by Jean Rabe
Just then two goblins rushed in, chattering and looking around for things to take.
“Out!” Mudwort spat.
They swung about and went elsewhere.
“The foreman is in a hurry for some parchment,” Horace said. He opened a cabinet door, bent over, and peered inside. His voice came muffled. “One of those women is going to draw him a map. He wants us to be quick.”
Still, Mudwort did not let on if she understood him.
Horace repeated the gist in her tongue, and she nearly dropped the lid on her fingers in surprise. So that much was clear; she had not known that he understood goblinspeak.
Quickly she turned away, sorry she had let him know that she understood him at all, in any tongue.
He shrugged, continuing to search. She heard him moving things around in the cabinet. Over her shoulder she stole glances at him, finding him more interesting—at the moment—than what might be in the chest.
“Why come here?” she asked finally in goblinspeak.
“In here? With you?” he replied, not understanding.
“No.”
“With you and the rest of the goblins? When Steel Town was destroyed?” He stopped poking around for a moment. “I’m not sure … Mudwort. Perhaps because the Gray Robe asked me to. Perhaps because Zeboim gave me the nudge. Or perhaps because following all of you goblins seemed like the most attractive option at the time.” He returned to searching through the cabinet. “Ah, books!”
He retrieved three small volumes, bound in the dyed hide of some animal. Two were red, like Mudwort’s skin, the other was faded blue. Horace set them on the counter and leafed through the first.
“I don’t read Dwarvish,” he said, half to himself. The next seemed equally perplexing to him, and so he set it aside. But the faded blue one was blank. “This will work.” He squatted and searched through the cabinet, a moment later finding sticks of charcoal tied together with a strip of cloth. “The foreman is in a hurry,” he repeated. “I should take these to him now.”
“Yes, go. Take those things to Direfang. Be fast.” She peered inside the chest. “Leave me alone.”
Horace left the home without another word, and Mudwort breathed a sigh of relief to be rid of the foul human. She could give her full attention to the chest’s contents. A thin summer blanket was folded on top, and that she took out carefully, thinking it a prize. Underneath the blanket rested a jumble of things that brought a pleased gasp. She reached for the things, eager like a child receiving birthday gifts. Her fingers danced over carved wooden dwarves, depicted standing straight like soldiers—one with a crown, another in robes, one a woman. She thought they might be toys or playing pieces for some game. She scooped them out but wrapped her fingers around the woman-piece.
The descriptive detail was incredible, and Mudwort brought the woman-piece close. Even the eyes were carved finely, wide and open, the carved expression looking wise and kind. Mudwort sniffed it, barely detecting any scent, and placed it carefully on the blanket.
Whoever lived there either died or left in a terrible hurry to leave behind such precious belongings. She decided the set of carved dwarves must have some value. Two sets! Below the first were more figures, carved from a darker wood and shining with some sort of lacquer. There was a woman-piece among that set too, and as before she inspected that one and set it aside. There was also a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco that smelled sweet. Maybe the skull man would like those items; he was plump and so given to fleshly excesses.
There were several small, empty pouches made of soft leather. She put the pipe and tobacco in one, the two women-pieces in another. She found a belt, woven of strips of leather and decorated with green and red wooden beads. It was more colorful than any worn by the dwarves she’d observed outside, and so it must be clothing for special occasions. She tried to put it on, but found it much too big. But when she wrapped it twice, it worked, and she tied the leather bag containing the woman-pieces to it.
There were no clothes, else Mudwort would have replaced the dirt-stained tunic she wore. But there were other interesting objects at the bottom of the chest—beads. Her fingers flew to them, and she brought up string after string. One was a necklace of simple beads, polished and roughly round, carved from some tree with wood so dark it looked almost black. She draped it around her neck and looped it twice because it was so long. Another string was much shorter and made of beads carved into the shapes of animal heads: boar, bear, wolf, ram, and a vicious-looking cat. The eyes were tiny stones that glinted dark blue. The string went quickly around her neck too. Some of the necklaces at the bottom were made of clay beads that were old and chipped. One string was broken, and the beads bounced across the floor before she could catch them.
“Beautiful.” The rare word came out as a croak. The last strand she brought up from the bottom of the chest was made of tiny golden links festooned with small blue stones that caught and held the light that came through the high, narrow window. That strand she held against her bosom for a long moment before putting it in the pouch on her belt. She knew better than to wear something like that and draw too much attention to herself.
The chest stood empty, but she continued to study it; something about it didn’t seem right. She leaned into it and thumped its bottom; the chest did not look as big on the inside as it did on the outside. She was rewarded with a hollow sound, and she tore at the bottom until a piece of wood came loose. Under it were seven leather pouches, so old they were cracked like a parched riverbed.
At that moment Leftear came into the home, grunting and shuffling. “Direfang says take everything that seems valuable,” he said, barely sparing her a glance. He didn’t see her treasure, nor her scowl at him or her waving him away. Instead he went over to the cabinets, roughly breaking a door when he carelessly pulled it open. Then he began grabbing mugs to dump into a canvas sack, along with other things he didn’t bother to take the time to identify.
Mudwort opened the pouches and looked inside.
“Lots of valuable stuff here,” she whispered to herself. She spilled the contents of three of the pouches onto the floor, and it was that noise that caught Leftear’s attention.
“Rocks,” he said, looking at her dismissively. “Just lots and lots of rocks.” He went to the table and plucked the carved wooden Reorx off it and dropped it in his sack. “These rocks are bigger, prettier.” He scooped up some of the polished stones that had ringed the idol and dropped them into the sack. “Might be worth something.”
“Precious rocks, mine are,” Mudwort said with a tinge of awe, looking away from the hobgoblin and stirring the stones. They were not faceted, like ones in a fine lady’s gemstones would be. But they glimmered nonetheless, blue like the surface of a lake when the noon sun hits it. “Humans would have a name for these rocks,” she mused. “Humans have names for all sorts of rocks.”
She managed to fit the rocks into one of the pouches, hooking it to her belt. Then she spilled out the contents of the other four. One contained more of the uncut stones, but the other three contained cut gems, the facets catching the light and drawing a gasp from Mudwort. There were, perhaps, two hundred or more of the cut stones.
“No food in here.” Leftear knocked over a shelf in his search for something to eat. “Going back to the garden,” he told her grumpily. “Going to fill up the rest of this bag with onions.”
She was quick to scoop up the remaining stones, redistributing them so they fit in two more bags, and those she also fitted to her belt. Then she climbed onto the bed and stretched out momentarily. It would be so easy to sleep here, she thought. Even though so many sounds from outside were drifting in—goblins gathering things, more goblins rooting through the garden, all of the noises running together. She thought she could sleep deeply regardless. The pillow was soft, and she thought she might take it with her but then thought better of it—one more thing to carry.
She pushed herself up, deciding she’d better leave or she would get left behind.
She slipped off the bed and hesitated, then grabbed the pillow, shaking it out of its case. She took one more look around, and, seeing nothing else of interest, tucked the case under her arm and stepped outside.
Spikehollow poked his head into a home, one near the section of the garden filled with potatoes. He had made sure the goblins he supervised were working hard in the garden, and he saw his chance. He’d seen a few Flamegrass clansmen go into that home and quickly rush out again earlier. Nothing interesting to be found, they thought, as they’d only taken one sack from the place. Or perhaps the Flamegrass goblins were not observant and had missed something tasty.
“A quick look,” Spikehollow told himself. “Then back to the garden.”
He pushed the hide aside and darted inside but stopped as if he’d struck a wall. “Stinks bad,” he muttered. He made a choking sound and turned to leave, then changed his mind. “Stink kept the others away. The stink protects good things, maybe.”
He held his breath and picked through the shadows. It was dark in there, though it was bright outside. A tattered hide covered the lone window, and little light slipped in around its edges. Spikehollow made out a low table and two stools, a fireplace with a big pot hanging in it. A few logs were under it, slightly charred, but looking as though a fire hadn’t burned in it that day. He sniffed the air and recoiled; whatever was in the pot smelled bad, but it wasn’t the only thing contributing to the stink.
Three small beds were against the far wall, only one occupied; the other two had been stripped bare to the wood slats. Spikehollow sniffed again. “Stinky dwarf smell. Stinks worse than … than anything. Should leave and breathe the better air outside. Leave like the Flamegrass clansmen left—quick.”
But he was still curious and so inched closer. The dwarf on the bed looked old, his wispy white hair and beard resembling a mass of cobwebs. A colorful quilt was pulled up to his waist, and his chest was bare and ruddy in places. The quilt was made of yellow, red, and green squares, some with stitching on them. Even with the goblin’s superb vision, there wasn’t enough light to distinguish the intricacies of the stitches, but his fingers traced the outline of a flower in a vase, a bird, and a butterfly.
“Lots of wrinkles, an old, old man,” Spikehollow said. “A stinking one. A sleeping one. Sweating too. Sweating too much for a quilt.” The goblin pulled it off him. “Too stinky and sweaty a dwarf to waste a very nice quilt like this.”
Spikehollow wished for a treasure to take away from the village, not just something to eat. He wanted something to keep for himself, or perhaps he would give it to Saro-Saro. The old goblin might enjoy a quilt as fine as that. As he carried the quilt to the door, he spotted two more blankets on a shelf, one loosely woven and dyed green, the other gray and frayed. He carefully folded the quilt and set it down and pulled the gray blanket off the shelf.
Then he returned to the old dwarf and covered him with the frayed blanket. Even though Spikehollow meant well, he felt bile rising in his throat and he gagged.
“Worst stink ever.”
Holding his breath, he stared at the dwarf. The dwarf’s eyes never opened, and the goblin had to look closely to make sure the dwarf was indeed alive.
“Not breathing much,” Spikehollow decided. The dwarf’s chest rose and fell only slightly. “Dying, maybe. Old things die. And dying old things don’t need any lovely blankets.” The goblin cocked his head, noticing a swollen black spot on the dwarf’s neck, like a knob on a tree trunk. Spikehollow scowled. “Ugly, stinking, dying old thing.”
The stinking old dwarf with the black spot on his neck didn’t need the gray blanket, Spikehollow decided, and so he removed it, with the dwarf still sleeping. Spikehollow folded it and set it atop the fine, colorful quilt. Then he pulled the green blanket down too, deciding that was the one he would give to Saro-Saro. He would keep the butterflies and birds and flowers in vases quilt for himself. Satisfied, he took all three out into the sunlight.
Rustymane and Graytoes were heading toward the longest and narrowest home. It was their third stop on their explorations, and they had bulging pillow cases and satchels that they set outside the door. The work had kept Graytoes occupied, and she’d not whimpered or mentioned Moon-eye since they’d started foraging.
“Could live here, in this village,” Rustymane was saying. “This place tall enough. This one house anyway.” The other two homes the pair had looted had low ceilings, and the hobgoblin had had to stoop.
“Could live in the Qualinesti Forest, like Mudwort says,” Graytoes said, more cheerfully than she felt. Then Graytoes slipped inside, her eyes adjusting to the shadows and spotting movement. “Another dwarf.” She pointed, adding, “No more killing, Direfang says.”
Rustymane pushed past her, growling when the young female dwarf started shouting. She was the height of a goblin, though stockier and smooth all over, marking her as a child. The hobgoblin couldn’t understand her angry words, and so he shoved her against a wall.
“Quiet! Quiet, quiet!” He pinched his lips and bent until he was face-to-face with the short female dwarf.
The dwarf stopped yelling and started shaking, beads of sweat sprouting on her wide forehead.
“Stay!” he ordered, pressing his hand against her shoulder. He pushed, and she sat.
“Stay, dwarf!” Graytoes parroted. “Stay quiet!”
“There’s food in here,” Rustymane announced, looking around. “Lots of it, Graytoes. All of it mushy and sweet.” The hobgoblin leaned over a table, where several large bowls were filled with a pulpy mixture. He thrust two fingers in a bowl, and using them like a spoon, shoveled the pulp into his mouth. “Can’t put this in a bag, Graytoes. Might as well eat it.” He continued to feast, using both hands. “Want some?”
He didn’t see her shake her head or squeeze past him. Neither did he see what filled the rest of the one-room building. Small beds and cradles. Rustymane slurped the porridge so noisily that he didn’t hear the wave of soft gurgles and sighs or hear Graytoes coo back at the eight dwarf infants inside the place.
The goblin went from child to child, looking each one over and tentatively touching their chins and noses. She giggled when they smiled, and she tucked the blankets up around the ones who’d kicked theirs loose. She couldn’t tell precisely how old the younglings were; she’d never seen a dwarf before coming to that village. But she knew they were young; it didn’t look as if any of them could walk yet.
“Which one?” she asked Rustymane, though he wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was busily slurping up the mixture that Graytoes realized was food for the babies. Frowning, she looked around the table and spotted a jar and spoons. She left the babies and gathered up a jar and the prettiest silver spoon.
Moving to a bowl that Rustymane hadn’t yet delved into, she spooned the porridge into the jar and tightly stoppered it and carried it outside and squeezed the jar into a satchel. Then she went back inside happily.
“Which one?” she mused, that time to herself.
Rustymane didn’t hear her anyway. The hobgoblin’s slurping was louder than all the little sounds the infants made.
The young female dwarf still sat against the wall, quivering and looking timidly between Graytoes and the hobgoblin. The female dwarf wailed when Graytoes started lifting up blankets and counting the infants’ toes and looking to determine their sex.
“Boy,” Graytoes said. “Boy. Boy. Girl.” She halted at the cradle of the baby girl dwarf. “A girl, and the smallest one here.” She reached inside and picked up the baby. It gurgled pleasantly. She made sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around it, and she held it close. “Moon-eye always wanted a girl.”
Larger than a goblin baby, the dwarf infant was cumbersome, but Graytoes managed to cradle it lovingly. “The best treasure,” she said. “This is the best treasure ever.”
She left the building, ignoring the frightened young female dwarf who wailed her protest. Rustymane’s feasting sounds diminished behind her as, with some difficulty, s
he shouldered the satchel she’d nestled the porridge in while still carrying the child.
Graytoes struggled only a little with her burdens. The acquisition of a baby had given her strength and purpose.
15
DIREFANG’S MAPS
The moon was full, and its light was bright enough that Direfang could study the series of maps one of the dwarves had drawn. Rendered in charcoal and spread out over the small pages of the book, the maps were not near as detailed as the Dark Knight maps he’d admired in Steel Town. But then, he’d never been allowed to get too close to those precious maps. He had to be careful with the charcoal drawings too because the pages of the book were thin and the lines smeared easily.
He desperately needed a real map, one large and sturdy and drawn by men who’d been over the terrain. But he did not know where to get one.
The hobgoblin sat in the center of a wide trail that ran south of Reorx’s Cradle. He’d intended to peruse the crude maps while he was in the village, perhaps pass a few nights there and give the goblins more time to dig through the garden and truly relax. He certainly could have used the time to rest his leg and his foggy eyes, and to ask the old female dwarf more about the mountains. But he worried too much that the dwarves would provoke his charges into killing the women and children. It was bad enough when one of the dwarves saw Graytoes carry away a baby; the dwarf became hysterical, and her fellows had had to restrain her.
The priest had pleaded with Direfang to leave the baby in the village. “She belongs with her own kind,” the priest had argued.
But Graytoes wanted the child badly, and the mewling thing seemed to make her happy. So Direfang let Graytoes keep it, and he ordered the goblins out of the village to keep the surviving dwarves safe.
