Goblin Nation

PREPARING FOR WAR

Lurreg, a muscular goblin of middle years with mudbrown skin and olive-colored eyes, was leader of the Fernwold clan. He’d made it clear that he and his fellows did not like the Skinweavers, wrinkling their noses at the shrunken elf heads and refusing to return any friendly gestures.

Yet Lurreg toiled by Draath’s side, expending more effort and energy than he had when building his ruined home.

The two clans had fashioned spears from the thick, straight branches that could be salvaged from roofs. Those who had axes and knives cut logs that had once formed walls to make more spears, the best and thickest pieces becoming clubs. They discarded pieces that were cracked or bent like a supple willow or had been weakened too much by the chlorine.

Draath sat on a scarred piece of ground with a half dozen spear hafts in front of him and a pile of black, fist-sized rocks. Lurreg was nearby and watching the Skinweaver’s hands … refusing to look him in the eyes. Draath patted the smallest of his shrunken heads, a ritual he followed when he worked on each weapon; reached for a stone; and touched it to the end of a haft.

“This is obsidian,” Draath explained. “Dark as its purpose, to slay. Black as death.” His fingers moved over the stone, which shimmered and became as malleable as clay. “Obsidian is the best for this. Crystals work too, but those are more difficult to find.” The stone flowed over the end of the haft, capping it and firmly affixing itself. His thumb ran along the edges, forming it into something that looked like an arrowhead, but the thin edges were larger and appeared sharper, gleaming in the bright morning sunlight.

“Looks like glass,” Lurreg said. “This clan saw glass on the other side of the mountains. It was in a village in the Plains of Dust. An empty village. Obsidian looks like glass that reflects the night sky. Looks brittle. It will break easily.”

Draath grunted in disagreement and ran the spear tip across the palm of his hand, drawing a thick line of blood. “Obsidian is the very best,” he said. “And it is very difficult to break.” He put the finished spear off to the side and happily sucked on his wound. A youngling collected the spear and carried it to a growing pile.

The Boarhunters were making spears too, but theirs did not have stone tips. They affixed pieces of the spine that had run down the dragon’s back, dragon teeth, and talons to hafts. The youngest clan members did not have the luxury of using dragon parts. They sharpened the ends of the wood with knives and rubbed the knobs off the hafts so they would be easier to hold and more balanced to throw.

“Kroan used to work the dirt with magic,” Lurreg explained. “Kroan listened to the dirt and heard Mudwort’s call.” The clan leader bowed his head ruefully. “But Kroan was killed by the dragon. No remaining stonetellers in this clan.”

“That is …” Draath gestured toward a young goblin, little more than two feet tall. He had the same coloration as Lurreg, but his eyes were as black as the piece of obsidian Draath fitted to another spear.

“Olag,” Lurreg said, still not meeting Draath’s eyes.

“There is magic in Olag,” the Skinweaver said. “It can be coaxed out.”

Lurreg brightened and passed another haft to Draath. The Skinweaver crooked his finger at the young goblin, who hesitated a moment before cautiously approaching. Draath grabbed his arm and tugged him to the ground, shoving a piece of obsidian into his small hand. He took another spear haft, cupped his hand around Olag’s, and forced the stone to the top of the wood.

“Find the magic inside, Olag. Tell the stone what it should do.” The Skinweaver poked a finger at his chest. “There is magic in your heart. Find it.” Draath cast his spell on the stone, pulling the energy from Olag. “Together, Olag. Feel it?”

The young goblin nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide as the obsidian began to flow and fasten to the spear.

“Together, sculpt the point,” Draath continued. He pulled more energy from the youth as the edges grew sharp and shiny.

Flamegrass clansmen, taught by a hobgoblin named Gokop, were fashioning breastplates from dragon skin. The largest scales were being made into formidable shields.

“Preparing for war,” Gokop said, grinning wide.

Others looked up and smiled back.

Direfang wished Spikehollow were with him. Spikehollow had been a slave in the Dark Knight mining camp. When the goblins made their escape, Spikehollow had joined Direfang in looting weapons from fallen knights and using those weapons against their remaining foes. The young goblin had been an able fighter, strong and determined, and if he were there, he would be useful. But Spikehollow had died weeks past, an early victim of the plague that wiped out so many of the Steel Town clansmen.

Dozens of goblins were crowded around Direfang. He gripped a long sword in one hand, which had been taken from a Steel Town knight, and held a hand axe in the other. He’d given his best knife to a feisty young goblin named Tilk.

“Watch me.” He crouched and held the sword level to the ground then swung it so fast, it whistled through the air. He followed it with a chopping motion with the axe. The hobgoblin repeated the maneuvers, pointing out each step.

All of the goblins in the group bore weapons, most of them short swords and daggers that had been taken from the corpses of Dark Knights or stolen from the ogre and dwarven towns they’d passed through on their flight from the mining camp. They did their best to imitate Direfang’s motions. The hobgoblin paused to congratulate the goblins who were correctly mastering the moves.

“How long, Direfang?” That came from Jando-Jando, who wielded two knives, one of which was missing its tip, and the other of which had a broken handle. “How long practice?”

“Practice until the weapons are too heavy to hold,” the hobgoblin answered as he showed them how to thrust and parry with a blade. “Practice until the hands that hold them feel as heavy as boulders. And then practice some more and more.”

Direfang had never received training with a sword or any weapon for that matter. He’d been taught how to use a pick in the mines, and some of those principles applied to fighting. But he’d studied the Dark Knights when they were drilling. In the slave pens, there was little to do except eat and listen to the chatter of the clans. So he had focused on the knights, who also inadvertently taught him their language and how to read.

Rustymane was training another group of goblins, all of those wielding knives. Rustymane was nearly as proficient as Direfang, having also been a foreman in the mines and having also wisely studied the Dark Knights. Encountering beasts such as a tylor in Neraka and bloodragers and the dragon in the forest had forced Rustymane and Direfang to become experts with weapons.

Sallor and two other Skinweavers were teaching the youngest group of goblins how to wield spears. Although most of the goblins who had come across the mountains to join the city knew how to hunt, the former Steel Town slaves lacked even those survival skills. Wielding a spear was foreign to them.

Direfang demanded that all the goblins take a turn with the weapons, even the younglings.

“Damn the dragons and bloodragers!” he proclaimed as he raised the sword above his head and brought it down to stop an inch from the ground. “This city will not fall again. The goblins will be prepared for the next monster or enemy that tries to destroy everything the clans have built. Never again will the clans be caught unawares. Never again!”

“Never again!” Jando-Jando echoed. “No more dead goblins. Never. Kill the next monster! Slay the next dragon! Never again.”

“Never again!” repeated Nkunda, the goblin who long before had attacked Direfang in the mines. “Never again! Never again!”

The chant blew across the ruined city like a bitter wind.

Thya’s fingers were splayed across a patch of dirt that had been pebbled and burned by the dragon’s caustic breath. Grallik joined her, pulling up his long tunic and sitting so his knee touched hers. He ran his fingers over the earth and shuddered.

“I feel it,” he said, the awe thick in his voice. He’d been working spells so often with the goblins, mentally digging the earth bowls in particular, that the magic was coming easier to him. “The ground aches, like a man who’s been punched. It is as sterile as a barren woman. Nothing will grow here again.”

Thya shook her head. “A long time from now, things will be better. Time changes all. When all these clans and the offspring of these clans are dust, the earth will heal. That is the way of things, Grallik. The earth always heals.”

“So much wisdom in you.”

She cocked her head.

“I was in Steel Town, you know,” he said softly.

Thya and her clan had not been among the mining camp slaves. She had heard Mudwort’s call and followed them through the Nerakan mountains. She did not know Grallik’s past.

“I was a Dark Knight.”

Thya nodded. “Heard the stories. A Gray Robe, I heard.” She pursed her lips as if she’d bitten into something sour.

“And I thought goblins were stupid things. Then.” Grallik studied a spot on the ground. He was silent for a moment, the chant of “Never again” reaching his ears. “Then, I thought that, Thya. But since, I have learned a lot from Mudwort.”

“Mudwort says the Gray Robe starves for magic.”

It was his turn to cock his head.

“Maybe I do,” he said, bemused. He splayed his hands next to hers, just as Graytoes joined them. “Yes, I think I do.”

She sat next to Thya, placing Umay between them. “Moon-eye said there was magic in here.” She pointed to her heart. “Used it with Moon-eye, sniffing through the ground.”

“Used it with me to fight the dragon. Use it again,” Thya encouraged.

Graytoes leaned over and kissed Umay on the forehead. The baby cooed. She copied Grallik and Thya, but her fingers did not sink into the earth as theirs did. “Not much magic then and now.” She made a tsking sound. “Certainly not much help now. Sorry.”

The chant of “Never again!” grew louder.

Mudwort settled next to Graytoes, taking her hand and tugging it under the surface, teasing what little magical energy she possessed and urging it to grow.

Graytoes gasped in surprise and slammed her eyes shut.

“Direfang says look for dragons,” Mudwort told her. “Look for more dragons now.”

“But there’s something else you look for, isn’t there?” Grallik whispered.

Mudwort made a sputtering sound. “Direfang is worried about dragons and bloodragers.”

Their senses joined and spiraled out, giving them the sensation of flying over that section of the Qualinesti Forest. They headed south, the direction from whence the dragon came. Graytoes made little childlike sounds as they went.

The ancient woods looked markedly different from above, the sun so bright and unobstructed that it was hurtful, and the greens were varied and intense. The air smelled fresher and was thick with scents of flowers that grew near the top of the canopy. They breathed deep and held in the sweetness, as it masked the stench from the dragon’s breath, the burned goblin corpses, and their own sweat. They dipped lower, like a bird cutting through a gap in the branches and swooping down over the bluff to skim the river, then entered the young pine forest.

“Higher,” Thya suggested. “The air is better.”

“But not too high. It is harder to see bloodragers and dragons and other things with sharp teeth and claws when you are up too high,” Graytoes said, adding, “Dizzy higher.”

They compromised, hurtling along several feet above the earth and just above the lowest branches, Thya leading them. Scattered amid the pines were maples and hickories, and there was a small grove of walnut trees where a herd of deer grazed.

“Tell the Boarhunters,” Graytoes said. “Tasty deer.”

“Later,” said Grallik.

It felt like they searched for hours, long enough for the chanting of “Never again!” to have stopped and for a break to have been called in Direfang’s drilling. They persisted, finding a trio of massive boars, and floating through a grove of cherry trees that were overgrown with ivies and thistles.

There were no signs of large predators, however, so Thya took them north, coming back across the river, where the Fishgatherers were bringing in nets.

“Not everyone prepares for a fight,” Mudwort observed.

“Someone has to find food,” Thya said.

Mudwort started to pull away from the others, but Thya’s magic drew her back.

“Not done yet,” she told Mudwort. “Look to the farther north now.”

Mudwort scowled. “A little north. And just for a little while. Then Direfang should know there are no more dragons.”

Grallik took the lead, the first time he had done so on one of their magical expeditions. Thya drifted to the background, allowing the wizard to pull them. Mudwort snorted, following.

“Curious where the man will take us,” Thya whispered to Graytoes. “North and north and north.”

“Grallik lived in these woods a long time ago,” Mudwort added. “Direfang said Grallik was scarred here in a fire.”

Orvago padded over to the small circle, regarding each participant before bending over to tickle Umay’s chin. The baby grabbed his hairy finger and giggled.

“Your magic is fascinating,” the gnoll told them, though they were concentrating. “Perhaps I could find a way to join in.”

“Shh!” That was whispered by Grallik, who was taking their senses in a serpentine pattern, first low to the ground then circling higher, unknowingly close to the spot where Mudwort buried the group of knights who’d caught her.

“Done yet?” Graytoes yawned. “So tired.”

“The magic is draining,” Mudwort explained. “Time to be done.”

“Yes,” Grallik admitted. “But wait.”

Their senses hovered in a clearing where the remains of a campfire smoldered. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from charred logs that had been kicked apart.

Orvago knelt next to Umay and peered at the goblins’ and Grallik’s submerged hands. The ground around their wrists was hard and dry. “Curious,” he said.

“Curious, certainly,” Thya said. “Look closer at the fire.” She forced their senses down, until they could see the bones of a small animal, a rabbit perhaps, with scraps of fur.

“Something ate here,” Grallik said. “Several somethings.”

There was a pile of bones and stripped hide nearby, and the ground was disturbed, clumps of grass and ferns torn up. A scrap of black cloth dangled from a high-growing thorn bush. A tributary gurgled a few yards away, and they hovered above it, the sun so bright on the water that it showed through to the gravel bottom. Small, silver fish swam in a cluster.

Grass on both banks had been tamped down, and in bare spots footprints could clearly be observed.

“Men,” Thya said.

“Not dragons or bloodragers like Direfang worries over,” Mudwort said. “Just men. They are not so dangerous as dragons and bloodragers.”

“How many?” asked Graytoes. “Don’t like them, men.”

“And where have they gone?” Grallik mused.

“Doesn’t matter how many,” Mudwort said. “Graytoes is tired and-”

Grallik tugged their senses west, following the tributary and the occasional print of a heel that had sunk into the soft earth. “Many men,” he said softly. “I do not like this.”

“Don’t like men at all. Don’t like-” Suddenly Graytoes collapsed, exhausted and drained. Orvago gently dug her hands free from the earth and laid her next to Umay.

Yet Grallik, Thya, and Mudwort continued their magical journey to another clearing. That one was much larger than the last they’d looked at, and it was filled with men in armor.

“Worse than a dragon,” Grallik said. “Dark Knights.”

Mudwort had a difficult time counting numbers. But it looked to her that there were quite a few more than five hundred and forty.

“A great many Dark Knights,” Thya said in awe.

“No wonder the old willow worries,” Orvago observed.