“Isaam Saeneav of Nordmaar.”
He’d briefly met the man better than a dozen years earlier. Isaam hadn’t changed much; he was still small, with overly thin arms that reminded Grallik of a bird’s legs. The face was a little fuller, though, which made the sorcerer’s dark eyes look smaller, like pebbles sitting on white sand. The sorcerer was known for embracing the darkest parts of magic, a path Grallik would have followed had he not been so obsessed with fire spells.
Scanning the mass of knights, Grallik didn’t recognize any of the others, though he admittedly wasn’t taking any time to linger on the faces-for there were too many faces to contemplate. He tried to guess how many … eight hundred at least, probably nine. He shivered. And there could be more, scattered scouting parties, all connected by Isaam’s magic. They could well find Direfang’s goblins. And while there were thousands of goblins, most training to fight, they would not be skilled or fast enough to deal with so many Dark Knights.
The hundreds of knights-Grallik continued to be amazed by their number-all had come chasing after the escaped slaves from Neraka, all chasing him. The Order could not have spared that many from one spot, especially given the number lost to the volcanoes and earthquakes only a few months past. So they must have been collected from many squads and postings.
The Dark Knights had been fragmented at the end of the War of Souls. Their base of power was returned to Neraka, and not all the Dark Knights answered to the Lord Knight there. No longer the great, unified force that it once was made that group of several hundred knights all the more impressive.
“So where did you all come from?” Grallik’s senses drifted from one group of knights to the next, listening to hushed conversations. He knew they would not rest long; Bera Kata was a determined soul.
“The Black Hall,” Grallik mused. He heard a couple of the knights mention that place. He recalled there being enclaves of Dark Knights in the Qualinesti Forest, and thus the enclave of the Black Hall must have dispatched knights to join Bera’s force. There were women knights too, but most were men. He spotted half-elves here and there, but most were human.
Some of the men talked about the swarms of gnats that pestered them, and how no insect dared to land on Isaam. Grallik smiled at that. Others speculated about the scouting parties, one of which apparently could not be located. Grallik smiled wider.
“Let them all get lost in these woods,” he hissed. “Lost forever, food for the bloodragers.” At one time he was fanatically loyal to the Order, working at the mining camp to turn their ore into steel that could be forged into shields and swords. Had the earthquakes not come and the volcanoes not erupted, he’d be there still, loyal still. But when Steel Town was destroyed, so too were sundered his ties to the knighthood. Survival became his priority-along with pursuing the magic the goblins alone knew how to cast.
“Let the knights get back on their ships and return to their enclaves. Let them-”
Sounds interrupted his thoughts. Goblins drilled close to him, and he heard Graytoes and Direfang talking. The hobgoblin growled at the news of Qel’s departure and called to Rustymane and Gralin to take her swiftly away to the coast.
At the same time in the distant clearing, Grallik heard someone call an end to the brief rest. Dark Knights stood and adjusted their tabards, took a sip from their water skins, and returned to formation. The break had been a short one.
Definitely more than eight hundred knights, Grallik decided. He pushed his senses to the front rank, where Bera Kata stood unusually close to the young knight in the blued armor. Nearby was Isaam, adjusting his gray robe, frayed along the hem.
Once Grallik had been like him, a member of the Order of the Thorn, the arcane arm of the Dark Knights. The half-elf used to take great pride in wearing the robe the color of cool ashes. He’d given his robe up willingly when he joined the goblins, however, removing it and standing before them in a sweat-stained under-tunic. Thorn Knights had been tasked since the branch’s inception with divining the future of the knighthood and the events around them. Counselors and aides, they were also among the most formidable spellcasters in Ansalon, who before the Chaos War believed their magic came directly from Takhisis.
“One who follows the heart finds it will bleed. Feel nothing but victory,” Grallik murmured to himself. That was the code of the Thorn Knights; he’d repeated it several times each day in Steel Town. “But now I wish you nothing but defeat.”
Isaam raised his head and nodded to something Bera had said. The sorcerer tugged the wrinkles out of his robes, and Grallik noted he wore the rank of Marshal of the Thorn-the seventh rank such a knight could attain, bestowed by the Order of Lords. The half-elf wizard had been formerly known as Guardian N’sera, a rank that stood three levels below Isaam’s.
“Lose yourself in these woods, Isaam.”
Grallik’s eyes grew wide and his breath caught.
It looked as if Isaam were staring straight back.
THREE HUNDRED FEWER MOUTHS TO FEED
Amid the flurry of drilling and weapons-making, more than three hundred goblins gathered up their meager possessions and struck out to the east, intending to find caves in the distant mountains to live in. From various clans, they had grumbled about the threats in the forest, about Direfang’s being a lure for monstrous creatures, about the threat of Dark Knights.
“Dragons, bloodragers, beasts come here,” said Geben, a yellow-skinned goblin who had insinuated himself with the Fishgatherers. “So it is good to leave here and go somewhere else. The dragons can eat those who stay in the city.”
“There is no city,” said Worlee. He had been one of the hardest workers when the goblins had first chopped down trees. “There will be no city. There will only be more death.”
Direfang had tried to stop the defectors. There were too many to lose. “Safety in numbers,” he’d warned. “Strong in numbers.” His words had kept most of the Fishgatherer clan from leaving and had boosted the morale of a few hobgoblins.
“Bad enough there are dragons and bloodragers,” Graytoes said, waving to the departing goblins. “Worse now that there are Dark Knights.” She held Umay up so the baby could watch the departing throng, helping her wave bye-bye. “Direfang, harder to fight the things in the forest now. Fewer goblins to fight.”
Keth pointed out the breakaway group was taking some of the weapons with them.
“Did not take food, though,” Graytoes said cheerfully. “Three hundred fewer mouths to feed now. Time to feed Umay.” She retreated to a group of goblins who were putting fletching on arrows. A goat was staked near them, and she started to milk it.
“They took weapons,” Keth repeated. “Should not have let them take the weapons, Direfang. That was a bad thing.”
“Then it is time to make more weapons,” Direfang said testily. “More and more and more weapons.”
The noise was loud in the ruined city: knives and swords clanking against each other, goblins calling out as they continued to craft spears and clubs, and more goblins drilling with the finished ones.
“Too loud, all of this,” Direfang said.
“Yes,” Keth said. He looked up and saw the wizard approach, shook his head, and hobbled away to help a goblin named Badger cut logs for clubs.
“Yes, it is too loud,” Grallik agreed. “No doubt this ruckus carries for quite some distance, Foreman.” He tipped his head back. “But a storm is coming, and that will help cover a little of this noise, I think. And the noise is good if it means more weapons.”
The wind had picked up in the brief time since the three hundred goblins left. “Not a storm as strong as the one the other day,” Direfang said, adding, “I hope.”