trusted her counsel. There was some selfish reason she’d wanted to go there, he suspected, but he didn’t know what that was, and for the moment he didn’t care. The massive woods, once claimed by the elves before the dragon overlord Beryl came, were temperate and filled with food. He found them pleasing.
It had been the right road.
And if there were no more bloodragers, perhaps he would finally find a safe road too.
Direfang absently rubbed his calloused palms together, the sound dry. The hobgoblin followed a narrow, overgrown game trail, only pieces of which were visible. He stared at the tendrils of fog curling around his legs, barely registering the coolness. The fog reminded him of the smoke that had rolled off the funeral pyre the day before; he swore he could still smell the acrid stench of the burning goblin corpses and see their small limbs blackening. His mouth was suddenly parched and his tongue thick. His feet crunched over twigs and clumps of dirt, and that made him think of goblin teeth and their thin, tiny bones that had been scattered and broken when the ashes had cooled.
Nothing had been left intact or touching.
The spirits could not return to their moldering bodies trapped in the earth; they would instead be forced to find the wombs of pregnant goblins and be born again into what they hoped would be a better world.
Direfang rambled around, heading nowhere in particular, looking over his motley charges. He’d become accustomed to early-morning walks alone as the goblins were rousing, and he’d taken the trail the day before at dawn and so was familiar with it. He avoided the goblins’ friendly chatter and mild arguments that way, the posturing of the various clans. He’d return shortly, after they’d had time to eat and stretch and finish their arguments. Then he would assign tasks and start work.
There was so much to do.
The ground where they’d been chopping down trees he’d selected as the site for their city. It was near water, the land was flat, and the trunks of the trees were thin enough that they could be felled without too much trouble. But it would not do anymore, and they would have to find another place. Too much blood had been spilled there. The Flamegrass clan, several of the hobgoblins, and the Fishgatherers were superstitious about living on blood-soaked ground—particularly when the blood came from their relatives. Too many worried that more bloodragers would come to the spot and kill again. Nothing but bad omens circled that ground, Thya said after the corpse-burning.
Direfang admitted to a few superstitions too, so he had told them all late that night that a better place would be found and that they would start looking in earnest the very next day. Always moving on, moving on, he sighed gloomily.
Birds chirped musically, but he couldn’t see them through the fog. There was a faint breeze; it gently nudged the leaves overhead but didn’t make it down as far as the ground.
He still ached from the fight with the bloodragers, his neck still throbbed, though not so bad as before. True, Qel had saved his life, but he did not consider her as fine a healer as the Ergothian priest who’d once accompanied them. She was young, Direfang thought, and therefore lacked the Ergothian’s experience. And perhaps her god was not as powerful.
Direfang spit and clenched his fists. He growled deep in his throat and did not realize the sound caused the birds to quiet. He recognized the gods of the world, but he did not believe in them, he reflected. None of the goblins in his army believed. The gods had done nothing to help goblinkind.
Lost in his musings, Direfang unknowingly wandered off the familiar game trail. The trunks were closer together, and in spots he had to squeeze through clumps of birches. The fog hid exposed roots, and the hobgoblin stumbled here and there, catching himself on low-hanging branches.
Direfang usually liked the smell of the forest, from the flowers that hung on vines high in the canopy to the rotting wood pieces and fallen leaves on the floor. But he had a difficult time smelling any of it that morning, as his own stench overpowered everything else; it was a strong, redolent mix of sweat and dirt but mostly of caked, dried blood that was heavy under his nails and matted in his fur. He scratched at some of the scabs on his fingers then stopped himself; he didn’t want to open the wounds that Qel had healed.
He would find a stream and wash himself, drink his fill, and return to the goblins to start the day’s tasks. There must be water nearby, as he heard faint gurgling. Had he not stunk so badly, he could have sniffed his way to it.
The fog had thinned to a fine, lacy mist by the time he found an egg-shaped pond as cerulean as a clear sky and dotted with lily pads and rosy pink blooms t
hat lay flat on the surface. It was fed by a small stream no wider than his thigh. He sat at the edge of the pond and cupped his hands to take a drink; then he froze. On the other side, still as a rock, stood a fawn with wide eyes and large, perfect ears.
“Beautiful,” Direfang murmured.
He stared at the creature for long minutes, holding his breath and remaining as still as the forest creature.
Finally it blinked and dipped its muzzle for a drink, deciding the hobgoblin was no threat. Direfang remained motionless, studying the delicate animal. There’d been no deer around Steel Town, and Direfang had not seen one since his youth. He’d never seen one so young and fragile-looking.
The fawn drank deep and began nibbling on the bark of a sapling that grew at the pond’s edge.
Direfang rose slowly and slipped quietly around the pond. He brushed against a spreading fern, making a shushing sound that caused the fawn to glance up. His approach noted, the fawn resumed nibbling.
“Beautiful, beautiful creature,” Direfang murmured again. He stopped when he was a few yards away, not wanting it to bolt in fear. The fog was all but gone, and he could see the fawn’s tapered legs, its front two, splayed wide, had white markings that looked like socks. Its sand brown back was dusted with spots, like large snowflakes that had come to rest and not been permitted to melt. Its nose was shiny, as dark as the round, unblinking eyes that again took in Direfang.
“Curious, eh?” Direfang edged his foot forward. He fully expected the fawn to run, for it appeared nervous. “Stay,” he whispered fervently. “Please stay. Do not run.” He took another step then another. He wanted Mudwort to see the creature, or Rockhide or Graytoes, or anyone who might appreciate its beauty. “Do not run.”
He tentatively stretched a hand toward the fawn and watched its nose twitch, trying to take in all the scents of the hobgoblin. A little farther and Direfang’s fingers were a forearm’s length from the top of its head. Direfang knew it would feel pleasing to his touch.
A little farther.
One more step.
The hobgoblin’s stomach softly rumbled. He’d not shared in the bloodragers the previous day, and he’d not eaten anything yet that morning. The fawn would taste good and would be more than enough to fill his empty belly.
“Do not run, beautiful creature.”
A little closer and the hobgoblin stepped on a thick twig, his weight snapping it and spooking the fawn. It sprang away, but Direfang was just as fast, arm shooting out, fingers closing on the fawn’s neck.
He hoisted the fawn, grimacing when its small, flailing hooves repeatedly struck him. It made a mewling sound like a goblin baby.
“Sweet meat,” he said. “Soft skin.” He would give the hide to Graytoes for her baby.
With his free hand he reached for the axe tucked into his belt. “Die fast and painless.”
It mewled more shrilly, and its hooves churned faster. He held it out farther so it could not touch him.
“For food and for Graytoes’ Umay.” Direfang brought the axe up and behind his shoulder. One stroke would do it.
He saw his face reflected in the wide, black eyes and saw foam fleck along its mouth. He hesitated then dropped the axe.
“Too beautiful.” He lowered the fawn to the ground and released it. In its panic to escape, it nearly tangled itself in the reeds at the pond’s edge. But a moment more and it was clumsily running away, vaulting over a wide patch of saw grass and losing itself behind a clump of birches, mewling the whole way.
Direfang waded into the pond until he was up to his hips. After a moment he sat, feeling the cold water swirl around his shoulders. He tipped his head back and watched a V of birds pass overhead.
He stayed that way for longer than he had intended. When he emerged, he retrieved his axe and found the tracks he’d left on his way there. The fog gone, the exposed roots and fallen limbs were easy to navigate.
Direfang briefly considered bringing the goblins that way, as he wanted to establish a village near a body of water. But the pond and the stream wouldn’t be enough for his growing throng—more goblins had arrived from the dwarf mountains only two days past. He had sent groups of scouts out at dawn to the south and west to look for a considerable water source. He would send more in a few minutes when he returned to the camp.
The hobgoblin was nearly back to the game trail when he spotted a piece of worked stone near the trunk of an old willow. The odd, twisting spire reached as high as his chest, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it on his trek to the pond.
“The fog,” he said, realizing that must have cloaked it.
He padded toward the stone spire, careful to step over a large sticker bush.
The piece looked sculpted or carved from a type of stone he’d not seen before, and he’d seen plenty in the Steel Town mines and in the mountains they’d traipsed through to make their escape. It was a pink and gray color, both at the same time, but not granite, which also had those combinations, and it had clear crystals embedded in it he was certain would sparkle if the sunlight could reach through the willow leaves to touch it.
The base was as wide around as his thigh, the top a point no thicker than his finger. It was smooth—he confirmed that with a touch—and felt cool. He ran his hands along the surface, finding carvings on one side. Direfang had to stoop to see them.
“Words,” he pronounced, but none he could read. “Elven words.” That was a guess, seeing as how the woods once belonged to them. The letters, if that’s what they were, looked elegant and thin, like an elf would make, Direfang thought. He stared for several minutes, trying to commit them to memory and discovering that when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t picture any of them.
“Maybe a grave.” In Steel Town the Dark Knights buried their dead, setting up stones as memorials for the more important men. Maybe the elves did the same, and the artful spire was a monument of some sort that marked the remains of someone significant.
Direfang shrugged. If it was a grave, he didn’t have qualms about disturbing it. Bodies should not be buried, he believed firmly. They should be burned and scattered, nothing touching.
He squatted and dug around the base, carefully as his fingers still ached a little from the cuts he’d suffered. There wasn’t much of the stone beneath the ground, and after a little more digging, he was able to tip it over. At the bottom of the hole left behind were three rocks each the size of a goblin’s fist, smooth, as if they’d been worn for ages in a river, and covered in more of the graceful, thin letters. Each rock was a different color: rose like the shade in the small spire; a green so pale it was practically white and made the marks the most difficult to see; and bright blue, a most unnatural color for a rock.
Direfang plucked the blue one out first. It was at the same time brighter and lighter than the blue gemstones Mudwort had found in the dwarven village they’d passed through weeks before. Yet it was not the same type of stone as Mudwort’s, and it felt cool, even when he pressed it into his palm. Mudwort’s gemstones warmed to the touch, he knew. Odd, too, that there wasn’t a speck of dirt on the stones, nor was dirt embedded in the depressions where the letters had been carved into them, despite the stones having been buried for … certainly a long time.
Direfang picked up the other two stones and thrust all of them in the pocket of his tunic. He circled the willow, avoiding the thorny bushes that grew in profusion there, looking for more of the colorful, shiny stones. He widened his circle, coming upon the ruined foundation of a small building. A few of the foundation rocks remaining were still held together by mortar, like some of the buildings in Steel Town had been constructed. He traced their outline, brushing aside ferns and bushes and scratching the earth here and there, hoping he might find …
“Find what?” Direfang said. “Find nothing.” He wondered if he was just looking for an excuse to not return to the throng of goblins and start the day’s work. Was he becoming an old lazybones?
Still he persisted in his search, finall
y managing to unearth a few trinkets: a small, silver spoon with delicate scrollwork on the handle; a glazed earthenware mug that had survived whatever catastrophe had befallen the place; and a dozen pearls on a thin, rotted cord. He put the pearls and the spoon in his pocket. The mug was too large, and he almost left it behind. But it was a bit of curious treasure, and he thought he might find a use for it, so he untied his belt, ran the handle through it, and retied it.
Direfang ranged a little farther, looking for more ruins and spire stones. The undergrowth was thick, but he shuffled through it in a steady rhythm that coordinated with the clicking of a big, black bird perched on a branch overhead. He thought he might get lucky twice and stub his toes on another foundation and find more treasures. Where the sun cut through a lattice of branches, the thin beams looked like spun glass, a haze of gnats flitting through them. The gnats swarmed around Direfang too, but they were too trivial a nuisance to concern him.
Eventually he gave up searching, guessing that perhaps there’d been only the one building, the residence of some peculiar elf hermit who dined with fine silver and drank from a glazed mug. After one more sweep around the lone foundation, he returned to ogle the mysterious spire and dig just a little more in the dirt.
After a while he stood and shrugged. If it was a monument that marked a grave, it marked a deep one, and the hobgoblin had no desire to waste more time digging for bug-riddled elf bones.
A part of Direfang was irritated that he’d already spent so much time away from his goblin charges, curious about the polished rock spire and an old building foundation. It wasn’t like him to dally so long when there was work to be done, even though he did covet snatches of solitude and was a curious sort of fellow.
“Late,” he decided. “Terribly late getting back.”
He continued to stare at the sculpted stone spire. There was no dirt on its base, even the part of it that had been thrust into the ground. It was as if nothing could stick to it.