Direfang stared. The wizard was doing his best to stop the fires. Something else had caused the conflagration. Almost disappointed, he turned his attention back to finding Thya and Draath. He would confront Grallik later and see what he knew.
Goblins continued to battle the blazes all around Direfang. To his right, he saw flames lick up the trousers of a hobgoblin, who was quick to drop to the ground and roll in the dirt before he suffered too badly. Others also were being burned when they ventured too close. He saw Qel tending one of them.
The scene was a blur of color, the orange and red flames, and the gray, brown, and yellow of goblins and hobgoblins working to limit the destruction. The spreading smoke melded everything, making it look like a watercolor painting that had been caught in the rain. Direfang blinked furiously to see better and to make sense of everything he saw.
A group of Fishgatherers had managed to put out one fire using jugs of water. More of their clansmen were beating at a small fire that had spread to a pile of thatch. There were tiny fires here and there along the ground where twigs had been pulled from branches and set aside for thatching. Direfang, stepping too close to one, finally caught a glimpse of Thya.
Ignoring the burning pain that shot up his leg, the hobgoblin leader thundered toward her. She was keeping well back from the conflagration, directing her clansmen to attack the smallest fires, where they might have the most success.
“Thya!” Direfang dropped to his knees and pulled her down with him, grabbing her arm and pressing her hand against the ground to dramatize his point. “Use the magic, Thya.”
Her eyes grew wide with understanding. “S’dard!” A heartbeat later her hands sank into the dirt, and the ground rippled away from her and toward a burning home. The earth churned over clumps of leaves and twigs that would have been more kindling, helping keep at least one of the fires in check.
Direfang jumped up, brushed the flames from his clothing, and went looking for Draath, his eyes scanning goblin belts in the hopes of spotting tiny black elf heads. All that smoke and thousands of goblins, but Direfang could not see a single Skinweaver. He knew he was fortunate to have spotted Thya.
There was another loud whoosh, and Direfang spun in time to see Grallik create a line of fire that rose parallel to an engulfed wall. With a gesture, the wizard moved his line closer to the fiery wall, and there was the sound of an explosion when the two walls of fire clashed, snuffing each other out.
Then the hobgoblin spotted Orvago, clearing brush away and pointing toward a small home, over which it began to rain.
“More magic,” Direfang muttered, and it was of a sort he’d not seen before. “Would that the gnoll could make it rain everywhere.”
A dozen Boarhunters were helping the gnoll clear brush on the ground around their homes, where the fires had not yet reached.
Jando-Jando darted past Direfang, holding Umay, and for a moment the hobgoblin worried that Graytoes had been caught in one of the fires. He whirled, his hand batting away the smoke. No, Graytoes was with Thya, helping her send dirt toward a burning home.
“Mudwort!” Direfang called one last time. “Draath!” He knew his voice was lost in the cacophony. Giving up on them, he rushed toward the closest blaze and joined in the fight against it.
The hobgoblin couldn’t tell how much time passed. It felt like forever, the heat and ash burning his lungs and making his arms and legs feel like lead weights. Water streamed from his eyes, and he worked unsuccessfully to bring saliva up in his dry throat. He knew his fellows fared no better, so he kept at it despite wanting to get as far away as he could from the heat and flames.
“City is cursed!” Direfang heard a yellow-skinned goblin shout. “A storm and now fires. S’dards to build here. S’dards to build anything!”
Though most of the goblins around him stayed quiet and focused on their fire fighting jobs, the words echoed and a few agreed volubly.
“S’dard Direfang for wanting a city at all!”
The wind made everything worse. As the goblins got one fire under control, gusts swept in and whirled embers in the direction of other homes. The heat from the fires generated their own wind too, pushing fingers of hot air higher and all around, cooler air rushing in beneath and making sparks fly.
The sheer number of goblins made for chaos. As goblins dropped from all the smoke, more hurried in to carry the hurt ones away and replace them. Orvago had to give up on creating his miniature rain clouds and focus on the injured with Qel.
At last Draath appeared, working his earth magic to help smother the smaller fires, while a few of his Skinweaver clansmen added their energy to spells that seemed finally to tip the balance.
Direfang tottered but stayed on his feet and refused to quit.
“Winning,” he told a Flamegrass clansman next to him, close to another burning home. “Finally winning.”
The goblin shook his head despairingly. “Winning what? This city is lost, Direfang.”
Direfang growled. “Never lost,” he argued. “Never give up. Never-”
“Dragon!” someone shouted.
GREEN DEATH
The dragon was at the same time beautiful and terrifying. It was myriad shades of green, lighter on its back, darker on its belly-which the goblins could see plainly as it swooped down from across the river and hovered above the bluff. Its scales were the size of small shields and glistened as if the dragon had been drenched in the rain. Its wings were scalloped like a bat’s, the membranes beneath nearly black, like its talons. Its neck was long and serpentine, and covered with scales that ranged from the jade of a sugar maple to pale green of a honey locust. All of it was huge, the dragon’s head larger than a bear.
As goblins screamed in terror, it opened its maw, showing a row of long, white, dripping teeth, unrolling a forked scarlet tongue, and letting loose with a roar that sent the ground to shaking. Full-moon eyes cut by a slice of black surveyed the fire-ravaged city and the goblins scurrying in all directions. Another roar emerged, flattening its spines that ran from the tip of its snout to the end of its tail. The dragon dived, claws outstretched and noxious gas expelling from its cavernous mouth.
The green cloud of gas mingled with what was left of the smoke from the fires, glittering sickly olive and yellow and wholly obscuring the goblins blanketed in it. The cloud stank, and virtually all the goblins in the near vicinity pitched into coughing fits that had them doubled over and rubbing at their eyes.
Direfang was on the fringe, managing to hold his breath just as the dragon roared. He blinked furiously, his eyes stinging and throat burning worse than before, worse than ever. He felt as if he were drying up from the inside out as he whirled in confusion and inadvertently sucked in a lungful of the caustic stuff.
Others who had been standing near him, arguing over the status of the goblin city, were running frantically, their feet slapping across the ground. A few fell and were trampled by their fellows.
“Stop!” Direfang cried, but his voice was a coarse whisper from inhaling the noxious gas. “Stop!” The order was meant partly for himself, and still, like the others, he ran. He tripped over an exposed root when he passed an old oak, trying to catch himself as he plowed into the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
Hands pulled at him, and he stumbled to his feet. He was tugged behind the oak, panting and rubbing furiously at his eyes. Catching his breath, he reached for the axe at his side, intending to dash back toward the noxious cloud and save anyone trapped under it. He couldn’t budge, though; his feet were effectively fastened to the spot, his legs trembling.