“Lek,” she finally murmured aloud.
A goblin at her shoulder cocked his head. “Small one?”
That was what lek meant.
“This baby needs a name,” Graytoes explained. “A very good one.”
“Lek,” the goblin repeated. “It is small, that baby. But it will get bigger. It might get bigger than Graytoes.”
“If it lives,” said Pippa, who had drifted close out of curiosity.
The goblins had reached the end of the pass, and Graytoes looked up to see Spikehollow start to climb the trail. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the challenge ahead, and she shook her head. It would not be an easy climb, especially with the baby and the satchel on her back, but she would manage. It would be more difficult for Direfang with his twisted leg and for Saro-Saro because he was old. At least the goats would be fine, which concerned Graytoes because she wanted plenty of milk for the baby.
“Sugi?” Graytoes said, trying out another name.
“Big tree?” Pippa scratched her head. “That’s not a good name for a baby, even for a dwarf one.”
“Sugi also means blessed.” Graytoes had learned that from Hurbear. It was a word that had not been uttered very often in Steel Town as there had been no blessings there.
Pippa shrugged. “It also means a big tree. But there will be plenty of big trees in the elves’ old forest. So Sugi would work.”
Graytoes wrinkled her nose, thinking. “This baby needed an important name.”
Deva meant … special. The baby was that.
Or Sheel … meaning quiet … the baby was indeed quiet.
“Pippa-Pippa,” Pippa suggested helpfully.
Graytoes scowled as she started her climb. It narrowed to the point they had to go single file, which suited her fine. Pippa stayed behind her. Good. Graytoes didn’t need help naming her baby.
Her baby.
A Dark Knight priest had magically ripped one from her belly after the first quake in Steel Town. The priest had been tending the wounded, and Graytoes had indeed been injured in the mines when a support beam had fallen across her legs. The priest deemed that her real trouble was the child inside her; it was turned incorrectly, he’d said. He had solved the problem by killing it. Then she’d lost Moon-eye, her mate, too.
“Umay,” she decided when she reached the halfway point in the climb. Graytoes held the child close, both arms wrapped around the young one. If she stumbled, her arms might protect Umay. She couldn’t bear to lose anything else in her short life.
“Umay?” Pippa had caught up to her, close. “Hope? You would name the baby that?”
Graytoes nodded. Umay indeed meant hope in goblin-speak. It was another one of those words that hadn’t been used very often in the slave pens. But that’s what the baby had given her: hope.
“Umay,” Graytoes repeated. “It is a very good name.”
Pippa muttered something Graytoes could not hear then added, louder, “Pippa-Pippa would have been better.”
Spikehollow wondered when he would find an opportunity to push Direfang off the mountain. He felt a little conflicted about Saro-Saro’s plan, as Direfang was not a bad hobgoblin and had never done anything so very wrong in his eyes. Direfang had helped the goblins all escape from Steel Town, led a rebellion against the Dark Knights … yes, but he also had brought them to that hellish stretch of steep mountains that seemed to go on forever.
The goblin couldn’t hold the quilt around him as he climbed. He needed at least one hand free to grasp rocks for support. The fingers of his other hand were wrapped around the cord of a canvas sack he’d taken from one of the younger clansmen. Inside were a few potatoes, some shiny, colorful vegetables that were bulbous and hot-tasting, squares that he’d heard the wizard call dwarven hardtack, and a fist-sized rock carved in the shape of an anvil-a miniature to the one that stood east of the expansive garden in Reorx’s Cradle. Spikehollow didn’t intend to worship Reorx with the thing; he thought it might make a good tool for pounding.
Right then, however, it was his head that was pounding. Spikehollow admitted to himself that he was still feeling sick. He realized he should have sought out the help of the Dark Knight priest, who seemed able to work healing wonders. But he didn’t want to look weak in front of the other clansmen, and looking for help from a hated human could indeed be construed as weakness. He had to look strong and act decisively, especially if he intended to take over Saro-Saro’s clan when that old goblin died. Saro-Saro would surely die soon. Spikehollow was the obvious leader for the clan then, which he intended to rename the Hollow clan.
The trail disappeared two-thirds of the way up, and the goblin had to wedge his fingers into small crevices and use his hands and feet to pull himself up a sheer rock wall. He nearly dropped his bag of treasures. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait long for Saro-Saro’s demise. The old goblin might not have the strength to follow the arduous climb. Spikehollow’s muscles bunched as he levered himself up onto a ledge. His arms and legs ached more than ever, and again he barely managed to hang on to his canvas bag. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths and coughed. Then he looked over the side and motioned the goblins to follow.
He spotted Direfang, quite a ways behind, down the trail. The hobgoblin was still favoring his leg. Spikehollow would have to wait for Direfang at the top, find a way to engage him in some conversation, perhaps waylay him when he was still recovering from the climb. Spikehollow couldn’t risk the wrong goblins seeing him push Direfang, so he would have to be very careful. But the high ridge might provide the right opportunity; there might be no better one.
The goblin continued his ascent, pausing to pick up the hem of his quilt and wipe off his face. Though he felt chilled on the mountain-no doubt because the air was colder high up-he was also sweating unaccountably. It was because of the exertion, he told himself. That was why. But a shiver passed through him, and he had another coughing spasm. He would have to rest after killing Direfang. But everyone would want to rest. He knew everyone would stop to grieve, and so he could sleep a little and get better.
He slowed down, though the trail was a little easier to navigate toward the top. He had started to ache all over- not just his head or his legs, but his stomach and sides too. Had he eaten something from the dwarf village that had made him so sick? That had happened once before in Steel Town, when the Dark Knights had given some of the hardest-working slaves scraps of meat. Tasty scraps, but they hadn’t sat well in their stomachs, and the slaves had vomited and curled up into feverish balls and were unable to work the following day. Spikehollow hoped there was nothing wrong with the food in his treasure bag. He would be hungry later. He wasn’t hungry at that moment. Odd, but he hadn’t wanted anything to eat since shortly after leaving Reorx’s Cradle.
He’d earlier heard a hobgoblin say that the women dwarves had cursed them for the destruction, wailed for the goblins to go to the Abyss. But Spikehollow didn’t believe in curses or the Abyss.
It was probably some bad bit of food he had eaten.
When Spikehollow reached the top, he steadied himself. He was at a place where there was nothing to grab on to, and he felt a little dizzy, so high up, so weary, and so sick-feeling. He redoubled his grip on his treasure bag and stared down at the pines far below. He couldn’t see the river; it probably ran too close to the base of the mountain and was hidden from his view. But he knew the water was there. Boliver and Mudwort talked about seeing it, and he swore he could hear it rushing along. The colors were intense up there so high, such a change from the drab browns and grays of the mountain. The pines were a vibrant green, the color of the blanket he’d given Saro-Saro, the sky bright blue against thin, wispy clouds. The air was blissfully free of the smell of goblins, though that would change soon, as hundreds were climbing behind him.
Spikehollow would have liked to savor the scenery. But he was feeling worse and worse, and the matter of Direfang weighed heavily on him as well. He heard a clatter behind him and whirled in time to see a stool bouncing down the side of the mountain; the goblin carrying it had lost his grip. Other things were dropping too, sacks and chickens, and a small table-some deliberately, some accidentally. A few minutes later, a piglet squealed shrilly.