The Rebellion

33

Grallik still raged against sleep, though. He searched the recesses of his mind for the spell that would let him brush away his overwhelming fatigue and feel as if he’d rested well for a long night. It was there in his memory … almost. He couldn’t quite recapture the words and the gestures. He again cursed the loss of his spell tome.

“Horace,” the wizard rasped. “Water. Call upon the blessed sea goddess to quench our thirst. The water the goblins had, the food, it’s all gone. They lost it or ate it, and I am so terribly thirsty. I’d give you all the gold I’ve ever owned or will own for the smallest drink of water.”

Indeed, Grallik’s lips were dry and cracked. The skin on his arms and face not covered by the old fire scars was pocked from hot ash. He raised his fingers and discovered that his eyebrows were burned off. “Water, or we’ll die … as surely as if we’d been caught in one of those rivers of lava.”

Horace was on his knees, swaying and trying hard to stay awake. His tongue was just as swollen and cracked, and he worked with parched lips to form words that refused to emerge. His fingers fumbled at his rope belt and he pulled the jug loose. Uncorking it, he finished the spell, then took a long pull from the jug, letting precious water run down his chin and neck before passing what was left to Grallik.

The wizard drank greedily, though he had intended to leave a little for the red-skinned goblin. He needed her to survive. If she died of thirst or from the heat, he was certain that all of his misery and suffering-leaving the Order and Steel Town, dragging Horace and Kenosh and Aneas on his treacherous path-would be for nothing.

Grallik turned to see Mudwort soundly sleeping. She wouldn’t mind being woken up for a little refreshing water. He shuffled toward her, taking one more drink from the jug. Just one more tiny swallow, he told himself. Without thinking, however, he drained the last of the pure, sweet water, sucking on the lip of the jug to extract the final droplets.

Then he stoppered the jug and placed it near Horace. The water restored some of his energy, so he spent the next several minutes padding around the sleeping goblins in search of the two missing members of his talon. He found Kenosh, recognizing him only because he was a human amid a swarm of goblins. The hair Kenosh had left was in clumps, the places where his scalp was bare were burned. There were more burns on the man’s chest, and little of his tabard was left.

At first Grallik thought he was dead because the knight was barely moving, but then he watched Kenosh’s chest rise and fall faintly. He knelt and put his mouth to Kenosh’s ear. “Brother Kenosh, my heart leaps to find you alive.”

Kenosh opened one eye and tried to raise his head.

“No, no. Don’t move. Just rest. Horace sleeps, and when he awakes, I’ll have him tend your wounds.” Grallik gingerly touched a gash on Kenosh’s neck and sadly shook his head, looking around for the other. “Aneas … where is he?”

Kenosh opened his mouth and spit out grit. Wet ash was caked around his gums. “Dead one day ago, Guardian. He slipped on the trail, went over the side. He didn’t even scream, Guardian.” Kenosh coughed, closing his eyes. “He suffers no more.”

The sky opened up sometime during the night, rain pounding down on the goblins, waking most of them up and rat-a-tat-tatting harshly against the surrounding stone and rocks. The rain refreshed Mudwort, pummeling her but washing away her coat of ash. She tipped her face up and opened her mouth, gulping as much water as she could and not caring that the force of the hard downpour was almost painful.

The waking goblins made joyful hoots and raised their arms and hands to the sky. They hugged each other and carried on, all of them drinking as much as they could with open mouths and filling their empty skins and jugs. Even the three surviving Dark Knights reveled in the intense summer storm. A rare smile played at the corners of Grallik’s lips.

“Fair Zeboim, daughter and mother of the seas, we thank you for this gift of life-giving water,” Horace prayed. When he was finished, he bathed in the puddles around him while uncorking his jug and letting the storm fill it to overflowing.

Direfang leaned against a natural stone column, wrapping his arms around it and feeling the water flow over him and the rock. He stuck out his tongue and took as much water as he could into his dry mouth. It didn’t taste good, flavored with ash and stone dust that still clung to the clouds that hung overhead. But he and the others needed the water so badly, they drank and drank until their stomachs nearly burst.

“Hungry,” he heard Spikehollow grumble.

“Later,” Direfang said. “Find food later. Just drink and be happy that the Maws of Dragons did not eat everyone.” As they had consumed so many in his army, he added mentally. So many dead and gone.

“Not all dead to the volcanoes,” Spikehollow returned. “Hurbear’s clan headed southwest, where the trail broke away. That clan took the wide trail, and some other goblins followed. Perhaps Hurbear’s clan took the better way.”

“Perhaps.” Direfang shook his head and pointed to the peak that loomed above them. “Mudwort wants to go there now.”

Spikehollow scratched at a spot on his cheek that had been burned from ash or rock. “Why climb another mountain, Direfang? Only climb up one side to go down the other. It would be easier just to go around mountain. Yes, going around is a better thing. Tell Mudwort. Make her understand.”

Direfang closed his eyes and drank in some more rain. He listened to the goblins talking about lost friends and clan members, about being hungry, about the incredible displays of lava and steam that were still going on to the north. Some talked about being glad they were alive and away from Steel Town, saying they would continue to follow Direfang.

“Stay together and stay strong,” Direfang answered Spikehollow. “Mudwort wants to climb this mountain, so we climb.”

“Direfang leads the goblins, not Mudwort.” Spikehollow snorted contemptuously. He, too, continued to drink in the rain.

The steady patter of rain muted the usual chatter of all the goblins. All the sounds swirled together pleasantly, as far as Direfang was concerned. Spikehollow continued to talk to him, but he only half listened. And he tried, once more, to look around the survivors and pick out familiar faces. The rain had washed the ash and dirt away, but everything was still a mix of grays and browns and scars and burns.

“Direfang!” Spikehollow stomped his foot irritably in a puddle.

“Mudwort must be listened to. Mudwort predicted the quakes,” Direfang said softly. “Mudwort knew the mountains would break.”

“Hope this next mountain does not break too,” Spikehollow said ruefully, closing his eyes and leaning back against the mountain slope, pretending to sleep some more.

Direfang did not have to pretend. Sleep claimed him easily.

After hours had passed without the rain letting up, Direfang woke and made an attempt to take stock of what was left of his army. He could better see them that morning, after a night of rinsing and cleansing. Well, it felt like morning just because he finally could boast a good sleep, but he couldn’t say for certain what time of the day it was. There were still only clouds overhead-gray rain clouds and grayer clouds of ash and whatever else the volcanoes had belched up from the earth. His lungs still burned, but the ache had lessened, so he knew all the other goblins and hobgoblins had to be feeling better too. He listened to their chatter, finding some hopeful messages in their conversation. But he also heard a grimness and sadness.

When they’d left Steel Town, there’d been well more than one thousand of them, possibly as many as two thousand. And though some had wandered away during the trek south, the hobgoblin still had more than one thousand following him. He guessed that at best there were five hundred left. Even given that some had gone with Hurbear and his clan, that meant that more than half had been lost to the volcanoes.

The journey toward the Plains of Dust had cost a high, high price.

To his surprise, it hadn’t claimed Moon-eye and Graytoes. Somehow the pair had managed to make it across crevices that other goblins had died trying to traverse. He watched Moon-eye still fawning over his mate, smoothing at her face and singing softly in her ear, the only song the one-eyed goblin knew.

Low sun in the warm valleys

All goblins watch the orange sky

Looking for shadows of ogres

Knowing the time’s come to die

Direfang looked up and to the south, seeing through the gloom and rain the glowing, red-orange tops of the three volcanoes and rivers of lava still streaming down two of them. Steam rose up from the craters, the rain cooling the magma.

“All goblins watch the orange sky,” he mused. “Knowing the time’s come to die.” He turned when he heard a scrabbling sound behind him. Mudwort was climbing a mountain path, not much of a path, more a trail for goats. Direfang looked at the ground at the base of the path, noting a circular worked stone, old and with ancient symbols carved in it.

“Don’t think there’s anything to eat up there,” said a hobgoblin called Bug-biter, who had stolen up behind him. Barely past the youngling stage, she stood at his side, also watching Mudwort. “Not even bugs. The rain would have washed all the juicy bugs away. There’s only tired legs to be had up there. Tired, tired legs and aching stomachs.”

“Safety is up there,” Direfang proclaimed, raising his voice and repeating himself loudly so all the goblins near him could hear and spread the word. “The Maws of Dragons continue to disgorge the fire.” He pointed north. “Not safe here.”

“Maybe it’s not safe anywhere,” Bug-biter snarled. Still, she lowered her eyes respectfully and nodded that she would follow Mudwort, who was already several yards ahead. Bug-biter let out a great sigh and nudged Brak to join her.

Brak did not move.

Bug-biter threw back her head and howled. “No more dead!” she shouted. “No more dead to the Maws of Dragons and the whips of Dark Knights. No more dead to an angry earth.”

She dropped next to Brak, as did Direfang. Despite the rain that had rescued so many others, the hobgoblin was sorry to see the ash thick around Brak’s unmoving lips and nose.

“Dead because there was no more air to breathe,” Bug-biter said bitterly. She grabbed Brak’s left arm and with a mighty tug tore it loose. “Don’t want the spirit to come back here to this body.” She tossed the arm away, then, with nary a backward glance, turned and climbed after Mudwort.

While most of the goblins were trudging up the trail, Direfang lingered with the three Dark Knights and a small group of goblins who didn’t care to budge. He picked up a fist-sized rock and indicated that Grallik should stretch out his chains, then he began striking a link near the wizard’s right wrist. After several blows, the link parted, and he worked on Grallik’s ankle shackles. Next he turned to the priest’s chains then handed the priest the rock and pointed to Kenosh.

Horace started hitting Kenosh’s chains, his effort clumsy.

Direfang turned to a small group of goblins huddled together, who were reluctant to head up another mountain. “Safer up there,” he insisted. “Above the rivers of fire and closer to good air. Probably no food.” He would not lie to them. “Probably nothing at all up there but more rocks. But Mudwort says it’s where we should go, and that is important.”

One of the goblins crossed her spindly arms in front of her chest. “Tired of climbing, Direfang. Glad to be free, and glad to be alive. But tired of climbing. Why go up the mountain, only to slide down it again on the other side? Easier, Spikehollow says, to go around. Easier is better.”

“But look, Spikehollow is climbing.” Direfang pointed up the treacherous trail. The goblins were making their way around sharp spires that looked like teeth. “Spikehollow is not going around.” He bent and plucked the stone out of the priest’s hand and helped him hammer at Kenosh’s chain. After a few solid whacks, Kenosh was free. “These men are not going around.” He glared at the Dark Knights, daring them to disagree.

Direfang had not been speaking in the Common tongue, so they didn’t know what he had said. But Grallik guessed well enough at the meaning and, with a deep sigh, he turned and started up the trail. Kenosh was slow to follow him.

“Skull man?” Direfang spoke in the human language.

Horace ran his fingers over the top of his head and let out a whistling sound between his clenched teeth. “I am not a man built for this ordeal, Foreman Direfang. But I have managed to make it this far. If you want us all to visit God-shome, fine. Just don’t expect me to be fast about it.”

“Godshome?”

“Aye, Foreman Direfang, that is where the little red-skinned goblin is leading you.” The priest took a despairing look up the mountainside, brushed at the burned spots on his trousers, and gamely started moving. “Godshome. A place I suspect no one has visited for more than a long time.”

The goblins gathered at the base debated vigorously among themselves. Then one or two started after the knights with the rest quickly but grudgingly following behind.

“Godshome.” Direfang did not like the sound of the place. He didn’t care for Krynn’s gods because Krynn’s gods had never cared for goblinkind. He took one last look around the narrow valley, spotting a soft, orange glow in the distance and wondering if the rivers of fire were coming after them.

“Safer up higher,” he told himself. “Safer at Godshome.”