Direfang saw the beast’s muscles bunch and its wings stretch. In that instant he also saw branches snake down and tangle themselves in the ridge that ran along the dragon’s back. More branches whipped around its tail. Some branches looked like lances, the leaves gone and ends sharp. They jabbed at the dragon’s side, one penetrating deep into a wound someone had already inflicted.
“It’s not going anywhere, Foreman Direfang!” the gnoll, nearby the hobgoblin leader, shouted. “Not if I can do anything about it.”
The dragon’s roar changed tone, and Direfang ascribed pain to the sound. He redoubled his efforts, hacking into it with his axe and pulling himself up, driving the knife in and pulling himself higher as though climbing a mountain. Other goblins tried to do the same, but only those with flaming knives had success against the thick hide. Some climbed on the shoulders of their clansmen for higher perches. Boarhunters climbed trees and dropped onto the dragon’s back.
Grallik concentrated his spells on enhancing the goblins’ weapons. “Hot knives into butter!” he shouted.
Direfang didn’t understand the reference. But the hobgoblin left his knife embedded in the beast’s side and used the handle as a foothold, reaching up with his free hand to grab at a wing. The dragon continued to cast its head around and tried to lumber forward. Its snout struck Direfang and stole his breath.
He dropped his flaming axe and held on to a ridge of the wing with both hands. Glancing down, he saw Keth snatch up the magicked axe and start hacking away furiously, still leaning precariously on a branch to keep himself from toppling.
“For Cari!” the Boarhunter screamed, bloody spittle flying from his lips.
Direfang scrambled onto the dragon’s back, grabbing one of its spines so he wouldn’t fall off. From his higher vantage point, the scales looked like pieces of tile like some of the roofs in Steel Town once sported. He had no idea what he would do up there, weaponless, so he barked orders down to the goblins swarming in closer and to those joining him on its back.
“Between its scales,” he hollered, using his bare hands to pound on the dragon’s back. “Soft spots there.” He ducked when an animated tree branch dipped down and drove its spiked end into a gap. Another followed but splintered against a thick scale, shards of wood flying, some piercing Direfang’s arms.
The hobgoblin howled, more in surprise than pain. One hand holding tight to a spine, he wrapped his fingers around a branch and shoved it in deeper. Goblins were tossed off the dragon’s back as it writhed, but Direfang and several others managed to hold on.
“Be fast! Be deadly!” Direfang recognized Gnasher’s gravelly voice. “For fallen friends!”
“For living friends!” a goblin added. “So friends can keep living.”
Direfang looked over the side and spotted more blades catching fire and more branches reaching out to tangle the dragon’s hindquarters. He couldn’t see the ground anymore; the goblins were too thick. Thousands had joined the battle.
Could they overwhelm the dragon by their sheer numbers? Direfang wondered, feeling a faint hope. Did they truly have a chance?
“Maybe not die this day,” he said.
Two goblins were farther back, near the edge of the bluff-Thya and Graytoes. Heads down in concentration, a ripple of earth rushed away from them and toward the dragon. Goblins jumped out of the way as the wave of earth raced toward the beast.
“The dragon’s feet are buried!” Sully reported. “The dragon is stuck.”
The air was filled with so much noise, it was deafening: the dragon roaring, almost screaming, goblins whooping and cheering, flames crackling, and more fire whooshing down in an orange column so bright that Direfang had to shut his eyes. He felt intense heat, and the slickness of blood pumping around his feet where the dragon had been pierced by another wood lance.
The dragon did not thrash so wildly anymore. More branches held it down, more stabbed into it, and goblins had increasing success opening wounds wider. Its roar weakened as another ripple of earth raced toward it, filling its mouth with dirt and spraying up over its shoulders and turning to mud amid the gushing blood.
“Be deadly!” Gnasher had climbed up on the dragon’s back near Direfang and was grinning wide at the hobgoblin leader. “Win!”
“Win,” Direfang said softly. The hobgoblin was exhausted. Through a sickly yellow-green cloud, he spied Grallik holding on to a thin birch trunk, knees buckled and mouth still feverishly working a spell. Draath was several yards beyond the wizard, hands in the earth, sending another wave of dirt toward the dragon. Its side heaved heavily then stilled.
A moment later everyone cheered.
“Bury the dragon!” Gnasher cried. “Bury it.”
Direfang shook his head wearily, barely able to speak. “Eat it, Gnasher. It will feed … all the clans.” The hobgoblin let go his grip on the spine and slid down its bloody side.
Hundreds had died, their bodies littering the ground, and crows drifted down to feast. Goblins shooed the birds away as they pulled the corpses into piles. But the crows were determined and kept coming back.
Other goblins had already set to work on cutting up the dragon and fighting off more birds. They started stripping its hide, preserving the best sections of scales and setting them aside while digging into the meat beneath.
“Save the bones!” That came from one of the Boarhunters. “They will be good posts and weapons. Posts to build, weapons to fight!”
“Save everything!” Sully hollered.
The air was thick with blood and chlorine, and Orvago conjured small bursts of rain, which did little to make it easier to breathe.
“This city,” Graytoes said, coming up to Direfang. She held Umay, and though both were splattered with mud and blood, both were safe. “This isn’t a city anymore, Direfang.”
He followed her gaze. What buildings hadn’t been burned by the fire had been knocked over or crushed by the dragon. Only a few stood-or rather sections of a few. Trees had fallen too, and thick branches had broken off the massive oaks. Clumps of birch trees leaned precariously, their roots half out of the ground.
It looked like a disaster, a catastrophe, an apocalypse.
“There is nothing left to rebuild, Direfang,” Graytoes said. “There is nothing left here.”
MUDWORT’S ORDEAL
It had been long weeks since Mudwort had experienced such pain. She’d often been whipped in the Steel Town mines; she didn’t know a slave there who hadn’t been beaten by the Dark Knight taskmasters. She’d been injured by falling rocks, by clumsy hobgoblins stepping on her, by goblins dropping chunks of ore on her bare feet, and through her own carelessness in the tunnels. She’d been hurt so badly a few times that one of the Dark Knight healers had to tend to her.
But her pain was worse.
For an instant she hadn’t been able to feel the fingers the hated Dark Knight had snapped. However, they were all she could feel at that moment.
The pain came in bursts, shooting up through her hand and into her arm, fiery jolts that caused her to slam her teeth together. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. It was all she could do to keep from crying out.
Show no weakness in front of these foul, foul men!
But she was weak. She couldn’t stop the tears.
The Dark Knight reached for a third finger as another knight grabbed her leg and twisted it.
“S-s-stop,” she said in their language. The word was a plea. It was one of the first words she’d learned of the common tongue.
The Dark Knight dropped her on the ground. “Then talk to us, rat. Talk quick if you don’t want more bones broken.”
“Maybe we should wait, Tanner. Take her to the commander and see if Zocci can get something out of her. Don’t want to bring her in too mangled. You know what happened to the last one we caught. And we’re days and days away from the main unit.”