“Flamegrass!” Direfang shouted, instantly capturing the attention of the orange-skinned goblins belonging to that clan. “The gardens are yours. Find sacks and blankets, anything to put the harvest in.” He glanced at the priest. “Are there animals? There must be. Skull man, ask the dwarves where the animals are.”
There was another quick exchange between the priest and the old woman.
“Foreman,” answered Horace, “she says there are pens south of the homes. They keep quite a few goats and-”
“Goats!” blurted Truak, a hobgoblin nearly as tall as Direfang. He knew only a few human words, but goats was one of his favorites. “Goats taste good! Big, bloody goats!”
“Slay half of the goats,” Direfang ordered Truak, clapping him on the shoulder. “Spikehollow, make sure only half the goats are killed. The old goblins will eat, then the others.”
“Only half the goats?” Truak sounded disappointed. “Can’t slay all?”
“Half,” Spikehollow said firmly. “Direfang will save the other half for later.”
Truak grinned and thumped his fist against his chest. “Yes. It will be good to have goats now and goats later. Direfang is wise.”
Direfang wasn’t done delegating the many tasks that were necessary. He eyed the mass of goblins, registering the ones with hostile expressions; those he would remember and dress down later. He picked three young goblins and pointed to the trees.
“See to the dead,” he told the three. “Take the wizard and make sure only the goblins burn. The dwarves can bury their men later or do whatever it is dwarves do with the dead.” Direfang repeated his instructions in the human tongue, so Grallik would understand.
The wizard started after the goblin funeral detail, Kenosh following his fellow former Dark Knight.
“Only the wizard,” Direfang said.
An unsmiling Kenosh returned to Horace’s side as the priest continued to converse with the old dwarf, calming her.
Saro-Saro fumed silently as he watched all the activity, narrowing his eyes on Direfang as the hobgoblin limped toward the stone anvil. That his clansmen, save for Spikehollow, were given no important duties in the village was a serious insult to him. It was as if Direfang had physically struck Saro-Saro. The old clan leader growled from deep in his belly as Direfang stepped between a pair of goblin children and approached the big stone.
“What do?” one of Saro-Saro’s clansmen asked him, sidling up to him. “What do here?”
Saro-Saro wiped at the drool that clung to his lips. “Nothing do here now. Do nothing but wait.”
“Wait?”
Saro-Saro nodded. Wait and plan, he mouthed. “Wait and watch Direfang,” he whispered.
Even close to the stone, Direfang could not read the writing carved on it. “Priest?”
“I cannot read it either, Foreman. It is Dwarvish and from the looks of it quite old.”
“Make the woman read it, then. I want to know what it says.”
The priest shrugged, touching the old dwarf’s shoulder and turning her so she could face the anvil. She glared defiantly at the hobgoblin. But Horace implored her to do what Direfang wanted, and breathed a sigh of relief when she whispered the words she read. Horace translated.
“The anvil is an altar, Foreman, carved by her ancestors when this village was founded. The original settlers were miners, for gems, I understand. When a quake rocked this part of the mountain range a few hundred years ago, and subsequently brought down the caverns they lived in, they took it as a sign from Reorx. They moved aboveground and for the most part became farmers or herders.”
Direfang snorted. “In a few hundred years, one would think there would be more dwarves than this in this place. Dwarves must breed slowly.”
“Some moved away, obviously,” Horace said dryly.
“Because Reorx said to?” Direfang scoffed. He raised his hand to touch the top of the altar, his gesture drawing gasps from the female dwarves.
“Ask where this ‘Cradle’ sits in the mountains. How far from Steel Town is it, does she know? How far is it to the sea where the range wraps around the shore like a fishhook? Ask the woman those things, skull man.”
Direfang was not pleased with the terse answers of the wary dwarf woman. His army had perhaps weeks of travel ahead of them to reach the border of ogre lands, she said, and even longer to reach the swamp.
“A year?” he wondered aloud. It sounded as though it would take longer even than a year to reach the Qualinesti Forest-two, maybe. He tried to picture the mountains and the swamp and the Plains of Dust. His army did not dare to follow any major roads for fear of alerting cities of enemies who could outnumber and outfight them, and the knights who were bound to be tracking them.
“A fool to take on this foolish quest,” he muttered to himself. The horde of goblins would be noticed-somewhere along the trail-and men would come after them.
“A map, priest. Is there one in this Cradle?”
“No, Foreman,” Horace replied after talking to the dwarf elder. “But she says her sister can draw you one. If the goblins agree to leave quickly, her sister will cooperate. Her worries are genuine and I share them, Foreman. The longer we stay here, the greater chance these women and children will be-”
Direfang waved away the rest of his words and traced the etchings on the anvil with his fingers. “Reorx had done little to help these dwarves,” he mused to himself. He turned and set his back against the stone, relishing the cool smoothness that seemed to draw some of the pain out of his body.
“Priest, tell the woman …” Direfang folded his arms across his chest and carefully detailed his instructions.
The priest knelt in front of the old dwarf, so she would no longer have to look up to meet his eyes. He spoke slowly, as he did not know all the intricacies of the gnome language.
“Your village will be thoroughly looted. The goblins will take every scrap of food, every piece of clothing, all of your shoes and anything they consider valuable. Do you understand?”
The glaring old dwarf woman nodded.
“They will take anything that might be used as a weapon because they need more weapons and because they do not want to leave you with anything that you might come after them and attack them with. Though you are few in number compared to this army, they do not want you following them and posing any threat.”
She nodded again. The light had gone out of her eyes, and the wrinkles in her face had become more pronounced. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“They will kill half of your animals now, and they will feast and celebrate before they move on. The rest of the animals they will take with them, so they can feast later.” Horace’s voice quavered as he delivered the last of the harsh news. “They will strip your garden, trampling every last plant in the process. They will carry it all away and leave you nothing to eat, but at least they will leave you your lives. I know that they will leave you that much … Foreman Direfang has promised.”
She shuddered and hugged herself as if a freezing wind were whipping around her.
“Do you understand?” Horace repeated.
“May Reorx send your souls to the deepest part of the Abyss,” she answered flatly. “May his Cradle be your demise.”
Irritably Horace turned away from her, addressing Direfang. “There must be some parchment in one of those homes … for your map.”
The hobgoblin was watching the hundreds of goblins milling at the edge of the garden. Some were sitting, a few sleeping, but most were agitated and felt constrained by his orders to stay put. Their eyes were begging, questioning, accusing. Well past them, a wisp of smoke curled up through the trees, signaling that the wizard had begun burning the dead goblins. After the goblins feasted, Direfang would hold a brief ceremony for the few who had died.
“Chima,” he mused, remembering. She’d been rash, and she had chattered often when he preferred quiet. But she had been a hard worker in the mines, never complaining to his face, never accepting her lot. He would miss her. “Too much blood.” He sighed.