“What does Mudwort listen to? Mudwort listens to what?” One of the younger slaves had found her way to the front. Less than three feet tall, already she displayed the stooped shoulders of defeat. Her gray-yellow skin gave her a sickly appearance, but her eyes were bright, her expression curious. She cupped her hands to her ears as if trying to imitate Mudwort. Then she drew her features forward until her face looked painfully pinched. “What is Mudwort hearing, Direfang?”
“Mudwort …” Direfang was clearly exasperated.
The red-skinned goblin continued her antics, drawing stares from the closest slaves as she cocked her head this way and that and whispered answers to the voices in her head. The buzz of questions became loud and annoying, and Mudwort finally raised her head and drew her shoulders back and spat at the surrounding slaves, but they wouldn’t quiet.
“Mad is Mudwort,” one called Brak sneered. “Sour in the head. Saro-Saro is right about Mudwort’s sour head. Mind gone bad like old, ugly meat. Mind spoiled and ruined.”
“Mad, no. Dard, yes,” another volunteered, jabbing a finger toward Mudwort. “Said a bad something was coming to the mine. Said bad, and bad came. Mudwort knew about it. Mad, no. Smart, yes. Dard, Mudwort is.”
“Mad, mad, mad,” Brak repeated, slamming his fist against his palm for emphasis. He was a little burlier than most goblins, and a little more than three feet tall-a veritable giant of his race. His skin was dark orange, marking him as one of the Flamegrass Clan. “Mind dried up. Gone all sour and stinky.”
The debate swirled over Mudwort, mingled with random musings about dead companions. Then, suddenly, the chatter was interrupted by a loud thud coming from the stables. Nervous whinnies from surviving horses followed. Then things quieted down again, and the chatter resumed.
“Galgirth’s mind was stinky too. But bad that Galgirth died. Spirit come back, maybe, with clear mind in a new body. New body, no stinky mind.”
Brak cackled. “All slaves have minds a little stinky. Mudwort’s is just smellier than most.”
Direfang spoke louder, trying to be heard over the goblins’ prattle. “Listening to what now, Mudwort? Certainly not listening to Brak. Listening to what, who, where?”
“Listening,” she whispered back. Mudwort’s eyes had grown glassy, as if she’d put herself in a trance. She sucked in a deep breath, and her fingers and toes wiggled faster. She started mumbling again, in a singsong rhythm.
“Enough!” Direfang finally grabbed her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. She shook her head to clear her senses, blinking furiously. The brightness came back to her eyes, and she glared at the hobgoblin for interrupting her.
“Listening to what, Mudwort? Who is talking? What is talking?”
She shook her head once more, slapping her knee. “The earth, Direfang! The earth talks and talks. It is angry still. It seethes beneath this place! Like the earth dragon raged after the quake, the earth growls and spits and demands more things to eat.”
Direfang knelt directly in front of her, blocking the other goblins so they could not easily see Mudwort, and he drew a finger to his bulbous lips to get her to speak softly, so as not to alarm the others. “Why is it angry, Mudwort? Why is the earth so upset?” His eyes revealed he believed her.
She shrugged. “Not the mine. No, the mine is not upset, and the earth is not upset at the mine. Thought the earth was angry at the mine before, all the digging and stealing rocks, all the hollowing out of the mountain, that was wrong. Earth not angry at the Dark Knights either. Thought the earth was angry with the Dark Knights, too, before … when the ground quaked before. Just angry, I think. The earth is just old and angry. Bad, bad angry. Maybe it hurts from being so old. Grouchy like Hurbear. Mad like the earth dragon was.”
Direfang scratched the side of his face and opened his mouth to ask another question.
“Angry,” she repeated, cutting him off and shaking a finger at him. “Angry enough to shake hard again.”
“When?” The hobgoblin spoke in a voice hushed and raspy with fear. “When will another earthquake come?”
Mudwort’s eyes narrowed.
All the chatter around them had stopped, and from somewhere overhead came the shrill cry of a night bird. From the center of the camp came the sounds of shovels from the goblins and hobgoblins digging new wells. The bark of Dark Knight orders intruded, demanding the wells be dug faster.
“Tomorrow, it will be,” Mudwort said finally. “The earth will quake tomorrow. Or the day after that maybe. No longer than the day after that. Its anger grows.” She placed her palms against the ground again. “Grows and grows and grows.”
“The day after that,” Direfang said, thinking it over. “Tell the earth to wait until then. There are many goblins to bring out of the mine tomorrow.” He turned and leaned against the fence, fingers rubbing at the rough wood. “It has to be the day after that if we are to have any chance of saving the ones left behind.”
The hobgoblin stood and fixed his gaze on the burning embers from the body pyre then looked past the mound. He spotted a Dark Knight walking the perimeter of the camp, highlighted by the glow from the remnants of goblin corpses.
“The quake destroyed the buildings,” Direfang said to himself, reflecting on all that had happened. “Brought down shafts. Killed goblins and Dark Knights and maybe something else. Maybe … maybe it killed something dangerous.”
The hobgoblin knew about the wards that sounded an alert in case a slave tried to escape. All the slaves knew about them. Some of the wards or glyphs did more than sound an alarm. Some engulfed escaping goblins in flames that shot up from the ground and burned hotter and faster than any fire made by man. Direfang had seen the fatal magic work on several occasions. The threat of those flames terrified the goblins and kept most from even dreaming of escape.
“Yes, the quake destroyed something else,” Mudwort said.
The next day, work in the mines began before dawn. Goblins and hobgoblins who’d managed to catch only an hour or two of sleep at best began to clear rubble-strewn passages and shore up timbers and replace crosspieces. They had fewer tools to work with than usual because so much had been lost to the quake. Large buckets made of broken planks from ruined houses were used to bring out rocks. The goblins tipped those makeshift buckets down the mountainside, creating a debris pile to cover up the remains of dead horses and goats.
The shafts were crowded with slaves bringing out rocks, and the stench from their sweaty bodies was intense. Few Dark Knight taskmasters entered the shafts, instead retreating to the mine entrance where the air was a little better and conditions safer. Only one remained in the deeper tunnels, a stalwart from Grallik’s talon, and he was quick to whip any goblins who moved too slowly or balked at orders.
Recalcitrant slaves were rare, however, as nearly all of the goblins worked with a fervor that was almost reckless. They were desperate to bring out any of their living brethren who might still be trapped, and equally desperate to bring out any remains so the bodies could be burned and broken before the spirits returned. Also, they worked as fast as possible so they would not be stuck in the shafts for very long. The air was horrible to breathe, and dust filtered down and tried to choke them. And word had spread that Mudwort predicted there would be another quake soon, perhaps that day. Most considered her mad, but there were enough who worried that there was some truth in her babblings, so they wanted to be done with their work and free of the tunnels as quickly as possible.
Nearly three dozen goblins and four hobgoblins were found alive and rescued by sunset, though all were suffering injuries. More than two hundred slave bodies were carried out, and eight Dark Knight bodies were carefully extracted.