by Jean Rabe
“Not too far behind,” he told himself. He peered far ahead, believing he saw a goblin start up another rise, and well ahead of that goblin must be the tail end of the ex-slave army. “Someone else slow.” Moon-eye was thankful for that.
A few more deep lungfuls of dusty air, and he was off at a clip, though more careful than before because he didn’t want to trip and fall and lose time. There were clumps of grass here and there, not all of them brown, and the dirt was thicker along the trail, almost mud, helping to cushion the soles of his feet. He covered ground so fast that he drew close to the straggler, still far behind the rest of the goblin army. As he came up to the fellow, he spotted two birds in the sky.
“The land is better here,” Moon-eye said to himself. “Not so angry and not belching fire.” He thought that when he and Graytoes had another child, there would be wondrous stories to pass down to their younglings about their great escape from Steel Town in the midst of an earthquake, and about their victorious battle with the ogres, and all the volcanoes erupting and painting the sides of the mountains with their shiny red ribbons of fire. “Such stories.”
It was several long moments more before Moon-eye caught up with the last goblin, who had stopped to wait for him.
“Spikehollow!” Moon-eye stopped, leaning forward, hands on his knees and sides heaving. “Spikehollow waited?”
The young goblin nodded, coming up to him and clapping a hand on Moon-eye’s shoulder. “Worried, some were. Afraid the magic of that place might swallow Moon-eye. Almost gave up, but saw Moon-eye running down the mountain. Waited a little, and walked slow. And now together.”
Moon-eye continued to gulp in air. “Liked the magic,” he admitted. “Liked it almost too much.” Then he stood and stared into the other goblin’s eyes. “You, Direfang’s friend.” He touched Spikehollow’s chest. “Direfang is in danger. Listen. The magic told me something …”
The pair stayed on the trail, letting the rest of the army reach the top of the next rise. Moon-eye told Spikehollow everything-about seeing Saro-Saro and Krumb, listening to them conspire, about the pair planning to murder Mudwort and Direfang and turn the army into a force of killers and slavers.
“Certain this is true?” Spikehollow looked skeptical of Moon-eye’s vision. “Certain not dreaming? Magic and dreams, same sometimes, different other times. Maybe Moon-eye breathe too much of the volcano dust? Mind turn sour.”
Moon-eye shook his head so hard his entire body seemed to shake along with it. “No, no dream. The magic tells the truth. Direfang is in danger.”
Spikehollow nodded. “All right. Must hurry, then.” He pointed a thin finger up the trail, telling Moon-eye to go ahead of him.
The sky was a little lighter over the next rise, the cloud cover thinner. The pair could spot the last few goblins only a few miles ahead of them. They would have to hurry.
Moon-eye took in one more deep breath. “Yes, hurry now.” He brushed by Spikehollow and started off at a jog. He wasn’t as quick as he’d hoped, but his ribs hurt and his legs ached, and he was terribly tired. “Hurry, hurry. Hurry and-”
A sharp pain in his back suddenly competed with the rest of Moon-eye’s miseries. He glanced over his shoulder just as the pain repeated itself again and again. It was the greatest hurt the one-eyed goblin had ever suffered. Spikehollow stood behind him, holding one of the knives that had been stolen from Steel Town.
Moon-eye tried to speak, to ask Spikehollow why he had stabbed him, but he couldn’t get a single word out of his choked, burning mouth. His throat was filling with blood, and his back felt on fire. His chest burned too, where Spikehollow had whirled him around and stabbed him yet again.
“Saro-Saro should lead the goblin nation,” Spikehollow said grimly. “A nation of wolves, it will be, Moon-eye. Not a nation of sheep.”
Spikehollow hissed other things through clenched teeth, but Moon-eye couldn’t hear his words. There was a great rush of sound in his ears, like the rapids of a river. Then the one-eyed goblin collapsed on the trail and died.
Spikehollow reached down and cut off one of Moon-eye’s fingers, hurling it away so the goblin’s spirit could never return to the body. He briefly considered hiding Moon-eye’s corpse or pushing it over the side and hoping animals below would discover it and eat it. But he was in a hurry, and he was also stupid, so he loped off in the direction of Saro-Saro and Krumb and the rest of the goblins, proud of what he had done. None of them would be coming back that way, Spikehollow was certain, so Moon-eye would never be found. They would imagine he was following after them and would catch up, but that would never happen.
The goblin wiped at the blood spatters on his arm as he moved ahead. He took in great gulps of air and tried to ignore the pain in his feet from traveling so far over the biting rocks. Spikehollow knew his feet and legs-and all of him-would only hurt more before they stopped. The Qualinesti Forest was quite some distance from there, or so Saro-Saro had told him.
Spikehollow’s smile turned into a predator’s grin. He would have plenty of time to rest in the forest. All of Saro-Saro’s army would rest there before joining together and embarking on the scheme the old goblin was hatching.
In the distance, he saw the silhouettes of the last goblins in the back of the army.
He hurried to catch up.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-1736ed-c3a4-c845-74b2-3507-c160-a90bcf
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 28.04.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.24, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jean Rabe
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