He shook his head pathetically, and his knees buckled, his legs giving out. Wendal and the other knight hoisted him straight.
“Grallik has no such magic,” Horace answered. He paused, and in the silence Bera read his battered face. “But you know who does, Horace.”
He gave a defeated nod.
“Tell me. Because you once were a Dark Knight and once swore the oath of fealty, tell me.” She steepled her fingers under her chin. “Because you once were loyal and trusted, decorated. And because if you don’t help us, I will kill you.”
“A little female goblin called Mudwort, Commander. She talks through the earth, and she calls the goblins.”
Bera’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. She nodded to the others, dismissing Horace, who was dragged away. “We will find this Mudwort,” Bera hissed. “We will find the traitor Grallik N’sera. Then we will find them all.”
WORRIED TREES
What is this about?” Direfang was standing behind Orvago, who knelt at the trunk of one of the massive weeping willows. The wind was strong and blew the veil of leaves, making it sound as if it were raining. But the wind and the shushing of the leaves were not loud enough to drown out the sounds of construction that continued in the goblin city. “What are-?”
“I am talking to this tree, Foreman Direfang,” the gnoll returned. “That is what this is about. Would you like to know what it tells me?”
Direfang shook his head and batted at a large, annoying fly that had found its way under the veil. “Talking to a tree?”
“You don’t believe I can talk to trees, do you?” The gnoll made a sound that Direfang figured was a laugh. “No, I’m not wasting my time, Foreman. I’ll help the others with building when I’m through here. But I’d like to finish this conversation first.”
“Mudwort talks to rocks. It is why the goblins came to this forest. The rocks said this would be a good place.” Direfang studied the gnoll. He still couldn’t tell how old the creature was. In its middle years, he guessed, not because of its appearance-he’d never seen another gnoll before for comparison-but because of its patience and wisdom, things beyond the grasp of youth. And he doubted Orvago was very old; the gnoll did not walk with a shuffling gait and seemed to possess good hearing and keen eyesight. “Mudwort talks to rocks. Thya too. So now Orvago talks to trees.” He paused. “What does this tree say?”
“That it has seen much,” the gnoll replied quickly. His hairy fingers traced a whorl on the trunk. “It was small when there was no bluff, when the river was deeper and wider and faster, in those days flowing near this tree’s roots. Young and angry and straight the river was in those years. The tree saw elves ply the river, though it did not have such a name for those folk. Names came when it had grown taller and wiser and learned to listen to the creatures around it. Fair-skinned and fair-haired, the elves took great care of the trees in this area. And a few of them talked to this very tree, as I am doing now.”
Direfang stepped closer and studied the trunk. The cracks in the bark looked almost like the visage of a wolf. He blinked, and the visage-whatever he thought he had seen-disappeared. He didn’t doubt that the tree talked, in some sense, but he found the talk of trees and elves and the river useless.
“The tree says there was a fire on the other side of the river long, long ago. It was caused by lightning when there had been a dry spell. So many trees died, and the elves planted new ones.” Orvago pressed his ear to the bark. “Not the small pines you see now, but other oaks the elves planted. There was more than one fire south of the river, the land scarred, and not just by acts of nature. The small pines are from after the last great blaze.”
The gnoll talked for quite some time about these elves who had grown older and moved on. Direfang got the impression that well more than a century had passed since the tree had sprouted. That the tree was old impressed the hobgoblin, but its translated prattle bored him.
“And now the tree worries,” Orvago said. “Its roots fairly tremble in fear. It speaks to the grass and the ferns and the trillium, and what they have to tell is unsettling. The rustling of the leaves in the breeze are the whispers that pass between the trees. To the north, Foreman Direfang, something is stirring. The plants say something brews there.”
Finally, the conversation interested him. “A storm? Elves returning?”
The gnoll gave a shrug. “The tree doesn’t know what troubles the ferns or the trillium, but it worries nonetheless.”
Direfang batted at the fly again and turned to leave the gnoll with the monotonous willow that spoke fearfully of the future. “Then let it worry alone. There is much work to do.”
“The gnoll says the trees are nervous.” Direfang was talking to himself, though Draath obviously thought the words were meant for him.
“Cannot talk to trees,” Draath said. “Can talk to the earth. Not as well as Mudwort, though. Mudwort is a fine stoneteller.” He sat in front of Direfang’s spire, right hand on one of the shrunken elf heads dangling from his belt. The diminutive features of one head looked especially delicate, and the hobgoblin wondered if that shrunken head had belonged to a female.
“This stone talks too, Direfang,” Draath continued. “Talks loudly through all the woods, shouts loudly.”
Direfang placed a hand on the top of the spire, thinking he might feel something other than the coolness that never warmed to his touch. He couldn’t hear the shouting of the spire any more than he heard the weeping willow. “What does this stone say, Draath?” The hobgoblin wanted the stone to say something important since he had gone to all the trouble of digging it up and then carrying it so far, only to plant it again.
“It says stay away.”
Goblin younglings yelped and laughed as they raced by along the bluff, kicking up dirt that was taken by the wind. They spooked a plump, ground-nesting bird that screeched at them before it dived over the edge and rose above the river. The wind gusted stronger and sent the reeds bending to the ground.
“Stay away? It says stay away? From it?”
Draath shook his head, rubbed his hands together, raised a finger, and traced symbols that none of the others had been able to understand. Direfang felt suddenly old, tired.
“This is very ancient, Direfang. Older than elves, probably.” He paused. “Hate elves.” He thunked his thumb against the largest of the shrunken heads and continued. “Not words, these marks on the rock, but magic strokes. It is like casting a spell onto a rock so the spell will be there forever. Understand?”
The hobgoblin scratched his head. Yes, he nodded. What did Draath think, that he was one of the laughing, playing children who didn’t understand plain talk?
“The spell strokes on the stone protect this land. All the land around this stone. Mudwort, Thya, they scry through the earth, seeing things far away from here. This stone and its magic do not mind that. Mudwort can still call goblins. But if Mudwort and Thya were elsewhere, they could not look through the earth to see this place. That the stone would not allow. It is like looking out from the opening of a cave, but not being able to peer inside.” He made a huffing noise. “It says stay away. The stone lets spells go out, Direfang, it lets Mudwort call and summon. But it doesn’t let spells come in.”
“But more goblins-”
“Can find this place, yes, but only if they look with their eyes and not with their magic. It does not let any magic in.”
“It says stay away?” Direfang nodded; that was just what the hobgoblin leader intended to do for a while. Direfang plucked the axe out of his belt and headed north. There were a few more trees nearby that the gnoll had marked for cutting.
He intended to think about what Draath and Orvago had said, and perhaps with effort he would better understand about the nervous, fearful tree and the stone that blocked magic only some of the time. At least the stone was somehow important; that validated the trouble the hobgoblin had gone to toting it there.