The Rebellion s-1

by Jean Rabe

  “Something else. Something bad,” Direfang said.

  Grallik stepped to the rail and leaned against it.

  “Slaves,” Direfang said, nodding at Grallik then indicating the priest and the other two knights too. “Slaves will come along.” The hobgoblin looked again at Horace, who was still lying on the ground, listening. “Skull man!”

  “You want me to tend you now?” Horace brushed futilely at his chest and back, unable to get the dirt and waste off. The priest seemed oblivious to the activity in the village and the steam rising from the ground. He was ready to resume his healing duties. “Aye, Foreman Direfang. And in return I ask that you let me bathe in the lake and drink my fill.” Then he looked around, realized the army was preparing to leave, and added, “At least grant me a skin of water to take with me.”

  The hobgoblin stepped away from Grallik and the priest then turned to address them sternly. “The Dark Knights did not give the slaves in Steel Town any such concessions. Never enough water. The slaves had such courtesies only rarely.”

  Horace looked surprised at the hobgoblin’s vocabulary and command of the Common tongue. The words were not so polished as if they had come from a human mouth. There was a rasp to Direfang’s speech, but the language was recognizable.

  “Dark Knights held no regard for slaves-no shoes, only scraps of clothes for some but not all. Food not fit for the pigs the knights kept in pens.” Direfang growled so loudly, the goblins nearby recoiled. “Slaves asked the Dark Knights for little, and slaves were usually granted nothing.”

  Beyond the pen, the goblins were forming into clans and columns and lining up to follow the trail out of the village. The steam obscured some of them and made the scene grayer.

  “I ask for water and to be clean,” said Horace with dignity. “Please, Foreman. I mended goblin upon goblin yesterday, and I will heal more today. I would mend you now while your arm can be saved-perhaps can be saved. In exchange I ask for very little. I ask for water.”

  Direfang studied the priest. “The skull man uses words well. Uses the word asks, not demands, says please. The skull man knows that words make a difference. So mend this arm, please, skull man, and then follow Brak to the lake.” The hobgoblin indicated the young goblin standing to his right.

  Direfang used his right hand to lift his left arm and set it on the top rail of the fence then nodded to Horace, who approached. Aneas and Kenosh moved up behind the priest. Grallik stayed close by, close enough to watch.

  “I will need water or preferably something much stronger, such as ale or rum. Do you have any strong drink here, Foreman Direfang?” Horace wiped the sweat off his face and met the hobgoblin’s stern gaze. “Can they, your goblin guards, get me something to cleanse your wound?”

  Direfang translated the request to the goblin called Crelb, who hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave his post. The hobgoblin repeated the message, and Crelb finally left.

  Horace spat on his fingers to clean the dirt from them, then prodded the area around Direfang’s wound, careful not to touch the actual gash that was purple and swollen and oozing. “You should have let me see to this yesterday. In hours it has worsened.”

  Direfang offered no reply as the priest continued his poking.

  “Does this hurt?”

  The hobgoblin shook his head. “Once it hurt then nothing. Yesterday it hurt again but only a little, not much. Today nothing.” He looked at the sky and scowled. “The army must leave soon, skull man, hurry with this arm …”

  “If I want water and my bath, yes?” Horace held his open left hand over the deep cut and gripped the hobgoblin’s wrist with the right. His shackles and chains made it difficult.

  “Zeboim, mother goddess, this wound is grievous.” The sweat on Horace’s arm shimmered, and a glowing sheath formed just above his skin. It brightened from yellow to white, and motes of light appeared in the glow. At first the motes were the size of beetles, but in the passing of a few heartbeats, doubled in size and skittered down his arm and over the back of his hand, spilling down his fingers and onto Direfang’s arm.

  Grallik expected the hobgoblin to show some reaction from experiencing divine magic, but Direfang didn’t blink, didn’t budge. He stood patiently as the lights sank into his skin. A moment more, and the magical sheath slid off the priest’s arm and became part of the hobgoblin’s skin. Suddenly Direfang smiled, opening and closing his left hand.

  “You are not free of the infection yet, Foreman. Ah, the sentry returns.” Horace made a show of the difficulty of moving with his chains, stretching to reach the jug Crelb held out to him. “Foreman, if only you would …”

  Direfang grabbed the jug with his right hand and passed it to the priest. Horace uncorked it and breathed in the smell. “Oh, this is very strong. And I’d wager very bad tasting. I wonder if it will make things worse.” He poured some into his other cupped hand and touched his tongue to the liquid. “Not poison. No, I can tell poison.” He proceeded to pour most of the contents on the cut, bathing the wound in the potent alcohol. “I can see bone, here, Foreman Direfang.”

  Again, the hobgoblin offered no reply.

  “The sword that cut you was not clean, Foreman Direfang. Not like a Dark Knight to have his blade dirty, but I suppose it was as much to be expected given the circumstances in the camp.” The priest rubbed a little of the alcohol on his hands, set the jug between his feet, and investigated the wound again. “Mother Zeboim, grant me the strength to save this limb.”

  The rest of Horace’s words were foreign to Direfang, though he recognized them as the singsong uttering of a healing spell. The hobgoblin heard the goblin sentries chatter nervously behind him as the priest droned.

  “Does the priest mean to kill Direfang?” Crelb whispered.

  “No, he is magicking Direfang,” Brak corrected. “That is much more likely. Magicking Direfang to let the knight slaves out. Casting a spell on Direfang like the priests cast a spell on the slaves who stayed in Steel Town. But Direfang has a strong mind. It cannot be muddled, will not go sour.”

  “Don’t like magic,” another goblin muttered. “Don’t like Dark Knight magic most of all. Magic makes the skin itch.” Direfang almost smiled, hearing the goblin scratch himself to illustrate.

  “I don’t suppose you would tell me what they’re saying,” the priest mused as he worked on Direfang. His hands glowed again, brighter than before. He ran his thumbs along the edges of the wound. The other knights, Grallik included, continued to watch, as fascinated as the goblin guards.

  “If the skull man wants to know what the goblins say, the skull man should learn the language.”

  Horace let out a throaty chuckle. “I suppose Guardian Grallik and I will have to do just that if we’re to stay with you. And apparently you mean us to stay, else you wouldn’t have put us in these uncomfortable chains.” Horace’s thumbs smoothed at the hobgoblin’s skin as though he were smoothing the wrinkles out of a garment. “Will you supply a teacher for us, Foreman Direfang? Teach us the goblin tongue?”

  The hobgoblin stared at his wound. Horace had distracted him with his talk. In the passing of a few heartbeats, his wound had closed, leaving a fresh scar behind. He felt a dull pain, which he welcomed because he’d not been feeling anything in the arm. Pain, instead of numbness, was good.

  “Now lean down, will you?” Horace picked up the jug and splashed a little more alcohol on his hands, again making a show of the chains making it difficult for him to work his healing. “Farther. You’re too tall otherwise for me to get at that head gash. Hmm … looks like you were kicked by a horse.”

  Direfang noticed that the priest’s eyes looked tired and red rimmed, more so than when he’d started. So the magic did exact a price. Horace wasn’t pretending. When the priest was finished, he pushed himself away from Direfang. Then he tilted the jug back and took a few swallows, draining it.

  “Brak, take the skull man to the lake.” Direfang gestured to the empty jug. “That could hold water now
. The slaves may have it for their wants.” The hobgoblin breathed deeply, feeling better with each passing breath. Then Direfang stepped away from the rail and turned to meet Grallik’s gaze. “The army leaves soon, and the slaves with it. The slaves could stay here, but there would be no safety in that.” He waved his repaired arm to indicate the village, pointing at the steam coming from some of the vents. “Mudwort says this is a bad omen. Only the blind would call it otherwise. This army leaves very, very soon. Wizard, skull man too.”

  31

  RIVERS

  The hobgoblin led the army south along a mountain path that wrapped down and away from the ogre village. The trail was narrow, so only three goblins could walk abreast. To their left, the mountainside rose up at a steep angle and disappeared into a billowing mass of gray clouds. Tugging cows along the trail proved difficult, but the goblins coaxed and pulled their tasty livestock along the side of the trail closest to the mountain. The western edge fell away with the slope to a narrow valley filled with jagged spires.

  Direfang would have preferred a faster pace, but he’d been pushing the limit with the army for hours, and many of the goblins and hobgoblins carried packs and satchels filled with treasures and food, and jugs and skins filled with water.

  Just how long they’d been marching before he announced a rest, he wasn’t certain. There’d been no break in the gray cloud cover, so he couldn’t judge the passing of time from the sun. There’d been no change in the air since they’d left. It was still warm, and the slight breeze carried some dust or irritant that continued to burn his eyes. He allowed only a few minutes’ rest before he urged the army back to its feet.

  The longer they were on the road, the more he grew certain that the clouds were unnatural, an omen perhaps-with a frown, he wondered if the omen might be caused by the Dark Knights. He’d never seen such a gray sky before, and there had been no change in more than a day-just unending gray, not a cloud smelling of water, and all the world smelling dry.

  It was Dark Knight sorcery, perhaps. After all, he himself had seen the wizard call down columns of flame. The smoky sky might not be beyond him, his coming to join the goblins a ruse.

  The ground shook, not so strong as to impede the progress of Direfang and the others on the trail, but enough to worry even the most dull-witted goblin. Rocks tumbled down, pelting everyone and spooking the livestock. Stone dust fell too, making a gentle, almost pleasant, sound. But when the ground shook again, longer, the dust and dirt that rained down from the mountain above was thick and choking.

  Direfang doubled over, coughs wracking him. Mudwort was on Erguth’s shoulders, the pair of them right behind Direfang. Erguth leaned against the slope, struggling to breathe. Behind them other goblins and hobgoblins coughed too. They dropped their packs and grabbed for water skins.

  “Bring the wizard up,” Direfang managed to shout. He turned and looked through the filtering dust, seeing Crelb and gesturing. “Now! Bring the wizard and do it now!” He leaned over farther, breathing deeply, but found the air no better near the ground.

  Mudwort climbed off Erguth’s shoulders, waving her arms. “Direfang, don’t stop, move faster! There should be no stopping here. Move away from this mountain and the other one. Get to new land.” She thrust a finger to the west, where a glowing red ribbon cut through the gray. “Direfang, this mountain and the other one are-” When the ground shook a third time, the screams of goblins and the squeals of animals drowned her out. Some goblins fell off the side of the trail, tumbling down the slope and disappearing into a haze of dirt and stone dust that rose in puffs from the valley below.

  Another shaking made Mudwort herself stumble, nearly slipping off the side of the trail. Her fingers grabbed the dirt, sinking in, and she pressed her face against the stone. She breathed shallowly and held tight as Crelb pushed past her, dragging the wizard. After a moment she climbed to a safer spot and held her ear to the ground, listening.

  “I can do nothing against this sort of disaster, hob-” Grallik began to say as Crelb shoved him forward. The wizard stumbled into Direfang, who was standing straight. The hobgoblin grabbed the wizard around the shoulders. “Foreman Direfang, I cannot stop the mountain from shaking.”

  “The sky, Grallik!”

  The wizard looked surprised that the hobgoblin had called him by his name.

  “Look to the sky and tell me what is responsible for this darkness. Did Dark Knight magic do this?” Direfang snarled the question before nearly doubling over again with coughing. “Grallik, what is responsible for the damnable, dark sky?”

  The wizard was wracked with coughing too. He grabbed the neckline of his shift and raised it to cover his nose and mouth. “Not my magic, Direfang. I’m not so powerful that I could do this, and I know of no wizard who could. A god, maybe. Perhaps we’ve all caught the attention of Chislev or-”

  Direfang’s snarl turned into a roar. “The gods! Never did the gods help goblinkind, Grallik. So goblins do not recognize the gods. No god is responsible. And if not a wizard …”

  “Another earthquake.” The voice belonged to the priest Horace. Brak had led the Skull Knight up the trail.

  Brak gave a small, tight smile. “Direfang wanted the wizard, figured Direfang might want the skull man too.” Brak’s shoulders shook when he broke into a coughing fit.

  Dust billowed all around them, as if the dry clouds had settled to the ground. The plink and plop of rocks skittering down the slope drowned out the fearful murmur of the goblins.

  “A quake would not so darken the sky, would it, priest?” Direfang spoke loud enough to be heard by the many others around him. Then he cupped his hand over his mouth and nose, filtering some of the dust out. “Zeboim would not darken the sky either, eh, Grallik, priest? So what is responsible?”

  When the priest shrugged indifferently, Direfang spun and gestured for the others to follow him south on the trail, knowing that while his long strides would make it difficult for the goblins to keep up, it would also urge them to go faster.

  The trail trembled against the soles of his feet, rocks biting into them and adding to the hobgoblin’s misery. There was no end to the rumbling as the army scurried behind its leader. Words of panic and the frightened bleats of animals filled the air. Occasional screams cut through the hubbub as goblins slid off the trail and shot over the side.

  Mudwort labored to keep up with Direfang, practically running and gasping as she finally closed in on the long-striding hobgoblin. “Wait! Listen, Direfang. Listen!”

  He slowed only to pick her up and set her on his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck, then she held her face to the back of his head, finding it easier to talk with the air not quite so dusty against his scalp.

  “Listen to the growling, Direfang!” She moved her lips close to one ear. “The mountains growl like maddened bears. Rabid and hungry, the mountains taunt each other. Goblins are caught in the argument between the mountains, Direfang. Goblins will die to the mountains’ venomous bickering!”

  The hobgoblin frowned, trying to figure out just what Mudwort was saying. He wasn’t sure even she knew exactly.

  “This quake is longer than the ones before, Mudwort,” he replied stoically. “This quake seems to follow us and does not stop. This is not like what happened at Steel Town.”

  She thumped her heels against his chest, as a rider would knee a horse to get it to go faster. “This is not a quake, Direfang. The quakes started this argument, though. Listened a moment ago to the earth. Listened to the earth explain that the quakes from days ago woke up the mountains.”

  He slowed but only a little, wanting to be able to hear her a little better. He knew better than to ignore her words.

  “The mountains woke up, still tired, Direfang. Cranky and mean, the mountains shake now and spit smoke into the sky. The mountains’ bellies are filled with fire.” She moved her hands to the sides of the hobgoblin’s head and forced him to turn his gaze slightly. “The river of red over there … that mounta
in belched it up. This mountain will-”

  The trail bucked beneath them, cracks appearing everywhere. Goblins screamed and called for those in front to run faster.

  Grallik and Horace yelled too.

  Direfang dropped the satchel he was carrying, raised his hands, and grabbed Mudwort’s legs to keep her from falling off. Then he broke into a reckless run, dodging rocks bouncing down the slope and gasping in the dirt-thick air. Goblins and hobgoblins raced behind them, their screams trailing off as they toppled over the side. He wanted to look behind him to see who had been lost, but the air was filled with a brown dust fog, and he couldn’t see more than a foot or two in front of his face. He heard a strangled “moo” and a shower of rocks, followed by another and another. He suspected the goblins were pushing the cows and other livestock over the edge because the animals were clogging the trail.

  “Knew a mountain would break, Direfang. Should have said something earlier. Did not think it would be this mountain.”

  It was difficult to hear Mudwort over the groaning mountain and the screams of the goblins and hobgoblins behind them.

  “The earth did not say it would be this one. The earth gave no warning the ogre village was not safe. The earth is tricky.”

  The hobgoblin ran faster still, his chest aching from the exertion, his lungs burning from the dust and the heated air. The hot air! In a few minutes time, the world had grown feverish around them. Direfang pulled Mudwort off his shoulders and set her on the ground, both of them running.

  He heard the chink-chink of chains and realized the wizard and skull man were keeping pace close behind him, the latter huffing and wheezing like a dying old man.

  “Your magic said the goblins would not kill us, Horace,” the wizard yelled, spitting out the words. “But your magic said nothing about the volcanoes. They will kill us all.”

  Volcanoes! Direfang remembered the word the knights had often repeated one night as they studied a large map. The word in goblin-speak was the language’s longest: gosjall-giyerafajra, mountains of fiery war. He’d waited on the knights that evening, around the map, bringing them mead and water and honey-covered bread, and polishing the pieces of armor they’d nested along the wall. He’d taken a long time with each task because he had found their words and the map interesting. It had been some years ago, right before he’d been named a foreman in the mine and was taken away from the servile duties of waiting on the knights. But he remembered the maps and what the men had talked about. It had been fascinating.