The Rebellion

26

Direfang directed one of the goblin clans to pile the ogre bodies against the broken buildings. He had no intention of burning them, as was the practice for goblins; he would not grant them the dignity. Instead, the ogres would be wrapped tight with ropes that Saro-Saro’s clan was salvaging so the bodies would not fall apart when they rotted. He wanted the ogre spirits to be forced to return to intact corpses and, thus, be trapped as slaves forever.

“Stay here?” Hurbear asked. “Will this be a village for goblins now? Good home, it looks to be.”

Direfang rubbed his chin with his right hand, a gesture he’d adopted since leaving Steel Town. It was a good place, he thought, the village cradled in the Khalkists. It boasted large gardens, which could be tended to yield sweet beans and potatoes, the latter one of his favorite foods, a lake that would always provide water, and livestock that some of the goblins would soon slay if he didn’t make his way over to the livestock pens and prevent it. Still, as large as the village was, it wasn’t sufficient to support the more than one thousand goblins he’d brought here. It had supported less than two hundred ogres, he guessed from the number of buildings and the number of dead.

“Some, Hurbear,” Direfang said. “Some goblins could stay here and rebuild this place. Could build lives here and raise families. A good place, yes.”

“Not enough food for all,” Hurbear returned, making the same assessment Direfang had. “Enough space, but not enough food. Good space, though. Goats and sheep. Good food. Plenty of water.”

“Hurbear want to stay here? Lead the goblins deciding to stay?”

The old goblin shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly. “Direfang stay too? It is a very good place to live and be happy. And it will smell better when the ogres are gone.”

Direfang looked at the lake. It was indeed a place he could call home, he had to admit. He could select which clans to stay with him. Hurbear’s, of course, and Mudwort. He looked around for the red-skinned goblin. He could use her counsel right then. He wanted her to speak to the earth, tell him what spread away from the place and what stretched farther to the south. He knew something of the world’s geography from listening to the Dark Knights and looking over their shoulders when they were holding meetings. He could read the human language when he worked at it, though he doubted any of the knights had realized they’d inadvertently taught him. He’d read the text on dozens of their maps.

He was interested in staying in or near the Khalkists, which stretched far into Khur and Blode. He wanted nothing to do with Blode, however, which was a country dominated by ogres and was known for its contemptible and greedy king. There was a vast swamp to the south that would be easy to lose himself in-and perhaps all of his army. It once had been the realm of a black dragon overlord, but the Dark Knights claimed she was dead. There were lesser black dragons, and they might pose a problem. But there likely were relatively few ogres, and that was a favorable thing to consider.

Too, he’d seen maps of the Plains of Dust, which was a vast area not so dry and desolate as the name indicated. There could be room for many goblin villages there.

“That land would be the best,” Direfang said to himself. “The Plains of Dust.”

“What say, Direfang?”

“Hurbear can stay and lead,” the hobgoblin said. “Stay here in the village that belonged to the monsters. Stay and-”

“But Direfang is not going to stay.” The old goblin did not pose the statement as a question.

There were pale reeds in the garden, a plant the hobgoblin was unfamiliar with. He glanced over at them, not meeting the old goblin’s eyes. They made the dry shushing sounds in the breeze that had found its way down the slope.

“No. South still,” Direfang said, watching the reeds sway. “South to the plains maybe. Hurbear’s clan might like the plains too. Or can stay here and make new village.”

“Lots of room for goblins in the plains?” Hurbear looked longingly toward the lake then to the lines of goblins forming for their share of food and other spoils. Hurbear was obviously pleased that his clan was taking the lead in keeping the goblins in check around the fire pits and the dwindling beast carcasses.

“Yes, there is plenty of room in the plains.” Direfang answered firmly, though he wasn’t certain. He’d never been to the Plains of Dust, had only heard some of the Dark Knights talk about the place and had looked at its location several times on maps they’d spread out on a table. If he’d read the maps correctly, there were not many cities marked on the Plains of Dust. “Probably lots of room. More than enough.”

“Room for a goblin nation?” Hurbear asked, still staring at the jostling food lines.

“A nation?” Direfang followed the old goblin’s gaze and saw that, for the most part, the goblins were acting orderly and not looting the village as haphazardly as they had Steel Town. Some were frantic but not many. “There would be no more goblin slaves in the Plains of Dust, Hurbear. Not sheep anymore, the goblins. Wolves. A nation of wolves, Hurbear.”

“Smart wolves,” Hurbear added, licking his lips. “And crafty ones. Wolves that are working together now.”

“Together? Yes. Perhaps.” Direfang suddenly realized Hurbear was right. The goblin clans were working together, much better than before. The attack against the ogres had been more controlled, and so was the aftermath.

The air grew still in the basin, and Direfang looked up at the dark gray clouds scudding across the lighter gray sky. It looked as if rain could be coming, but it didn’t smell like rain. He inhaled deeply, the scent reminding him of dying fires.

“Don’t want to stay here long,” he told Hurbear. “The village is a good place, easy to like. But don’t like the sky here. Don’t like the smell. And the smell will worsen when the ogres rot. So head south to the Plains of Dust. There will be enough room for a nation there.”

The goblins and hobgoblins they’d freed were mingling, some standing in line for food. He saw one helping Brak’s clan tug ogres into a pile. The ground trembled slightly, as it had in Steel Town after the large quakes. The trembling unsettled the goblins, but they continued their tasks.

“A nation.” Hurbear said, staring intently at Direfang. “Need more goblins to build a good nation, Direfang. More than a thousand here, but still more are needed.”

The hobgoblin absently nodded. “More goblins for the army and the new nation. More to be found to the south, perhaps, and on the march to the plains. Hobgoblins too. There used to be tribes of hobgoblins in these mountains before the ogres took over and before the minotaurs came. Bugbears would be welcome. Maybe bugbears join this army.”

There’d been bugbears of significant number in the mountains long ago, Direfang knew. The greater races of Krynn had worked hard to exterminate them, just as the greater races fought the goblins and caught them and turned them into slaves. Rats, he’d heard some of the Dark Knights use to refer to goblinkind, scum, vermin, bugs-just like bugbears-and worse.

“Goblins used to be bugs for the knights. No more,” Direfang reflected, spitting. “No more bugs.”

“Yes, bugs!” Hurbear said, sucking in his breath and laughing. “Lots of bugs! Very big bugs! Bug nation!”

Suddenly, at that very moment, as if called forth by their dialogue, gigantic centipedes erupted from the ground between the fire pits and what had been the ogres’ communal living area. The creatures had been drawn by the scent of the blood that oozed into the ground and from the vibrations of all the goblins scurrying across their territory. Some were four feet long and as thick as tree trunks, scuttling on their myriad legs and knocking over goblins and hobgoblins.

Screams filled the air around the communal house as the unprepared goblins became snack food for the centipedes. Direfang pounded past Hurbear, grabbing an ogre club and calling for help as he joined others in fighting their new foe.

The goblins in line for food were reluctant to budge and lose their places. But as Direfang started raising his club, as long and as thick as his leg, and smashing one centipede after the next, most were drawn by the fun. The goblins had never seen such creatures, so some started calling out names as they bashed them: “bugs,” “monster-bugs,” and “ogre babies.” Other goblins fled in terror, frightened by their hairy, segmented appearance and legs too numerous to count. Others, almost comically, tried to grab the creatures around the middle and squeeze the life out of them.

Direfang raised his heavy club and smashed one centipede after another as they reared in front of him. Goo splattered in all directions each time he killed one, and he had to slosh through the remains to get to the next creature.

Goblins slipped in the muck, some falling and becoming prey to the creatures that still spilled out of the cracks in the village floor. Goblin screams mingled with the shrill trilling of the centipedes. Above the noise, Direfang shouted for goblins to slice at the beasts’ heads, which he had discovered was the quickest way to dispatch them.

The ground rumbled strongly beneath the fire pits, and Direfang hoped that another earthquake wasn’t coming to add to the confusion and misery. As he slogged through the battle, thumping bodies, he again looked around for Mudwort.

He was pitched to his knees when the rumbling intensified and the crack that ran to the communal building widened. As the goblin screams grew shrill and painful, Direfang realized that it wasn’t an earthquake. Something else was causing the strong vibrations.

The rumbling gradually turned into a sustained growl, with small cracks extending in all directions from the larger ones. The ground near the largest fire pit bulged upward, the earth turning powdery there as the growl climaxed.

That was when a massive centipede head thrust up through the still-widening crack. The centipede, surely the king of all the rest, was as large as a dragon, Direfang thought, as big around as three or four ogres. Its segmented body dropped down onto where the large fire pit had been, the impact causing a thunderous noise and sending goblins flying.

“Death comes!” Spikehollow shouted, his words a mere whisper amid the tumult. “Run from death! Run now!” The goblin spun, dropped the knife he’d been waving, and dashed past Direfang. Even the few smaller centipedes remaining scurried away frantically from the new monstrosity.

“Worse than digging beasts!” Crelb cried.

“Worse than earth dragons,” Spikehollow agreed.

Direfang would have joined Spikehollow in flight, but a look at the churning legs of the massive centipede told him retreat wasn’t the answer. The huge creature with its many legs would catch up to them in mere seconds. Its trilling sound deafened all those in the vicinity, including Direfang. It jumped up in the air again, showing a stomach as dark as the sky, and dropped straight down toward the hobgoblin.

He swung his club defiantly over his head, fully expecting to be squashed. But then, over the deafening trill and the sound of his heart thrumming loudly, he heard a great whoosh of fire-a fiery column that shot down from the sky, striking the centipede and instantly roasting it. Looking up, Direfang saw its legs flailing madly as the creature was turned into flames. The hobgoblin dropped and rolled away just as the burning creature crashed down onto one of the fire pits. A second column of flame caused the giant centipede to explode, fire roiling across the village.

The stench from the charred giant centipede set all the goblins to retching. Direfang struggled to his knees as he was overcome by choking spasms. When there was nothing left in his stomach to empty, he stumbled to his feet, feeling dizzy and weak from the intense, vile smell. There was no place in the village to escape the horrific odor; burning pieces of its carcass and little flaming piles were strewn as far away as the slave pens, the explosion had been that great.

The hobgoblin fought for breath, tipping his head back and furiously blinking his eyes. The burning air sent tears rolling down his face.

Throughout the village, goblins were similarly picking themselves up and fighting for air, waving their hands in front of their faces, as if that might chase away the incredible stink. Graytoes and Moon-eye clung to each other, gasping. Hurbear curled at their feet, seemingly unconscious.

Mudwort had been only halfway down the trail toward the village, so she was spared the brunt of it. But a piece of the creature had splattered all the way up there, and she looked at the burned flesh with a mix of revulsion and envy. The fire spells that ended its life had been impressive.

She took another few steps down the trail, breathing shallowly and keeping her eyes on Moon-eye, still intending to draw him back up to the crest. Then she whirled and looked up the way she’d come. No one in the village had been responsible for the fire spells, Mudwort knew, but with widening eyes, she saw who had saved the goblins.

The Dark Knight wizard stood at the crest of the trail that led down into the village.