“How did Umay get Mudwort’s spear?” Mudwort vehemently shook her head. “That is not for Umay. That is not for … ‘hope.’”
Again the wind blew through the trees surrounding Mudwort. “Hope,” the leaves whispered.
In the astonishing vision, it appeared Umay had brought the dwarves and goblins together-a curious but perhaps noble undertaking, Mudwort had to admit. Graytoes must have raised her stolen child well. The goblins looked healthy and happy, not a too-skinny one among those she saw. They had fine weapons and armor, good clothes. The dwarves treated the goblins as equals, friends and allies.
“This spear is not intended for Umay. This spear is for Mudwort! Only Mudwort!” She shook as she pulled back from the image and shook her head to clear her senses and pull back to the present.
“No. That will not come to pass.” Mudwort’s tone was stern. “Umay will never gain Mudwort’s spear.”
She struck out north. She would get as far away from Direfang and his mangled city as possible. That way the spear would never be separated from her, would never fall into Umay’s clutches.
Mudwort heard voices again, the leaves murmuring, along with a somewhat familiar voice. Saarh? It sounded like Saarh.
“Shut up,” Mudwort growled. “Shut up. Shut up.”
After a mile she couldn’t hear the voices anymore, just the birds and a creek bubbling nearby. Mudwort would make a home for herself far from Direfang and Graytoes, and farther still from Umay.
Mudwort didn’t need anyone since she had her treasure.
“This spear will never be for ‘hope.’”
DIREFANG’S ROCKY STAND
It worked, your plan. The knights walked right into your elaborate trap.” Grallik had just set fire to a mound of goblin bodies. “More of the Dark Knights died than your people, Foreman. No doubt they hadn’t expected any tricks, didn’t think you capable of being devious.”
“Or prepared,” Direfang replied. The hobgoblin held the great axe he’d gained from the dead Dark Knight. It felt lighter than such a weapon should. He knew not to set it down or another hobgoblin would snatch it up. The axe was a fine prize.
Nearby, Keth directed a crew to strip the dead Dark Knights of all valuables. Sallor, Draath, and Neacha pulled the naked bodies into the earth bowls. Crows hovered above the knights’ bodies, more birds strutted on the ground and darted in to pick at the bodies.
“There has been nothing but death for weeks and weeks,” Direfang said. His voice was flat and emotionless. “In the mining camp. Since the escape. Even here. Especially here. So much death.” He fixed his gaze on a line of small pine trees across the river. “There is no freedom without death, it seems, wizard. And yet isn’t freedom worth any price?”
Grallik’s magic brought down another column of fire to make the bodies burn faster. “They will come back, Foreman. The Dark Knights are dedicated and driven, and they will not back down.”
“Yes.”
“You could move your people. South across the river or toward the mountains. You could …” Grallik watched Graytoes. She’d taken a pack from one of the Dark Knights and cut holes in the bottom to accommodate Umay’s legs. She wore the pack on her back, the baby looking over her shoulder, and she was collecting belts that had been taken from the knights. “But they will track you, Foreman. They followed you all the way here from Neraka.”
“The clans will stand here,” Direfang said. “No more goblins want to leave. Grallik can leave, though. South across the river or toward the mountains. Or to the coast, like Qel.”
Grallik noticed that despite the many fatalities, none of the survivors were clamoring to leave. “I said before I would stay here. I suspect the knights want me worse than they want you. The Dark Knights do not suffer traitors, and they consider me a traitor. I will leave if you order me to. Otherwise, no.”
“The Dark Knights will suffer,” Direfang cut back, deliberately ignoring Grallik’s offer to leave. “And the Dark Knights will die like anyone dies. The Dark Knights will not steal the clans’ freedom anymore. This ends here, wizard.”
The hobgoblin whirled away from the edge of the bluff and stared at the mound of burning bodies.
“Rustymane is remembered,” he said softly.
Louder, he said, “Grallik, come.”
Moments later they were at the spire he’d lugged all the way from the north and had carefully planted. “This didn’t keep the Dark Knights from finding the goblins,” he said. “But it might have slowed them. Useless now.” He put his shoulder to the spire and pushed it out of the ground. Then he rolled it over the edge and watched it topple into the river. He took the three polished rocks out of the ground underneath it, keeping the blue one and tossing the other two over the side into the water. The magic of the spire was no longer working, perhaps Mudwort could find her way back home. Perhaps she’d simply gotten lost.
“Those prisoners are useless too.” Direfang nodded to the north. Tied at the base of a tree were two naked Dark Knights, both with legs broken from falling into the earth bowls. Direfang gestured toward them, the same foul gesture Grimstone had made repeatedly before the hobgoblin banished him from the horde.
“I don’t know those knights, Foreman.”
“But you do.” Orvago approached, his long legs carrying him toward Grallik in a half dozen steps. The gnoll’s hands and chest were bloody. But it wasn’t his own blood; it was that of the many patients he was tending. “Foreman Direfang, I’ve done what I could for your goblins. There are three Boarhunters and a Flamegrass clansman who are beyond my aid. They will die before morning. They may die before the hour is out, I fear.”
Direfang growled but said nothing.
Orvago turned his attention back to Grallik. “You do know them. You know them because they are knights. You know what kind of people they are and what drives them. You know what is in their hearts. And you can learn something from them that they wouldn’t tell the foreman or me or anyone else. You can do this because you know the Dark Knights. You know how to talk to them.”
“I’ll see what I can learn,” Grallik said, turning to head toward the prisoners.
Direfang followed Orvago over to a group of wounded goblins.
“I am not a healer of Qel’s abilities, Foreman Direfang, though I don’t know if even she could mend these.” The gnoll had bandaged the four goblins with strips of cloth he’d cut from Dark Knight tabards and cloaks. Because they were black, the bandages effectively covered the blood. “This one here …”
“Neph,” Direfang supplied. He didn’t know the names of the other three, though. “Neph of the Flamegrass clan. Neph was a slave in Steel Town. Neph was one of the first to leave when the earthquakes struck. And Neph returned to fight the Dark Knights and free those whose minds had been ensnared by the-”
“Skull men? I remember that. Neph, you call him. I might be able to help. At least let me try.”
Direfang’s eyes widened as the human who had spoken stepped out of the shadows. Orvago tugged his oak cudgel from his belt, ready to fight. “It’s all right,” the hobgoblin said, staying Orvago’s hand. “This is the Skull Man Horace.”
Graytoes had kept the goblins from killing the Ergothian. So many goblins had joined Direfang after the exodus from Steel Town that some of them had never seen Horace before. That he wasn’t in Dark Knight attire, and that he was in chains, helped. Several stood behind him, wary and with weapons ready.
“Found the Skull Man for Direfang,” Graytoes said. “Found Horace. Brought the Skull Man here. Thought he could help.”
“Graytoes did not find the Skull Man,” another yellow-skinned goblin corrected. “The Skull Man walked right into the city. Almost died at the hands of the Skinweavers.”
Graytoes thrust out her bottom lip peevishly. “Saved the Skull Man, then. Saved him from Pigeyes and Nothumbs.”