Mudwort and Graytoes snarled practically in unison. “Dark Knights enslave goblins,” Graytoes ventured. “Dark Knights want to catch goblins to take back to that horrible mining camp. The Skinweavers were not slaves and do not understand.”
Grallik shook his head. “Graytoes is right. The knights …”
He paused as a few dozen Flamegrass clansmen rushed past them, carrying spears in need of stone heads. Their excited chatter sounded like a swarm of insects.
When they were out of sight, Grallik continued. “The knights want to make an example of you. Of all the goblins here.”
Mudwort nodded, thinking Grallik’s guesswork was very good and that it was saving her the bother of warning Direfang of what she knew. “The knights cannot let slaves escape without punishment. Such would encourage other slaves to escape elsewhere.”
“The Dark Knights must forever look strong and unchallengeable,” Grallik finished, eyeing Mudwort. “So it is our task to use our magic in defense. I will find out more about them, get a better idea about their number and what magic they have and where they are going. Then we must plan and act.”
“A wizard,” Mudwort added. “The knights have a wizard.” She remembered one of the knights who’d caught her mentioning someone named Isaam. “Isaam,” she supplied. “A wizard named Isaam.”
“A sorcerer, not a wizard.” Grallik’s pale skin appeared to grow even lighter. “How do you know of Isaam, Mudwort? And why are you so certain that a magic-user named Isaam is with them?”
Mudwort’s brow furrowed and she shrugged. She couldn’t afford to tell them of her capture and subsequent bloody escape. Then she’d be scorned for not revealing the Dark Knight threat earlier. Direfang would be furious with her, as it would have given him several more days to prepare or to move. He’d banished Skakee; maybe he would banish her. And would that be a bad thing? She shrugged again. “Isaam. It’s a name. Heard it somewhere. Maybe through the vision spell. Is it important?”
“Who is Isaam?” wondered Graytoes. She rocked Umay and looked from Grallik to Mudwort. “Isaam. Isaam. Isaam.”
Grallik stared at Mudwort and opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.
“Grallik fears the Dark Knights,” Mudwort said. She looked at Draath. “Grallik used to be a Dark Knight. Used to be one of the slavers at Steel Town.” She knew that Draath and the rest of the Skinweavers had learned only a little about the mining camp. They’d been kept too busy working on the city and the weapons to learn very much about the Steel Town clans.
“The Dark Knights want Grallik as much as the Dark Knights want goblins. Maybe more.” Mudwort made a guess there, but the wizard’s narrowed eyes told her she was right. “The Dark Knights would punish Grallik, maybe more than the once-slaves would be beaten.” She stepped back as Draath started peppering Grallik with questions about Steel Town and slaving and Dark Knights.
Graytoes was so caught up in trying to figure out what the wizard was saying in reply that she didn’t notice Mudwort slip away. Thya watched Mudwort go but kept silent.
Mudwort disappeared behind a row of goblins practicing with spears. She intended to get her own spear but not one of the crude ones with the sharp, obsidian heads. She would get the one Chislev had forgotten. She would do it without the others.
“Waited long enough,” Mudwort mumbled as she passed by Qel and Orvago. The two of them were arguing, the angriest of the words coming from Qel. She slipped behind the pair then scurried under the canopy of one of the large willows. She half expected to find someone hiding from work or weapons practice there. But no, there she was alone and could look for the spear.
She squatted and drove her fingers into the ground, her mind casting a spell and pushing her senses in the direction she thought the spear was buried. It took her only a few moments to find the connection and create the thread that stretched between her and the ancient, god-made weapon. It was easy, with the spear so intensely magical and her familiarity with its pulse, and because she’d looked in on it several times.
“No more waiting,” Mudwort said. She wrapped her mind around the spear, and though her fingers were in the dirt, it felt as though they were curled around the haft. The polished wood felt smooth and good. “So powerful.” Her heart beat in time with the pulse, and slowly she pulled her mind back to get a better picture of the clearing where the spear was lying. “With this spear, there is no need to fear any Dark Knights.”
Ash trees circled its resting place, stoic guardians that shaded the spear’s grave, perfectly spaced as if they’d been planted thusly on purpose. The more she stared at the clearing, the more certain she was that nature had not scattered the trees there; some force-the long-ago goblins perhaps-had done it in that way to mark the spot so it could be more easily found. There were other trees of course, maples and oaks and things she had no name for but which dropped little flower and seed pods. There were trilliums-more colors than the ones growing around the goblin city-and ferns and moss that looked soft to sleep on. She had to look very hard to see tiny patches of bare dirt.
There were animals, too, birds mostly, and when Mudwort concentrated, she could hear the caw of a crow. It was a big one, perched in a red-leaved maple, the branches of which poked between two ash trees. The bird was stark against the brightly colored leaves and flew off as she magically watched it. More interesting were birds she guessed were no larger than her fist. There were several, all with black caps and bibs, white cheeks, and backs the color of chestnuts. They made a funny chirping-clicking sound, nothing like singing. She preferred birds that sang.
There were ones even smaller, dark brown with black backs and gray patches that wrapped around their heads like scarves. They had pink bellies, and they didn’t sing either. But they whistled, and Mudwort focused on their pleasant whistling.
Why had the shaman from the long-ago time hidden the spear there? In a place where the birds didn’t sing? Or had it been that shaman’s successor who buried the spear? Had the shaman possessed the spear until her death? Had she passed it on? Mudwort had not looked in on her counterpart from the past in a long while. She’d been more interested in the spear.
Obsessed with the spear? She was that.
She would look to the past later, after she had the spear. She would see what befell the shaman and the ancient tribe of goblins who built homes like the ones Direfang tried to copy in his city. Had dragons and bloodragers pestered the long-ago goblins?
Mudwort’s senses floated above the ring of ash trees, trying to get a better picture of where in that massive forest the spear was. Not far away, she’d determined that before.
But the forest was dense, and many parts looked the same from above or inside.
“Where?” she whispered. “Where? Where? Where?”
Her ears detected a river nearby. No, a stream, too narrow and shallow looking to constitute a river. It flowed to the sea. She knew that because she could smell salty air. A glance to the east, and she spotted the ocean. Higher, and a crescent-shaped stretch of beach came into view.
“S’dard!” She spotted a rock formation in the shallows, looking like a fish rising on its tail. It was where the longboats had brought the goblins ashore when they first came to the forest. She’d been so close to the spear then and had not realized it. “S’dard! Sour mind. Sour, sour mind.”
What she’d thought would be a long day’s walk to retrieve her prize would be three or four or more. Likely more.
“S’dard to not get it before. S’dard to wait.” The ground softened around her fingers, and she pulled them out and stomped off to the northeast, cutting blithely through a rank of goblins drilling with spears and nearly getting skewered.