Direfang tried to guess how many might still be below-dead or alive. He didn’t know for certain just how many slaves there were in Steel Town. He’d had no reason to ask before because the information had not seemed very important. When he asked a taskmaster, though, the query was met with contempt.
“Fewer slaves now than before,” the Dark Knight bristled.
“Blessedly fewer Dark Knights too,” Direfang muttered in his own tongue. He stood on the mountain trail, overlooking the ruins of the camp and glancing at the slave pens and the blackened circle beyond that marked the burned corpses. More bodies were being carried there for a fresh pyre.
“Fewer goblins and Dark Knights and … fewer wards,” he continued to mutter to himself in his guttural tongue. “Perhaps no wards at all. Will ask Mudwort to search through the earth … listen to whatever in the ground spoke … ask the voices if the wards and glyphs are gone. Maybe also ask if goblins-alive or dead-remain in the mine tunnels.”
Hours earlier he’d mentioned the wards to Moon-eye and Saro-Saro, that perhaps the quake ruined the magic as it had ruined practically everything else, that perhaps they should test the magic. Both goblins snorted their disapproval, Moon-eye because Graytoes was still hurt and hadn’t yet been tended by a Skull Knight. He’d risk nothing if it meant risking her life. Moon-eye was forced to help clear the mines because the Dark Knights ordered it. Not following orders meant a whipping or worse. But if he did his job, maybe the knights would heal Graytoes eventually.
Saro-Saro’s reasoning was simpler.
“Slave,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Slaves work the mine. Slaves do not try to escape. You know that. Direfang should not think about such things. Direfang is a slave. Thinking such things leads to whippings. Direfang should know that from experience and from lack of an ear.”
Direfang had savored the prospect of escape long ago, ten years back. It had taken little convincing then to get him to join with a handful of goblins trying to flee. Because he was young and strong and, therefore, useful in the mines, he wasn’t killed. He had been beaten, though, beaten cruelly and horribly, before being healed by a Skull Knight. He’d been reasonably loyal since then, never questioning the Dark Knights, obeying every order, often working harder than he was expected to, even longer than was required. Direfang usually worked until he was thoroughly spent just to keep his mind off his surroundings and situation and off the occasional goblin who tried to break free and was burned by the fiery glyphs or caught by Dark Knights, then tortured and slain.
Work kept him strong and healthy, and three years past, his diligence had netted him a promotion to foreman. Direfang had been tattooed on his shoulder to mark him a foreman. All the dozen slave foremen bore such marks. He thought it uglier than his scars from injuries and punishments, though his fellow slaves considered it a badge of honor.
The Dark Knights currently ruling the camp had likely forgotten his attempted escape; there had been many turnovers in forces, and the hobgoblins all looked much the same to them. If they’d remembered his previous escape attempt, he would not have been made a foreman. He would not have been taken into their buildings for training, and he would not have been given the opportunity to learn the complexities of their language. He would not have been allowed enough looks at their books and maps to gain a rudimentary knowledge of reading.
No, the Dark Knights in the camp probably didn’t realize he, too, had tried to escape ten years past and that, from time to time, he still entertained such a notion.
He finally looked away from the camp and slave pens, shook off his musings, and returned to the shafts and worked even harder and faster, driven by the desire to find any slave left alive and to let no corpse rot there.
Twilight was overtaking the sky by the time the Dark Knights signaled an end to the day’s toil. Before the quake, there always had been shifts working nonstop-all day and all night too; the mines were so dark anyway that it didn’t matter. But the knights were clearing the tunnels and calling everyone out-perhaps, Direfang thought, because the Dark Knights were spread so thin they did not have enough troops to supervise mining and guard the slave pens all night long.
Direfang held four dead goblins in his arms, his mind so preoccupied he barely registered their weight. He didn’t know who they had been in life, their bodies were so crushed, he didn’t recognize them. There’d be no one to say words of remembrances for them when the pyre blazed again, but perhaps he could think of something good to say in their honor.
The hobgoblin walked down the mountain trail just ahead of a Dark Knight taskmaster. He could hear the man’s shuffling step, so unlike the usual brisk march of the knights, and could hear the man’s ragged breathing. The knights had been trimmed in number and beaten down by the quake; the recovery work was hard, and they were not as alert as usual.
The Dark Knights seemed as tired and defeated as the slaves.
“Now might be a good time to consider another escape,” Direfang whispered. “Perhaps the only time. The wards and glyphs might be gone. Mudwort might be right. And if the wards and glyphs are gone, there will be no columns of magical flames to burn slaves and stop them from escaping.”
The hobgoblin reached the base of the mountain and made his way toward the new mound of bodies piling up. The ceaseless talk of the slaves drifted through the air. Goblins always found something to chatter about. A Dark Knight was barking orders; he was the wizard who’d spent all his hours before the quake melting the ore. Direfang hated that man, but then, he hated all the Dark Knights. The wizard continued to bark orders, and the hobgoblin continued to listen as he arranged the four dead goblins he carried at the bottom of the pile. For some reason, he wanted them to burn first.
The Dark Knight wizard was talking to a Skull Knight. Direfang caught a few snippets. The wizard said it was time to tend to the injured goblins. Then their voices dropped so low, the hobgoblin could not pick out a single word-not until he edged closer.
Someone had found … something, Direfang understood. Something important that needed to be guarded.
“Found what?” Direfang wondered as he shuffled to the nearest slave pen. But he did not immediately enter. He leaned against a slat, staring at the huddled, nervous goblins. They still stank of sweat, but it was the sweat of fear, not only labor, so the odor was doubly repugnant. He caught the attention of a goblin who, like him, seemed more interested in the camp activities than in his fellows. “Found something important, what?”
“Water,” Folami said, approaching the foreman and poking at Direfang’s waist through a gap in the slats. He was tall for a goblin, the top of his head coming up nearly to Direfang’s chest. Folami hailed from an ancient clan, and his skin was the color of dry earth. He pointed toward the wizard standing near the center of the camp and licked his lips. “The Thorn Knight there says that water has been found. That’s the something important that causes the stir.”
12
Grallik ordered six knights in his talon-the only ones still healthy after the quake-to pull the slaves back from the well. They’d struck water, and the goblins and hobgoblins were greedily drinking it up and sloshing around in it-fouling the water with their dirty skin and thick sweat.
“Blessed Salvation,” one of the knights had dubbed the well.
Two goblins refused to leave the Blessed Salvation, so one of the knights pulled out a whip and started lashing them.
The wizard called a halt to the beating and went over to the well himself, grabbing the disobedient goblins by their arms and yanking them away. The slaves cursed vigorously in the goblin tongue, and though the wizard did not know their stupid language, he could well guess the meaning.