“The passing comes to all goblins,” Hurbear began.
“Let the telling begin!” Moon-eye yelled. “Listen to Hurbear.”
The elder goblin made the same speech for each death in the camp. “The shell destroyed, fire cleansed, the spirit reborn.” Hurbear made a fist and placed it over his heart.
“Spirit reborn,” his clansmen echoed. The largest thumped his belly with the flat of his hand then started up a drumlike cadence, which the other seven joined.
Hurbear raised his arms, fingers spread wide. “Spirits fly above Steel Town. Above pain. Above the great sad. Above clans left behind. Above all things.” He turned, nodding to each of the compass points. “The passing comes to all goblins. The passing came to …”
“Gray-morning.” Direfang claimed the right to speak first, and because of his size and his status as a foreman, none challenged him. “Gray-morning, called ‘old mother’ by some, hid strips of dried meat stolen from others in ore sacks on trips to the mine. Hungry, Gray-morning would eat before the work began. Hungry always, Gray-morning sucked on rocks and chewed on weeds, begged turnips from the taskmasters. Gray-morning brought smiles. The old mother, the old friend, will be missed.” It wasn’t a particularly captivating or special eulogy, but it defined the dead goblin and Direfang’s relationship to her. Direfang mimicked sticking a meat strip in his mouth and breaking some of it off. “Gray-morning is remembered.”
Other memories were not as well spoken but were nonetheless intended as a measure of respect.
“Big Snout smelled bad,” a young goblin offered. “Stunk in life, stinks now burning. Stinks worse in death. Big Snout is remembered.”
“Growler always scratched. Like a bear, Growler rubbed against the timbers in the mine. Growler is remembered.”
“Feshter was lazy. Lazy Feshter slept much, snored much. Lazy Feshter will not be forgotten.”
“Blue-lip bore two younglings in this pen.”
“Ren-Ren watched the horses. Ren-Ren made horse sounds.”
Direfang listened to each remembrance, trying to give each the reverence they deserved, yet finding it difficult to concentrate on only the sad occasion. He was worried about the goblins and hobgoblins who were not in the pens and not on the pyre, those unaccounted for because they were still in the mine.
They were likely dead, but it was not for certain. Some might be caught in passageways and chambers. He’d talked to one of the Dark Knight lieutenants earlier about going back into the shafts to search for bodies and survivors. The knights had missing men too and said that a mission would start at dawn. If goblin and hobgoblin bodies were not recovered quickly, Direfang feared the spirits would return to the dead husks and would be forever trapped in the decaying shells, forever tortured and lost.
“Saro-Saro’s brother, Sharp-teeth was. Only brother. Saro-Saro will not forget Sharp-teeth.”
“Bright Eyes sang well and told good stories.”
“Four Toes feared lightning. Four Toes hated storms and shivered like a youngling when the rains came.”
“Igrun was old and carried half-full sacks. Oldest in all of these pens, Igrun was.”
Direfang tried to count the goblins and hobgoblins in the pens. But they were moving around restlessly, and they were too numerous-all of them crammed inside rather than some of them working in the mine, as usual. He had neglected to count the number of bodies thrown on the pyre, and so worried that some of the dead would not be named in the ceremony.
Naming the dead and speaking a remembrance was a custom that dated back centuries for some clans. The stories recorded goblinkind’s history and were passed from one generation to the next, rarely embellished. The slaves’ stories, unlike those in free clans, were short and simple because their lives had been painful and monotonous. But the stories they’d heard before their capture were more elaborate and recalled great discoveries the dead had made, battles won, and strange beasts defeated. The telling was done to catch a spirit’s attention, to let it know it was missed and appreciated and, therefore, was welcome back for another life. Mostly it was done to honor the spirit because the gods would not do so … nor, in Steel Town, would the Dark Knights.
The sky had started to lighten by the time the ceremony was finished. Not all the goblins had stayed awake to the end, though not for lack of trying. Some of them had been awake for more than a day, and the injured drifted in and out of consciousness.
Mudwort had stayed awake through all of the ceremony, though she did not participate and only part of the time listened. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the ritual; she did, and she had participated in others, though none on the scale of the one that day. Instead she was listening to the earth. When Direfang spotted her and found his way through the press of bodies, he saw that her fingers were thrust into the ground.
Mudwort sat against her favorite post, legs tucked close to her chest and arms at her sides, fingers digging deeper. Her lips were working, though Direfang couldn’t hear what she was saying-if indeed she was making any sound. The whispers of those still awake melded into a sonorous, indecipherable hum around them.
She gently rocked back and forth, her eyes closed and head tipped. She stopped moving her mouth for a moment, drawing her lips into a thin line and putting on a pensive expression, then she started mouthing words again.
Direfang watched her, perplexed and fascinated.
The ground seemed to ripple around her fingers, turning into wet clay and smoothing, then hardening, even as Mudwort’s expression hardened.
“Doing what?” Direfang said. The words croaked out. His mouth was so dry. He was so thirsty. “Doing what, Mudwort?”
She acted as if she hadn’t heard him, but her eyelids fluttered.
“Doing what?” Direfang spoke so loud that all the nearby goblins stopped their chatter and stared.
“Listening,” she said finally. She let out a great sigh, and her shoulders slumped. Then she pulled her fingers out of the ground. The holes instantly filled.
11
Mudwort’s eyes took on an old, rheumy look as she drew her lower lip into her mouth. Her hands hovered inches above the ground, palms sometimes dropping down and touching the earth then pulling back as if scalded. Fingers fluttering and toes twitching, she started mumbling. She shook her head vehemently when Direfang leaned close to see if she was all right.
He spoke to her again, but it was clear she didn’t hear him. She cocked her head slightly as though she were listening to something very far beyond the slave pen and Steel Town.
Direfang tried to listen too, straining to shut out the sounds of the goblins moving listlessly in the overcrowded pen and the conversation of a pair of Dark Knights strolling by. The hobgoblin heard nothing interesting, so he waited impatiently for Mudwort to explain what she was doing.
Behind him, Saro-Saro made a clucking noise. “Mudwort is good and smart,” he said. “But Mudwort is also mad. There are voices in Mudwort’s head no one else can hear. Good thing the voices only speak to Mudwort. Good that only Mudwort has a sour mind.”
Minutes later Mudwort stopped mumbling, though her lips continued to move, and one eyebrow rose sharply as if in surprise. She nodded to Direfang, finally acknowledging his presence, then mumbled something again and kept fluttering her fingers.
“Mudwort listening to what?” Direfang punctuated his question with a snarl, hoping to draw her full attention. “Listening to what?”
“Listening to head voices,” Saro-Saro said.
“Listening to nothing.” That came from Hurbear, hovering nearby. He shook his head sadly then pushed his way through the press of slaves and disappeared.