“The only thing weak is Mudwort’s mind.” The humpbacked goblin sneered. “Sad, sour mind. Go away, Mudwort.”
“Work or die.” That said by a hobgoblin Mudwort had not seen in the mines before. Obviously a foreman, as he wore a whip at his side; he stood in the center of the chamber, slightly stooped because he was taller than the ceiling was high.
An unsightly hobgoblin, he wore a rotting ear hanging on a leather thong around his neck … and was missing one of his own ears. It had been cut off, or bit off in a fight, and so he was wearing it as punishment. He had a few old scars and a few fresh ones. His eyes were as dark as coal and fixed on Mudwort.
“Work or die,” he repeated.
Mudwort nearly obeyed, thinking she might head for the opposite wall and away from the one she somehow knew would collapse. Instead she puffed out her small chest, gesturing behind her.
“The stone is nervous,” she informed the hobgoblin. “It is frail and will fall. The ceiling will come down and squash the Fellowship of Clay. The stone will-”
The hobgoblin irritably waved her silent and went over to the offending wall, tugging back the gray-skinned goblin and his clansmen. He dutifully inspected the stone then shrugged, returned to the center of the chamber, and ordered them all back to work.
With a shrug Mudwort went over to the opposite wall, finding a spot to work between two red-skinned goblins, who made it clear they were not happy with her presence. She found a section where the stone was itchy, where she thought it would be safe. She worked fast, even though her arms and back protested.
“Work or die,” she muttered. “Work and die.”
She’d just managed to fill her ore sack and reach the entrance to the chamber when, behind her, she heard a sharp crack followed instantly by a rumble. She jumped ahead and scurried up, dragging her sack; to leave it would be to risk punishment. Shouts followed, and there came another rumble, though fainter. Mudwort coughed. Stone dust filtered into the tunnel from where the ceiling had collapsed.
Two red-skinned goblins pressed by her, waving their hands in front of their faces and coughing worse than Mudwort. One turned and pointed a finger at her.
“Mudwort did something to make the ceiling fall. Mudwort killed Gobber.”
So finally Mudwort knew the name of the humpbacked goblin. “Gobber will be remembered,” she told the red-skinned goblin, who shook his fist and hurried away.
Mudwort walked slower up the tunnel, as the imminent danger had passed. Two more red-skinned goblins passed her by, followed by another who was helping his limping kinsman. Moments later five gray-skinned goblins came up the tunnel. After them came the hobgoblin, who cradled the broken body of Gobber.
The hobgoblin paused at the intersection of another tunnel. The ceiling was taller there, with thick beams used for holding lanterns and ropes. The hobgoblin foreman stared down at Mudwort.
“Said the ceiling would fall.”
“Mudwort.”
“Mudwort said the ceiling would fall.”
“The stone said so. It was nervous. Told that one, I did.” She pointed to the corpse. “Didn’t believe, though. Now Gobber is dead. Told-”
“Direfang,” he supplied.
“But Direfang did not listen either.”
“Listening now,” he said. “Listening very closely.”
Direfang followed Mudwort out of the mine and down the trail that led to the slave pens. East of the pens was a scorched piece of earth that had three goblin bodies lying on it. The hobgoblin carefully laid down the dead Gobber.
“Mudwort talks to stone?”
She shrugged and looked up at the mountain, wondering if she would be sent back inside, hoping more that the dream would return of the clearing and the beautiful spear and dead Thya.
He repeated his question.
She made a huffing sound and shook her head. “No. Mudwort does not talk to the stone. The stone talks to Mudwort.”
He looked after her from that day forward, forcing her to eat when she hadn’t taken food in a while, bringing her water-and sometimes giving her an extra ration of water on particularly hot afternoons. It wasn’t just her that he took care of, she noticed. Though he was every bit the foreman the Dark Knights demanded he be, and though he whipped recalcitrant goblins on occasion, there was something almost kindly about him.
During his shifts Direfang did not work the pregnant goblins as hard or as long as the others. The old ones were given more breaks when the Dark Knight taskmasters were not watching. And on several occasions, he’d snatch up a pick and work side-by-side with those he was assigned to supervise.
He became the closest thing to a friend Mudwort had ever claimed, and her shifts in the mines did not feel so onerous when she worked under him. From time to time, she would tell Direfang what the stone was saying.
And always he would listen respectfully.
Mudwort blinked furiously.
Good-the daylight had returned, and she was once again in the clearing with the orderly trees.
“Dreaming, but not dreaming,” she muttered. Somehow she had sent her senses through the earth-as she had on many occasions before-looking into the past and going back to the mining camp where she’d first met Direfang. She’d been thinking about the hobgoblin, and likely had unwittingly cast a spell to look in on him.
Maybe she should look in on him at his ruined city. Maybe she should check if he’d started rebuilding again, or if he was busy preparing for war against the knights.
“No.” She grasped her precious spear tightly. “No and no. Done with Direfang.” If she never saw him again, she would not have to share the spear … or tell him about dead Thya.
NOT FOR HOPE
Mudwort spent the next few hours spiraling out from the clearing. She wore the rotting cloth with the metallic threads draped around her shoulders like a shawl, while gripping the spear in front of her in both hands. Mudwort had killed Dark Knights before, knocking her first victim down the side of a mountain when an earthquake struck. No one had seen her do that killing, but then he was an enemy; she’d never kill someone she didn’t consider an enemy.
Except Thya. “Poor, poor Thya.”
Mudwort didn’t have any friends, except perhaps for Direfang. But Thya was close to a friend, and maybe Mudwort would have eventually considered her one. Thya was a clan leader, and her clansmen would sorely miss her. Draath and Graytoes would miss mingling magic with Thya. Mudwort would miss that a little too.
Mudwort’s gut clenched and she squeezed her hands so tight around the spear haft that her fingers felt numb. Maybe Thya had meant no harm. Maybe Thya had been a friend after all.
“A sour, sour mind I have,” Mudwort pronounced. “Thinking too much about this spear, Mudwort’s spear. Thinking only about the spear. Selfish.” She paced faster and squeezed the spear tighter. Even though she didn’t want to, she thought she should tell someone about Thya’s death. That way they wouldn’t come looking for the goblin; they’d never find her, as deeply buried as she was, as well concealed as Mudwort had made the grave.
They’d never mourn her and never say, “Thya is remembered.”
“S’dard!” Mudwort realized suddenly that she’d left Thya’s body intact. She whirled around. “S’dard. Sour, sour mind!”
She returned to the clearing and unearthed the dead goblin. Mudwort had rarely participated in the goblin death rituals that involved nearly everyone else. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in them; she did. Before escaping with Direfang and the rest of the slaves, she simply didn’t participate in much of anything.
“Leave nothing intact,” she told herself. How much to cut away? Some goblins thought all that was necessary was to cut off a finger or a toe. The body no longer whole, the spirit could not return. Other goblins thought the body had to be essentially torn apart and burned, but that would take a lot of time. One clan liked to sink bodies in the water for the fish to nibble apart. Another hung bodies in trees for the crows to pick at.