by Jean Rabe
“What to do, Umay? What to do?” Graytoes fell behind. She watched the others ahead of her weave through the trunks and underbrush, weapons on their belts thunking against their thighs, their feet slapping against the ground.
The ground felt drier than it had before. Graytoes had never cared for shoes; her calloused feet were tough enough for any terrain, but the ground was parched. The air was drier too and carried the fire scent. Wood burned. The forest cried for water. Looking up, she thought she saw the edges of a cloud stretching over her. But it wasn’t a rain cloud; the cloud was smoke.
Graytoes dropped to her knees, jarring Umay and waking her. The baby made a cooing sound and wriggled slightly in the pack. “Not much magic inside this heart, but maybe there is just enough.” Graytoes thrust her fingers into the desiccated ground, remembering everything Mudwort had taught her. “Must warn Orvago about the fire. Orvago must get the younglings to safety.” If nothing else, the druid could invoke rain and put out the fire, she thought.
Her senses raced through the earth and found their way back to the bluff. She felt the goblin bodies on the hard ground there-sitting, resting, sleeping, the younglings playing. All of them were oblivious to the coming threat. Their forms felt like a pressing weight against her senses and made it more difficult for her to breathe. She felt a greater weight then, and knew it was either a hobgoblin or Orvago. The gnoll, she decided, as she tried to mentally communicate with him.
“Orvago, please listen. Danger comes. Listen.”
Graytoes tried harder than she ever had before with the magic, but nothing worked or felt right. When she got no response from the gnoll, she tried to talk to the goblins and hobgoblins there, but none of them were stonetellers, so they couldn’t hear her call. Not even Horace could hear her; his was not the right kind of magic. She felt him sleeping on the ground, and not even her mental shouts could wake him.
“Mudwort.” Mudwort had to be somewhere in the woods. “And Thya.” They were so magical that they would respond to her pitiful efforts and come to help. And if they were too far away and couldn’t come fast enough to help, she could warn them about the fire so at least they could be safe. She sent her mind searching to the west then to the north. She felt the thousands of goblin feet; Direfang’s army was approaching the Dark Knights. They couldn’t be oblivious to the fire, could they? Was the worst of the fire behind the ones in front, was that it?
“Be fast.” It was a cry that often accompanied the goblins into a fight. “Be fast.” But she used it to spur her senses on.
Soon she was flying past the goblins and the knights-who felt much heavier on the earth-and speeding over the north and west, going back and forth, trying to scout two directions at the same time. “Thya! Mudwort!” Maybe one of them could use her mental-magic to reach Orvago and Horace and warn them. Mudwort and Thya had more magic than she did. Maybe they could even do something to help the goblins against the Dark Knights. And maybe they could do something about the spreading fire.
The fire was spreading quickly, like an angry, ravenous beast-a thing bigger than the dragon that had ruined Direfang’s city.
“Mudwort, listen. Please, please, be listening to the stone.” Graytoes thought for a moment she had managed to find and touch the red-skinned goblin’s mind. Something felt familiar. “Mudwort?” Familiar, yet different. “Mudwort, help.” When there was no answer, she spiraled away, looking for Thya, calling out a warning to every living creature she sensed, hoping one or more of them were stonetellers and could hear her.
Graytoes continued her call until the sound of goblin feet intruded. Like muted thunder, the marching feet signaled her defeat; her mind had drifted back to the forest, to the goblins rushing toward her, to the fire spreading all around. She pulled her fingers out of the earth and hid behind a thick-trunked oak so Umay would not get trampled by the retreating army of goblins and hobgoblins. The baby continued to coo happily.
The cloud of smoke overhead was thicker and darker and was well beyond her ability to cope; it was like a roof that kept out the good air and forced her and Umay to breathe the burned, hot air that, like everything else, called out for water.
The fire traveled faster than the goblins possibly could, she realized. Birds shot like arrows through the smoke and to the south-all kinds and sizes, all squawking with terror.
“Time to join Orvago and hope for Jando-Jando,” Graytoes said to herself apprehensively. “Time for Umay to be safe.” She thought about the river. She could go down the bluff and stay at the muddy river’s edge. Water stopped fire so maybe her baby would be all right there. That’s just where she would go.
Graytoes waited until there was a gap in the panicked mob of goblins. She darted into the gap and ran as fast as she could along with the others. Little ground animals continued their mad dash, some weaving in and out around goblin legs, others hurtling parallel to the widening trail the goblins had created.
“Faster!” she heard someone in front of her holler. “Faster! Fire!”
“Back to the bluff!” another called. “Be fast.”
Then with no warning, the goblins she was running with suddenly stopped in their tracks, skidding into each other, some falling and getting trampled. She nearly got knocked down.
Graytoes felt her heart rise into her dry, choked throat. The fire had jumped over the goblin army and was ahead of them! She looked ahead and behind and to the east and the west.
The fire was everywhere, and they were all going to die.
FIRESTORM
Direfang shoved his way to the front, raising his new axe high and bringing it down on the head of a Dark Knight. The axe blade shimmered in the light thrown from the flames. It glowed faintly blue, and when it struck the knight’s helmet, it parted the steel like parchment. The blade buried itself in the knight’s skull.
At his side, Nkunda cheered.
The fire raged behind the goblins, and Direfang knew only that hundreds were caught on their side of the blaze, maybe at best a thousand. They were caught but maybe safe from burning. A part of him worried about the rest, hoping fervently they were racing back to the bluff where the trees were thin and they would be safe, where they could jump in the river if they needed to.
Though the goblins there seemed equal in numbers to the force of knights, the hobgoblin knew that their foes were better trained and more skilled and better armored. More goblins were dropping than knights. He and his fellows might die that night.
“But die free,” he said with a grunt.
Direfang’s vision was keen, but the haze from the fire made it difficult to see much farther than the first several ranks of knights in front of him. The wind blew toward him, which helped to clear some of the air, but it only caused him to worry more about the goblins behind the fire line. How fast was it spreading? Were all the goblins caught in the fire and being burned?
Grallik had made it through close to Direfang, the wizard bringing down repeated gouts of flame and conjuring walls of fire in an effort to neutralize the massive blaze. But nothing was working, Direfang realized, and he watched as the wizard turned his attention to fighting the knights instead of the fire.
“There is the traitor!”
Direfang heard a woman’s shrill voice cut above the fray.
“There is Grallik N’sera. He is mine! Do you hear? All of you? The traitor is mine to kill!”
The hobgoblin caught sight of her, the female Dark Knight, her face soot streaked and her hair slick against the sides of her head. She’d lost her helmet in the battle, and the shield she carried was dented and looked old. She looked worn, but she fought with a fury that surpassed the knights around her. She was the fearsome commander Grallik had told him about.
She was his.
Had she started the fire? Was she to blame for all the death and destruction?
Direfang struggled toward her, slashing at enemy soldiers who lunged at him, trying hard to keep the female knight in focus. The fire was too loud, whooshing
at intervals and sending explosions of smoke in all directions. The very air was dying.
Weapons clanged against each other and against the Dark Knight shields. Out of the corner of his eye, Direfang spotted a hobgoblin as he stabbed a knight and grabbed up the man’s shield, charging into the next knight in line and knocking him down. A burly knight vaulted in front of Direfang, startling him.
“This one has Zoccinder’s axe, Commander! I think he’s the one that killed Zoccinder.”
“Gold to the man who brings me the murderer’s head!”
Direfang slashed with the axe, cutting into the stupid knight’s breastplate. The knight didn’t die immediately, and the hobgoblin had to yank hard to pull the axe free to strike again and again. Finally, the man fell, blood dribbling from his mouth, and Direfang walked over him to confront another one.
The woman would be his.
She’d brought the men to the forest, dogged the goblins from the Nerakan mountains to the shore of the Newsea, and followed them to Schallsea Island, where she had taken Horace.
Brought hell to his forest and his city!
She was a worse enemy than the bloodragers and the dragon, and the tylor the goblins had fought so long, long in the past. She was worse than the earthquakes and the volcanoes, for Direfang hadn’t considered any of those things evil. But the commander? From yards away he felt pure evil emanating from her.
“Mine!” Direfang shouted, finally close enough to get a good look at her face. “The woman is mine to kill!”
The woman’s eyes burned as darkly bright as the woods, and spittle flew from her lips as she decapitated Keth and ran her blade through the belly of another goblin Direfang didn’t recognize.
Her lieutenants had fought to form a small circle around her. All the better, Direfang thought, because he could kill more Dark Knights on his way to killing her. The axe he gripped was a fine weapon, filled with magic and with an edge so sharp that nothing could stand up to it for long. Fate had handed him that axe, and he would use it kill knights to his last breath.
Direfang spotted little shards of light that sparkled in the fire’s glow and melted through the breast plate of one knight after another, sending some knights tumbling to the forest floor, clutching their chests, where they were easier targets for the goblins. Grallik was continuing to cast his little spells, he realized. They were not as flashy as the columns of flame that Grallik specialized in, but they were more effective given the circumstances. The big fire couldn’t be stopped anyway.
“Die!” a Flamegrass clansman screamed in the common tongue. “Die this night!”
“Be fast! Be deadly!” others shouted, both in the common tongue and in goblinspeak. Direfang knew the goblins wanted the knights to understand and fear their words. “Be fast! Kill fast!”
The chants swelled and Direfang’s arm pumped faster. His hand was slick with blood running down the blade and the haft of his weapon. More blood was spattered against his face, and he had to blink and wipe his eyes constantly to clear his vision.
A knight slipped up to his side while he was distracted by a female knight struggling with two goblins. Direfang felt the knight’s blade cut through to a rib, feeling a sharp pain but a pain that was nothing to him. He was too angry and desperate, too determined to be slowed or humbled by pain. He spun, bringing the axe down on the outstretched arm of his attacker, slicing his arm off and turning back to another foe.
The axe possessed serious magic! Direfang felt the haft tingle each time the blade connected with flesh. A fine, fine weapon; he brought it back over his head as if he were going to chop at a stump, then shifted it down and in an arc, slicing off another knight’s arm and kicking him in the stomach to send him toppling back before moving on to the next. Behind Direfang, goblins swarmed the knights falling to Grallik’s spell.
Grallik sent more light shards into the many knights surrounding Direfang, cutting some down among the shield wall that protected the commander, lessening her defenses.
“The woman is mine!” Direfang cried over his shoulder. “Do you hear, Gray Robe? Grallik, no spells upon that fiend! The woman is mine to kill!”
If Grallik heard, he didn’t answer. But Direfang saw the wizard was busy casting another spell, bringing down a familiar column of flame on knights coming up from the rear.
“There is enough fire!” Direfang shouted.
“Again, Grallik!” one of the goblins yelled, contradicting the hobgoblin leader. “Do that again and again and again.”
Direfang coughed deeper as he engaged the next knight, one clearly wary of his axe. The hobgoblin’s lungs ached from the heat, his throat and mouth desert-dry, and his eyes stinging horribly.
“Blind before this is through,” Direfang muttered.
A goblin dropped at his side but not from a physical blow from a knight. The air was becoming impossible to breathe. Another fell shortly thereafter, clutching his throat and gasping.
“Be fast!” came a strangled cry from behind Direfang.
“The fire has jumped!” That was a knight’s voice, a human who stood only a few paces ahead of Direfang. “Commander, we are going to be trapped. The wind has shifted, and we are caught!”
“Then we’ll die here!” she returned, her voice carrying to Direfang’s ears. “But not before we kill as many as we can. I’ll gladly die to Isaam’s fire before I’ll die to a goblin.”
Her evil was indeed palpable, Direfang thought.
At the most a thousand goblins were on the wrong side of the wall of flame, Direfang knew. He doubted there were that many. That meant most goblins had retreated through the burning forest.
Had they all gotten away? Were they safe at the bluff? Had they thought to retreat to the river? Were Orvago and Horace tending those hurt by the flames? Was Graytoes all right?
“Stop it,” he told himself angrily. Stop thinking about everyone except the Dark Knight woman, he admonished himself. “Be fast. Be deadly. Kill the woman before the flames do.” He counted only three knights standing between his axe and her.
On the bluff, Orvago brought down as much rain as he could manage to conjure. He had drained himself of his nature magic to the point he could no longer stand. He went down on his knees. Goblins huddled around him, all soaking wet and shivering from fear. Some of them begged him to bring down a bigger storm to put out the fire that raged in the forest and was coming toward them.
Horace was ministering to those who’d been burned and who’d managed to make it back through the woods. He listened to their tales of the fire and realized the Dark Knights must have started the inferno that threatened to kill all on both sides.
“If the Dark Knight swords cannot kill all the clans,” one of the goblins told him. “Then the fire will kill all.”
Goblins streamed over the bluff and toward the river, despite Orvago and Horace yelling at them to climb to higher ground.
The river wouldn’t save them, the gnoll decided. The fire had already jumped the body of water and had caught in the small pines on both sides. The river might provide some temporary refuge, but soon the air would be filled with so much poisonous smoke that it would choke the life out of everything. And most of the goblins and hobgoblins could not swim for long anyway.
“I realize now why the old willow tree had been so worried,” Orvago murmured.
“I don’t understand.” But Horace was too busy to ask for an explanation. His healing hands weaved over another burned goblin.
“Chislev,” Orvago began. “Hear this prayer.”
“Sea Mother,” Horace echoed, his voice stronger and deeper than the gnoll’s, “Zeboim, mother goddess, she who is called Zebir Jotun, Zura the Maelstrom, and Zyr. Hear me.”
“Qel was right, Umay.” Graytoes sat against the base of a poplar, the dwarf baby cradled in front of her, gasping and sputtering. “Should not have taken Umay from that village. Should have left Umay there. Safe with dwarves maybe. Safer than here.”
There was nowhere to run
, no safe place in that section of the forest. Trees burned everywhere, behind her, around her, and ahead of her toward the bluff.
The bluff was no safer, she realized.
In a detached way, Graytoes found the flames strangely beautiful-yellow, orange, red, white, magical in their brightness and intensity, pieces of flames shining like metal, all of it beautiful yet horrible.
“Umay would have lived well in that village. Would have grown strong and wonderful. Would not have been loved by Graytoes anymore, though, if left behind. And Graytoes does love Umay.” Graytoes twirled her fingers in the baby’s black hair. Umay’s breath came in shallow puffs. “Should not have stolen Umay. Qel was right. S’dard to have stolen beautiful Umay.”
Above the forest, watching all the beautiful, horrible fire he had wrought, Isaam stared in horror. He hadn’t counted on the wind shifting and the fire jumping to trees behind the knights. His magical shield was holding against the flames to the south, protecting Bera from the fire spreading in that direction, but he hadn’t the ability to protect her from the east and west, as the fire spread out of control. The Dark Knight leaders-and some of the goblins and hobgoblins-were in a clearing surrounded by the inferno.
Bera was there in the middle of it all, Isaam saw.
He would miss Bera, but he had no way to save her. He could not risk floating down to reach her, the smoke was so thick that he himself might perish. He could start but not stop the fire.
At least the enemy druid-wherever he was-could not help the goblins. Isaam had dried out the forest and saw to that. Isaam would mourn his gallant commander, certainly. And he’d tell those higher up in the Order that she’d accomplished her mission-slaying the goblins she’d been sent after. She’d killed them all and didn’t retreat despite a fire that rose all around her.
