by Jean Rabe
Though he had swayed most of the slaves, not all of them went with him. Moon-eye and Graytoes were still recuperating, and others shuffled away to the north and south along the foothills, refusing to go near the camp and unwilling to wait and see if Direfang would be successful and return. Direfang himself asked the older slaves and the ones badly injured to wait for him by the slope where they would not be a liability to his adventure.
Saro-Saro had argued strenuously in favor of joining Direfang on his rescue mission. Partly that was because the old, cagey goblin was nosy and wanted to see firsthand what would transpire at the camp. He didn’t want to hear gossip or legend about it afterward. Hurbear also argued in favor of going on the raid, though Direfang suspected the aged, yellow-skinned goblin would have sidestepped the issue if he could. But Hurbear wanted to look important in front of his clan.
Direfang took pity on him. “Hurbear needs to take care of Moon-eye and Graytoes,” the hobgoblin said. “It is important to keep Moon-eye and Graytoes safe. Graytoes hurts badly and must be watched. Hurbear should be in charge here.”
That pleased Hurbear, who climbed up the rise to sit next to Graytoes, head up and chin jutted out to look fearless.
“Graytoes be safe here,” Hurbear pronounced. “Direfang be quiet and fast. And Direfang will win.”
At first the hobgoblin set a demanding pace, then he slowed to a gentle lope, making sure his goblin army could keep up. About two dozen hobgoblins also followed him, though they took up the rear, at Direfang’s request, watching their smaller cousins to make sure none stumbled or got trampled. The clouds were still thick, and all of them had to rely on their keen vision to avoid the gaping cracks and piles of rocks created by the quakes. They had to make a long detour around a wide, ugly crevice, but otherwise took the shortest route to Steel Town.
Direfang stopped some distance away, alert to the faint glow of lanterns ahead and the smoldering pile of dead goblins. He held his finger to his lips and glared around at his band of volunteers, passing the word back for everyone to be quiet. Then he gestured to his followers and moved toward the camp.
The cloud cover had grown, and the shadows from the rises were thick and concealing. They could see the new slave pens in the process of being rebuilt. At least six knights patrolled each of the three pens in various stages of repair.
Direfang could smell the many burned bodies even though the wind was blowing toward the camp. He could hear the sounds of men talking and heavy objects being moved around the place. There was little noise coming from the slave pens.
He stared at the makeshift pens. Several hundred slaves were in the pens. Many of them had no interest in freedom, he knew, for they were born there and knew nothing else. Some had vacant eyes. But many had tried to escape with him when the second quake came. They just had not been fast or lucky enough.
“Save the goblins now?” Spikehollow whispered.
Direfang shook his head and edged north, passing the pens and heading toward a ridge on the far side of the camp.
“Save the goblins?” Spikehollow persisted. He tugged on Direfang’s trousers and pointed back toward the pens.
“Yes,” the hobgoblin replied with a hiss. “But this first. Be quiet.” He looked daggers at the young goblin. “Rob first, sow panic, then save the hobgoblins and goblins.”
Spikehollow instantly quieted and fell back. The hobgoblin stopped just east of where the Dark Knights had maintained their own burial ground. No one was digging graves at the moment, though a half dozen bodies were stretched out in a line, not yet washed and wrapped, and tainting the air with a sweet but rancid scent.
Direfang was grateful no knights patrolled there. The dead did not need to be protected and could not flee like the slaves.
“Good thing the dead are alone,” Direfang said so softly none of the goblins could hear. He crept toward the dead knights, motioning to Spikehollow and the others. At his signal, they started pulling swords and knives from the dead then scurrying away into the darkness to hide.
Then Direfang returned to the closest grave, staying low, and quickly digging at the mound. At a nod, the thirty goblins spread out and started digging at the other mounds.
“Foolish thing the Dark Knights bury the dead with weapons,” he whispered to Spikehollow. “The dead cannot use swords, so it is very foolish. But it is a good thing for goblins, eh?”
Direfang had never wielded a long sword. But he knew the one he retrieved from the first grave was sharper and far more formidable than his claws. He’d watched the knights practicing with such swords and sparring sometimes in the evenings, north of the pens. He believed he could use one well enough. He moved to the next grave and the next, staying low and wary to make sure no living knights came upon them. The other goblins also dug quickly and quietly. When they’d gathered three or four swords each, as well as an armload of long knives, they retreated to where they had piled the weapons.
Direfang ran to where his army waited, whispering news of the weapons they’d gained and the graves they’d gladly desecrated. He brought the goblins and hobgoblins to the pile of weapons and cringed when some of them whooped in joy.
“Quiet,” he warned. “There is no surprise without quiet.”
The hobgoblins and the largest goblins were given some weapons. It wasn’t the weight of the weapons that bothered the goblins-they’d been carrying ore, picks, and shovels for years and could manage the heft of the blades. It was their complete unfamiliarity with the swords that was the problem.
The long knives were another matter, and the goblins clutched them as easily as tools and lanterns in the mine.
“For water!” Direfang declared softly, his voice carrying to the others. “For clothes and goblins left behind!”
“Water,” Brak repeated, his eyes glimmering. “For lots and lots of beautiful water.”
They stole toward Steel Town, Direfang and Spikehollow in the lead. The Dark Knights had plenty on their minds. They had already forgotten about the escaped slaves. They hadn’t heard the goblins whooping and hadn’t considered the possibility of an attack from an enemy outside the camp.
The clouds were thick over the ruins, and though the wind would carry the army’s scent, the hobgoblin doubted the Dark Knights would notice the extra smell, not over the stink of sulfur and burned bodies and the dead knights not yet buried.
Direfang headed toward the slave pens, ducking and scuttling like a crab as they drew close. He motioned the others to copy his movements. They tried, but they made a low but steady noise in their number and awkwardness. The dark knights by the nearest pen heard them coming. The knights snapped to attention, one of them pointing to the east.
“The knights see! Run fast and be mean!” Direfang called to the goblins. “Kill the Dark Knights!”
18
WAR WITH THE DARK KNIGHTS
Kill the Dark Knights before the Dark Knights kill Spikehollow!” Spikehollow called. “Before the Dark Knights kill Brak!” “For water!” Folami cried. “For lots of water!” “Beautiful water!” Direfang ran straight toward the center pen, where the Dark Knight guards were lining up to fight the attackers. One yelled a warning to the rest of the camp, then led the others charging the hobgoblin.
Direfang slashed wildly at the first knight-no skill behind his swing, but a considerable amount of strength. All the years toiling in the mine had given Direfang powerful arms, and when he connected with the Dark Knight’s waist, he cut through the chain mail and severed the man’s spine.
The hobgoblin was so surprised at the effectiveness of the blow that he froze, letting the other knights dart in and surround him. They would have skewered him too, had the rest of Direfang’s army not caught up and swarmed them.
Like Direfang, the goblins and hobgoblins boasted no skill with their weapons, and unlike him, they’d never paid much attention to the Dark Knights’ drilling. But their numbers overwhelmed the small group of knights. The goblins knocked the soldiers to the ground
without suffering much injury to themselves, and proceeded to drop their weapons and tear at the knights’ faces and necks with their teeth and claws. Some goblins wielding long knives stabbed at the knights, over and over until their own leathery hides were soaked and coated with Dark Knight blood.
In the midst of the melee, Direfang was facing off against one knight, ducking beneath the powerful swing of the man’s sword. The steel whistled in the sulfur-filled air. When the knight brought the weapon around a second time, Direfang thrust his own sword forward clumsily, just grazing him. But the strength behind the blow surprised the knight, and Direfang kicked at his legs until he toppled.
Dropping his sword, Direfang leaped on the knight, tearing at the man’s black tabard and chain coif, pulling them both free and pounding on the knight’s face. He pounded and pounded until the bones broke and the man had no face left, was just a mushy, distorted form with broken, protruding teeth and bare skin slick with blood.
Direfang had never killed a person before that day, but within a few minutes he’d sliced through one man and brutally slain another. His savageness ought to bother him, he thought, but he didn’t feel any emotion except pleasure. He rose from the second man’s body and picked up his sword then bent and grabbed the knight’s sword too. A few steps ahead of him was another knight, and the hobgoblin jabbed at the man with both blades, shoving forward and piercing the man’s chest.
The goblins were hooting and howling, and by then the entire camp was alerted. Direfang was annoyed that his plan had been subverted so quickly. He’d intended to ambush the knights guarding the slaves, quickly and silently, release the slaves, steal all the water and other provisions they could find in a hurry, and make their escape.
That plan was ruined. Yet all the knights who had been guarding the pens were dead or dying. The goblins were hopping over the bodies and pushing, like a wave crashing, against the rebuilt, makeshift pen that was so rickety it was already swaying. Direfang watched as his goblins smashed it down and yelled at their freed fellows, urging them to run east. The shouts turned angry when most slaves simply stood dumbstruck and refused to move.
“Magic!” It was Mudwort. Direfang spotted her perched atop a still-standing post, waving to him and shouting. “The skull men used magic to deaden minds! The goblins are rooted like trees to this place. Their minds are magicked.”
Direfang leaped over fallen knights, slicing open throats as he went just to make sure that some of the moaning, groaning ones would surely die. Then he pressed through the swarm of goblins until he was at the broken pen, knocking a few entranced slaves aside to reach Mudwort.
“Why come back?” The shaman cocked her head and gave the hobgoblin a stern look, yet with a faint smile and grateful relief showing in her eyes. “Come back for Mudwort?”
“Water,” he said, shaking his head, unwilling, even now, to declare his friendship. “Came back for water. For all the goblins and for food. Came back for those things.”
She grabbed his arm and climbed on his shoulders, her legs straddling his neck. “Water there.” She put her hands on either side of his head and forcibly turned his gaze. “Thirsty, Direfang. So very, very thirsty. The shattered well is new again and filled with sweet-smelling water.”
Direfang growled softly. He knew where the well was, he’d stacked a ring of stones around the place. But the stones had been tossed away by the second quake, and all around the area, goblins were frantically digging.
“Well collapsed,” she explained. “Broken. The quake destroyed the rest of this place along with the well. Everything is broken. Destroyed the insides of the mountain too, the quake did.” Her voice was gleeful. “And there.” She turned his head again so he could see a row of benches loaded with jars and skins. “Things to carry the very sweet water.”
“Lots of things to carry lots of water.” Direfang smiled at the thought of bringing water to Moon-eye and Graytoes, and even to Saro-Saro and Hurbear. But first they would have to fight more knights, as dozens came running from various posts around Steel Town, all in arm and leading with their swords.
“Wait here,” Direfang said quickly, setting Mudwort down and shouting to the goblins to turn around and meet their nemeses.
Many of the knights were spent, Direfang could tell, their faces dirty and haggard. Still, they looked fierce and determined. Yet the goblin army was surging with energy, all their pent-up hate boiling over and erupting. All but the hobgoblins had dropped the long swords. But many of the goblins had snapped up knives and daggers from the blood-splashed Dark Knight bodies. Those knives were out and flashing as the goblins rushed to meet the knights, and even more, teeth and claws viciously ready for the hated humans.
The first row of goblins fell screaming as the organized and well-drilled knights cleaved through them like farmers cutting down wheat. But before the knights could draw their swords back for second blows, the second and third line of goblins engulfed them. Direfang watched the knights gasp with surprised exclamations of pain, their spurts of blood filling the sulfur-laced air. The quakes had beaten the knights down, and exhaustion added to their misery. They weren’t the same hardened troops who had ruled Steel Town before.
The knights’ feeble attempts to regroup were soon drowned out by their screams and the whoops and shrieks of the goblins. Even Direfang howled in a frenzy. He ran toward the south slave pen, where goblins were clawing and pounding without weapons at the exposed faces of fallen knights. But they showed a discipline lacking in the first battle. They beat one knight after another senseless, but moved on quickly to other foes after making certain each victim was dead.
It was a good, strong army Direfang had assembled.
“Most have muddled minds, Direfang.” Mudwort had followed him and was there at his side, pointing to the slaves in the pen area. They milled there with blank expressions and dull, empty eyes that didn’t seem to notice the battle. “Most won’t leave. Muddled minds won’t let the feet move.”
But the few who had resisted the Skull Knights’ spell were moving, some joining Direfang’s army, others fleeing east.
“Hold tight, Mudwort.” Direfang placed her up on his shoulders again and rejoined the fray as still more knights materialized and advanced toward the struggle. With Mudwort shouting and pointing to aid him, he swept both swords up and down, as he’d seen the knights do, clearing out a line of knights who had targeted him as a leader.
One knight managed to step past his weapons and slice the hobgoblin’s left arm. Direfang reflexively dropped one sword and pulled his wounded arm in close, lurching and nearly unseating Mudwort. But at the same time he brought his right arm around with as much strength as he could summon, the sword cutting through the knight’s chain shirt and plunging deep into his shoulder. The blade was lodged there for only a moment, then Direfang pulled hard to free it. Then he brought the sword down again, cutting the man deeply on his head and finally kicking out and bringing him to his knees, weaponless. Before Direfang could finish him, goblins swarmed the fallen knight and started clawing him.
“Could have done this long before,” Mudwort said, leaning toward one ear. “Gone after the Dark Knights to win freedom. Should have done this long before. Why not before now?”
“Before there were wards and pillars of flame,” Direfang answered. “Before there were more knights and less willpower.”
“Yes, and before the ground did not shake.” Mudwort agreed, resting her chin on the top of Direfang’s head as the space cleared out around them and the fighting moved on.
“This place is ruined now,” Direfang said, looking around in satisfaction at his rabid army. “So are the knights. Came back for water, supplies, and other goblins and you. But didn’t plan a victory … a total victory, like this.”
Perhaps one-third of the Dark Knight soldiers had been killed by the first quake, with one-third wounded, and only one-third unhurt. That was what Direfang had heard someone say to the wizard. And that was long hours ago, before t
he second quake. The second quake had been every bit as powerful as the first, perhaps worse, so the knights were further weakened.
The whole camp could be taken by his ragtag army, Direfang suddenly knew, though at some loss to his force.
“Water!” the hobgoblin shouted, reminding his army of their first goal. He shouted and shouted the word until he couldn’t speak. He sorely needed water himself. His legs burned terribly. His left arm pained him too, from where he’d been cut.
The hobgoblin felt a stickiness down his side and realized it was blood dripping from his arm. He couldn’t focus on his wounds right then, however, as he spotted three knights heading toward the well, one of them the hated skull man who had magically ripped away Graytoes’ youngling.
Mudwort was shouting something and pointing, but he shut her out of his mind and charged the trio, feet pounding behind him to let him know he had plenty of bloodthirsty company. He nearly tripped in his haste, crashing over a fallen knight, but somehow managed to keep his footing and lead with his sword as though it were a pike. Mudwort clung to him.
The Skull Knight, looking sickly pale in the light from lanterns scattered unevenly around Steel Town, turned and squarely faced Direfang, seeming to recognize the once-loyal foreman who had led the slave escape. The Skull Knight moved his hands as though he were weaving lace. A silvery blue glow arced out and struck the hobgoblin in the chest.
“End this fight,” the Skull Knight proclaimed. It was Siggith, the priest who had earlier helped charm the goblin slaves into staying in camp, and who before that had murdered Graytoes’s baby. “Tell your pitiful soldiers to surrender! Yield to peace, and we will feed you and keep you safe!”
