by Jean Rabe
Why did you have to kill him? She wanted to know that, above all.
“Girl, are you all right?” Concern was thick in the knight’s voice.
Qel stood, noticing she had a considerable blood smear on her tunic. “It’s not mine, this blood.”
“Your captor. Telvir and Walen dropped him.”
She wanted to scream at them for killing the young hobgoblin, whose only weapon was a knife that was still stuck in its sheath. But she kept silent and regarded them blankly.
They were all sweating, though the day was not overly warm. It was probably from traveling through the overgrown terrain for hours and hours, maybe traveling for days, she thought. She noted that each man had stubble on his face and grass and dirt smudges along the bottoms of their tabards.
“Do you know where he was taking you, girl?”
Qel knew she looked younger than she really was, and so she didn’t intend to set them right on that point either. She shook her head and looked at her bloody hands. She’d gotten splinters from the arrows.
“Good thing we spotted you and the hob.” That came from the knight who leaned over the hobgoblin and prodded Gralin’s body with his boot tip. He straightened and gave her a curt nod. “We’re in these woods hunting these things.”
“Hobgoblins?” She knew Direfang’s people were worried about the knights.
“Hobs and gobs,” he cut back. “Were you held captive in a goblin camp?”
She shook her head. I was in their city, she thought.
“The hob was probably taking you there, then. They’ve got a camp somewhere around here. Isaam says so.” The knight spun one way then the next. “Where was he taking you?”
She pointed north. Would the gods be angry at all my lies?
“Are you from a village here in the forest? Somewhere near?”
Again, she shook her head. Her mind churned with what she ought to tell them. The truth, she settled on. “Schallsea Island. I was on a ship.”
“That was wrecked,” another knight finished. He was looking one way then the next, obviously in a hurry. He started tapping his foot. “Were there others with you? More prisoners?”
“Only one, from the island. I don’t know where he is now.” That was the truth. She was lost and had no idea where Orvago was.
“The coast isn’t far. You should get there well before sunset. Just keep walking west.” That was said by the knight still looming over the body. He gestured toward what Qel suspected was the west. “Keep walking in that direction, and you’ll reach the shore soon. Certainly before dark. Some ship coming by will see you. Another time and we would help you more. But-”
“We can’t afford to haul you through the woods with us is why. You’d never keep up, and we can’t slow down.” Another knight had spoken, one she hadn’t noticed before. There were seven of them.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “I can find my way.”
The knight nudged the hobgoblin’s body with his boot again, gesturing north. “This way you say? We’ll try this direction for a while,” he said. “Telvir, you take point. We’ll see if we can find something.” He gave her another nod then directed the men back into the foliage.
She listened to their tromping for a while, and when she couldn’t hear them any longer, she knelt at Gralin’s side and pulled the knife from its sheath. She cut off two of his fingers and hurled them away.
“Leave nothing intact,” she remembered more than one goblin saying. It wasn’t her belief, but it had been Gralin’s. She finally allowed herself to shed tears over the fallen hobgoblin.
If she’d the time, she would have been more thorough and found a way to burn his body. And if she’d possessed any tracking skills, she would have retraced her steps and found her way back to Direfang’s city.
If she hadn’t left in the first place, Gralin would still be alive.
“Never should have left.” Qel squared her shoulders and headed-she hoped-to the west. She had no way to find the goblin city on her own, she decided; she had no choice but to try to find her way back to Schallsea Island.
“Gralin was right,” she said to herself, choking back tears. “I didn’t get much of a look.”
ABANDONED BY A GOD
Mudwort stood in the center of the ring of trees, slowly spinning and trying to absorb everything. She didn’t want to miss a detail of what could be the most important moment of her life-well, the most important moment since breaking free of the Dark Knight mining camp.
She had to remember all of it.
“T’rendru,” she said. A short goblin word, it carried a lot of meaning: remember, preserve, cherish, engrave, capture, but capture in a positive way. It was a word she hadn’t used in a long time.
The ash trees seemed much larger than when they’d appeared in her vision. Eighty feet tall, they had to be, and each at least half again that wide. Planted in a perfect circle, their limbs entwined like goblins holding hands in an important ceremony.
Their knobby roots extended into the clearing. She glanced at the back of her hand; the roots looked like veins standing out against the mossy ground. Nature hadn’t grown the trees on its own. Someone had helped. Maybe the ancient shaman. Maybe her consort. Maybe Chislev. Mudwort resisted the urge to dig immediately for the spear. She had to prolong the moment.
“T’rendru. Can’t miss anything,” she told herself. “Have to see it all and lock it away forever.”
The rustling of the ash leaves sounded musical, better than birdsong, and there were dozens upon dozens of birds chittering there. She thought she heard distinct words in their conversations, a whisper in the notes, as if the trees and birds were talking to her and she just couldn’t comprehend their language.
“What say?” she tried. Maybe if she spoke to them, they would answer in goblinspeak. “What say to Mudwort? What say, birds? What say, trees?”
After a little bit of concentration, she thought she picked out certain words: divine, danger, hope, and wonder-all in goblinspeak, uttered just for her benefit. T’rendru too. But it might have been her imagination. No, she distinctly heard “hope.” Umay-that was hope in goblinspeak. Mudwort was filled with it-hope. She hoped the spear would be amazing. She would not have urged Direfang to come to the forest otherwise. She would have championed a spot closer to Neraka or perhaps in Northern Ergoth.
“Mudwort’s spear.”
“Hope,” the trees seemed to repeat.
There were other trees, just as she had noted in her vision. But she could see them better, and there was a pattern to them too. Silver birches grew straight, their limbs spreading away to give them the shape of arrowheads. The birch trees around Direfang’s ruined city had curving, artful trunks that didn’t remind her of anything. The trees had a distinct pattern to them, and their leaves twisted in the wind, suggestive of the glittery silver jewelry she’d seen on some of the men and women in Steel Town.
“Treasure trees,” she dubbed them.
There were pin oaks and red oaks alternating with the silver birch, all set at precise intervals from one another, as if the planters had carefully measured the distances between the trunks. And there were cedars behind the oaks and birch, and blueberry bushes and holly growing around the base of everything. There was definitely a pattern to the planting.
“Beautiful, this.”
Suddenly she wanted Direfang and all the goblins to see the tremendous grove and share in its organized splendor. Yet at the same time, she wanted no one else but herself to see that spot. Mudwort, always a selfish sort, did not care to share the experience.
“Magical,” Mudwort said. “All of this magic.” She drew in a deep breath, glad that she’d not rushed to dig up the spear immediately; otherwise she would not have noticed all the amazing details. She needed to savor the moment. She pulled all the scents of the place deep inside and held them as long as she could, trying to identify them: clove, balsam, cinnamon, pecans, jasmine, oakmoss, sandalwood, and blueberries of course. The best
of those scents nestled on her tongue-the fruit and nuts and clove. It had been a while since she’d eaten, and she thought she might raid the berry bushes after she’d retrieved her spear. Maybe she would kill a plump, pretty rabbit with the spear and roast it over a small fire in celebration.
There wasn’t even the hint of death in the air and no char from bodies or burned trees. Everything was vital and wonderful and intoxicating. Maybe that was why the trees whispered words such as divine and wonder. Only life and magic reigned there.
It was safe there too. Mudwort was certain she hadn’t heard the trees entirely correctly. There was no danger present. The ground was soft, and she saw the imprints of her feet where she’d paced. There was no trace of wolf tracks or anything big like those bloodragers. She spotted only bird tracks and something small that might have been a squirrel or a weasel.
Mudwort felt … good. She hadn’t felt so good in a long, long while. The little aches in her legs and arms, which came from traveling so far to get there, had disappeared. Her fatigue was gone; she was refreshed, as if she’d just woken from a deep sleep. Younger? Did she feel younger? Yes, she thought she did.
She would take a glance high in the trees to look at the birds; then she’d retrieve the spear. She noticed the crows first because they were larger and stood out starkly against the leaves. There were a few jays, a scattering of sparrows; there were always sparrows everywhere, even in Steel Town. There were rosy finches, a lone thrush, and little green and blue birds that she’d not noticed at first because they blended into the ash foliage. None of the birds were chittering quite as much as before. Some weren’t making any noise at all, just watching her.
Mudwort drew her features together and pursed her lips. Time to get the spear. Past time. She didn’t need to thrust her fingers into the ground and send her senses in search of it. She knew right where it was somehow; the thread that connected her to it was very strong, and it was pulling her.
“In the very center.” She carefully padded there, stepping as lightly as she could, the moss coming up between her toes and gently tickling her. “Orvago would have liked this place.” Maybe someday she would tell him about it-if she ever saw the gnoll again. She hadn’t yet decided whether she would return to the ruined city to show Direfang her prize artifact. A part of her wanted to show it to everyone, to hold it high and let them admire it and praise her. But a bigger part wanted to keep it hidden.
She gestured and the earth opened up, just as the tree had broken for Saarh centuries past, like a seam splitting on a garment that was too tight.
“Mudwort’s spear.” She squatted next to the opening and peered inside. Three feet down, the roots of an ash protectively covering the top of it, was a rotting piece of cloth that had been fine and fancy at one time. Thin, metallic threads shot through the rosy-colored fabric-silver, gold, and platinum. Tiny pearls had been sewn into a pattern she couldn’t make out. Maybe she would decipher it once it was free of its grave.
She waggled her fingers and watched the earth fall away from the bundle and the roots part so she could reach inside. Because she was so small, she had to crawl down inside to get the rosy fabric; her arms wouldn’t reach. She shivered. Despite the warmth of the day, it felt oddly cold in there. She touched the dirt and shivered again.
“Like winter,” she said, “without the snow.” There’d been no cold winters in Steel Town, but in the Before Time, Mudwort had known snow. She pulled in a deep breath, smelling the richness of the earth and wood and detecting something she couldn’t identify but found wholly pleasant. Tentatively touching the cloth, she quickly drew back. There was magic in the rotting fabric! Grallik would be able to tell her more about it, and if he were around, he might caution her to explore the magic first.
Danger, the leaves had said.
But Grallik was not around and would not be coming.
The more she thought about it, the more she believed she’d never return to the ruined city. Grallik and Orvago and countless numbers of goblins would try to take the treasure from her. She sucked in a deeper breath and stretched both hands forward, her palms registering the energy in the old material, then feeling a jolt when she closed her fingers around the spear cloaked inside it.
Her teeth chattered and an icy sensation shot up her arms. But as quick as it came, the sensation passed. She climbed out of the grave, carrying her prize, and watched as the earth sealed shut on her mental command, the moss growing together over the top and the ground looking as if it had never been disturbed. She laid her treasure down and carefully pulled back the cloth.
Mudwort felt dizzy-and weak, elated, frightened, confident, proud, insignificant-a maelstrom of emotions swirling through her all at the same time.
“Mudwort’s spear,” she said.
The spear was green, like she’d seen in her vision, at that time thinking it had been fashioned from a too-young tree whose bark had been stripped. But it wasn’t wood, it was stone. She tentatively reached a thumb out and touched it. She didn’t have a name for the stone; the people in Steel Town had names for all sorts of rocks. She’d seen that kind before, though, in Steel Town, in small oval pieces dotting a chain hanging around a woman’s neck.
The stone was translucent, and the longer she stared at it, the more colors emerged. It was only mostly green, she realized after a moment. There were faint streaks of white, gray, and shades of blue in the stone too, and it felt … greasy to the touch … smooth and wet and terribly, terribly strong.
“Unbreakable.” Mudwort somehow knew the spear could not be shattered. Tiny slivers of gold, silver, and platinum were inlaid along the haft, matching some of the patterns that had been woven into the cloth protecting it. Maybe they were words or the scratchings of some sort of spell, like on Direfang’s spire. Too there were gems the size of gnats that sparkled in the sunlight. “Diamonds.” Mudwort had learned the name of that particular stone from listening to Dark Knights in the mine. They were always hoping the goblins would unearth diamonds along with the steady supply of ore.
There were also emeralds, brighter than the green of the haft; sapphires, like in the necklace she’d acquired in the dwarven village; pale yellow gems that looked like drops of sunlight suspended on the surface of a pond; and rubies that looked purple set against the green. In her vision Mudwort had thought the spear tip was metal, as it gleamed dully yet looked sword-sharp.
“Obsidian.” She knew the name of that stone, and she’d encountered it several times before in the mining camp. This obsidian, which made up the spear tip, was ten times as beautiful. Black glass, some of the knights in Steel Town had called obsidian. It was like glass, she had to admit, but as far as she knew, obsidian came only from the volcanoes that ringed the mining camp and stretched north and south in the mountains. There were no volcanoes in the forest.
Opaque in the center and where it joined the haft, the stone was translucent along the edges, all of it with a vitreous luster. A silver band wrapped around the spear just below the obsidian tip. Dangling from it were dark yellow feathers. Despite the passing of time and lying under the earth, the feathers appeared as if they’d just been plucked from a bird.
None of the birds in the trees around the clearing matched the coloration of the feathers, however. Mudwort cocked her head. The birds were still perched in the various trees, but they’d all stopped chirping and singing. It was deathly silent.
She stood and grasped the spear firmly, eyes scanning the woods around her. Something had spooked the birds, and though she couldn’t see anything, she was a little spooked too.
“Nothing,” she said after a moment. “There’s nothing there. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
She looked at the spear again-her spear. The feathers were Chislev’s symbol. Mudwort knew that only because Saarh had said so. She’d heard the long-ago shaman talking about the god in one of the mystic journeys she’d taken through the earth. Saarh was foolish to worship a god that would leave behind such a beautif
ul, magical thing, Mudwort thought. Through the centuries goblins had learned to abandon the gods, just as the gods had abandoned the goblins.
And just as Chislev had abandoned the spear.
“Nothing to be afraid of.” Mudwort shook off her nervousness and decided perhaps she had spooked the birds by splitting the earth and bringing the great artifact up from its long slumber. She held the spear above her head like a warrior might.
“Oh!” The sunlight set the spear to fairly glowing. All the gems and inlaid metal sparkled and sent little shards of color spiraling away. “Incredible.”
Mudwort nearly dropped the spear in surprise when she heard a voice other than her own.
“That certainly is incredible and beautiful.” Standing at the base of one of the ash trees was Thya.
AT LAST, THIS IS MUDWORT’S SPEAR
Thya’s eyes shifted between Mudwort and the spear, her gaze finally settling on Mudwort, whose eyes were narrowed suspiciously.
“An amazing thing Mudwort has found,” Thya said amiably. She shuffled forward, one hand drifting to her belt to worry at a small brass buckle, the other reaching forward. “Grallik said Mudwort was looking for something. Grallik will be surprised at just what Mudwort has found.”
Mudwort raised her upper lip, but the snarl was lost on Thya, who was busy staring at the spear. A large crow launched itself from a high branch, cawing loudly and sending some of the sparrows flying in all directions.
Thya held out both her hands and wiggled her fingers.
“No, Thya. At last, this is Mudwort’s spear. Only Mudwort’s.”
“Just want to hold it,” Thya cooed. “Just for a moment. Beautiful. Nothing more beautiful than that.”
Thya was right, Mudwort thought. She’d never seen anything more glorious. The sapphire necklace she kept hidden paled next to the spear’s display of sparkling colors. The haft of the spear slightly warmed against her palm, the dizzying sensation fainter but still present … something else was present too. Something she couldn’t see or decipher. What?
