Goblin Nation

by Jean Rabe

Bera and Zocci were on their feet, striding through the men toward the goblin, staring down on it and making it cower all the more.

  “Commander.” Zeff was not a tall knight, but he looked imposing, even as haggard as he was from a long day’s march to reach the camp. Uncustomary stubble grew on his ruddy face, which he rubbed before snapping to attention. On first glance he looked thickset, but it was muscle, not fat, and it seemed more pronounced because of the armor. “We found four of them at first light this morning. A hunting party, obviously, they all carried crude spears. This one …” He indicated the one still breathing, “had clothes, looks like they belonged to a human child. Definitely stolen.”

  “So a Steel Town goblin.” Bera bent to take a closer look at the captive.

  It was hard to determine the color of its hide: gray or brown, she guessed, though it was so filthy, it probably could have been green under all of that. About two and a half feet tall, the little goblin had knobby wrists and ankles, like Isaam, she mused, and it had a small potbelly that could have been from lack of food. The three corpses looked similar.

  The live one’s eyes were dark and fixed on hers. Its nose wiggled and the snot rivulets that ran from it gleamed in the firelight. The creature wore a shirt that at one time was pink or rose-colored. Tiny hearts and flowers were embroidered in darker thread along the collar and sleeves. The image of a kitten had been embroidered on the front, but the threads were so worn and torn that only half of the face was recognizable. It was clearly a human child’s garment.

  “Good work, Zeff, Artis,” she said, nodding to the latter, a young knight who stood behind Zeff. Two more knights moved out from behind them, and Bera gestured that they should join the rest of the men for the evening meal. She never took her gaze off the goblin. “Creature,” she began. “You will tell me—”

  Zeff cleared his throat. “Commander, we determined that this goblin does not understand the common tongue.

  There was the softest of conversations from a group of knights who sat farthest from the fire. Mugs clinked, and she could hear men eating. Most of the knights were quiet, though, intent on what was transpiring. But there were so many knights, there was never complete silence in the camp.

  “None of us know its foul language,” Zeff continued. “Dwarvish, I speak that; but the goblin is clueless there too. None of the goblins could understand us. We killed three of them in the trying.” He shook his head in frustration. “We couldn’t make any sense out of their gibberish. And we brought the bodies in case Isaam wanted to try to speak to them. We know he can talk to the dead sometimes.”

  Bera looked even closer and discovered the cowering goblin was missing the toes on its right foot, and that the stumps had been cauterized. There were more burn marks on its legs, and its left arm was broken. She saw a jagged cut on the side of its neck, all evidence that her men had questioned the creature for some time and gained nothing. Despite the strong odor of the deer and the sweat-stained clothing of her men, she could smell the stench of the goblin, the urine that had run down its legs, its burned hair and skin, crusted blood. Her mouth was filled with the venison she’d just finished eating, her stomach threatening to bring it up.

  “Zocci.” She looked away from the goblin and edged a few paces back, drawing better air into her lungs. “Talk to it. I want to know.”

  Zocci stepped closer and knelt next to the goblin, the strong reek of it seeming not to bother him. He started speaking before Bera could finish her order. That was something that bothered her about him … that he would take charge of a situation too soon. It was not insubordination exactly, nothing as serious as that. She turned her head and drew in another deep breath of better air. Isaam watched her, keeping a good distance back. Bera was beginning to share his utter loathing for goblins.

  Zocci talked faster, his deep voice sounding guttural and his string of words punctuated by growls and clicks. She knew he wasn’t speaking goblinspeak, as he hadn’t yet mastered that language. He had told her he was fluent in the ogre tongue, however, which most goblins knew a bit.

  The conversation of the knights died, everyone wanting to hear the primitive discourse between Zocci and the goblin. The fire continued to pop softly, and Bera concentrated on the scent of the deer, her stomach easing and the bitterness leaving her mouth.

  “His name is Ochlorn,” Zocci translated.

  “I don’t care what he’s called,” Bera said.

  “He and his dead fellows were hunting when Zeff found them.”

  Zocci spoke to the goblin again, the conversation going on too long for Bera. She twisted the ball of her foot into the ground. “Zoccinder.” Using his full name demonstrated her fury. “I want to know where the rest of the goblins are … and the traitor Grallik N’sera.”

  Zocci continued his interrogation, stopping when it looked as though Bera would say something else. “Ochlorn was with his entire clan, which apparently was a dozen. Eight of them managed to flee before Zeff and Artis grabbed these four and began questioning them. Ochlorn said they couldn’t understand your knights. Then the torture and killing started.”

  “Just ask him about Grallik and the Steel Town slaves.”

  “He doesn’t know anything about them,” Zocci cut back. “Apparently the clan came to these woods answering some call through the earth. He said one of his fellows there”—Zocci pointed to the three dead goblins—“was a shaman and heard the stones in the earth talking. This was weeks ago. The shaman,” he paused, and Bera realized he stopped himself from giving her the shaman’s name, “apparently talked the clan into following him from the Plains of Dust across the dwarf mountains and into these woods. He said other goblin clans were answering the call too. He was waiting for the stones in the earth to talk again and tell them where they should go next. But Zeff found them and killed the shaman first.”

  Bera sighed, blowing a hank of hair out of her eyes. She motioned Isaam to come closer. “Old friend, you must use your magic to find my other scouting party. Perhaps they had better success than capturing one pitiful goblin.”

  Zocci stretched out a hand and gently touched the goblin’s face. “This fellow knows not a thing about the slaves we’re hunting, Commander.”

  “You can’t possibly believe that, Zoccinder. The goblin’s from Steel Town. An escaped slave. He wears clothes from a Steel Town child, Zocci. He’s lying and—”

  “Commander, the goblin is in too much pain to lie. He could have found the shirt anywhere.” Zocci spoke to the goblin again, the words coming fast and sounding like an animal growling.

  As Bera drew Isaam closer and whispered, hushed conversations from the watching knights started up around them.

  “The earth talking? To goblins? Is it possible, Isaam? Maybe Grallik has some spell he’s using to summon the goblins.”

  The sorcerer shook his head. “That is no magic I know of, Commander. And I can’t imagine why Grallik N’sera would want to collect these wretched things. If that goblin is not lying, perhaps Zoccinder isn’t translating well enough. Perhaps the words are getting all mixed up.” Isaam raised an eyebrow and avoided Bera’s glare.

  “This fellow here,” Zocci said, turning away from the whimpering goblin and raising his voice, “truly knows nothing of Steel Town, Commander. And he doesn’t know anything about escaped goblin slaves, I say again. He believes that the stones in the earth have your answers, that the shaman listened to the earth and brought them here. And that is all he knows.”

  Bera spit and balled her hands into fists. To Isaam, she said, “I’ve never asked you to speak to the spirits of dead goblins, and I won’t now.”

  “I do not ken their language,” Isaam said. “My dark magic would yield nothing I could understand.”

  “Would that I understood them, the accursed, wretched rats,” Bera added. “And not just their ugly-sounding tongue. Would that I understood why they insist they came halfway across the world from Steel Town to these woods. Why didn’t they simply join the goblin nat
ion of Sikk’et Hul in Northern Ergoth? It would have been closer. Why not Sikk’et Hul?”

  “I will find your other scouting party,” Isaam said simply. He reached into the pocket of his robe for the crystal.

  Bera ground her teeth together, her gaze shifting between Isaam and Zocci. Her orders were to track down the goblins that had escaped from Steel Town in the aftermath of the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. It wasn’t that the goblins were all that valuable to the Order; plenty of goblins could be purchased from the ogres and minotaurs in Neraka and to the south. The knighthood simply could not allow escaped slaves to go free. They had to be made examples of, and word of their recapture and execution had to be spread in all the countries where the Dark Knights maintained slaves and strongholds.

  The knighthood could not allow its image to be tarnished or its authority challenged by the escape of such pitiful creatures. The Order simply could not accept such insubordination.

  “You truly believe this thing?” Bera asked Zocci. “You are wholly certain the rat tells you the truth?”

  “Aye, Commander. It is not capable of lying at the moment. Perhaps if Artis and Zeff had not been so quick to torture the goblins, the shaman might still be alive to tell us more.”

  “And we might have better information.” Bera turned her back to Zocci and the goblin, peering into the darkness.

  “Wendal? Wendal!” She gestured to a half-elf. “Bring the prisoner here.” She spun to face Zocci, listening to the shuffling steps of the prisoner they’d taken on Schallsea Island. “Horace, do you recognize this goblin?”

  Wendal shoved Horace forward. The prisoner was an Ergothian who had once been a Dark Knight. A priest in Steel Town, Grallik had lured him into escaping with the goblins. It had not taken much convincing. There was no trace of Horace’s former station. He was dressed in a simple tunic, bloodstained on the sleeves and along the collar from his rough handling. Though still a portly man, he’d lost considerable weight, and his clothes sagged on him.

  “I … said … Horace, do you recognize this goblin?” Bera asked. “Or do they all look the same to you, even though you kept their company for so many weeks?”

  He was half propped up by Wendal and another knight, chains weighing at his arms. “I do not recognize this goblin, Commander Kata. But in truth I could not possibly know all the Steel Town goblins by sight.” His face was puffy and bruised, and it looked as if his eyes were closed because they were so swollen. But she knew he could see the goblin.

  “Grallik N’sera, then,” she continued. “Once your brother in the Order, Horace, now a traitor like you. Let us talk about him. What magic does he have that lets him talk through the earth? And why would he summon goblins to these woods?”

  He shook his head pathetically, and his knees buckled, his legs giving out. Wendal and the other knight hoisted him straight.

  “Grallik has no such magic,” Horace answered. He paused, and in the silence Bera read his battered face. “But you know who does, Horace.”

  He gave a defeated nod.

  “Tell me. Because you once were a Dark Knight and once swore the oath of fealty, tell me.” She steepled her fingers under her chin. “Because you once were loyal and trusted, decorated. And because if you don’t help us, I will kill you.”

  “A little female goblin called Mudwort, Commander. She talks through the earth, and she calls the goblins.”

  Bera’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. She nodded to the others, dismissing Horace, who was dragged away. “We will find this Mudwort,” Bera hissed. “We will find the traitor Grallik N’sera. Then we will find them all.”

  13

  THE STONETELLERS

  WORRIED TREES

  What is this about?” Direfang was standing behind Orvago, who knelt at the trunk of one of the massive weeping willows. The wind was strong and blew the veil of leaves, making it sound as if it were raining. But the wind and the shushing of the leaves were not loud enough to drown out the sounds of construction that continued in the goblin city. “What are—?”

  “I am talking to this tree, Foreman Direfang,” the gnoll returned. “That is what this is about. Would you like to know what it tells me?”

  Direfang shook his head and batted at a large, annoying fly that had found its way under the veil. “Talking to a tree?”

  “You don’t believe I can talk to trees, do you?” The gnoll made a sound that Direfang figured was a laugh. “No, I’m not wasting my time, Foreman. I’ll help the others with building when I’m through here. But I’d like to finish this conversation first.”

  “Mudwort talks to rocks. It is why the goblins came to this forest. The rocks said this would be a good place.” Direfang studied the gnoll. He still couldn’t tell how old the creature was. In its middle years, he guessed, not because of its appearance—he’d never seen another gnoll before for comparison—but because of its patience and wisdom, things beyond the grasp of youth. And he doubted Orvago was very old; the gnoll did not walk with a shuffling gait and seemed to possess good hearing and keen eyesight. “Mudwort talks to rocks. Thya too. So now Orvago talks to trees.” He paused. “What does this tree say?”

  “That it has seen much,” the gnoll replied quickly. His hairy fingers traced a whorl on the trunk. “It was small when there was no bluff, when the river was deeper and wider and faster, in those days flowing near this tree’s roots. Young and angry and straight the river was in those years. The tree saw elves ply the river, though it did not have such a name for those folk. Names came when it had grown taller and wiser and learned to listen to the creatures around it. Fair-skinned and fair-haired, the elves took great care of the trees in this area. And a few of them talked to this very tree, as I am doing now.”

  Direfang stepped closer and studied the trunk. The cracks in the bark looked almost like the visage of a wolf. He blinked, and the visage—whatever he thought he had seen—disappeared. He didn’t doubt that the tree talked, in some sense, but he found the talk of trees and elves and the river useless.

  “The tree says there was a fire on the other side of the river long, long ago. It was caused by lightning when there had been a dry spell. So many trees died, and the elves planted new ones.” Orvago pressed his ear to the bark. “Not the small pines you see now, but other oaks the elves planted. There was more than one fire south of the river, the land scarred, and not just by acts of nature. The small pines are from after the last great blaze.”

  The gnoll talked for quite some time about these elves who had grown older and moved on. Direfang got the impression that well more than a century had passed since the tree had sprouted. That the tree was old impressed the hobgoblin, but its translated prattle bored him.

  “And now the tree worries,” Orvago said. “Its roots fairly tremble in fear. It speaks to the grass and the ferns and the trillium, and what they have to tell is unsettling. The rustling of the leaves in the breeze are the whispers that pass between the trees. To the north, Foreman Direfang, something is stirring. The plants say something brews there.”

  Finally, the conversation interested him. “A storm? Elves returning?”

  The gnoll gave a shrug. “The tree doesn’t know what troubles the ferns or the trillium, but it worries nonetheless.”

  Direfang batted at the fly again and turned to leave the gnoll with the monotonous willow that spoke fearfully of the future. “Then let it worry alone. There is much work to do.”

  “The gnoll says the trees are nervous.” Direfang was talking to himself, though Draath obviously thought the words were meant for him.

  “Cannot talk to trees,” Draath said. “Can talk to the earth. Not as well as Mudwort, though. Mudwort is a fine stoneteller.” He sat in front of Direfang’s spire, right hand on one of the shrunken elf heads dangling from his belt. The diminutive features of one head looked especially delicate, and the hobgoblin wondered if that shrunken head had belonged to a female.

  “This stone talks too, Direfang,” Draath continued. �
�Talks loudly through all the woods, shouts loudly.”

  Direfang placed a hand on the top of the spire, thinking he might feel something other than the coolness that never warmed to his touch. He couldn’t hear the shouting of the spire any more than he heard the weeping willow. “What does this stone say, Draath?” The hobgoblin wanted the stone to say something important since he had gone to all the trouble of digging it up and then carrying it so far, only to plant it again.

  “It says stay away.”

  Goblin younglings yelped and laughed as they raced by along the bluff, kicking up dirt that was taken by the wind. They spooked a plump, ground-nesting bird that screeched at them before it dived over the edge and rose above the river. The wind gusted stronger and sent the reeds bending to the ground.

  “Stay away? It says stay away? From it?”

  Draath shook his head, rubbed his hands together, raised a finger, and traced symbols that none of the others had been able to understand. Direfang felt suddenly old, tired.

  “This is very ancient, Direfang. Older than elves, probably.” He paused. “Hate elves.” He thunked his thumb against the largest of the shrunken heads and continued. “Not words, these marks on the rock, but magic strokes. It is like casting a spell onto a rock so the spell will be there forever. Understand?”

  The hobgoblin scratched his head. Yes, he nodded. What did Draath think, that he was one of the laughing, playing children who didn’t understand plain talk?

  “The spell strokes on the stone protect this land. All the land around this stone. Mudwort, Thya, they scry through the earth, seeing things far away from here. This stone and its magic do not mind that. Mudwort can still call goblins. But if Mudwort and Thya were elsewhere, they could not look through the earth to see this place. That the stone would not allow. It is like looking out from the opening of a cave, but not being able to peer inside.” He made a huffing noise. “It says stay away. The stone lets spells go out, Direfang, it lets Mudwort call and summon. But it doesn’t let spells come in.”