Like Qel, the gnoll came from the Citadel of Light on Schallsea Island and had volunteered to accompany the goblins to the Qualinesti Forest. And, also like Qel, the gnoll was a healer, though not of the same cloth. “One of Scanion’s druids from the Animism Lyceum,” Qel had explained to Direfang. The words meant nothing to the hobgoblin. The only thing that mattered was that the hideous gnoll was useful and could tend the injured.
Direfang slowly stood and locked eyes with the gnoll. “The flesh of the bloodragers must be made safe, understand?” the hobgoblin said as he neared. “The carcasses of these things will be devoured before sunset. No goblins should get sick from eating the meat.”
Without waiting for a reply, the hobgoblin turned and sought an old goblin named Rockhide, whose mind was sharp but his limbs feeble and covered with ugly, brown age spots.
“Watch the feast,” Direfang told him.
The old goblin’s chest swelled as he realized Direfang was giving him something important to do.
“Make sure the bloodrager bones are collected for tools.”
Rockhide nodded. “Collected and cleaned.”
“Make sure the hides are well scraped.”
“Tan the hides,” Rockhide said. “Use the hides.”
Direfang trembled and planted his feet farther apart to steady himself. Qel had indeed mended his gashes, but she could not replace the blood he’d lost. That would take time. He still felt weak.
“And watch the wizard.”
Rockhide twisted his head until he spotted Grallik next to Mudwort. When the old goblin turned back, Direfang was gone.
DIREFANG’S MONUMENT
Twice the height of the goblins in his ragtag army, Direfang presented an imposing figure as he strode around. His dark gray hide was covered with thick, bristly hair, save for bare patches on his arms and chest that bore wide scars he’d gained from toiling in the mines.
It hadn’t been very long since he’d been a slave for the Dark Knights in Steel Town-a month or two maybe, but time blurred in his mind like the indistinct forms of the trees wrapped in the early morning fog. Then the earthquakes had come and collapsed the mines, the volcanoes had erupted, and in the midst of all the terror and devastation, he’d fled with the other goblin and hobgoblin slaves. He’d led them all away from that hellish place and brought them to where they were. And then the bloodragers had come …
The journey was a road, and once he’d started down it, he found that he could not turn back. His destiny was set; he hoped he’d made the right decision regarding the forest.
Neraka was blessedly so very far away.
“Free,” he whispered. “Free finally.”
Most of them had arrived on ships that had been bought with accidental gains and subsequently released to their captains.
He wondered if, after the previous day’s slaughter, he should have instead ordered the captains to sail them all to Northern Ergoth. The old goblin nation of Sikk’et Hul was there. Life might have been uncomplicated on that big island, no bloodragers to worry about, and no building from scratch.
His goblin army could have been absorbed by Sikk’et Hul.
Made a part of something else.
It would have been easier, but it wouldn’t have been their own, would it? It would have been wrong, he felt.
Instead he’d chosen a different road to take his life down, and there was no turning back. A new goblin nation was his goal.
Perhaps that was why he’d never mentioned to the others the possibility of traveling to Sikk’et Hul as they wended their way south through the mountains, leaving what remained of Steel Town. He didn’t want to go to Sikk’et Hul. He wanted to go somewhere and start afresh.
Too, Mudwort had insisted on traveling to that forest, and he’d always trusted her counsel. There was some selfish reason she’d wanted to go there, he suspected, but he didn’t know what that was, and for the moment he didn’t care. The massive woods, once claimed by the elves before the dragon overlord Beryl came, were temperate and filled with food. He found them pleasing.
It had been the right road.
And if there were no more bloodragers, perhaps he would finally find a safe road too.
Direfang absently rubbed his calloused palms together, the sound dry. The hobgoblin followed a narrow, overgrown game trail, only pieces of which were visible. He stared at the tendrils of fog curling around his legs, barely registering the coolness. The fog reminded him of the smoke that had rolled off the funeral pyre the day before; he swore he could still smell the acrid stench of the burning goblin corpses and see their small limbs blackening. His mouth was suddenly parched and his tongue thick. His feet crunched over twigs and clumps of dirt, and that made him think of goblin teeth and their thin, tiny bones that had been scattered and broken when the ashes had cooled.
Nothing had been left intact or touching.
The spirits could not return to their moldering bodies trapped in the earth; they would instead be forced to find the wombs of pregnant goblins and be born again into what they hoped would be a better world.
Direfang rambled around, heading nowhere in particular, looking over his motley charges. He’d become accustomed to early-morning walks alone as the goblins were rousing, and he’d taken the trail the day before at dawn and so was familiar with it. He avoided the goblins’ friendly chatter and mild arguments that way, the posturing of the various clans. He’d return shortly, after they’d had time to eat and stretch and finish their arguments. Then he would assign tasks and start work.
There was so much to do.
The ground where they’d been chopping down trees he’d selected as the site for their city. It was near water, the land was flat, and the trunks of the trees were thin enough that they could be felled without too much trouble. But it would not do anymore, and they would have to find another place. Too much blood had been spilled there. The Flamegrass clan, several of the hobgoblins, and the Fishgatherers were superstitious about living on blood-soaked ground-particularly when the blood came from their relatives. Too many worried that more bloodragers would come to the spot and kill again. Nothing but bad omens circled that ground, Thya said after the corpse-burning.
Direfang admitted to a few superstitions too, so he had told them all late that night that a better place would be found and that they would start looking in earnest the very next day. Always moving on, moving on, he sighed gloomily.
Birds chirped musically, but he couldn’t see them through the fog. There was a faint breeze; it gently nudged the leaves overhead but didn’t make it down as far as the ground.
He still ached from the fight with the bloodragers, his neck still throbbed, though not so bad as before. True, Qel had saved his life, but he did not consider her as fine a healer as the Ergothian priest who’d once accompanied them. She was young, Direfang thought, and therefore lacked the Ergothian’s experience. And perhaps her god was not as powerful.
Direfang spit and clenched his fists. He growled deep in his throat and did not realize the sound caused the birds to quiet. He recognized the gods of the world, but he did not believe in them, he reflected. None of the goblins in his army believed. The gods had done nothing to help goblinkind.
Lost in his musings, Direfang unknowingly wandered off the familiar game trail. The trunks were closer together, and in spots he had to squeeze through clumps of birches. The fog hid exposed roots, and the hobgoblin stumbled here and there, catching himself on low-hanging branches.
Direfang usually liked the smell of the forest, from the flowers that hung on vines high in the canopy to the rotting wood pieces and fallen leaves on the floor. But he had a difficult time smelling any of it that morning, as his own stench overpowered everything else; it was a strong, redolent mix of sweat and dirt but mostly of caked, dried blood that was heavy under his nails and matted in his fur. He scratched at some of the scabs on his fingers then stopped himself; he didn’t want to open the wounds that Qel had healed.