The hobgoblin bent until his face was close and even with hers. The scars and lines on his visage were thick and his expression hard, as if his head had been carved out of rock from the mine.
“Everything dies, Mudwort. Goblins, hobgoblins, death comes to all-from the quake, long years, sickness. But not everything has to be enslaved.”
She raised an eyebrow, and he growled in response, a ribbon of drool spilling over his lower lip and plopping to the floor.
“Save goblins here, save slaves. Save other goblins in the hills from being made slaves. Understand?”
“Dark Knights bring in more slaves no matter what,” she answered, fists on her hips. “Saving nothing by poking around here, Direfang.” Her expression softened. “Saving spirits, though.” She shuffled away from him, pretending to look for more oil and lanterns.
There was only a little oil left in the lantern Direfang carried, and they’d not found more. A niche where barrels of oil and other supplies were kept was buried under rocks. The air had grown fouler the deeper they went, and it was filled with the sounds of timbers groaning and rocks falling. Some collapsed tunnels they passed smelled thickly of death.
“All goblins left in this mine are smashed,” she said after many minutes had passed. Her eyes flitted nervously to a split beam overhead. “Direfang be dead too if …”
“Don’t know that, Mudwort. Might be more goblins alive.” He forced his way through a choked passage, adding more cuts to his badly scratched chest and arms and scraping the top of his head. “Should not leave any goblins here, alive or dead.”
“Shalbo, Direfang. Certainly bad, this place is. Shalbo, shalbo indeed. Give up, Direfang. Give up now! Feyrh!”
Direfang had been moving as quickly as possible, hesitating only at cave-ins and places where he couldn’t hope to fit through. But he stopped at another blocked shaft and let out a great sigh. From somewhere beyond the blockage, the earth rumbled. It sounded like a new cave-in happening.
“Give up,” she repeated. “Direfang, just give up for now. Please.”
He glowered at her, and a bubble of drool spilled out of his mouth. He batted it away with the back of his free hand.
“Slaves always give up, Mudwort. Always give in.” He scratched at a deep scar on his chest. His scar-ridden body attested to his years in service to the Dark Knights. The palm of his right hand was smooth, not having any of the blister scars and ravages of his left. When he was younger, his left arm had been thrust into a campfire because he’d been tardy bringing a commander his dinner. He’d not been tardy since.
His ear had been cut off ten years earlier when he’d tried to escape with a small band of slaves. The Skull Knights used their magic and determined he was not the instigator-he had been a follower, not a leader-and he was valuable in the mines because of his size and strength. So they only sliced off his ear and for a long time made him wear it on a cord around his neck until it had shriveled to a black and unrecognizable thing and finally rotted off. The other captured escapees were goblins, and their lives were slowly extinguished in full view of the pens. Only a few of the offenders escaped death.
Direfang’s hair covered up most of the scars he’d received from various whippings. But some were so thick and deep that no hair grew over them and it looked as if his skin carried a disease. A jagged scar on his face ran from the outer edge of his left eye down to the tip of his chin. It was from an accident in a shaft the previous year, from a crosspiece falling down and clipping him. A fresh scar, on his right forearm, came when he was struck by an angry, thirsty, pick-wielding goblin, just three days earlier.
Scars crawled all over him. His appearance gave him an intimidating mien that helped make him an effective foreman. At that moment he looked even worse, coated with blood and stone dust.
“Maybe give up,” he said finally. “Maybe Mudwort right.” He turned and looked behind him, took a step in that direction, then stopped. “Maybe one more look.” The hobgoblin pressed on through another crack, edging by broken, bloodied limbs that stuck out from shattered stones and timbers. By the time he reached a chamber where he could stand, his trousers were soaked in blood-his own and that from the victims he’d passed.
He sagged against a wall, exhausted, and fought for breath.
“No further.” Mudwort shook her head, made a tsktsking sound. “No more tunnels to search. Gart! Give up. Or die here and rot.”
It seemed as though they’d been through every tunnel they could fit through in that section of the mountain, and the chamber they stood in ended in another cave-in. They’d not encountered any live goblins for some time, so the prospects of finding any more were fading.
Direfang shook his head. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Maybe here all gone, but try other places. There are other places in the mountain we can search for goblins.”
There were two other entrances to the mines on their side of the mountain and two more elsewhere-five in all. Direfang stroked his chin, considering his next move.
“Tunnels done here, Direfang.”
“Here,” Direfang admitted. “Yes, done here.” He pushed off from the wall and paced in a tight circle, crouching low as he paced so he wouldn’t strike his head on the ceiling.
The lantern had so little oil left, it gave off only a faint glow. The light might not last long enough for them to return to a main tunnel. They might have to feel their way out.
“Go now,” Direfang said. He yawned and looked over his shoulder at the crack they’d last squeezed through.
Mudwort cocked her head and listened to something Direfang could not hear. “Wait to leave.” The goblin eased herself to her knees, then splayed her fingers across the stone floor. She put her ear close to the ground and listened more intently. A moment more, and she crawled across the chamber floor like a youngling, all the while her face pressed to the stone. Occasionally, she stuck her tongue out and licked it, only to spit out the horrid-tasting stone dust.
“Hear something, Mudwort?”
She nodded, continuing her inspection. “Singing,” she said. “Hear singing.” A pause. “Bad singing. Bad sounds. Same song over and over again. Hear a familiar voice, bad voice, and-”
In that instant the oil burned out and the chamber went black. Still, Mudwort continued to shuffle around, thumping the floor with her thumbs and rubbing her chin against the stone. Suddenly, she brightened.
“Direfang, tarduk. Stone is thin here. Weak. Tarduk!”
The hobgoblin carefully found his way to her, raised the pick, and started hitting the floor. Despite her claim that the rock was thin, it took him quite some time to knock a hole large enough to poke his head and shoulders through. The chamber beneath them was equally dim, but after a few moments, a lantern was lit from below.
Moon-eye looked up at the hobgoblin, relief spreading across his small, tear-streaked face. He’d been conserving the lantern oil, hoping against hope for a rescue. He turned the wick up so Direfang could see him better. It illuminated a passage below that was not completely blocked and which Moon-eye could have found his way out of. But the one-eyed goblin wouldn’t leave the other figure outlined by the light of the lantern-his fallen mate, Graytoes.
“This beam,” he called up to Direfang. “This bad beam fell across Moon-eye’s Heart.” The goblin had been unable to move the huge timber that still pinned his mate’s legs. “Direfang move this beam, please. Save Moon-eye’s Heart.”
Direfang snorted, swinging his legs over the opening and dropping down. He’d bent his knees to lessen the impact, but hitting the rock floor jarred him and forced out a moan.
“Mudwort help too,” the hobgoblin said, glancing up. “Mudwort help now.” He held out his arms, indicating he would catch her.