Behind him, Direfang heard the whoops of the goblins still beating on the corpse of the last defiant dwarf and his dead fellows. He glanced over his shoulder and saw goblins stripping clothes and boots off the corpses and snatching the farm implements the dwarves had used as weapons. Farther back, other goblins were still splashing in the stream and drinking their fill.
They were more of a mob than an army, the eight hundred or so goblins and hobgoblins who followed him. They were difficult but not impossible to control. They had held together up till then, as he’d demanded. But they likely would not hold for long.
Again, Direfang wished leading them were not his burden.
“Why stop?” Spikehollow had come up next to him, where Direfang had paused to look over the dwarf settlement. Spikehollow looked eager to charge into the village. “Why stop here, Direfang?”
Direfang didn’t reply, but he limped forward, gesturing as he went that the goblins and hobgoblins should stay put. He reached the front of the mob and started counting the buildings.
There were fifty small homes, sturdily built from blocks that had been chiseled out of the mountains and mortared together with a white paste. The roofs were for the most part thatch, more tightly woven than any of the roofs in Steel Town had been. A few were made of slices of shale, also mortared together and looking like fish scales.
“Skull man!” Direfang bellowed.
None of the homes had wood doors, as the Dark Knights had used. But they all had goat or sheep hides covering the openings and more hides hanging across the narrow windows. Several of the hides had symbols painted on them-anvils and hammers and other things Direfang could not recognize. One house had a riot of purple and yellow flowers growing around it. Another had a large pot outside of its door that contained a bush covered with red berries. Smoke rose from the chimney of only one home, and the hobgoblin sniffed to tell if something were cooking over a fire, but the scent of his wet kinsmen overpowered all other smells.
A large garden filled the center of the village and wrapped around most of the homes, with paths cutting through it leading to doorways and toward the trees and the stream. The crops were thriving. Cornstalks in a section to the west stood taller than Direfang; bushbeans to the east were fully leafed, and each plant appeared as big around as a barrel. There were vegetables Direfang had never seen before: bright red and yellow pear-shaped bulbs, and bumpy, purple bulbs as big as his fist. One section was filled with dark red berries growing on slender, thorny vines.
“Why wait?” Spikehollow had edged up close behind Direfang. “Raid the village. Take the food. Take everything.”
“Everything, everything, everything,” Leftear growled, not far behind Spikehollow. “For Chima and Grok and Durth and Bignose,” he said, naming the goblins the young dwarf had killed. “Everything.”
“Skull man!” Direfang repeated. “Come here now!” He heard goblins grudgingly move out of the way for the priest, some of them cursing the Dark Knight and spitting, and others talking excitedly about the imminent raid on the pretty village. “Skull man!”
“I’m here, Foreman,” Horace said, hurrying up, his dark skin gleaming. He’d cleaned himself in the stream, and water dripped from his shoulders.
Direfang pointed to the far eastern edge of the village, to what held most of the goblins’ attention. Past the massive garden, a boulder had been carved into the shape of an anvil. It was roughly eight feet tall and a little more than that in width. Its sides were polished and shone darkly, and they were etched with symbols that Direfang suspected were words, but he was too far away to read them. Circling the anvil were a few dozen dwarf women and children, kneeling, eyes closed, and obviously praying.
“Easy to kill, those short, fat people,” Pippa said gleefully. “Saro-Saro says that-”
“There will be no more killing,” Direfang growled. “Skull man?”
“They are worshipers of Reorx,” said Horace, staring at the huge boulder and the dwarves praying. “What else do you want to know, Foreman Direfang?”
Direfang raised an eyebrow. He knew about some of Krynn’s gods, primarily Zeboim, from the priest; and Takhisis and Chislev, from some of the Dark Knights in the mining camp. But he’d not heard of that one, the god of the dwarves, Reorx.
“Is Reorx a god only for dwarves?” the hobgoblin asked. “Does Reorx demand the dwarves pray at that rock?”
“The gods are worthless,” Spikehollow spat. All of the goblins and hobgoblins who followed Direfang considered themselves godless. The gods had done nothing for goblin-kind, had allowed them to be enslaved and to be bullied by practically every race on Krynn. “No god will save those dwarves. Attack now, Direfang?”
The hobgoblin shook his head irritably.
The goblins had spread out behind Direfang, stretching as far across as the village and standing several ranks deep, yet none of them dared to step past the hobgoblin. They continued to whisper, though, a shushing that was similar to the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees.
“Do the dwarves pray for Reorx to come down and smite this army?” Boliver had moved up next to the priest and was speaking now, with Mudwort close behind him. Boliver was addressing the priest; he was one of the few goblins to fluently speak the human tongue. “Or do the dwarves pray to have all hobgoblins and goblins spirited away? What can this god do, skull man? This Re-or-ax?”
“Nothing,” Spikehollow softly muttered. “Gods do nothing.”
“Gods …” Horace took a deep breath and tilted his head back, wondering where to begin. “Reorx is called Elian, the Anvil, the Forge, and the Weaponmaster. The patron of smiths and craftsmen across Ansalon, he is said to toil with Shinare to improve the lives of dwarves. The World Smith, with his hammer and under the direction of the High God of Krynn, he forged the stars and the world and shaped the souls of mortals from the breath of Chaos. Reorx is the supreme god of the dwarves, and gnomes and kender revere him as well. Reorx-”
“But goblins revere no gods,” Direfang said tersely.
A young goblin jabbed Direfang in the back of his sore leg. “Do not understand,” she hissed. “All this babble. Do not understand!”
Boliver tried to translate some of the discussion, which was relayed down the ranks. The goblins began chattering about what little they knew, all the talk about the strange dwarf creatures and their supposed god.
“What do the dwarves say, priest?” asked Direfang.
Horace wiped his face with his big hands, and brushed at his leather leggings, which were still filthy despite his stop in the stream. He cocked his head, trying to make out the words.
“Never seen dwarves,” Leftear whispered. “Are short, fat humans also dwarves?”
Horace listened. “I can’t make out all the words.”
“Bah! The words make no sense to me,” said Direfang.
The wizard had come up behind the priest and the hobgoblin; his gaze flitted between the dwarves and Direfang. “I can’t understand them either, Horace. I had no call to learn their language. But I’ll wager they’re praying for their souls. They know they’re going to die. These goblins will-”
“No more blood,” Direfang repeated. “Not this day, wizard. There’s been enough blood today.” He motioned again for his fellows to stay back then plucked at the priest’s arm. “Come now, skull man. Talk to the dwarves.” The hobgoblin shuffled down one of the garden paths toward the assembled dwarves and the stone anvil.
“Gray Robe, watch the homes,” Horace cautioned over his shoulder.
“Just in case,” Grallik added. “Just in case there are warriors waiting to spring a trap.”