Direfang wanted to tell Mudwort about what Draath had said. But he hadn’t seen her for a while. She was probably digging earth bowls for more homes, as he’d asked. She was probably working spells with Thya and-
No, he spotted Thya over there with Grallik, Sully, and a Skinweaver whose name he couldn’t recall. The foursome was digging bowls together, with Sully helping to fit posts into holes, as the hobgoblin possessed no magical abilities.
No Mudwort.
He fought a surge of anger. True, he’d been pushing her too far. As long as he’d known her, she’d been a loner, however, and back in the mines of Steel Town, she liked to go off in a corner and work by herself. In the slave pens, she would stake out her own corner where the others left her alone. Then, they feared her magic. In their goblin city, though they embraced her magic, she hadn’t wholly embraced them.
So Mudwort was probably off alone somewhere, and he probably should resist the urge to look for her and yell at her. He needed her help with the city, and he wanted her around because he valued her counsel. And he worried that if he pushed her too much, she might leave.
Worried like the willow worried? he wondered.
His route took him past Fernwold clan members, who were struggling to make a home like Mudwort’s. They cursed and shoved at each other, and Direfang guessed it was taking them twice as long to get the work done because they didn’t get along and cooperate. He paused to watch them, stepping close enough that the clan leader noticed him. The arguments stopped and they began working in concert, as though to impress him with their model behavior. Direfang stood there, watching for several minutes, then walked away. He heard the cursing resume.
The clans weren’t all so difficult to manage. The ones that came with Direfang from Steel Town seemed to possess a greater urgency for building a city. They had been slaves once; they understood the idea of freedom and their own place to live. In the course of a day, several homes had been nearly finished, goblins scurrying around the exteriors, applying more river clay to mortar the logs in place, more goblins weaving a tight mesh of vines, cattails, and branches to form a roof … some of them mortaring the roof too. They were built by ex-slaves.
The air buzzed with activity and song. Jando-Jando sang raspingly as he worked on the roof of Graytoes’s home. Direfang recognized the tune and words as something Moon-eye used to sing, and he wondered if Graytoes had taught it to him.
He missed Moon-eye … and many other goblins who had been lost along the way-some to fierce creatures, others to the rumbling mountain, many to the plague and the Newsea. Their escape from the Dark Knights’ mining camp and their trip to the Qualinesti Forest had exacted a heavy toll.
“Too many dead,” Direfang muttered to himself as he leveled his axe and began chopping. A shiver danced through him. The willow had told Orvago it was worried. “How many more will die?”
“Fire!” someone shouted suddenly in the goblin tongue. “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
CONFLAGRATION
Flames shot up from a nearly finished home, black smoke roiling off the roof and obscuring the lower branches of the maples nearby. Direfang raced toward the blaze, ordering gawkers out of his way, and noticing two other homes were also afire.
The goblins couldn’t hear Direfang bellow over the crackle of the flames and the shouts of those who were trying to put it out-but instead were fanning it with their dumb tactics.
“Fire!” Keth hollered. The goblin was perched on the shoulders of a hobgoblin, gesturing wildly to the south where three more homes could be glimpsed burning.
“Grallik!” Direfang yelled as loud as he could, his voice cracking. The wizard must have done this, he thought. There’d been no lightning strikes to cause it, and there’d been no cookfires burning that he’d seen. Grallik had finally betrayed them.
The hobgoblin muscled his way through a throng that was panicked and dumbfounded-whimpering, shouting, trembling, awestruck. Most stood still, caught up in their disbelief and amazement and unable to move. But a few were throwing useless handfuls of dirt on the home that was almost wholly consumed. Three younglings struggled with a large wolf hide, using it to try to bat out the flames, causing them to spurt higher.
Direfang barked orders to get everyone working together.
“Meda’s home!” a frail male goblin cried. Direfang saw the goblin drop to the ground, sobbing. “Meda burns!” He covered his face with soot-streaked hands.
Direfang scooped up handfuls of dirt when he got close enough, hurling them at the fire and still crying out Grallik’s name. A goblin also throwing dirt shook his head.
“The wizard did not do this,” the goblin said. He said something else, but his words were lost in the flurry of activity.
Out of the corner of his eye, Direfang saw goblins pull the frail goblin back from the fire. He’d been crawling toward the flames, ready to immolate himself, calling for Meda. The intense heat reminded Direfang of the mountains they’d traveled through when the volcanoes erupted. The fire spit at them as more goblins tried frantically to put it out, embers striking their hands and faces, the smoke puffing away in all directions and choking them.
“This one is lost!” Direfang called. He had little strength in his choked voice, and the goblins near him repeated his statement until it was a refrain washing through the crowd.
More than half surged away, and Direfang was swept up with them, moving to the next fire. Direfang grabbed Nkunda. “Grallik. Go find Grallik.” Nkunda ignored him, and Direfang released him, spotting Gnasher over a sea of goblin heads. “Grallik!”
Gnasher nodded, forcing his way out of the mass toward Direfang. Then they both were throwing dirt on another home, others were grabbing blankets and skins and swatting at the flames. Only a few were successful, as most of those with blankets only seemed to give the fire more air to feed on.
Sweat pooled in Direfang’s eyes as he moved close and tugged off his tunic. He tried using his tunic to smother the flames, urging goblins and hobgoblins to copy him. Fire raged up the walls of a home that had been half finished, a hobgoblin home from the height of it. The stench of burning wood and thatch and of a few wolf pelts that had caught fire filled his mouth. Drawing a clean breath was impossible. Some of the goblins at his side were overcome, dropping and being pulled back by others. More filled in the gaps, stepping up with handfuls of dirt. One scooted close and upturned a jug of water on the base of a wall. Several applauded his effort.
“Where is Mudwort?” Direfang cursed. Perhaps the shaman could have wielded her magic to bring the earth up and put out the fire. “Thya!” he screamed, jabbing at Keth, who had come up behind him with his mate. “Find Thya!”
Keth’s expression was blank. “Don’t know Thya.”
“Don’t know Thya,” Cari echoed.
Direfang thrust his tunic at her, and she immediately grabbed it and started swatting it at the fire. The hobgoblin threaded his way through the goblins, directing them to spread out to the other fires. All but a few were quick to follow his orders. The smoke was getting thicker, the pops from the flames louder. He wiped at his eyes and searched for familiar faces as he went: Thya, Draath, and Mudwort above all. Nothing. They were all missing.
He looked over the goblins’ heads, searching for Grallik and finally spying the wizard not far away near a burning wall. Anger filled Direfang’s heart, and his feet churned over the ground as he rushed toward the suspicious-acting wizard. Fire was flowing from Grallik’s fingers, striking the ground near the base of the wall and sending up a steady whoosh of flames.
So the wizard had started the fires!
Direfang reached for the axe on his belt, fingers squeezing the handle so tightly, it was hurtful. He raised the axe and meant to hurl it but stopped himself just as he saw the fire along the wall die when it was touched by Grallik’s flames. The wizard, apparently oblivious to Direfang’s near-attack, moved quickly to the next wall and repeated his smothering spell.