by Jean Rabe
Except Thya. “Poor, poor Thya.”
Mudwort didn’t have any friends, except perhaps for Direfang. But Thya was close to a friend, and maybe Mudwort would have eventually considered her one. Thya was a clan leader, and her clansmen would sorely miss her. Draath and Graytoes would miss mingling magic with Thya. Mudwort would miss that a little too.
Mudwort’s gut clenched and she squeezed her hands so tight around the spear haft that her fingers felt numb. Maybe Thya had meant no harm. Maybe Thya had been a friend after all.
“A sour, sour mind I have,” Mudwort pronounced. “Thinking too much about this spear, Mudwort’s spear. Thinking only about the spear. Selfish.” She paced faster and squeezed the spear tighter. Even though she didn’t want to, she thought she should tell someone about Thya’s death. That way they wouldn’t come looking for the goblin; they’d never find her, as deeply buried as she was, as well concealed as Mudwort had made the grave.
They’d never mourn her and never say, “Thya is remembered.”
“S’dard!” Mudwort realized suddenly that she’d left Thya’s body intact. She whirled around. “S’dard. Sour, sour mind!”
She returned to the clearing and unearthed the dead goblin. Mudwort had rarely participated in the goblin death rituals that involved nearly everyone else. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in them; she did. Before escaping with Direfang and the rest of the slaves, she simply didn’t participate in much of anything.
“Leave nothing intact,” she told herself. How much to cut away? Some goblins thought all that was necessary was to cut off a finger or a toe. The body no longer whole, the spirit could not return. Other goblins thought the body had to be essentially torn apart and burned, but that would take a lot of time. One clan liked to sink bodies in the water for the fish to nibble apart. Another hung bodies in trees for the crows to pick at.
Mudwort thought about it and made a decision. She used the spear to slice off Thya’s left arm only; so sharp, the spear made the task easy. Before burying the body again, Mudwort searched Thya’s pockets and found a pretty shell and several carved wooden beads on a string. Mudwort put them in her own pocket.
A few gestures, and the ground sealed itself again, hiding Thya deep inside. Mudwort buried Thya’s arm under a silver birch several yards away.
“Thya is remembered,” Mudwort said aloud. “Thya loved to mingle magic and was good at it. Thya led a clan well.” She paused and rested against the spear, thinking she should say more because, after all, Thya had been her friend, almost. “Thya was worried about the Dark Knights and wanted to help Direfang and the smashed, burned city. Thya cared about others.” She paused again. “Thya was curious, too curious. Thya should not have followed Mudwort. Thya would still be alive helping Direfang and worrying about the Dark Knights otherwise. Curiosity led to Thya’s downfall.” Mudwort reverently bowed her head. “Thya is remembered.”
She padded across the grave, smoothing it with her feet, inspecting the moss to make certain everything was perfect and no one would ever notice that the earth had been disturbed.
“Thya was simply too curious,” she said. Mudwort thought the ceremony might make her feel less guilty about killing the goblin, but it hadn’t. “Did Saarh kill friends too?” Had her counterpart from ancient times accidentally discovered how sharp the spear was by thrusting it through the belly of a friend?
Mudwort intended to look in on Saarh again. She wanted to learn more about the spear and what the ancient goblin leader had done with it.
“Maybe look for Saarh now.” She left the clearing and sat between a pin oak and a birch tree with scarlet leaves. A blueberry bush was within arm’s reach, and there were plenty of plump berries on the lower branches where the birds hadn’t yet feasted.
But the blueberries didn’t interest her. Mudwort had lost her appetite. She crossed her legs and rested the spear across her knees. “A long time ago …” Mudwort began. “What did Saarh do with this spear? What great things did Saarh accomplish?”
A vision came to her so fast, it was difficult to comprehend it.
From a distance Mudwort watched Saarh’s village in a time of thriving, the goblins multiplying and becoming hunters and farmers and trading with black-haired elves who came from the south. Then she watched as the buildings started to deteriorate and the goblins moved east toward the mountains. Mudwort recalled Saarh and Brab saying the goblins would return to the earth.
But Brab and Saarh didn’t go with the clan, and the spear stayed behind with Saarh. The shaman waved it, and the earth swallowed up the homes, as if the clan had never been there. Another wave and saplings sprung up where the goblins used to farm and dance. Vines covered the older trees and filled out with purple and red flowers. Saarh was using the spear to enhance the forest and cover the tracks of her people.
If Mudwort wanted to help, perhaps she could use Chislev’s spear to hide Direfang and his ruined city from the Dark Knights. But still, Mudwort did not want to go back.
“Forward,” she thought. “Only forward from now on.” It was time to peer into the future. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and she ground her teeth together. She touched a hand to the ground, thinking to burrow her fingers into the earth.
Suddenly the image in her head shifted, and she again spotted the clearing where she’d unearthed the spear.
“No. No. No.” She’d wanted to see into the future. “No …”
A moment more, and she got her wish. The clearing looked vastly different, overgrown with holly and blueberry and raspberry bushes, small trees sprouting where before only moss grew. The ash trees that circled it were still there, but they were taller, more than a hundred feet in height, Mudwort guessed. The pin oaks, silver birches, and more were also taller and fuller. A good amount of time must have passed.
Where was she in that future? How many years or decades ahead? Could she look in on herself? Could she see what she was doing in the future-place?
Mudwort concentrated so hard that her head ached but was rewarded with nothing, just as she’d come up with nothing when she’d tried to see what had eventually happened to Saarh.
“The earth keeps secrets,” she hissed. “Won’t show Mudwort the secrets.”
Instead she focused on the spear. Find the spear in the future, she decided, and she would find herself. She would trick the earth.
As magical as the spear was, Mudwort felt certain it would grant her a long, long life. There was that kind of magic in the spear: forever magic, god magic.
“Find the spear. This spear.” Mudwort tapped the haft.
The forest spun into a miasma of greens and browns until brown gradually became the more predominant color. When the image cleared, Mudwort was looking down upon a mountain. Crawling around on the mountaintop were clans of goblins. They were all manner of color, just like the ones in Direfang’s ruined city: gray, brown, yellow, red, and some multicolored like the Skinweavers.
The goblins weren’t alone. There were dwarves there too. Mudwort had never met a dwarf before cutting through the village in the mountains south of Steel Town, the disease-ridden village where Graytoes stole the baby. Dwarves didn’t usually mingle with goblins.
Those dwarves were different. They were all ruddy-skinned, thick, and with short, muscular limbs. All of them sported beards, some of the beards braided and with bits of bone and beads woven in the plaits. They all dressed in clothes and leather armor. Many of them had weapons hanging from their belts.
The goblins carried weapons too, fine ones forged of metal like the weapons in Steel Town had been. There wasn’t a single crude club or a simple knife.
Were the two races set to battle each other? Mudwort peered closer and saw they didn’t fight, they … mingled. The goblins and dwarves talked and laughed, argued and pointed east toward what Mudwort guessed was the Plains of Dust. They acted as if they had joined together, belonged together.
“Find Mudwort’s spear. Use the magic. Find the spear.”
/> The image of the dwarves and goblins became sharper, the colors more vivid.
“So the spear is there. Where?” Though she looked hard, she didn’t spy herself in the crowd. There must be hundreds of the goblins and dwarves on the mountain, hobgoblins, too, she noted. She saw more going in and out of caves. “The dwarves live in the caves. Goblins too,” she said a moment later when she saw a yellow-skinned, elderly goblin helped out by a young dwarf. “Live together in the caves.” She shuddered at the thought.
“Mudwort’s spear,” she droned. “Find it. Find it. Find it.” She flew like a hawk, swooping low over the vision, skimming south, banking, then coming up toward the north. She didn’t recognize any of the goblins on the mountain. Maybe she was in one of the caves, holding court as Saarh had done when Mudwort had first looked in on her. Maybe the vision was so far in the future that all the goblins she knew-Direfang too-had died. Maybe she was all that was left, and she was holding court.
“Umay?” Her senses hovered above a female dwarf who looked strangely familiar. And she was the one holding court. The squat figure stepped up to the highest level spot on the mountain. She clutched Mudwort’s spear in her right hand.
Mudwort’s stomach clenched as she stared. The dwarf was indeed Umay; Mudwort recognized her eyes and nose-all the years, decades, had not changed those features. And her smile, that was the same too. There were wrinkles at the edges of Umay’s eyes and mouth and creases along her wide forehead. If Umay was old, at least well into middle age, likely at least a century or two had passed. Mudwort had heard dwarves live a very long time.
“How did Umay get Mudwort’s spear?” Mudwort vehemently shook her head. “That is not for Umay. That is not for … ‘hope.’”
Again the wind blew through the trees surrounding Mudwort. “Hope,” the leaves whispered.
In the astonishing vision, it appeared Umay had brought the dwarves and goblins together-a curious but perhaps noble undertaking, Mudwort had to admit. Graytoes must have raised her stolen child well. The goblins looked healthy and happy, not a too-skinny one among those she saw. They had fine weapons and armor, good clothes. The dwarves treated the goblins as equals, friends and allies.
“This spear is not intended for Umay. This spear is for Mudwort! Only Mudwort!” She shook as she pulled back from the image and shook her head to clear her senses and pull back to the present.
“No. That will not come to pass.” Mudwort’s tone was stern. “Umay will never gain Mudwort’s spear.”
She struck out north. She would get as far away from Direfang and his mangled city as possible. That way the spear would never be separated from her, would never fall into Umay’s clutches.
Mudwort heard voices again, the leaves murmuring, along with a somewhat familiar voice. Saarh? It sounded like Saarh.
“Shut up,” Mudwort growled. “Shut up. Shut up.”
After a mile she couldn’t hear the voices anymore, just the birds and a creek bubbling nearby. Mudwort would make a home for herself far from Direfang and Graytoes, and farther still from Umay.
Mudwort didn’t need anyone since she had her treasure.
“This spear will never be for ‘hope.’”
DIREFANG’S ROCKY STAND
It worked, your plan. The knights walked right into your elaborate trap.” Grallik had just set fire to a mound of goblin bodies. “More of the Dark Knights died than your people, Foreman. No doubt they hadn’t expected any tricks, didn’t think you capable of being devious.”
“Or prepared,” Direfang replied. The hobgoblin held the great axe he’d gained from the dead Dark Knight. It felt lighter than such a weapon should. He knew not to set it down or another hobgoblin would snatch it up. The axe was a fine prize.
Nearby, Keth directed a crew to strip the dead Dark Knights of all valuables. Sallor, Draath, and Neacha pulled the naked bodies into the earth bowls. Crows hovered above the knights’ bodies, more birds strutted on the ground and darted in to pick at the bodies.
“There has been nothing but death for weeks and weeks,” Direfang said. His voice was flat and emotionless. “In the mining camp. Since the escape. Even here. Especially here. So much death.” He fixed his gaze on a line of small pine trees across the river. “There is no freedom without death, it seems, wizard. And yet isn’t freedom worth any price?”
Grallik’s magic brought down another column of fire to make the bodies burn faster. “They will come back, Foreman. The Dark Knights are dedicated and driven, and they will not back down.”
“Yes.”
“You could move your people. South across the river or toward the mountains. You could …” Grallik watched Graytoes. She’d taken a pack from one of the Dark Knights and cut holes in the bottom to accommodate Umay’s legs. She wore the pack on her back, the baby looking over her shoulder, and she was collecting belts that had been taken from the knights. “But they will track you, Foreman. They followed you all the way here from Neraka.”
“The clans will stand here,” Direfang said. “No more goblins want to leave. Grallik can leave, though. South across the river or toward the mountains. Or to the coast, like Qel.”
Grallik noticed that despite the many fatalities, none of the survivors were clamoring to leave. “I said before I would stay here. I suspect the knights want me worse than they want you. The Dark Knights do not suffer traitors, and they consider me a traitor. I will leave if you order me to. Otherwise, no.”
“The Dark Knights will suffer,” Direfang cut back, deliberately ignoring Grallik’s offer to leave. “And the Dark Knights will die like anyone dies. The Dark Knights will not steal the clans’ freedom anymore. This ends here, wizard.”
The hobgoblin whirled away from the edge of the bluff and stared at the mound of burning bodies.
“Rustymane is remembered,” he said softly.
Louder, he said, “Grallik, come.”
Moments later they were at the spire he’d lugged all the way from the north and had carefully planted. “This didn’t keep the Dark Knights from finding the goblins,” he said. “But it might have slowed them. Useless now.” He put his shoulder to the spire and pushed it out of the ground. Then he rolled it over the edge and watched it topple into the river. He took the three polished rocks out of the ground underneath it, keeping the blue one and tossing the other two over the side into the water. The magic of the spire was no longer working, perhaps Mudwort could find her way back home. Perhaps she’d simply gotten lost.
“Those prisoners are useless too.” Direfang nodded to the north. Tied at the base of a tree were two naked Dark Knights, both with legs broken from falling into the earth bowls. Direfang gestured toward them, the same foul gesture Grimstone had made repeatedly before the hobgoblin banished him from the horde.
“I don’t know those knights, Foreman.”
“But you do.” Orvago approached, his long legs carrying him toward Grallik in a half dozen steps. The gnoll’s hands and chest were bloody. But it wasn’t his own blood; it was that of the many patients he was tending. “Foreman Direfang, I’ve done what I could for your goblins. There are three Boarhunters and a Flamegrass clansman who are beyond my aid. They will die before morning. They may die before the hour is out, I fear.”
Direfang growled but said nothing.
Orvago turned his attention back to Grallik. “You do know them. You know them because they are knights. You know what kind of people they are and what drives them. You know what is in their hearts. And you can learn something from them that they wouldn’t tell the foreman or me or anyone else. You can do this because you know the Dark Knights. You know how to talk to them.”
“I’ll see what I can learn,” Grallik said, turning to head toward the prisoners.
Direfang followed Orvago over to a group of wounded goblins.
“I am not a healer of Qel’s abilities, Foreman Direfang, though I don’t know if even she could mend these.” The gnoll had bandaged the four goblins with strips of cloth he’d cut fro
m Dark Knight tabards and cloaks. Because they were black, the bandages effectively covered the blood. “This one here …”
“Neph,” Direfang supplied. He didn’t know the names of the other three, though. “Neph of the Flamegrass clan. Neph was a slave in Steel Town. Neph was one of the first to leave when the earthquakes struck. And Neph returned to fight the Dark Knights and free those whose minds had been ensnared by the-”
“Skull men? I remember that. Neph, you call him. I might be able to help. At least let me try.”
Direfang’s eyes widened as the human who had spoken stepped out of the shadows. Orvago tugged his oak cudgel from his belt, ready to fight. “It’s all right,” the hobgoblin said, staying Orvago’s hand. “This is the Skull Man Horace.”
Graytoes had kept the goblins from killing the Ergothian. So many goblins had joined Direfang after the exodus from Steel Town that some of them had never seen Horace before. That he wasn’t in Dark Knight attire, and that he was in chains, helped. Several stood behind him, wary and with weapons ready.
“Found the Skull Man for Direfang,” Graytoes said. “Found Horace. Brought the Skull Man here. Thought he could help.”
“Graytoes did not find the Skull Man,” another yellow-skinned goblin corrected. “The Skull Man walked right into the city. Almost died at the hands of the Skinweavers.”
Graytoes thrust out her bottom lip peevishly. “Saved the Skull Man, then. Saved him from Pigeyes and Nothumbs.”
Orvago used the narrow end of the cudgel to pry open one of the links on Horace’s arm chains next to a wrist manacle. The Ergothian explained how he had been taken prisoner on Schallsea Island and brought there. Orvago worked on the other wrist.
