The Rebellion s-1

by Jean Rabe

  They were likely dead, but it was not for certain. Some might be caught in passageways and chambers. He’d talked to one of the Dark Knight lieutenants earlier about going back into the shafts to search for bodies and survivors. The knights had missing men too and said that a mission would start at dawn. If goblin and hobgoblin bodies were not recovered quickly, Direfang feared the spirits would return to the dead husks and would be forever trapped in the decaying shells, forever tortured and lost.

  “Saro-Saro’s brother, Sharp-teeth was. Only brother. Saro-Saro will not forget Sharp-teeth.”

  “Bright Eyes sang well and told good stories.”

  “Four Toes feared lightning. Four Toes hated storms and shivered like a youngling when the rains came.”

  “Igrun was old and carried half-full sacks. Oldest in all of these pens, Igrun was.”

  Direfang tried to count the goblins and hobgoblins in the pens. But they were moving around restlessly, and they were too numerous-all of them crammed inside rather than some of them working in the mine, as usual. He had neglected to count the number of bodies thrown on the pyre, and so worried that some of the dead would not be named in the ceremony.

  Naming the dead and speaking a remembrance was a custom that dated back centuries for some clans. The stories recorded goblinkind’s history and were passed from one generation to the next, rarely embellished. The slaves’ stories, unlike those in free clans, were short and simple because their lives had been painful and monotonous. But the stories they’d heard before their capture were more elaborate and recalled great discoveries the dead had made, battles won, and strange beasts defeated. The telling was done to catch a spirit’s attention, to let it know it was missed and appreciated and, therefore, was welcome back for another life. Mostly it was done to honor the spirit because the gods would not do so … nor, in Steel Town, would the Dark Knights.

  The sky had started to lighten by the time the ceremony was finished. Not all the goblins had stayed awake to the end, though not for lack of trying. Some of them had been awake for more than a day, and the injured drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Mudwort had stayed awake through all of the ceremony, though she did not participate and only part of the time listened. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the ritual; she did, and she had participated in others, though none on the scale of the one that day. Instead she was listening to the earth. When Direfang spotted her and found his way through the press of bodies, he saw that her fingers were thrust into the ground.

  Mudwort sat against her favorite post, legs tucked close to her chest and arms at her sides, fingers digging deeper. Her lips were working, though Direfang couldn’t hear what she was saying-if indeed she was making any sound. The whispers of those still awake melded into a sonorous, indecipherable hum around them.

  She gently rocked back and forth, her eyes closed and head tipped. She stopped moving her mouth for a moment, drawing her lips into a thin line and putting on a pensive expression, then she started mouthing words again.

  Direfang watched her, perplexed and fascinated.

  The ground seemed to ripple around her fingers, turning into wet clay and smoothing, then hardening, even as Mudwort’s expression hardened.

  “Doing what?” Direfang said. The words croaked out. His mouth was so dry. He was so thirsty. “Doing what, Mudwort?”

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard him, but her eyelids fluttered.

  “Doing what?” Direfang spoke so loud that all the nearby goblins stopped their chatter and stared.

  “Listening,” she said finally. She let out a great sigh, and her shoulders slumped. Then she pulled her fingers out of the ground. The holes instantly filled.

  11

  BLOOD AND WATER

  Mudwort’s eyes took on an old, rheumy look as she drew her lower lip into her mouth. Her hands hovered inches above the ground, palms sometimes dropping down and touching the earth then pulling back as if scalded. Fingers fluttering and toes twitching, she started mumbling. She shook her head vehemently when Direfang leaned close to see if she was all right.

  He spoke to her again, but it was clear she didn’t hear him. She cocked her head slightly as though she were listening to something very far beyond the slave pen and Steel Town.

  Direfang tried to listen too, straining to shut out the sounds of the goblins moving listlessly in the overcrowded pen and the conversation of a pair of Dark Knights strolling by. The hobgoblin heard nothing interesting, so he waited impatiently for Mudwort to explain what she was doing.

  Behind him, Saro-Saro made a clucking noise. “Mudwort is good and smart,” he said. “But Mudwort is also mad. There are voices in Mudwort’s head no one else can hear. Good thing the voices only speak to Mudwort. Good that only Mudwort has a sour mind.”

  Minutes later Mudwort stopped mumbling, though her lips continued to move, and one eyebrow rose sharply as if in surprise. She nodded to Direfang, finally acknowledging his presence, then mumbled something again and kept fluttering her fingers.

  “Mudwort listening to what?” Direfang punctuated his question with a snarl, hoping to draw her full attention. “Listening to what?”

  “Listening to head voices,” Saro-Saro said.

  “Listening to nothing.” That came from Hurbear, hovering nearby. He shook his head sadly then pushed his way through the press of slaves and disappeared.

  “What does Mudwort listen to? Mudwort listens to what?” One of the younger slaves had found her way to the front. Less than three feet tall, already she displayed the stooped shoulders of defeat. Her gray-yellow skin gave her a sickly appearance, but her eyes were bright, her expression curious. She cupped her hands to her ears as if trying to imitate Mudwort. Then she drew her features forward until her face looked painfully pinched. “What is Mudwort hearing, Direfang?”

  “Mudwort …” Direfang was clearly exasperated.

  The red-skinned goblin continued her antics, drawing stares from the closest slaves as she cocked her head this way and that and whispered answers to the voices in her head. The buzz of questions became loud and annoying, and Mudwort finally raised her head and drew her shoulders back and spat at the surrounding slaves, but they wouldn’t quiet.

  “Mad is Mudwort,” one called Brak sneered. “Sour in the head. Saro-Saro is right about Mudwort’s sour head. Mind gone bad like old, ugly meat. Mind spoiled and ruined.”

  “Mad, no. Dard, yes,” another volunteered, jabbing a finger toward Mudwort. “Said a bad something was coming to the mine. Said bad, and bad came. Mudwort knew about it. Mad, no. Smart, yes. Dard, Mudwort is.”

  “Mad, mad, mad,” Brak repeated, slamming his fist against his palm for emphasis. He was a little burlier than most goblins, and a little more than three feet tall-a veritable giant of his race. His skin was dark orange, marking him as one of the Flamegrass Clan. “Mind dried up. Gone all sour and stinky.”

  The debate swirled over Mudwort, mingled with random musings about dead companions. Then, suddenly, the chatter was interrupted by a loud thud coming from the stables. Nervous whinnies from surviving horses followed. Then things quieted down again, and the chatter resumed.

  “Galgirth’s mind was stinky too. But bad that Galgirth died. Spirit come back, maybe, with clear mind in a new body. New body, no stinky mind.”

  Brak cackled. “All slaves have minds a little stinky. Mudwort’s is just smellier than most.”

  Direfang spoke louder, trying to be heard over the goblins’ prattle. “Listening to what now, Mudwort? Certainly not listening to Brak. Listening to what, who, where?”

  “Listening,” she whispered back. Mudwort’s eyes had grown glassy, as if she’d put herself in a trance. She sucked in a deep breath, and her fingers and toes wiggled faster. She started mumbling again, in a singsong rhythm.

  “Enough!” Direfang finally grabbed her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. She shook her head to clear her senses, blinking furiously. The brightness came back to her eyes, and she gla
red at the hobgoblin for interrupting her.

  “Listening to what, Mudwort? Who is talking? What is talking?”

  She shook her head once more, slapping her knee. “The earth, Direfang! The earth talks and talks. It is angry still. It seethes beneath this place! Like the earth dragon raged after the quake, the earth growls and spits and demands more things to eat.”

  Direfang knelt directly in front of her, blocking the other goblins so they could not easily see Mudwort, and he drew a finger to his bulbous lips to get her to speak softly, so as not to alarm the others. “Why is it angry, Mudwort? Why is the earth so upset?” His eyes revealed he believed her.

  She shrugged. “Not the mine. No, the mine is not upset, and the earth is not upset at the mine. Thought the earth was angry at the mine before, all the digging and stealing rocks, all the hollowing out of the mountain, that was wrong. Earth not angry at the Dark Knights either. Thought the earth was angry with the Dark Knights, too, before … when the ground quaked before. Just angry, I think. The earth is just old and angry. Bad, bad angry. Maybe it hurts from being so old. Grouchy like Hurbear. Mad like the earth dragon was.”

  Direfang scratched the side of his face and opened his mouth to ask another question.

  “Angry,” she repeated, cutting him off and shaking a finger at him. “Angry enough to shake hard again.”

  “When?” The hobgoblin spoke in a voice hushed and raspy with fear. “When will another earthquake come?”

  Mudwort’s eyes narrowed.

  All the chatter around them had stopped, and from somewhere overhead came the shrill cry of a night bird. From the center of the camp came the sounds of shovels from the goblins and hobgoblins digging new wells. The bark of Dark Knight orders intruded, demanding the wells be dug faster.

  “Tomorrow, it will be,” Mudwort said finally. “The earth will quake tomorrow. Or the day after that maybe. No longer than the day after that. Its anger grows.” She placed her palms against the ground again. “Grows and grows and grows.”

  “The day after that,” Direfang said, thinking it over. “Tell the earth to wait until then. There are many goblins to bring out of the mine tomorrow.” He turned and leaned against the fence, fingers rubbing at the rough wood. “It has to be the day after that if we are to have any chance of saving the ones left behind.”

  The hobgoblin stood and fixed his gaze on the burning embers from the body pyre then looked past the mound. He spotted a Dark Knight walking the perimeter of the camp, highlighted by the glow from the remnants of goblin corpses.

  “The quake destroyed the buildings,” Direfang said to himself, reflecting on all that had happened. “Brought down shafts. Killed goblins and Dark Knights and maybe something else. Maybe … maybe it killed something dangerous.”

  The hobgoblin knew about the wards that sounded an alert in case a slave tried to escape. All the slaves knew about them. Some of the wards or glyphs did more than sound an alarm. Some engulfed escaping goblins in flames that shot up from the ground and burned hotter and faster than any fire made by man. Direfang had seen the fatal magic work on several occasions. The threat of those flames terrified the goblins and kept most from even dreaming of escape.

  “Yes, the quake destroyed something else,” Mudwort said.

  The next day, work in the mines began before dawn. Goblins and hobgoblins who’d managed to catch only an hour or two of sleep at best began to clear rubble-strewn passages and shore up timbers and replace crosspieces. They had fewer tools to work with than usual because so much had been lost to the quake. Large buckets made of broken planks from ruined houses were used to bring out rocks. The goblins tipped those makeshift buckets down the mountainside, creating a debris pile to cover up the remains of dead horses and goats.

  The shafts were crowded with slaves bringing out rocks, and the stench from their sweaty bodies was intense. Few Dark Knight taskmasters entered the shafts, instead retreating to the mine entrance where the air was a little better and conditions safer. Only one remained in the deeper tunnels, a stalwart from Grallik’s talon, and he was quick to whip any goblins who moved too slowly or balked at orders.

  Recalcitrant slaves were rare, however, as nearly all of the goblins worked with a fervor that was almost reckless. They were desperate to bring out any of their living brethren who might still be trapped, and equally desperate to bring out any remains so the bodies could be burned and broken before the spirits returned. Also, they worked as fast as possible so they would not be stuck in the shafts for very long. The air was horrible to breathe, and dust filtered down and tried to choke them. And word had spread that Mudwort predicted there would be another quake soon, perhaps that day. Most considered her mad, but there were enough who worried that there was some truth in her babblings, so they wanted to be done with their work and free of the tunnels as quickly as possible.

  Nearly three dozen goblins and four hobgoblins were found alive and rescued by sunset, though all were suffering injuries. More than two hundred slave bodies were carried out, and eight Dark Knight bodies were carefully extracted.

  Direfang tried to guess how many might still be below-dead or alive. He didn’t know for certain just how many slaves there were in Steel Town. He’d had no reason to ask before because the information had not seemed very important. When he asked a taskmaster, though, the query was met with contempt.

  “Fewer slaves now than before,” the Dark Knight bristled.

  “Blessedly fewer Dark Knights too,” Direfang muttered in his own tongue. He stood on the mountain trail, overlooking the ruins of the camp and glancing at the slave pens and the blackened circle beyond that marked the burned corpses. More bodies were being carried there for a fresh pyre.

  “Fewer goblins and Dark Knights and … fewer wards,” he continued to mutter to himself in his guttural tongue. “Perhaps no wards at all. Will ask Mudwort to search through the earth … listen to whatever in the ground spoke … ask the voices if the wards and glyphs are gone. Maybe also ask if goblins-alive or dead-remain in the mine tunnels.”

  Hours earlier he’d mentioned the wards to Moon-eye and Saro-Saro, that perhaps the quake ruined the magic as it had ruined practically everything else, that perhaps they should test the magic. Both goblins snorted their disapproval, Moon-eye because Graytoes was still hurt and hadn’t yet been tended by a Skull Knight. He’d risk nothing if it meant risking her life. Moon-eye was forced to help clear the mines because the Dark Knights ordered it. Not following orders meant a whipping or worse. But if he did his job, maybe the knights would heal Graytoes eventually.

  Saro-Saro’s reasoning was simpler.

  “Slave,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Slaves work the mine. Slaves do not try to escape. You know that. Direfang should not think about such things. Direfang is a slave. Thinking such things leads to whippings. Direfang should know that from experience and from lack of an ear.”

  Direfang had savored the prospect of escape long ago, ten years back. It had taken little convincing then to get him to join with a handful of goblins trying to flee. Because he was young and strong and, therefore, useful in the mines, he wasn’t killed. He had been beaten, though, beaten cruelly and horribly, before being healed by a Skull Knight. He’d been reasonably loyal since then, never questioning the Dark Knights, obeying every order, often working harder than he was expected to, even longer than was required. Direfang usually worked until he was thoroughly spent just to keep his mind off his surroundings and situation and off the occasional goblin who tried to break free and was burned by the fiery glyphs or caught by Dark Knights, then tortured and slain.

  Work kept him strong and healthy, and three years past, his diligence had netted him a promotion to foreman. Direfang had been tattooed on his shoulder to mark him a foreman. All the dozen slave foremen bore such marks. He thought it uglier than his scars from injuries and punishments, though his fellow slaves considered it a badge of honor.

  The Dark Knights currently ruling the camp had like
ly forgotten his attempted escape; there had been many turnovers in forces, and the hobgoblins all looked much the same to them. If they’d remembered his previous escape attempt, he would not have been made a foreman. He would not have been taken into their buildings for training, and he would not have been given the opportunity to learn the complexities of their language. He would not have been allowed enough looks at their books and maps to gain a rudimentary knowledge of reading.

  No, the Dark Knights in the camp probably didn’t realize he, too, had tried to escape ten years past and that, from time to time, he still entertained such a notion.

  He finally looked away from the camp and slave pens, shook off his musings, and returned to the shafts and worked even harder and faster, driven by the desire to find any slave left alive and to let no corpse rot there.

  Twilight was overtaking the sky by the time the Dark Knights signaled an end to the day’s toil. Before the quake, there always had been shifts working nonstop-all day and all night too; the mines were so dark anyway that it didn’t matter. But the knights were clearing the tunnels and calling everyone out-perhaps, Direfang thought, because the Dark Knights were spread so thin they did not have enough troops to supervise mining and guard the slave pens all night long.

  Direfang held four dead goblins in his arms, his mind so preoccupied he barely registered their weight. He didn’t know who they had been in life, their bodies were so crushed, he didn’t recognize them. There’d be no one to say words of remembrances for them when the pyre blazed again, but perhaps he could think of something good to say in their honor.

  The hobgoblin walked down the mountain trail just ahead of a Dark Knight taskmaster. He could hear the man’s shuffling step, so unlike the usual brisk march of the knights, and could hear the man’s ragged breathing. The knights had been trimmed in number and beaten down by the quake; the recovery work was hard, and they were not as alert as usual.