The dwarves continued to pray, some of the women’s voices rising louder and the words coming quicker as the hobgoblin and the priest neared. When the pair came to within a few feet of them, an ancient dwarf with thin, gray hair tied loosely behind her head got to her feet with effort. She nervously looked between the priest and Direfang, and she kept mouthing her prayer.
“Woman,” Direfang began. “Quiet, woman!” His words sounded like a fierce growl, and the hobgoblin half expected the dwarf to start at the sound.
But she didn’t even meet his gaze, staring at his stomach while her lips kept moving in the prayer.
“Woman,” Direfang began again. The hobgoblin looked back to the eager mass of goblins. “Dwarf …” He knew he needed to find a way to communicate with the dwarves soon, or his army would descend on that place and kill anything that moved. He’d need to prove the dwarves useful and worth allowing to live. He stretched an arm out and poked the shoulder of the frantically praying old female dwarf.
“Listen, woman!”
She looked up, her eyes meeting his and showing her anger. She stopped praying and spoke, but the words were still all foreign, except for Reorx, which she repeated several times.
Direfang let out an exasperated sigh. “Skull man!”
“Let me try something.” Horace glanced uneasily at the goblin army. “You don’t need to butcher these people, Foreman Direfang. They’ve no weapons. They all look to be simple farmers and-”
“Talk to the farmers, then, priest. Talk fast and tell me how simple they really are.” But the priest might be right, Direfang thought; not even the sturdiest among the women had a knife or cudgel.
“We come to your village …” Horace tried speaking in the tongue of gnomes, a language with which he was more familiar; his words were halting, however. “We mean you no harm, and …”
Most of the dwarves had stopped praying. They still knelt around the stone anvil, but they were paying attention, staring at the priest. The expression on their faces revealed that they understood his words. The ancient dwarf shuffled closer and looked up into Horace’s wide eyes.
“Harm? Mean us no harm?” Tears glistened in her eyes as she answered in the gnome tongue. “Your monsters butchered our men and our priest. Killed a divine man of Reorx! Your monsters will butcher us next. Reorx save our souls. And Reorx damn yours!”
Direfang found the language thick and fuzzy-sounding. It reminded him of the noise rocks made when they tumbled down the mountainside. Still, he listened closely, hoping to pick up anything he could understand.
“They are not my monsters,” Horace told the ancient female dwarf. “At the moment, I am their slave. They’ve done me no real harm, though, and if you are careful, you will stay safe too. But you have to be careful. And you have to listen to me.”
She narrowed her eyes and thrust out her chin, looking to Direfang and making a gesture with her fist. “Murdering monsters, they are. Reorx save us. Monsters come to Reorx’s Cradle.”
“That is the name of this …” Horace searched for the word. “Town?” he said finally.
“Reorx’s Cradle.”
“I’d have thought to find dwarves inside the mountain. You’d have been better off there. These goblins would not have found you.” Horace closed his eyes and mouthed a quick prayer to Zeboim. “And my goddess and your god willing, perhaps what’s left of your town can remain unhurt. The … foreman … is not as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.”
She returned her gaze to the priest, balled her fists and set them against her hips. “I ask only that the young be spared, and one of the mothers be spared to lead them from this place.”
Direfang, listening in frustration, catching only a few words at intervals, snarled and jabbed at the priest. “What does the dwarf say, skull man? Secret words are a dangerous thing.”
The goblins had pressed closer, some edging into the garden to the west, eyeing the vegetables and the caterpillars that crawled on them, then eyeing the dwarves. Their chatter grew louder.
The priest quickly translated what he and the old dwarf had said. “There are no more men in this village. You killed all of them.”
“But the homes?”
“Aye, they would suggest that more dwarves live here than we have been told, Foreman. You are smart to see that. This is not so small a village. Still, I can’t explain why, but I think she is telling the truth.”
Pippa and Leftear had made it to the garden and were plucking beans off a bush and stuffing them into their mouths. Saro-Saro was near them, on one of the paths, and he pointed to the nearest home and turned to his clan.
“The strange talking, it is done,” Saro-Saro proclaimed. “It is time to take. To take everything.”
A cheer went up.
LOOTING THE CRADLE
Direfang shot past the priest, grimacing with each step, his twisted leg still agonizing. He should have ordered the goblins back when he spotted the first one slipping into the garden.
In a heartbeat he reached Pippa, furiously plucking her up and hurling her over his shoulder back into the crowd of goblins who were moving into the garden. Olabode went next, landing at Leftear’s feet, and Direfang threw a potbellied goblin hard into Saro-Saro, knocking the old clan leader down.
“Enough!” Direfang raged at the mob, spittle flying from his lips. A handful edged forward, knives out and ready to challenge him. A goblin called Knobnose looked defiant. But the hobgoblin did not back down. He slammed his fist into Knobnose’s throat and grabbed a small goblin who had rushed in, picking her up and tossing her over the heads of the front line. “I said no killing! No more! Fighting these dwarves-women and babies-is tainted blood. Only weak and stupid goblins draw tainted blood.”
He picked up another goblin, threatening to throw him too, and the crowd stopped moving. Some stared in disbelief that Direfang would threaten his kinsmen; some mumbled that his words made sense. Finally he released the goblin and shoved him away, keeping one eye on the crowd as he turned back to the priest and the old dwarf.
“Skull man, are these all the dwarves left in the village?”
The priest had a quick exchange with the woman. “No. She says there are a few in the homes, babies and a sick old man. She’s worried that-”
“Other dwarf lied! No more men in the village, that dwarf claimed.” Direfang beckoned to Boliver.
“No more men that could stand up to you, she says,” Horace continued. “Only one very sick man, and old, and she cautions you that-”
Direfang said to Boliver, “Gather some clansmen and search the homes.” Then he pointed to the hobgoblin Rustymane, who still carried Graytoes. “You. Search the homes, and take food, weapons, anything useful. Leave the women no weapons. Gather sacks for carrying.” He paused and stared at the dwarves still circling the stone anvil. “Take everything. Everything! But no killing. No more blood. Swear it!”
“No blood,” Rustymane agreed. The hobgoblin nodded to the goblins surrounding him, most of them light brown members of the Fishgatherer clan. They followed him as he headed toward the nearest home, chattering excitedly.
“No blood, Direfang,” Boliver repeated. “No more killing. Only taking.” He repeated the command in the human tongue for the benefit of the Dark Knights, and he selected several of his clansmen and scurried off. “Take everything!”
“Everything!” they echoed.
The dwarves had started praying again, their voices shaky with fear. Direfang heard Horace talking in the unknown tongue again. From his expression, the priest was trying to reassure the ancient female dwarf who appeared to be the leader of the small band of survivors.
Saro-Saro had picked himself up and was scowling at Direfang. A line of drool spilled over the cagey old goblin’s lip, and he glared menacingly at the hobgoblin. Then his expression softened, and he awkwardly bowed, acknowledging Direfang’s leadership. But when Saro-Saro turned and went back to his clan, the harshness returned to his eyes.