by Jean Rabe
“How long, Direfang?” That came from Jando-Jando, who wielded two knives, one of which was missing its tip, and the other of which had a broken handle. “How long practice?”
“Practice until the weapons are too heavy to hold,” the hobgoblin answered as he showed them how to thrust and parry with a blade. “Practice until the hands that hold them feel as heavy as boulders. And then practice some more and more.”
Direfang had never received training with a sword or any weapon for that matter. He’d been taught how to use a pick in the mines, and some of those principles applied to fighting. But he’d studied the Dark Knights when they were drilling. In the slave pens, there was little to do except eat and listen to the chatter of the clans. So he had focused on the knights, who also inadvertently taught him their language and how to read.
Rustymane was training another group of goblins, all of those wielding knives. Rustymane was nearly as proficient as Direfang, having also been a foreman in the mines and having also wisely studied the Dark Knights. Encountering beasts such as a tylor in Neraka and bloodragers and the dragon in the forest had forced Rustymane and Direfang to become experts with weapons.
Sallor and two other Skinweavers were teaching the youngest group of goblins how to wield spears. Although most of the goblins who had come across the mountains to join the city knew how to hunt, the former Steel Town slaves lacked even those survival skills. Wielding a spear was foreign to them.
Direfang demanded that all the goblins take a turn with the weapons, even the younglings.
“Damn the dragons and bloodragers!” he proclaimed as he raised the sword above his head and brought it down to stop an inch from the ground. “This city will not fall again. The goblins will be prepared for the next monster or enemy that tries to destroy everything the clans have built. Never again will the clans be caught unawares. Never again!”
“Never again!” Jando-Jando echoed. “No more dead goblins. Never. Kill the next monster! Slay the next dragon! Never again.”
“Never again!” repeated Nkunda, the goblin who long before had attacked Direfang in the mines. “Never again! Never again!”
The chant blew across the ruined city like a bitter wind.
Thya’s fingers were splayed across a patch of dirt that had been pebbled and burned by the dragon’s caustic breath. Grallik joined her, pulling up his long tunic and sitting so his knee touched hers. He ran his fingers over the earth and shuddered.
“I feel it,” he said, the awe thick in his voice. He’d been working spells so often with the goblins, mentally digging the earth bowls in particular, that the magic was coming easier to him. “The ground aches, like a man who’s been punched. It is as sterile as a barren woman. Nothing will grow here again.”
Thya shook her head. “A long time from now, things will be better. Time changes all. When all these clans and the offspring of these clans are dust, the earth will heal. That is the way of things, Grallik. The earth always heals.”
“So much wisdom in you.”
She cocked her head.
“I was in Steel Town, you know,” he said softly.
Thya and her clan had not been among the mining camp slaves. She had heard Mudwort’s call and followed them through the Nerakan mountains. She did not know Grallik’s past.
“I was a Dark Knight.”
Thya nodded. “Heard the stories. A Gray Robe, I heard.” She pursed her lips as if she’d bitten into something sour.
“And I thought goblins were stupid things. Then.” Grallik studied a spot on the ground. He was silent for a moment, the chant of “Never again” reaching his ears. “Then, I thought that, Thya. But since, I have learned a lot from Mudwort.”
“Mudwort says the Gray Robe starves for magic.”
It was his turn to cock his head.
“Maybe I do,” he said, bemused. He splayed his hands next to hers, just as Graytoes joined them. “Yes, I think I do.”
She sat next to Thya, placing Umay between them. “Moon-eye said there was magic in here.” She pointed to her heart. “Used it with Moon-eye, sniffing through the ground.”
“Used it with me to fight the dragon. Use it again,” Thya encouraged.
Graytoes leaned over and kissed Umay on the forehead. The baby cooed. She copied Grallik and Thya, but her fingers did not sink into the earth as theirs did. “Not much magic then and now.” She made a tsking sound. “Certainly not much help now. Sorry.”
The chant of “Never again!” grew louder.
Mudwort settled next to Graytoes, taking her hand and tugging it under the surface, teasing what little magical energy she possessed and urging it to grow.
Graytoes gasped in surprise and slammed her eyes shut.
“Direfang says look for dragons,” Mudwort told her. “Look for more dragons now.”
“But there’s something else you look for, isn’t there?” Grallik whispered.
Mudwort made a sputtering sound. “Direfang is worried about dragons and bloodragers.”
Their senses joined and spiraled out, giving them the sensation of flying over that section of the Qualinesti Forest. They headed south, the direction from whence the dragon came. Graytoes made little childlike sounds as they went.
The ancient woods looked markedly different from above, the sun so bright and unobstructed that it was hurtful, and the greens were varied and intense. The air smelled fresher and was thick with scents of flowers that grew near the top of the canopy. They breathed deep and held in the sweetness, as it masked the stench from the dragon’s breath, the burned goblin corpses, and their own sweat. They dipped lower, like a bird cutting through a gap in the branches and swooping down over the bluff to skim the river, then entered the young pine forest.
“Higher,” Thya suggested. “The air is better.”
“But not too high. It is harder to see bloodragers and dragons and other things with sharp teeth and claws when you are up too high,” Graytoes said, adding, “Dizzy higher.”
They compromised, hurtling along several feet above the earth and just above the lowest branches, Thya leading them. Scattered amid the pines were maples and hickories, and there was a small grove of walnut trees where a herd of deer grazed.
“Tell the Boarhunters,” Graytoes said. “Tasty deer.”
“Later,” said Grallik.
It felt like they searched for hours, long enough for the chanting of “Never again!” to have stopped and for a break to have been called in Direfang’s drilling. They persisted, finding a trio of massive boars, and floating through a grove of cherry trees that were overgrown with ivies and thistles.
There were no signs of large predators, however, so Thya took them north, coming back across the river, where the Fishgatherers were bringing in nets.
“Not everyone prepares for a fight,” Mudwort observed.
“Someone has to find food,” Thya said.
Mudwort started to pull away from the others, but Thya’s magic drew her back.
“Not done yet,” she told Mudwort. “Look to the farther north now.”
Mudwort scowled. “A little north. And just for a little while. Then Direfang should know there are no more dragons.”
Grallik took the lead, the first time he had done so on one of their magical expeditions. Thya drifted to the background, allowing the wizard to pull them. Mudwort snorted, following.
“Curious where the man will take us,” Thya whispered to Graytoes. “North and north and north.”
“Grallik lived in these woods a long time ago,” Mudwort added. “Direfang said Grallik was scarred here in a fire.”
Orvago padded over to the small circle, regarding each participant before bending over to tickle Umay’s chin. The baby grabbed his hairy finger and giggled.
“Your magic is fascinating,” the gnoll told them, though they were concentrating. “Perhaps I could find a way to join in.”
“Shh!” That was whispered by Grallik, who was taking their senses in a serpentine pattern,
first low to the ground then circling higher, unknowingly close to the spot where Mudwort buried the group of knights who’d caught her.
“Done yet?” Graytoes yawned. “So tired.”
“The magic is draining,” Mudwort explained. “Time to be done.”
“Yes,” Grallik admitted. “But wait.”
Their senses hovered in a clearing where the remains of a campfire smoldered. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from charred logs that had been kicked apart.
Orvago knelt next to Umay and peered at the goblins’ and Grallik’s submerged hands. The ground around their wrists was hard and dry. “Curious,” he said.
“Curious, certainly,” Thya said. “Look closer at the fire.” She forced their senses down, until they could see the bones of a small animal, a rabbit perhaps, with scraps of fur.
“Something ate here,” Grallik said. “Several somethings.”
There was a pile of bones and stripped hide nearby, and the ground was disturbed, clumps of grass and ferns torn up. A scrap of black cloth dangled from a high-growing thorn bush. A tributary gurgled a few yards away, and they hovered above it, the sun so bright on the water that it showed through to the gravel bottom. Small, silver fish swam in a cluster.
Grass on both banks had been tamped down, and in bare spots footprints could clearly be observed.
“Men,” Thya said.
“Not dragons or bloodragers like Direfang worries over,” Mudwort said. “Just men. They are not so dangerous as dragons and bloodragers.”
“How many?” asked Graytoes. “Don’t like them, men.”
“And where have they gone?” Grallik mused.
“Doesn’t matter how many,” Mudwort said. “Graytoes is tired and-”
Grallik tugged their senses west, following the tributary and the occasional print of a heel that had sunk into the soft earth. “Many men,” he said softly. “I do not like this.”
“Don’t like men at all. Don’t like-” Suddenly Graytoes collapsed, exhausted and drained. Orvago gently dug her hands free from the earth and laid her next to Umay.
Yet Grallik, Thya, and Mudwort continued their magical journey to another clearing. That one was much larger than the last they’d looked at, and it was filled with men in armor.
“Worse than a dragon,” Grallik said. “Dark Knights.”
Mudwort had a difficult time counting numbers. But it looked to her that there were quite a few more than five hundred and forty.
“A great many Dark Knights,” Thya said in awe.
“No wonder the old willow worries,” Orvago observed.
NO NEED TO FEAR THE DARK KNIGHTS
The Dark Knights cannot find this city with magic,” Draath insisted. “Only with their eyes. Goblins worry about the Dark Knights, and the wizard worries about the Dark Knights. Silly to worry so. The Dark Knights might never find this place. Safe here.” He gestured up the bluff to the stone spire. “Explained this to Direfang. The magic in the stone does not let the Dark Knights look here with their spells. Explained this to Direfang before and before.”
And he was trying to explain it to Mudwort and Thya and Graytoes, growing exasperated and rubbing the nose of one of his shrunken heads as he repeated what he understood about the protective markings on the spire. “The Dark Knights cannot find us.”
“With magic,” Thya repeated.
Around them was a blur of activity. Goblins continued to practice their fighting skills while clans fashioned spears and clubs. The Boarhunters worked on making bows and arrows, while Olag happily formed arrowheads from pieces of obsidian and slate.
“I understand,” Grallik said, approaching them, Qel a few steps behind. “I should have realized what the stone was when I examined it earlier. Perhaps I was too preoccupied with something else.” He paused and tipped his head back, his hair falling away from his scarred face. “Regardless of what the stone prevents, the Dark Knights pose a serious threat. Armed and armored, they can decimate these clans if they find us. Easily they can conquer us if wizards and priests are among them.”
Though Grallik had been learning the goblins’ language, he still did not have all the nuances, and he got many of the words wrong. Mudwort grudgingly translated the ones he had missed.
“No reason to fear the Dark Knights,” Draath countered stubbornly. “No reason for knights to bother with goblins. The knights must be in the forest for another reason. Maybe-”
Mudwort and Graytoes snarled practically in unison. “Dark Knights enslave goblins,” Graytoes ventured. “Dark Knights want to catch goblins to take back to that horrible mining camp. The Skinweavers were not slaves and do not understand.”
Grallik shook his head. “Graytoes is right. The knights …”
He paused as a few dozen Flamegrass clansmen rushed past them, carrying spears in need of stone heads. Their excited chatter sounded like a swarm of insects.
When they were out of sight, Grallik continued. “The knights want to make an example of you. Of all the goblins here.”
Mudwort nodded, thinking Grallik’s guesswork was very good and that it was saving her the bother of warning Direfang of what she knew. “The knights cannot let slaves escape without punishment. Such would encourage other slaves to escape elsewhere.”
“The Dark Knights must forever look strong and unchallengeable,” Grallik finished, eyeing Mudwort. “So it is our task to use our magic in defense. I will find out more about them, get a better idea about their number and what magic they have and where they are going. Then we must plan and act.”
“A wizard,” Mudwort added. “The knights have a wizard.” She remembered one of the knights who’d caught her mentioning someone named Isaam. “Isaam,” she supplied. “A wizard named Isaam.”
“A sorcerer, not a wizard.” Grallik’s pale skin appeared to grow even lighter. “How do you know of Isaam, Mudwort? And why are you so certain that a magic-user named Isaam is with them?”
Mudwort’s brow furrowed and she shrugged. She couldn’t afford to tell them of her capture and subsequent bloody escape. Then she’d be scorned for not revealing the Dark Knight threat earlier. Direfang would be furious with her, as it would have given him several more days to prepare or to move. He’d banished Skakee; maybe he would banish her. And would that be a bad thing? She shrugged again. “Isaam. It’s a name. Heard it somewhere. Maybe through the vision spell. Is it important?”
“Who is Isaam?” wondered Graytoes. She rocked Umay and looked from Grallik to Mudwort. “Isaam. Isaam. Isaam.”
Grallik stared at Mudwort and opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.
“Grallik fears the Dark Knights,” Mudwort said. She looked at Draath. “Grallik used to be a Dark Knight. Used to be one of the slavers at Steel Town.” She knew that Draath and the rest of the Skinweavers had learned only a little about the mining camp. They’d been kept too busy working on the city and the weapons to learn very much about the Steel Town clans.
“The Dark Knights want Grallik as much as the Dark Knights want goblins. Maybe more.” Mudwort made a guess there, but the wizard’s narrowed eyes told her she was right. “The Dark Knights would punish Grallik, maybe more than the once-slaves would be beaten.” She stepped back as Draath started peppering Grallik with questions about Steel Town and slaving and Dark Knights.
Graytoes was so caught up in trying to figure out what the wizard was saying in reply that she didn’t notice Mudwort slip away. Thya watched Mudwort go but kept silent.
Mudwort disappeared behind a row of goblins practicing with spears. She intended to get her own spear but not one of the crude ones with the sharp, obsidian heads. She would get the one Chislev had forgotten. She would do it without the others.
“Waited long enough,” Mudwort mumbled as she passed by Qel and Orvago. The two of them were arguing, the angriest of the words coming from Qel. She slipped behind the pair then scurried under the canopy of one of the large willows. She half expected to find someone hiding from work or w
eapons practice there. But no, there she was alone and could look for the spear.
She squatted and drove her fingers into the ground, her mind casting a spell and pushing her senses in the direction she thought the spear was buried. It took her only a few moments to find the connection and create the thread that stretched between her and the ancient, god-made weapon. It was easy, with the spear so intensely magical and her familiarity with its pulse, and because she’d looked in on it several times.
“No more waiting,” Mudwort said. She wrapped her mind around the spear, and though her fingers were in the dirt, it felt as though they were curled around the haft. The polished wood felt smooth and good. “So powerful.” Her heart beat in time with the pulse, and slowly she pulled her mind back to get a better picture of the clearing where the spear was lying. “With this spear, there is no need to fear any Dark Knights.”
Ash trees circled its resting place, stoic guardians that shaded the spear’s grave, perfectly spaced as if they’d been planted thusly on purpose. The more she stared at the clearing, the more certain she was that nature had not scattered the trees there; some force-the long-ago goblins perhaps-had done it in that way to mark the spot so it could be more easily found. There were other trees of course, maples and oaks and things she had no name for but which dropped little flower and seed pods. There were trilliums-more colors than the ones growing around the goblin city-and ferns and moss that looked soft to sleep on. She had to look very hard to see tiny patches of bare dirt.
There were animals, too, birds mostly, and when Mudwort concentrated, she could hear the caw of a crow. It was a big one, perched in a red-leaved maple, the branches of which poked between two ash trees. The bird was stark against the brightly colored leaves and flew off as she magically watched it. More interesting were birds she guessed were no larger than her fist. There were several, all with black caps and bibs, white cheeks, and backs the color of chestnuts. They made a funny chirping-clicking sound, nothing like singing. She preferred birds that sang.
