The Rebellion

27

Three men moved up from the other side of the ridge to stand near the wizard: a stocky dark-skinned priest and two other knights. All four wore tattered tabards and tunics, and the priest’s cloak fluttering behind him looked shredded, as if some clawed beast had raked it. Their skin was dirt streaked but slick with sweat. The two knights in armor stood at attention, the light from the still-burning centipede making their plate mail gleam and revealing all the pits and flaws in the battle-worn pieces.

The goblins not deafened or injured by the great centipede’s demise spotted the Dark Knights and surged toward the trail, shouting and waving knives. Mudwort rushed halfway up the trail again, arms raised and fingers splayed, shouting too-but not at the knights. She turned and planted herself in the path of the onrushing goblins, shouting at her own.

Her presence halted the goblins. Direfang lumbered into the front, pushing goblins aside with his good arm.

“Kill the skull man!” Brak shouted, his voice heard above others’.

“Kill all the knights!” came from a tall goblin in Saro-Saro’s clan, pushing up close to Direfang and Mudwort.

“Smear the blood in symbols!” Crelb yelled. “The symbols of Clan Spear!”

A crackling, snapping wall of flame shot up between Mudwort and the knights, stretching well beyond the sides of the trail and lighting up the village below. It was not so tall or so wide as the one the wizard had cast in Steel Town to stop some of the slaves from escaping, and its flames did not burn so hot as to harm the goblins. The fire burned only as high as the knights’ waists as they stonily watched the goblins.

“Brave the fire and kill them!” Brak called.

“Stop! Stop now!” Direfang yelled. He planted his feet in front of Mudwort and faced the throng. “Talk to the Dark Knights first.” He continued to shout to be heard over a chorus of murmurs and continued cries of “Kill the knights!”

“Why talk?” Saro-Saro edged through the throng. He was hoarse from shouting, and he was coated with goo from the exploded centipede. One of his clansmen tried to pick the most offending clumps off him. “Why talk instead of kill, Direfang? Why not smear the knights’ blood in clan symbols?”

The wall of fire crackled louder, and the ground trembled enough for all the goblins to feel it. The murmurs turned to speculation of another gigantic centipede coming-or another earthquake-with one of the hobgoblins in the front shouting that the wizard had clearly been responsible for the quakes in Steel Town and every bad thing that had happened since.

Direfang waited several moments until the horde quieted down a little. “Not kill the Dark Knights … yet.” He kept his voice loud, but he no longer needed to shout. All were listening, the knights too.

“Why not now?” Saro-Saro persisted. “The clan of-”

“Because the wizard helped by killing the great worm,” Direfang returned. He lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes, and he thumped a goblin in the chest who tried to dart past him. “If the wizard had not helped, the great worm would have killed many goblins. The wizard helped. So talk first.”

Saro-Saro’s lip curled up in a snarl. “Might be more knights on the other side of the trail, Direfang. Dark Knights come to find slaves, probably to buy new slaves from the dead ogres. Dead knights cannot buy slaves.” But Saro-Saro’s voice and eyes were flat, attesting to his supreme weariness.

Direfang shook his head and turned his back on the army, stepping around Mudwort and making his way up the trail to the four knights, stopping a few feet away from the wall of flames. The hobgoblin leader of the rebellion rotated his neck and clenched and unclenched the fist of his good arm.

“There are no more knights on the other side,” Mudwort told the others, whose eyes followed Direfang. “Would have felt more knights stomping on the earth. So no more. Just those.” She spit to show her contempt for the men. “Direfang talk.”

“Then after the talk, the knights die,” Saro-Saro said peevishly. He folded his arms as if he’d just pronounced judgment on them. “Die badly and with pain!”

“Dark Knights are better dead,” Mudwort agreed, her eyes flashing. “Dead and buried with trapped, sad spirits.”

Saro-Saro thrust out his chin and gestured to his nearby clansmen. “Dark Knights die no matter what Direfang says. Direfang die too, if necessary. Direfang die with the Dark Knights!”

Mudwort looked up the hill at the hobgoblin. She wasn’t quite as ready to sacrifice their leader, her friend. And as much as she hated knights, she was curious why they had destroyed the giant centipede and saved their enemies, the goblins.

Direfang silently regarded the Dark Knights, feeling the heat from the line of flames that crackled between him and them. They all looked fatigued, the stocky priest clearly exhausted and wavering on his feet. He sniffed the air, smelling scorched earth and the ghastly scent of the charred giant centipede, and he brushed at his chest to clear away some of the burned goo that still clung to him. He could smell his own sweat, and the different stench of the men too.

All knights smelled bad, Direfang knew. But those four were especially foul specimens, likely not having bathed in days; deep sweat circles were evident on the wizard’s gray robes. Too, dried blood hung heavy on all of them, perhaps their own or perhaps from their brethren they’d left behind in Steel Town. Direfang smelled only the four standing there, and he had heard Mudwort say there were no more. Still, he knew there could be more hidden farther down the trail, waiting for a signal, their scent concealed by the fire and dead centipede and the general stink all around.

How many knights had been left alive in Steel Town? the hobgoblin wondered. At the time, it had seemed a good decision to not encroach on the infirmary, where the last of the knights in the mining camp were sequestered. At the time, Direfang hadn’t wanted to risk the deaths of more goblins, and a small part of him had thought it was wrong to kill injured men who could not defend themselves. He regretted that choice as he stood there behind the wall of fire.

“Should have killed all the knights,” he muttered to himself. “Not left any alive to follow this army.”

“Foreman, we are here to bargain with you!” One of the armored knights addressed Direfang. His shoulders were back and his chin up. He displayed a rigid military posture despite his obvious weariness. “Foreman, you do understand the Common tongue, don’t you? We have come here-”

“Direfang,” the hobgoblin said.

The armored knight cocked his head.

“I believe he just told us that his name is Direfang.” That was whispered by the wizard, who stepped forward, nudging the armored knight aside and taking over the negotiations.

The wizard waved his hand, and the flame wall was lowered to a foot or two above the ground. He looked at Direfang, then past him to the assembly of goblins and hobgoblins down the trail, speaking as loudly as he could.

“I am Grallik N’sera, Direfang. These two men are of my talon, Kenosh and Aneas. They are here because they are loyal to me.” Grallik nodded in the direction of the priest. “This is Skull Knight Horace Branson of Ergoth, and-”

“I did not follow Guardian Grallik here out of loyalty,” the priest said, interrupting. “My loyalties at this moment rest with myself.” He paused. “And perhaps with you.”

Direfang continued to regard them with wary curiosity. They were waiting for him to say something, but what they had said up to that point told him little. Goblins and hobgoblins chattered below, some calling up to demand the knights’ deaths, one shouting that the skull man should cast healing magic before Direfang killed him. That was not a bad plan, Direfang thought grimly.

Finally, Grallik continued. “Steel Town is dead, Foreman Direfang. Most of its knights are dead, but you well know that. Marshal Montrill, my commander, has died. My talon … well, these are the only two men left.” The wizard peered around Direfang again, finally noticing that the red-skinned goblin between Direfang and the swarm was the one who had claimed the quakes were coming. “She-that one with the red skin-she is the one who knew about the earthquakes?”

“Mudwort,” Direfang said. He kept his voice soft, not wanting Mudwort to hear him above the crackling fire. She might come closer to investigate, and he did not yet want her counsel regarding the knights. That could be a show of weakness on his part, in front of all the other goblins.

“Interesting name, Mudwort,” Grallik mused. “I wish to talk to her.”

Direfang again met the gaze of each of the knights, lingering on Grallik’s dark eyes and not liking what he saw there.

“I wish to talk to the red-skinned goblin,” Grallik repeated louder.

“Mudwort.”

“Yes, Mudwort.” Impatience crept into the wizard’s voice. “I want to talk to her. I want to talk to Mudwort.”

“The goblins don’t do what Dark Knights want,” Direfang said. “Any more.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Mudwort had heard her name. She had her head cocked, perhaps to hear better, but she stayed put. “The goblins call for death, wizard. So many goblins, how can one foreman stop the thirst for blood?”

“Aye, no doubt they want to kill us slow and painfully,” Horace interjected. “I heard them, hear them still, though I don’t understand all of the words. They call for our blood, don’t they? Well, I for one can’t truly blame them. That big hobgoblin there …”

“Erguth,” Direfang said. He’d heard Erguth, above all others, calling loudly for the men’s deaths.

“He wants to skin us from the look of his gestures,” Horace continued. “I know a little of goblin-speak. I can tell you, Foreman Direfang, that allowing your people to kill us is not a good idea. Not for me, not for you.” The priest pointed to Direfang’s arm. “You’ll lose that limb if I don’t minister to you. Might lose it anyway. Nasty slice, that. If I do nothing to help, you could well lose more than the arm. The wound is infected, and that infection could take your life. I suspect more of your people could use my aid. I am here to offer my healing aid, even to those who shout for my death.”

Direfang growled deep in his throat, and a line of spittle edged over his lip and stretched to the ground.

“I do not lie to you, Foreman Direfang,” the priest continued stoically. “I’ve no taste for lies; my tongue does not wrap around them very well. I am not a kindly man, true, but I am not a liar. Your arm is very seriously injured.”

Direfang cursed himself for showing any weakness to the knights. By tucking his left arm close and not using it, he had let them know of his injury. The deep cut was obvious, of course, but without his favoring the arm, the priest might not have known how badly it pained him, might not have used his arm as a wedge against his weakness in the negotiation.

“And you’ve got a deep gash on the side of your head,” Horace continued. He raised a hand and pointed to Direfang’s temple. At that gesture, goblins below started shouting, some of them thinking the priest meant to cast a spell. Horace dropped his arm and looked to Grallik, mouthing I told you this was a foolish notion. Wasted. “We could die here to these creatures,” he hissed, “despite what my magic told me.”

“I have confidence in your divining spell, priest,” Grallik softly returned. “And I agree with your words. I don’t think you, Foreman, or they, can afford to kill us.”

Direfang snarled and took a step closer, expecting the wall of fire to rise. Instead, Grallik made a languid gesture, and the flames were suddenly extinguished. At the foot of the trail, the goblins jeered and started to move toward the knights.