Goblin Nation

GREEN DEATH

The dragon was at the same time beautiful and terrifying. It was myriad shades of green, lighter on its back, darker on its belly-which the goblins could see plainly as it swooped down from across the river and hovered above the bluff. Its scales were the size of small shields and glistened as if the dragon had been drenched in the rain. Its wings were scalloped like a bat’s, the membranes beneath nearly black, like its talons. Its neck was long and serpentine, and covered with scales that ranged from the jade of a sugar maple to pale green of a honey locust. All of it was huge, the dragon’s head larger than a bear.

As goblins screamed in terror, it opened its maw, showing a row of long, white, dripping teeth, unrolling a forked scarlet tongue, and letting loose with a roar that sent the ground to shaking. Full-moon eyes cut by a slice of black surveyed the fire-ravaged city and the goblins scurrying in all directions. Another roar emerged, flattening its spines that ran from the tip of its snout to the end of its tail. The dragon dived, claws outstretched and noxious gas expelling from its cavernous mouth.

The green cloud of gas mingled with what was left of the smoke from the fires, glittering sickly olive and yellow and wholly obscuring the goblins blanketed in it. The cloud stank, and virtually all the goblins in the near vicinity pitched into coughing fits that had them doubled over and rubbing at their eyes.

Direfang was on the fringe, managing to hold his breath just as the dragon roared. He blinked furiously, his eyes stinging and throat burning worse than before, worse than ever. He felt as if he were drying up from the inside out as he whirled in confusion and inadvertently sucked in a lungful of the caustic stuff.

Others who had been standing near him, arguing over the status of the goblin city, were running frantically, their feet slapping across the ground. A few fell and were trampled by their fellows.

“Stop!” Direfang cried, but his voice was a coarse whisper from inhaling the noxious gas. “Stop!” The order was meant partly for himself, and still, like the others, he ran. He tripped over an exposed root when he passed an old oak, trying to catch himself as he plowed into the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

Hands pulled at him, and he stumbled to his feet. He was tugged behind the oak, panting and rubbing furiously at his eyes. Catching his breath, he reached for the axe at his side, intending to dash back toward the noxious cloud and save anyone trapped under it. He couldn’t budge, though; his feet were effectively fastened to the spot, his legs trembling.

“It’s called dragonfear,” said Grallik. The wizard had been the one to grab him. “The great beasts exude it. A second skin, the fear, though I’ve been told they can suppress it if they want.”

Direfang’s chest heaved, and still he rubbed at his eyes.

“It probably saw the fire,” Grallik continued matter-of-factly. “Curious, it must have flown over and discovered a meal spread out all over this bluff and beyond.”

Bone-chilling screams reached the wizard and Direfang. The dragon roared again, and they heard the thunderous sound of its clawed feet striking the ground, plucking up victims.

“How do we fight this … dragonfear?” Direfang managed to gasp.

Goblins raced past them, more falling and being trampled, some trying fleetingly to look brave and defiant, but then giving in and rushing headlong as fast as their legs could pump. The screams were mixed with the sound of the dragon feasting.

“Wizard … how to fight this?”

“I don’t know,” Grallik said. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his shirt. His blond hair, blackened by the smoke and soot, was plastered against his head; he looked pale and exhausted, defeated. “I’ve been trying. But I’ve no spells to combat it. Not like Horace had.”

“So … the fires … attracted the dragon.” Direfang’s hands dug into the bark behind him. He closed his eyes tight and tried to breathe slower, thinking furiously. Still, the screams slammed into him, and still, his legs shook. “The fires …”

“I didn’t start them, Foreman. I know that was your first suspicion. But in your heart, you know that isn’t true.” Grallik poked his head out around the tree, looking for the dragon, seeing nothing but chaos. “We’ll all die here, you know. We can’t fight a dragon. Not one of that size, no matter how many goblins are here.” He sucked in air and swung back around to hide behind the tree. “The gods’ joke, Foreman, bringing death to me here. I should have died in Steel Town. Saved myself the trouble of this arduous trip. All this way, just for death.”

With that speech, lengthy for him, Grallik pushed away from the tree and drew his hands up in front of his face, lips working feverishly as he began to bring down a great gout of flame. Staring in wonder, Direfang peeked around the tree, seeing Grallik’s column of fire rush to strike the dragon’s head. Goblins caught in the beast’s mouth were instantly incinerated. More goblins were caught under its front claws, some of them burning, one screaming. Direfang recognized poor Cari.

“How do … we fight … this … fear?” Direfang took a deep breath, inhaling chlorine mixed with the scents of burned goblins, burned homes, and the dragon’s stench. The hobgoblin spit and spit, trying to clear the redolent mix out of his mouth as he made a decision. He jumped up and dashed around the tree, straight toward the huge monster, pulling his axe free with one hand and reaching for a long knife at his side with the other.

He screamed as he ran-a lunatic sound that drew the dragon’s attention. The maw opened again, and the dragon inhaled, sounding like all the air from the goblins’ sprawling city was being sucked into its lungs. Direfang knew another cloud of chlorine gas was coming his way, and he held his breath.

At the same time, another whoosh of Grallik’s flame struck the dragon’s head. Its tail flailed like a whip, batting away Boarhunters who were darting in to battle it. The force of the tail sent goblins flying against trees and past Direfang, who was getting close. The dragon’s neck snaked out, jaws snapping with fetid breath. Direfang raised both weapons just as its leg muscles bunched and propelled the creature into the air. Its wings flapped, the wind flattening everyone on the bluff.

Direfang had dropped his axe and knife, but he was quick to grab them up again.

“Cari!” Keth hobbled toward his mate, using a branch to help him walk; his right leg was twisted and useless.

“Cari! Cari! Cari!”

With one glance, Direfang could tell Cari was dead, her small chest crushed and head twisted at an unnatural angle. Dozens of goblins lay dead and broken or charred. Dozens more were injured-broken limbs from either the dragon or being trampled by their clansmen, skin blistered from the horrid gas, most rubbing at their eyes. Two hung limp from low branches, where they’d been propelled by the sweep of the dragon’s tail. Qel was tending the hobgoblin Sully; a piece of flesh hung loose from his arm, and it appeared she was trying to reattach it.

Direfang looked up. The sky was clear and cloudless, and there was no sign of the green beast. “Gone,” he rasped. “Grallik’s fire chased it away.” He looked for the wizard, wondering if he had survived, and quickly spotted Draath at Grallik’s side.

The wizard was on his hands and knees, retching and shaking. His clothes and hair were drenched, and as Direfang ran toward them, he gagged on the overwhelming smell of chlorine. The dragon had breathed that way before it launched itself skyward, and Grallik had taken the brunt of its final attack.

Direfang helped Grallik to his feet. The wizard’s face glistened, his eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. It looked like the scars on his left cheek were blistered afresh. “Chased away the dragon,” Direfang muttered awkwardly. It was as close to a thank-you as he would give the half-elf wizard.

Grallik’s head bobbed and he wiped at his lips. “Too big of a dragon, Foreman, for my fire to defeat.”

Suddenly it began to rain on Grallik and Direfang, Draath quickly stepping out of the way. The water felt good, and the hobgoblin held his face straight up into it, breathing deeply, opening his mouth and swallowing as much water as he could. The wizard tipped his head up too, nodding toward Orvago, who had supplied the miniature cloudburst. It didn’t heal but it helped.

“I hurt the dragon, Foreman,” Grallik continued, pausing to gulp a swallow of the rain. “But I didn’t hurt it much. The dragon was too big, a very old one, from the size of it. It’ll return.”

“Didn’t die in Steel Town,” Direfang mused. “Didn’t die here.”

“Not yet anyway.” That came from Orvago as the rain stopped and he padded closer, carefully eyeing Grallik. “You hurt the dragon, like you said, but I can’t imagine that you hurt it enough to scare it off permanently.” He waved a hand behind him, indicating the droves of goblins slowly returning.

Their incredulous gazes flitted from one corpse to the next, their voices rising in fear and anger and grief. One pointed to Direfang and sputtered something that couldn’t be heard over the ruckus. Others pointed angrily at each other.

“I suspect the dragon will seek vengeance,” Orvago said quietly, so only Direfang, Draath, and Grallik could hear. “I’ve no experience with such creatures, never having seen one before today. But I’ve heard tales from some of the healers on the island, and-”

“Dragon!” Qel’s thin voice cut above the chatter. “The dragon is-”

Though there wasn’t a cloud in sight, a bolt of lightning had appeared, shooting down on the north edge of the city. It was followed by another and another lightning bolt, and for a brief moment, Direfang wished it was Mudwort returning.

But he knew better. More goblins had picked up the cry of “dragon!” as Direfang stared up at the sky. Through a gap in the foliage of the tallest maples and oaks, amid the lightning bolts, he saw the dragon’s serpentine neck and its tail.

“How is this possible?” a despairing Direfang shouted at the magic-users as he waved goblins away from the corpses and toward the bluff. “Lightning from a dragon?”

“I said it looked to be an old dragon,” Grallik said, tucking his hair behind his ears, his chest heaving. He was preparing himself for another spell. “Like me, it has magic. Though I suspect it is the greater wizard.” He began gesturing.

“Down to the river!” Direfang shouted to Rustymane and Gnasher. “Take the clans to the river. Hide in the water.” He thought the water might protect them from the caustic chlorine of the dragon’s breath … though how would they escape the lightning?

Streaks of fire flew from Grallik’s fingertips, shooting through bare spots in the canopy and striking the dragon’s side. Orvago was busy gesturing too, summoning his own enchantments.

The trees nearest the dragon groaned, and the bark split in places. They grew wider and taller in the passing of a handful of heartbeats, their limbs stretching up and up, grabbing at the dragon’s legs. The beast thrashed wildly as Orvago renewed and repeated his spell, more tree limbs whipping around the dragon and holding it like a spiderweb catches unwary insects.

Panicked goblins darted in all directions, ignoring Direfang and the other hobgoblins, some of them scurrying directly underneath the dragon, where a great exhalation of breath caught the slowest. Well more than a thousand had massed on the bluff and started over the side toward the river, their fear of water overcome by their greater fear of the dragon.

And yet, Direfang noticed, they were not as wild and disorganized in their flight as before. The group was sticking together.

“The dragon suppresses its fear,” Grallik observed as he paused to take a deep breath. “It doesn’t want them to flee this time. Of course, it can’t help that they are wisely and naturally afraid of such a monster.” He turned and headed closer to the dragon, pastel light shards shooting from his fingers, a spell the hobgoblin had not known him to cast before. If the pastel shards achieved anything, he couldn’t tell, the bursts of light were lost in the foliage and another cloud of chlorine.

Goblins swarmed around Direfang, waving weapons high and looking for inspiration from their leader.

“Fight the dragon!” The order was barked by Keth, his wide face etched with grief and fury. He leaned on a branch, his broken leg useless. “For Cari, kill the dragon!”

“No use running,” Nkunda agreed. “Can’t run as fast as the dragon can fly. Kill for Cari!” He wielded a long-handled axe that he’d been using for chopping down trees.

“All die this day,” said Sallor grimly. The Skinweaver nervously rubbed at the nose of an elf head dangling from his belt. “But maybe hurt the dragon before death comes.”

“Yes, hurt the dragon,” Direfang said, raising his dry, choked voice for all to hear. “Stall it at least so the others can be safe.” He motioned for them to spread out along the bluff, covering their comrades who continued to climb down the slope toward the river. They swung into action, eager to fight.

Where is Mudwort? Direfang thought fleetingly. She could help, could do something, he thought. A small part of him was glad she was missing. At least she wouldn’t die that day.

His attention was drawn back to the dragon temporarily ensnared by tree limbs. Rather than trying to free itself by flying higher, it had tucked its wings into its sides and was expanding its massive bulk to break the branches. Cracking, splintering, groaning wood could be heard, along with the roar of the dragon. It crushed the goblins who had been running beneath it, broke trees, and gashed its own side. But it was free and landed on the ground and charged toward the bluff.

Its head shot forward on its long neck as its feet propelled it across the loam, uprooting small trees, smashing goblin homes, and knocking over a tall ash that stood in its path. It breathed poisonously as it moved, the yellow-green cloud glimmering wetly, settling on goblins and burned-out homes and making all the world smell like caustic chlorine.

Direfang closed his eyes for just a moment, centering himself and calling up the image of the doe at the pond, wide eyed and beautiful. The vision calmed him a little, just enough. He reached for his axe and long knife, opened his eyes, and raced to meet the dragon’s charge … certain of meeting his death.

Goblins raced behind him, whooping and shouting, all the noise a bluff to disguise their fear, he knew. Qel managed to pull one wounded goblin out of the way as the horde bolted past. Orvago headed over in her direction, conjuring rain as he moved and directing it to follow over the dragon’s head to mute the effect of the chlorine wisps that streamed from its nostrils.

Grallik hurled more colorful shards against the dragon, the magical bursts of light somehow penetrating its thick scales but seemingly doing little more than irritating the monster. The half-elf wizard gave up on that notion and instead sent another strike of fire crashing down on its head. The wizard ran closer still and began calling forth more enchantments.

Direfang wasn’t the first to reach the dragon. A group of Boarhunters had been faster, plunging in when the great beast reared up on its hind legs and breaking their spear points against its armored belly. The dragon roared and fell forward, burying them with its body. Then its legs churned forward again, and Direfang was at its side, hacking away with his axe and knife, both weapons doing nothing against the scales.

“Be fast! Be deadly!” a goblin yelled.

Hundreds swarmed the beast, like ants to a giant, Direfang thought. Some of the goblins came up only to its claws. The ground slick with blood, the hobgoblin nearly tripped when he tried to advance toward the dragon’s front leg. Goblin limbs sticking out from beneath its belly caught on his feet.

Another whoosh of flame and Direfang risked a glance over his shoulder to note Grallik leaning against the lone standing wall of a crushed hobgoblin home. The wizard looked spent but was working at another spell; he was edging closer still. The wizard’s gaze caught Direfang’s, and Grallik shouted something to him, but the hobgoblin couldn’t hear.

One thing he could hear was the pounding of the dragon’s heart, loud as a war drum. Then he heard the crackle of flames. His long knife and axe head burned like so much kindling, and he almost dropped them, thinking the dragon had breathed fire on them.

“Grallik,” he said, realizing the wizard had done something magical to his weapons. He started hacking away hard and fast, the fire singeing his shoulders each time he drew the weapons back to deliver more power. “Cracked!” Direfang called. He’d managed to crack one of the scales. “Be fast. Be deadly!”

“Be fast! Be deadly!” echoed Gnasher.

“Kill the beast for Cari!” Keth cried. “Kill it fast!”

“Kill for Cari!” dozens repeated.

More goblins swarmed in, buoyed by Direfang’s drawing blood. The Fishgatherers rushed at it, throwing nets at its snout and being rewarded with a spray of chlorine. But one of the nets tangled in its teeth, which bought Flamegrass clansmen a moment to dart in beneath its jaw and stab upward with their spears.

The dragon tossed its head this way and that, swatting goblins against trees and each other, slamming its head down and smashing the Flamegrass clansmen who had tarried too long. It opened its mouth wide, snapping the net, then propelled itself forward and scooped up more than a dozen goblins in one bite, swallowing them whole before moving toward the next cluster.

“Be fast! Be deadly!” the goblins continued to chant.

Only a few fled. Direfang was amazed by their bravery. But perhaps, he thought, they, like him, realized flight would only prolong their final confrontation with the dragon, prolong their deaths.

The fire magic started to ebb on his weapons, but Direfang kept stabbing and slashing, bolstered when the flames surged again. More weapons caught fire in the hands of goblins near him.

“It’s Grallik’s doing!” Direfang shouted. “Don’t drop the knives. They’re hot but deadly!”

“Be fast! Be deadly!” echoed all around him.

The goblins swung faster and harder, with every measure of their strength, whooping when they cracked scales and drew blood.

“It’s going to fly!” a yellow-skinned goblin shouted. He was perched on the dragon’s side, holding tight to the edge of a scale as he jabbed a spear in a gap between two other scales.

Direfang saw the beast’s muscles bunch and its wings stretch. In that instant he also saw branches snake down and tangle themselves in the ridge that ran along the dragon’s back. More branches whipped around its tail. Some branches looked like lances, the leaves gone and ends sharp. They jabbed at the dragon’s side, one penetrating deep into a wound someone had already inflicted.

“It’s not going anywhere, Foreman Direfang!” the gnoll, nearby the hobgoblin leader, shouted. “Not if I can do anything about it.”

The dragon’s roar changed tone, and Direfang ascribed pain to the sound. He redoubled his efforts, hacking into it with his axe and pulling himself up, driving the knife in and pulling himself higher as though climbing a mountain. Other goblins tried to do the same, but only those with flaming knives had success against the thick hide. Some climbed on the shoulders of their clansmen for higher perches. Boarhunters climbed trees and dropped onto the dragon’s back.

Grallik concentrated his spells on enhancing the goblins’ weapons. “Hot knives into butter!” he shouted.

Direfang didn’t understand the reference. But the hobgoblin left his knife embedded in the beast’s side and used the handle as a foothold, reaching up with his free hand to grab at a wing. The dragon continued to cast its head around and tried to lumber forward. Its snout struck Direfang and stole his breath.

He dropped his flaming axe and held on to a ridge of the wing with both hands. Glancing down, he saw Keth snatch up the magicked axe and start hacking away furiously, still leaning precariously on a branch to keep himself from toppling.

“For Cari!” the Boarhunter screamed, bloody spittle flying from his lips.

Direfang scrambled onto the dragon’s back, grabbing one of its spines so he wouldn’t fall off. From his higher vantage point, the scales looked like pieces of tile like some of the roofs in Steel Town once sported. He had no idea what he would do up there, weaponless, so he barked orders down to the goblins swarming in closer and to those joining him on its back.

“Between its scales,” he hollered, using his bare hands to pound on the dragon’s back. “Soft spots there.” He ducked when an animated tree branch dipped down and drove its spiked end into a gap. Another followed but splintered against a thick scale, shards of wood flying, some piercing Direfang’s arms.

The hobgoblin howled, more in surprise than pain. One hand holding tight to a spine, he wrapped his fingers around a branch and shoved it in deeper. Goblins were tossed off the dragon’s back as it writhed, but Direfang and several others managed to hold on.

“Be fast! Be deadly!” Direfang recognized Gnasher’s gravelly voice. “For fallen friends!”

“For living friends!” a goblin added. “So friends can keep living.”

Direfang looked over the side and spotted more blades catching fire and more branches reaching out to tangle the dragon’s hindquarters. He couldn’t see the ground anymore; the goblins were too thick. Thousands had joined the battle.

Could they overwhelm the dragon by their sheer numbers? Direfang wondered, feeling a faint hope. Did they truly have a chance?

“Maybe not die this day,” he said.

Two goblins were farther back, near the edge of the bluff-Thya and Graytoes. Heads down in concentration, a ripple of earth rushed away from them and toward the dragon. Goblins jumped out of the way as the wave of earth raced toward the beast.

“The dragon’s feet are buried!” Sully reported. “The dragon is stuck.”

The air was filled with so much noise, it was deafening: the dragon roaring, almost screaming, goblins whooping and cheering, flames crackling, and more fire whooshing down in an orange column so bright that Direfang had to shut his eyes. He felt intense heat, and the slickness of blood pumping around his feet where the dragon had been pierced by another wood lance.

The dragon did not thrash so wildly anymore. More branches held it down, more stabbed into it, and goblins had increasing success opening wounds wider. Its roar weakened as another ripple of earth raced toward it, filling its mouth with dirt and spraying up over its shoulders and turning to mud amid the gushing blood.

“Be deadly!” Gnasher had climbed up on the dragon’s back near Direfang and was grinning wide at the hobgoblin leader. “Win!”

“Win,” Direfang said softly. The hobgoblin was exhausted. Through a sickly yellow-green cloud, he spied Grallik holding on to a thin birch trunk, knees buckled and mouth still feverishly working a spell. Draath was several yards beyond the wizard, hands in the earth, sending another wave of dirt toward the dragon. Its side heaved heavily then stilled.

A moment later everyone cheered.

“Bury the dragon!” Gnasher cried. “Bury it.”

Direfang shook his head wearily, barely able to speak. “Eat it, Gnasher. It will feed … all the clans.” The hobgoblin let go his grip on the spine and slid down its bloody side.

Hundreds had died, their bodies littering the ground, and crows drifted down to feast. Goblins shooed the birds away as they pulled the corpses into piles. But the crows were determined and kept coming back.

Other goblins had already set to work on cutting up the dragon and fighting off more birds. They started stripping its hide, preserving the best sections of scales and setting them aside while digging into the meat beneath.

“Save the bones!” That came from one of the Boarhunters. “They will be good posts and weapons. Posts to build, weapons to fight!”

“Save everything!” Sully hollered.

The air was thick with blood and chlorine, and Orvago conjured small bursts of rain, which did little to make it easier to breathe.

“This city,” Graytoes said, coming up to Direfang. She held Umay, and though both were splattered with mud and blood, both were safe. “This isn’t a city anymore, Direfang.”

He followed her gaze. What buildings hadn’t been burned by the fire had been knocked over or crushed by the dragon. Only a few stood-or rather sections of a few. Trees had fallen too, and thick branches had broken off the massive oaks. Clumps of birch trees leaned precariously, their roots half out of the ground.

It looked like a disaster, a catastrophe, an apocalypse.

“There is nothing left to rebuild, Direfang,” Graytoes said. “There is nothing left here.”