by Jean Rabe
“Move now!” she shouted, raising her right fist, small finger crooked outward. The finger had been broken—along with other bones—when she’d fought for leadership of the clan eight months past. The finger was the one thing that hadn’t properly mended. “Move now, or stay here and die.”
“Safe here,” Rockhide argued. “Safe so high where the ogres cannot come.”
She bent until her face was inches from his. “Do the stones say it is safe?” She hadn’t meant it as an honest question, more as a taunt, but the old one looked dazed and worried.
“So tired,” he answered. “Thya, just rest a little—”
“The ogres are not tired,” she returned, raising her voice so plenty of other clansmen could hear. “The ogres did not climb the mountain, and so are not tired at all. The ogres will look for an easier way up here and could well find a path. The ogres will not give up. A smart goblin does not need to talk to the ground to know that.” She stood and squared her shoulders, tipped her chin up, and shook her fist. “South now, or wait for the ogres. Wait to be taken and sold as slaves.”
She picked her way back through the throng, nodding to each one as she went and telling them to be careful treading on the rocks. The goblins had as many of their worldly possessions with them as they could carry; most were items looted from trappers and goatherds who had ventured too close to the clan caves. A few goblins, such as Thya, had more valuable treasures from raiding the merchants who came through a pass to the north.
She was pleased there was no real challenge to her command to keep moving. Even Rockhide was edging his way along the summit, though he still grumbled about it and rubbed at his arms. Her arms hurt too; her legs and feet ached. But Thya could not show any weakness.
“South,” she said. “The mountain goes south, and so does this clan.”
“Why south?” That came from a youngling standing directly behind her. The small goblin had little trouble with the terrain, but he blinked furiously because of the harsh sunlight. “What is south, Thya? Are there more ogres to the south?”
Thya shrugged. She was not one to lie to her clansmen. Her father had taught her from an early age that the truth was easier and could always be remembered. Lies were easy to get tangled in.
“Maybe more ogres, maybe minotaurs, maybe worse,” Thya said. “But maybe peace too. That is what the stones say, that peace lies to the south. That many goblins are massing to the south, and that clans are banding together for safety.”
The youngling tugged on Thya’s shirt as she continued on her way, following the spine of the mountain.
“Cannot hear the stones, Thya. Cannot listen—”
“Then listen to Thya, little Rawdon.” A stoop-shouldered goblin nudged the youngling along. “Thya can hear the stones, and that is enough.”
Thya listened to the stones as she led her clan south, heard the voice of the earth coming up through the soles of her aching feet. She was not as proficient with earth-magic as her mentor, Rockhide, and she had not heard the warning about the ogres coming. But she had, days past, heard the summons and been touched by the mind of a goblin called Mudwort. She’d thought little of the call then, having no desire to leave her comfortable cave. But the ogres changed that, and she listened more intently to the earth as they traveled. It told her the northern lands were not safe, and that ogres and minotaurs hunted her kind. They were to be sold as slaves, she knew. Though Thya had always lived free, she’d lost many friends and kinsmen to slavery.
What the Dark Knights did not want to do for themselves, the goblins were forced to do. And stories said the Dark Knights paid the ogres well for strong, young goblins.
“South,” she said. “There is safety to the south.” It wasn’t a lie she spoke; Thya firmly believed they were going to a better place.
6
THE TYLOR
Dragon! Dragondragondragon!” called the goblin named Knobnose, a potbellied youngster whose yellow skin marked him as one of Saro-Saro’s clan. He stood on the ridge, pointed down to the huge beast at the base of the foothills, jumped, and waggled his fingers. “Dragondragondragon!” he repeated, spittle flying from his quivering lips.
“That’s not a dragon,” Spikehollow said. He shoved Knobnose back so the youngster wouldn’t tumble down the ridge; then he motioned the first wave of goblins forward. “But it might as well be a dragon for its size,” he added to himself. He drew a deep breath, swallowed hard, and brandished a long knife he’d taken days past from a dying Dark Knight. “Be fast! Be deadly!”
Spikehollow’s feet slapped against the stone as he whooped and urged more than one hundred of his fellows to follow. Their cries of “Be fast! Be deadly!” rose to a deafening din, and the gravel crunched under their heels as they barreled down the ridge toward the beast.
It made no move to flee.
The sky was copper from the late-afternoon sun, and it painted the goblins and the ground with broad, shimmering strokes, blending everything into earthen hues, including the creature they swarmed toward.
It stretched more than sixty feet from snout to stubby tail tip, with a mottled brown hide that made it look like a huge living hill. Its toes were as big around as tree trunks. And it had thick, blunt talons the color of eggshells that were split along the edges from digging in the hard ground. Its curved horns gleamed white like a bull’s, and its head looked vaguely like a dragon’s but was too wide and short. Its saucer-shaped eyes were set in the front of its skull, rather than perched toward the sides where a real dragon’s would be. When it moved, there was a flash of green along its flanks and at the base of its tail.
“A green dragon,” Grallik observed from the top of the ridge. A second wave of goblins descended, at least two hundred. The wizard leaped back to keep from getting swept up in the rush.
“That is not a green dragon,” Horace said after another group went hollering down the rise. The priest stood farther back from the edge, a safer perch. He shook his head and pulled his lower lip into his mouth. “It is a tylor, Grallik. Not a dragon.”
The wizard made a growling sound. “I know that, Horace. It is a spawn of a dragon and a hatori. Aye, a tylor. The Dark Knights had one hatori in Steel Town, which they forced to dig tunnels. The hatori escaped during the quake, slaying knights and goblins in its wake. In fact, Horace, I suspect …” The rest of the wizard’s words were drowned out by the thunder of more goblin and hobgoblin feet pounding against the trail and over the side, the whooping and yelling growing to a painful cacophony.
The beast watched the oncoming waves with mild interest. More than half of Direfang’s force was streaming toward it.
It laid its ears back and opened its maw, revealing a long black tongue and jagged teeth that looked like broken chunks of charred wood. It bellowed, the sound cutting through the chorus of goblin shouts, and it lumbered back from the base of the hill, allowing the horde more room to swarm around it.
Away from the shadow of the hill, more green scales showed. Interspersed with the brown patches, it made the creature look like a massive piece of rotting meat. It had that sort of foul stench, which wafted up the ridge to Grallik and Horace and made them gag.
“An abomination!” Grallik shouted, his voice sounding like a croaking whisper. He coughed, his shoulders bouncing from the strength of the spasm. He’d developed the cough in Steel Town, and it lingered even though they were miles from the place. “That’s what it is, priest, an utter abomination, a monster that should not exist!”
The priest shook his head again and mouthed something the wizard could not hear.
Below, the tylor’s neck stretched, and its jaws opened and snapped shut with a speed that startled the horde. Its teeth pierced one goblin, then another, and it threw its head back greedily as it swallowed them.
Suddenly dozens of goblins and hobgoblins shrieked in terror and fled from it, letting their knives and swords slip from their sweat-slick fingers.
“Feyrh!” they shouted. Flee!
On the rise, Direfang stared in disbelief.
“It is a rare creature of magic, Foreman. The tylor’s second skin is fear,” Horace said.
Direfang had to strain to hear the priest’s words. The hobgoblin leader had moved up between the two Dark Knights. He still held Graytoes, who continued to whimper. Anxious goblins crowded around him and the Dark Knights. Direfang had held many of the goblins back from the fight; they were too young or too old or weaponless. The hobgoblin leader had remained behind only because of Graytoes.
“Explain, skull man,” Direfang shouted. He scowled at the goblins continuing to flee and gestured futilely at those scrambling back up the ridge. They ignored him, continuing to climb.
Horace screamed to be heard above the din, the panic, and the thunderous growl of the tylor. “It is part dragon, and so it exudes magic! Fear! It terrifies your army with a thought. You were a fool to order it attacked, your rumbling bellies be damned! It will kill them all!”
“Then help, skull man,” Direfang shot back. He held Graytoes with one arm, his free hand shooting out to clamp itself around Horace’s neck. “Help now!”
Horace tried to wriggle free of the hobgoblin’s grip, but Direfang only squeezed tighter.
“Wizard, help too!” Direfang bellowed. “Burn that thing or die to it!” He made a gesture as though threatening to push the wizard off the ridge. “Use the fire magic.”
“Can’t breathe,” Horace managed to gasp. “Can’t …”
Direfang relaxed his grip on the priest only slightly. Horace gulped in as much air as he could, like a drowning man rising to the surface, and began gesturing with his fingers, pointing down the rise toward the goblins fleeing from the tylor. He tried to explain what he was doing, but only a croaking sound came out.
“He’s stopping them from running, the goblins,” Grallik supplied. “He’s giving them courage.”
“Fire, wizard. Now! Use the fire magic!”
Grallik brushed his hair out of his eyes and stared at the great beast below. Goblins lay dead around its front claws; three more were dying in its jaws. It tossed its head back and forth as it chewed, and even from that distance, Grallik could see the pleased gleam in its eyes.
“Not for much longer will you feast, abomination,” Grallik hissed. He thrust his hands forward, angled down, thumbs touching. His left hand looked wet, the scars thick on it and glistening from his sweat. A moment more and his pale skin glowed yellow, then white. Fire crackled along his fingers and arced down like lightning to strike the tylor’s head.
Flame danced around the beast’s jaws and settled on its tongue. It howled and reared back on stunted legs, its front legs flailing and its stubby tail twitching.
Grallik repeated the spell, striking the armored plates of its stomach, turning the fire white-hot and causing the beast’s natural armor to sizzle and pop.
The goblins who had not yet fled in fear redoubled their efforts, massing close to the creature and stabbing viciously with the knives and swords they’d taken from Steel Town, jumping back to avoid the fire and the claws and darting in again.
The goblins and hobgoblins who had scattered in flight stopped running and turned to stare, bolstered by the priest’s magic. Some shook their heads as if they’d been awakened from a bad dream. Spikehollow was among that group, and he blinked furiously and vomited from the stench of the burning tylor.
Above, the priest mouthed a prayer to Zeboim and tried once more to pull himself out of Direfang’s grip, that time successfully.
“Sea Mother,” Horace blurted, “give them strength and courage.” There were other words he might utter, but they were much softer and not meant for the hobgoblin’s ears. Then his voice rose again. “Fill their hearts with courage, their blood with ire. Help them … by the goddess!”
Below, the beast shimmered; then suddenly it vanished. A heartbeat later it reappeared a hundred or so feet to the west. It whirled to face the goblins that immediately charged toward it again. Then it raised its head and locked eyes with the priest on the ridge.
Horace trembled. “I told you, Foreman, it is a creature of magic, that tylor. Smart, too, and far more than your little friends can deal with. It could—”
The tylor roared and iridescent waves rolled out of its maw, striking the ridge and shattering it where Direfang, Graytoes, and the Dark Knights stood. Horace and Grallik dropped with the collapsing rise. Direfang, Graytoes, and the rest of the goblins fell at the same time, choking dust billowing everywhere.
Fist-sized rocks pounded the wizard and the priest as they tried to scramble to their feet. Grallik could find no purchase and clumsily somersaulted down to the bottom, cutting himself on jagged shards and opening the gash on his arm even wider. A coughing fit struck him as his shoulders slammed against the ground, and he sucked in a mouthful of dirt and stone dust.
Suddenly hands pulled him up, and more slapped at his back. Direfang and another hobgoblin had come to his aid, the latter chattering at him in the ugly, clacking language of goblinkind.
“Breathe, wizard,” Direfang growled.
When Grallik was able to do just that, Direfang grabbed his shoulders and whirled him around to face the tylor, which, down below, was busy ripping through one goblin after the next.
“Fire magic, wizard. Use it now!”
Something raspy and unintelligible came out of Grallik’s mouth. He spat, tasting only dirt and blood, his tongue flailing around amid broken teeth. The wizard’s head pounded, and the right side of his face felt warm and wet; his blond hair was matted with blood and sweat on his forehead, hanging down in his eyes. He tried to look around to see what had happened to Horace, but Direfang forced him to return his gaze to the tylor.
“Now!” Direfang growled louder. “Now or die!”
It wasn’t that the hobgoblin would kill him, Grallik realized, as he called up one of his more familiar fire spells. It was that if he didn’t act, the tylor would kill them all.
Concentrating, he sent a thin column of flame lashing down on the beast’s back. Not enough to penetrate its scaly hide and hurt it very much, but enough to distract it from its goblin feast. Direfang’s army took advantage of Grallik’s spell and swarmed in tighter, stabbing fast and furious, desperately.
A dozen feet behind the wizard, Horace was struggling to pick himself up. The priest’s bare chest and arms were covered with welts and cuts from his plunge down the shattered ridge. One eye was swelling shut, and a few ribs were broken, making it painful to breathe.
“Zeboim, mother goddess, save us,” he whispered. He held his right arm in close, clutching his broken ribs, while he gingerly sucked the dust-choked air into his lungs and began a spell.
Around the priest young goblins were picking themselves up, some crying, the rest too frightened to make a sound. One who looked barely old enough to walk hung tightly to Horace’s leg. A few could not raise themselves up because they were dead or dying, and their fellows stared around sadly at them.
“Tottle is not moving,” one goblin said.
“Tottle will never move again,” another said sadly.
“Three-toes is dying, and Drak and Bosky too,” a slight female wailed.
“Mother goddess,” Horace croaked, trying futilely to speak louder than the goblins milling around him. “She who is called the Darkling Sea, the Maelstrom, Rann … turn the ground beneath the tylor’s feet to blessed, thick mud.”
Sweat beaded thick on the priest’s face as he forced all of his energy into the enchantment. A moment later the glow ran from him like melting butter, settling in a spreading pool around his feet.
At the same time, the earth softened beneath the massive claws of the tylor, and slowly the creature began to sink.
“Zeboim, mother goddess, she who is called Zebir Jotun, Zura the Maelstrom, and Zyr, now turn the ground beneath its feet to stone.” The glow around Horace’s feet brightened, scattering the young goblins who were able to move. “Mother goddess, stone, I pray!” He
sank to his knees, spent, and pitched forward, his face buried in the dirt and scree. The glow faded, and the young goblins carefully returned, poking and prodding the priest, one beckoning an elder goblin to come close.
At the same time, the hobgoblin took a step toward the tylor. “The skull man’s magic!” Direfang yelled. “Take advantage! Slay the monster while it cannot move!”
Behind Direfang, Grallik struggled to his feet. “I’ve nothing left,” he said to himself. Despite that, he started gesturing feebly at the beast, desperately trying to summon more magic.
The tylor had dropped into the soft earth, covering up the first joints on its legs. Several goblins were caught in its sinking, and their shrill screams sliced through the air, suddenly, as the ground turned as hard as granite and trapped them as surely as the tylor. The beast screamed its rage, and tried to shimmer as it had before, when it moved itself magically.
But the huge beast went nowhere; it was trapped by the priest’s spell. It struggled to pull itself free of the stone. Its thrashing head bludgeoned those goblins closest to it, snapping backs and necks. Then cracks appeared in the stone at its front feet, and a great ball of flame engulfed it, the whooshing noise drowning out the tylor’s bellows and the surrounding goblins’ screams.
The stench of burning flesh became unbearable as the fire died out almost as quickly as it had materialized. The goblins trapped in stone around the tylor had been incinerated, their smoldering corpses competing with the reek from the tylor’s singed hide.
Still, the beast was not dead.
“More fire, wizard!” Direfang barked.
Another hobgoblin slapped Grallik on the back for emphasis. “Do what Direfang says.”
“More fire now!” Direfang looked to the ground at his feet, where Graytoes lay whimpering. Abruptly he vaulted over her and drew his sword, one he’d taken from a Dark Knight he’d slain in the mining camp. He raced forward, roaring a battle cry, leaping over rubble and broken and dead goblins, hollering for his surviving kinsmen to join him.
“I’ve no fire left to give,” Grallik muttered. But somehow the wizard was able to stand erect, focus his energy, and hurl another fiery lance, aimed straight at the tylor’s open mouth. He had strength left for one more lance, which missed the mark and instead struck the beast’s jaw. Then Grallik sagged back against a lean hobgoblin.
