One of Saro-Saro’s youngest clansmen, Pippa, leaned with him. Pippa was a human name that meant “one who adores horses.” Pippa was named after a woman in Steel Town, the wife of a blacksmith who had died in the first earthquake. Pippa’s mother hadn’t known what the name meant when she chose it, only that she liked the sound of it. Pippa had recently learned the meaning and did not hide her disdain for it; Pippa hated horses only a little less than she hated Dark Knights.
“Cannot see Direfang either,” Pippa said. “Direfang is dead, then. Graytoes is dead too,” She crossed her thin arms and stepped back. “Careful, Saro-Saro. This mountain might be hungry still.”
The goblins around Saro-Saro moved anxiously, some shifting back and forth on the balls of their feet, others wringing their hands, a few tittering nervously.
“If Direfang is dead.” That came from Chima, a young goblin who still favored her ribs and her arm from her encounter with the tylor. “If Direfang is dead …” She looked nervously to Saro-Saro.
The old goblin puffed out his chest, making sure he had a safe perch. “If Direfang is dead-”
“Direfang is not dead.” Mudwort cut Saro-Saro off. “The earth says so.” She squatted and ran her fingers along the rocks at her feet. “The earth says that Direfang is not dead.” She wrinkled her nose ruefully. “Graytoes is alive too. Empty, empty Graytoes.”
Mudwort stood and peered over the side, seeing a navigable way down. “We should be done with this horrid, hurtful mountain,” she said. “Tired of walking on all these mean rocks. We should join Direfang at the bottom where the ground is flat and not so hurtful.”
Saro-Saro shook his head in protest. Pippa copied the gesture and stuck out her lower lip.
“Direfang is the leader,” Mudwort insisted. She looked around the old goblin and his clustered clan members, seeing the three Dark Knights. She spat and growled. “Skull man, Direfang and Graytoes need help.” She gestured for him to follow her.
Horace’s face registered his skepticism at the notion of climbing down so steep a slope. “No,” he said softly. “I do not think I can handle that. It is too sheer.” But he carefully moved through Saro-Saro’s clan, Grallik and Kenosh following. What passed for a trail was so narrow and precarious that Horace nearly pushed a goblin off as he went.
“Follow now, skull man,” Mudwort scolded. She lowered herself over the side, finding handholds and footholds and skittering down like a spider. Chima was next, moving slower because of her still-sore side; Olabode, who still nursed his once-broken leg, came after. “Follow, skull man!” Mudwort hollered. “Be fast, skull man!”
“Maybe there will be time to rest at the bottom,” Pippa said hopefully. She turned to Saro-Saro. “Need some help climbing?”
The old goblin stared at the Dark Knights who were slowly making their way over the edge. “It would be easy to push the knights off,” he heard one of his clansmen whisper. That brought a rare smile to his wrinkled visage.
“Don’t need help, Pippa,” he said as he carefully lowered himself over the side and struggled to find his first foothold. “But thank you, young one.”
Pippa hurried over to help him anyway, staying even with Saro-Saro as he climbed down slowly, and pointing out places that looked easy to grab. “Rest at the bottom,” she repeated. “So tired of all the sharp rocks. Take care!”
Saro-Saro gave her a nod. “Rest at the bottom, loyal Pippa.”
The climb down took several hours. One hobgoblin and two goblins fell trying to make the descent, the hobgoblin bashing his head open on a protrusion of granite and dropping like a rag doll. One of the two goblins disappeared screaming down a crevice, the other broke his legs and arms and was promised tending by the priest.
They spread out in the valley at the base of the eastern mountain range, looking up the western side at similarly imposing peaks. Grass grew in patches as far as they could see to the north and south, and the dirt was thick and cushioned their steps. Far to the south, black birds picked at something in the grass, seemingly oblivious to the goblins’ presence. The air was still because the mountains on either side shielded the valley, and the heat of the afternoon sun was cut by the shadows from the western range.
“Should have come down the mountain yesterday,” Saro-Saro said as he reached bottom. He dug the ball of his sandaled foot into the ground. “This feels much better. Not going back up into the mountains ever again.”
While the Skull Knight saw to Direfang, the goblins searched in the dirt for grubs and sucked on roots they dug up. Chima stretched out on her back and rubbed her shoulders against the ground. Olabode lay nearby, snoring soundly despite the chattering of his fellows.
Saro-Saro scratched his rump and looked around for a good place to sit. The yellow-skinned clan leader was possibly the oldest goblin in the horde, and his age and position gave him a measure of respect; he would claim the best place to rest.
Pippa followed Saro-Saro and scanned the ground for a suitable spot for the old one. “Hungry, Saro-Saro?” He didn’t answer her, but she continued. “Me terribly hungry. Mudwort needs to find more food. But never dangerous food again.”
It had been two days since the tylor was slain, and finding no other great beast since then, they’d been eating the occasional few goats they’d caught and digging in the dirt for insects. Their course had followed a high mountain stream, so water had been plentiful, as had nightcrawlers buried in the mud along the banks. Spikehollow had caught a fish early that morning and had shared it with Saro-Saro. But the mountain stream was gone, and some of the goblins chatted nervously about their hunger and thirst.
The old goblin settled on a slab of limestone just as a hobgoblin was about to sit on it. He shooed the hobgoblin away and rolled his shoulders, tossing his head first one way then another, trying to work the kinks out of his old body. Many in his clan gathered around him. Not all the yellow-skinned goblins in the horde were of Saro-Saro’s clan, but most were, roughly two hundred of them. Most of the time, they clung together.
Goblin skin tones ranged from yellow to dull orange to red to shades of brown. Most goblins in any given clan were of similar color, which also tended to mark them as from a specific part of the country. Hobgoblins were not so colorful; their hides were primarily gray or brown, and no features associated them with one clan or another.
Saro-Saro slowly regarded the goblins who sat around him, all of them giving him the respectful distance of an arm’s length or more.
“Good to rest,” Spikehollow said. He was always in the front rank, and stood at that moment shoulder-to-shoulder with Pippa before dropping to the ground. He wiggled his toes and cringed when the skin cracked and oozed. “This would be a good place to sleep.”
Pippa nodded. “No more walking today. The skull man said Direfang needs to rest.”
Their gazes shifted over to where Direfang was being worked on by the priest and wizard, Mudwort standing behind them, harshly exhorting them to hurry up and heal the hobgoblin leader. A whimpering Graytoes had been carried down the mountain and stood behind Mudwort, being shushed by her repeatedly.
“Spikehollow needs rest too,” Spikehollow added with a sigh.
“And Two-chins,” another goblin added. He referred to one of the goblins who had fallen off the mountain. “Two-chins is badly broken. Two-chins is hurt worse than Direfang.”
Saro-Saro rested back on his arms and raised his head so he could look at the western peaks. “Resting is good,” he admitted. He yawned wide. “Sleeping here will be good.”
“Good that Direfang will be well,” one goblin said.
Spikehollow softly growled, sharply glancing at the speaker. “It will be better when Direfang is dead and Saro-Saro leads us.”
The old goblin kept his eyes on the peaks and smiled.