by Jean Rabe
There were ones even smaller, dark brown with black backs and gray patches that wrapped around their heads like scarves. They had pink bellies, and they didn’t sing either. But they whistled, and Mudwort focused on their pleasant whistling.
Why had the shaman from the long-ago time hidden the spear there? In a place where the birds didn’t sing? Or had it been that shaman’s successor who buried the spear? Had the shaman possessed the spear until her death? Had she passed it on? Mudwort had not looked in on her counterpart from the past in a long while. She’d been more interested in the spear.
Obsessed with the spear? She was that.
She would look to the past later, after she had the spear. She would see what befell the shaman and the ancient tribe of goblins who built homes like the ones Direfang tried to copy in his city. Had dragons and bloodragers pestered the long-ago goblins?
Mudwort’s senses floated above the ring of ash trees, trying to get a better picture of where in that massive forest the spear was. Not far away, she’d determined that before.
But the forest was dense, and many parts looked the same from above or inside.
“Where?” she whispered. “Where? Where? Where?”
Her ears detected a river nearby. No, a stream, too narrow and shallow looking to constitute a river. It flowed to the sea. She knew that because she could smell salty air. A glance to the east, and she spotted the ocean. Higher, and a crescent-shaped stretch of beach came into view.
“S’dard!” She spotted a rock formation in the shallows, looking like a fish rising on its tail. It was where the longboats had brought the goblins ashore when they first came to the forest. She’d been so close to the spear then and had not realized it. “S’dard! Sour mind. Sour, sour mind.”
What she’d thought would be a long day’s walk to retrieve her prize would be three or four or more. Likely more.
“S’dard to not get it before. S’dard to wait.” The ground softened around her fingers, and she pulled them out and stomped off to the northeast, cutting blithely through a rank of goblins drilling with spears and nearly getting skewered.
Someone called to her. It was a goblin’s voice, not a hobgoblin’s, so it was not Direfang. She increased her pace and practically ran down the rise where the half-constructed homes that had been ruined by the dragon were spread. Goblins there were collecting what pieces of wood could be turned into weapons.
“Dark Knights and dragons and bloodragers,” she cursed. “Nowhere is safe.”
But she’d seen no Dark Knights or other foul creatures near the circle of ash trees. Her treasure was at least safe.
“Chislev’s spear is safe,” she said to herself. She ducked behind a large bush as several Boarhunters rushed by. When they were gone, she hurried to follow the path that would take her to the precious artifact. “And soon it will be Mudwort’s.”
ONE HEALER LESS
I am leaving,” Qel solemnly told Grallik, speaking in the common tongue, which not many of the goblins understood. She faced the half-elf, who was still with Draath and Graytoes. “I told Orvago, and I thought I should tell you.”
The wizard looked at her, mildly taken aback. “Now?” He gestured at the ruins. “With Dark Knights in the woods, goblins still nursing injuries from the dragon attack and-”
“It is not my responsibility, the health of thousands of goblins. I am not enough to make a difference.” She drew herself up, looking tall and stately and at the same time young and vulnerable. “Orvago is a healer too. I simply don’t want to see more fighting and dying. And if there is indeed more fighting, with beasts or men, then it is up to the gods to save these goblins.”
“What if the gods are saving these goblins through your presence?”
She scowled at the notion. “I was wrong to ever come here.”
“They need you, Qel.”
“They need your fire spells far more than they need my mending.” She blew out a breath, teasing the pale strands of hair that hung against her forehead. “Why are you here, Grallik? I can tell you’ve no love for the goblins and hobgoblins. You’re not fond of them. You’re no hero trying to help them carve a nation.”
“No,” he admitted.
“The one you call Foreman orders you around, and you do his bidding with only whispered complaints. Why are you here? You could leave with me. I’d prefer company in my walk to the beach.”
“I’m here for the magic.” Grallik surprised himself by telling her the truth. “You’ve seen the goblins pool their energies to cast spells. I have learned how to join them. It’s magic such as I’d never been able to cast before. And I have so very much more to learn. It’s all about the magic, Qel.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Magic?” She brushed idly at a spot on her tunic and shook her head. “You will stay here? With all this death and stench, you will stay? Just for magic? I came here to help these goblins. I thought I could make a difference. I thought I was kind and compassionate, selfless. I thought I could make whatever sacrifices necessary to help.”
“You’ve helped saved lives, and-”
“It was all bluster and foolish pride. I was filled with noble thoughts … when my feet were firmly planted on Schallsea Island. I’m not who I thought myself to be … or who I wanted to be.” She crossed her arms plaintively, as if hugging herself. “I was all talk, and when I got here, when we got here, I realized my words were all hollow. I am going home, Grallik.”
“Where life is easy.”
“Easier. And where I belong.”
He studied her, looking down when Graytoes tugged on his leggings.
“Something wrong, Grallik?” She spoke in the common tongue, but Grallik knew she had only a smattering of the words in her head, so her sentences were clumsy. “Hurt someone? Sick?”
Draath chatted quietly in goblinspeak to Sallor, who’d joined them, Grallik not catching everything that was said, but they were not paying attention to Qel. They were speculating on which spells would be best against the Dark Knights.
“Nothing is wrong,” Grallik told Graytoes.
“Besides Dark Knights coming,” she corrected.
“Besides that.” Grallik turned back to Qel. “I think you told me you’re leaving so that I would try to talk you out of it.”
She hugged herself tighter. “No. There’s no talking me out of anything. I’d merely hoped you’d leave with me. Orvago intends to stay. Maybe forever. He loves these woods.” She whirled and strode away, heading toward a satchel that sat at the base of a dead oak.
“Qel leaving?” Graytoes tugged on his leggings again. She understood more than she let on sometimes.
“Apparently,” Grallik answered crisply. “You should tell Direfang. He’ll want to know that his city has lost one of its healers.” Softer, he added, “The more proficient of the two.”
Graytoes poked out her bottom lip, and Grallik repeated his instructions using as many goblin words as he could.
“Direfang will be unhappy,” Graytoes offered.
“Yes, I should think he will.”
She clutched Umay close and went to find the hobgoblin.
Grallik went in search of a small patch of ground free of goblins. “If Draath the head-shrinker is right, the knights can’t see me,” he said to himself. “The spire stops your scrying, Isaam.” He touched his fingers to the ground, twirling a thumb in a long strand of grass. “Hopefully, however, I can see you.”
He’d used the earth-magic only a few times on his own, meeting with limited success. For a moment he considered calling Thya and Draath and asking them to merge their magic with his.
And he’d do that if he were unsuccessful. But for just a little while, he wanted to try alone. Shutting out the sounds of shouts and wooden weapons clacking together, feet pounding across the ground, he sent his eyes into the earth then skimming above it. He was like a thrown rock hurtling into an unknown distance.
The sensation was dizzying, and he suddenly felt weak. He had no
one to share the burden of casting his spell, and all the energy to power it was coming solely from him. He pressed on, taking slower breaths and concentrating on only sight and hearing. He couldn’t care less what the woods smelled like or what the air felt like. Limiting his senses seemed to help, as then the spell did not appear to sap quite as much strength from him.
He could not tell how much time passed as he went from one clearing to the next, across a stream, and to a section of the woods that must have been an orchard at one time. But his back felt stiff from being in one position for so long, and his legs ached after a while. An hour maybe? No. One of the more curious goblins would have disturbed him before that much time passed. Neither could he tell how far his mind had traveled in terms of miles.
Grallik was just about to give up and find Thya to ask her for help when he spied the sun glinting off something shiny.
“Armor.”
He focused, suffering light-headedness from the exertion but feeling rewarded. He heard the rhythmic clanking of men in plate armor walking and the soft swish of tabards and scabbards brushing against the foliage. It was some time before he heard a human voice, and it was a deep male command calling a halt. Another voice, clipped and female, gave instructions.
The female came into view at the center of a column of hundreds of men.
“Bera Kata.”
Grallik ground his teeth together. He’d seen her once, though they’d never met. And he knew quite a bit about her; he doubted there was a Dark Knight serving in Neraka who hadn’t heard of Bera Kata.
Stern, icy, fanatical, single-minded, and driven to succeed, she had won several campaigns against superior forces of Solamnic Knights and rebels. She had a husband and a daughter, but beyond that he knew nothing of her personal life. She was usually called in to fix problems, and the escaped slaves would count as a big problem.
Grallik had never before seen the man towering at her side, the one who’d bellowed an order to halt. He wore blued plate, a sign of wealth and station, yet he evinced neither decorations nor insignia that indicated his rank. And there was the sorcerer, who stood out because he was the only one not wearing armor.
“Isaam Saeneav of Nordmaar.”
He’d briefly met the man better than a dozen years earlier. Isaam hadn’t changed much; he was still small, with overly thin arms that reminded Grallik of a bird’s legs. The face was a little fuller, though, which made the sorcerer’s dark eyes look smaller, like pebbles sitting on white sand. The sorcerer was known for embracing the darkest parts of magic, a path Grallik would have followed had he not been so obsessed with fire spells.
Scanning the mass of knights, Grallik didn’t recognize any of the others, though he admittedly wasn’t taking any time to linger on the faces-for there were too many faces to contemplate. He tried to guess how many … eight hundred at least, probably nine. He shivered. And there could be more, scattered scouting parties, all connected by Isaam’s magic. They could well find Direfang’s goblins. And while there were thousands of goblins, most training to fight, they would not be skilled or fast enough to deal with so many Dark Knights.
The hundreds of knights-Grallik continued to be amazed by their number-all had come chasing after the escaped slaves from Neraka, all chasing him. The Order could not have spared that many from one spot, especially given the number lost to the volcanoes and earthquakes only a few months past. So they must have been collected from many squads and postings.
The Dark Knights had been fragmented at the end of the War of Souls. Their base of power was returned to Neraka, and not all the Dark Knights answered to the Lord Knight there. No longer the great, unified force that it once was made that group of several hundred knights all the more impressive.
“So where did you all come from?” Grallik’s senses drifted from one group of knights to the next, listening to hushed conversations. He knew they would not rest long; Bera Kata was a determined soul.
“The Black Hall,” Grallik mused. He heard a couple of the knights mention that place. He recalled there being enclaves of Dark Knights in the Qualinesti Forest, and thus the enclave of the Black Hall must have dispatched knights to join Bera’s force. There were women knights too, but most were men. He spotted half-elves here and there, but most were human.
Some of the men talked about the swarms of gnats that pestered them, and how no insect dared to land on Isaam. Grallik smiled at that. Others speculated about the scouting parties, one of which apparently could not be located. Grallik smiled wider.
“Let them all get lost in these woods,” he hissed. “Lost forever, food for the bloodragers.” At one time he was fanatically loyal to the Order, working at the mining camp to turn their ore into steel that could be forged into shields and swords. Had the earthquakes not come and the volcanoes not erupted, he’d be there still, loyal still. But when Steel Town was destroyed, so too were sundered his ties to the knighthood. Survival became his priority-along with pursuing the magic the goblins alone knew how to cast.
“Let the knights get back on their ships and return to their enclaves. Let them-”
Sounds interrupted his thoughts. Goblins drilled close to him, and he heard Graytoes and Direfang talking. The hobgoblin growled at the news of Qel’s departure and called to Rustymane and Gralin to take her swiftly away to the coast.
At the same time in the distant clearing, Grallik heard someone call an end to the brief rest. Dark Knights stood and adjusted their tabards, took a sip from their water skins, and returned to formation. The break had been a short one.
Definitely more than eight hundred knights, Grallik decided. He pushed his senses to the front rank, where Bera Kata stood unusually close to the young knight in the blued armor. Nearby was Isaam, adjusting his gray robe, frayed along the hem.
Once Grallik had been like him, a member of the Order of the Thorn, the arcane arm of the Dark Knights. The half-elf used to take great pride in wearing the robe the color of cool ashes. He’d given his robe up willingly when he joined the goblins, however, removing it and standing before them in a sweat-stained under-tunic. Thorn Knights had been tasked since the branch’s inception with divining the future of the knighthood and the events around them. Counselors and aides, they were also among the most formidable spellcasters in Ansalon, who before the Chaos War believed their magic came directly from Takhisis.
“One who follows the heart finds it will bleed. Feel nothing but victory,” Grallik murmured to himself. That was the code of the Thorn Knights; he’d repeated it several times each day in Steel Town. “But now I wish you nothing but defeat.”
Isaam raised his head and nodded to something Bera had said. The sorcerer tugged the wrinkles out of his robes, and Grallik noted he wore the rank of Marshal of the Thorn-the seventh rank such a knight could attain, bestowed by the Order of Lords. The half-elf wizard had been formerly known as Guardian N’sera, a rank that stood three levels below Isaam’s.
“Lose yourself in these woods, Isaam.”
Grallik’s eyes grew wide and his breath caught.
It looked as if Isaam were staring straight back.
THREE HUNDRED FEWER MOUTHS TO FEED
Amid the flurry of drilling and weapons-making, more than three hundred goblins gathered up their meager possessions and struck out to the east, intending to find caves in the distant mountains to live in. From various clans, they had grumbled about the threats in the forest, about Direfang’s being a lure for monstrous creatures, about the threat of Dark Knights.
“Dragons, bloodragers, beasts come here,” said Geben, a yellow-skinned goblin who had insinuated himself with the Fishgatherers. “So it is good to leave here and go somewhere else. The dragons can eat those who stay in the city.”
“There is no city,” said Worlee. He had been one of the hardest workers when the goblins had first chopped down trees. “There will be no city. There will only be more death.”
Direfang had tried to stop the defectors. There were too many to lose. “Safe
ty in numbers,” he’d warned. “Strong in numbers.” His words had kept most of the Fishgatherer clan from leaving and had boosted the morale of a few hobgoblins.
“Bad enough there are dragons and bloodragers,” Graytoes said, waving to the departing goblins. “Worse now that there are Dark Knights.” She held Umay up so the baby could watch the departing throng, helping her wave bye-bye. “Direfang, harder to fight the things in the forest now. Fewer goblins to fight.”
Keth pointed out the breakaway group was taking some of the weapons with them.
“Did not take food, though,” Graytoes said cheerfully. “Three hundred fewer mouths to feed now. Time to feed Umay.” She retreated to a group of goblins who were putting fletching on arrows. A goat was staked near them, and she started to milk it.
“They took weapons,” Keth repeated. “Should not have let them take the weapons, Direfang. That was a bad thing.”
“Then it is time to make more weapons,” Direfang said testily. “More and more and more weapons.”
The noise was loud in the ruined city: knives and swords clanking against each other, goblins calling out as they continued to craft spears and clubs, and more goblins drilling with the finished ones.
“Too loud, all of this,” Direfang said.
“Yes,” Keth said. He looked up and saw the wizard approach, shook his head, and hobbled away to help a goblin named Badger cut logs for clubs.
“Yes, it is too loud,” Grallik agreed. “No doubt this ruckus carries for quite some distance, Foreman.” He tipped his head back. “But a storm is coming, and that will help cover a little of this noise, I think. And the noise is good if it means more weapons.”
The wind had picked up in the brief time since the three hundred goblins left. “Not a storm as strong as the one the other day,” Direfang said, adding, “I hope.”
