Late sun on the Sirrion Sea
Turns it a sparkling gold
Signals a hunt for all goblins
Keeps out the hurtful, deep cold
Moon glows pale and soft pearly
Yet goblins have no time to rest
Moon calls the dark of the evening
When the night bird leaves the nest
Low sun in the warm valleys
All goblins watch the orange sky
Looking for shadows of ogres
Knowing the time’s come to die
There were more verses, but Moon-eye’s voice dropped, singing only to Graytoes. But occasionally he looked up and met the gazes of the goblins closest to Direfang.
Saro-Saro was there, wheezing from the effort of running. Hurbear stood next to him, gasping and clutching at himself, alternating between his chest and his throat. The old, yellow-skinned goblin bent his knees, leaned forward, and made a noise as if he were retching, though nothing came out.
Direfang was surprised that Hurbear had made it that far from the Dark Knight camp. Hurbear’s legs had so often given him trouble going up and down the mountain trail to the mine.
“Free!” Saro-Saro shouted when Moon-eye was done singing. The word was picked up and repeated by the others, some loudly, some in a normal tone, until it sounded like a chant.
“The ogres!” Spikehollow shouted, finally managing to be heard. Again, he perched on the shoulders of a clansman, so the others could see him. “Quiet or the ogres will hear! Or the Dark Knights will hear! Dark Knights will come and catch Hurbear and Saro-Saro and Graytoes. The knights will-”
“No more knights! No more slavery!” Direfang said, standing, and they all hushed to listen to his words. The hobgoblin felt a little uncomfortable, seeing all of them looking up at him, some holding their breath as if they expected him to say something memorable and momentous.
“Listen to Direfang,” Saro-Saro said.
“South,” Direfang announced. “Stay together, stay safe, then go south.”
“But the ogres?” one of the goblins worried aloud.
“And the minotaurs and the Dark Knights,” Direfang added. “Dangerous, all of those creatures, and men.”
“What about dragons?” That comment came from someone in Spikehollow’s clan. “Dragons are bad. Saw a dragon to the north once. There could be dragons to the south.”
“Could be dragons anywhere,” an old goblin added.
“Everything dies sooner or later,” Hurbear said. “So Direfang says south, and to the south the clans will go.” He set his fists against his waist and nodded, signaling his approval of Direfang’s plan. “Hurbear’s clan will go south with Direfang. The better air is to the south. Better to breathe away from the Dark Knights.”
“What lives to the south?” Moon-eye asked. His clan was originally from the northwest, and he’d never been farther south than Steel Town. “More Dark Knights? More ogres?”
“More dragons?” another asked.
“What lives to the south, Direfang?” Moon-eye persisted. “What sort of creatures?”
“Yes, what lies to the south?” Spikehollow interrupted.
They waited for Direfang to reassure them. He said nothing.
“Freedom!” Graytoes answered. “Blessed freedom lies to the south.”
They all nodded, murmuring to each other.
“Sleep first?” Hurbear wondered. “Or find water first?”
Direfang shook his head. “Ceremony first,” he declared. “Honor the dead burned this night in Steel Town. Then tomorrow, head south, find food and water along the way.”
Hurbear cleared his throat and pushed gently at the goblins near him. When he had a little clear space around him, he began. “The shell destroyed, fire cleansed, the spirit reborn.” Hurbear made a fist and placed it over his heart.
“Spirits reborn!” the goblins near him repeated. Brak and Folami thumped their bellies with the flats of their hands then started up a drumlike cadence joined by many of the others.
Hurbear raised his arms, fingers spread wide, and he turned west, pointing. “Spirits fly above Steel Town. Above pain. Above the great sad. Above clans left behind. Above all things.” He repeated the message as he turned in a circle, nodding to each of the compass points. “The passing comes to all goblins. The passing came to …”
“The child of Moon-eye and Graytoes.” Again, it was Direfang, claiming the right to speak first.
The remembrances continued for nearly an hour, judging by the position of the stars they could see and the continued lightening of the sky. While the goblins shared the memories of their many dead friends, Direfang only half paid attention. He climbed down from the rise and walked among them, looking for faces familiar to him, eyes locking on the red-skinned goblins in particular. There was no sign of Mudwort, so when the ceremony was finished, he returned to the rise so he could stand and be seen above the crowd.
“Where is Mudwort?” he finally asked, hoping that she finally would be found and come forward.
Her name was passed back through the crowd, and some of the goblins chattered about her.
“Mad, that one is.”
“Knew about the quake. Warned knights and goblins, Mudwort did. So not mad, mind not so sour.”
“Mind not spoiled and rotten.”
“Free because of the quake, free because of Mudwort.”
“Caught in Steel Town,” one finally answered. An oak brown goblin strode forward. He boasted a crooked nose and a thick, pale scar running across his forehead. “Gnasher of the Fish-Eater Clan,” he announced himself. “Saw Mudwort caught. The Dark Knight spell-weaver called forth a great wall of flame, hot as any death-fire. Mudwort dug beneath the fire wall and helped Twitch escape, but then Mudwort was caught.”
Another goblin came over. Her skin was the same hue, but more deeply scarred; she was of Gnasher’s clan. “Saw that too.” She thumped her chest for emphasis. “The wall of flame, it killed many slaves, but not so many as the quakes did. Maybe Mudwort died inside the wall of flame. Should have honored Mudwort in the ceremony. Could honor Mudwort now.”
Direfang’s aches and exhaustion all worsened in that moment, as if he’d been hit in the stomach by a mailed fist. “Mudwort is caught.” He wanted her counsel, needed her to help guide them out of Dark Knight territory by talking to the earth and discovering what stretched beyond the mountains to the south. And he needed her to find water. Mudwort was his friend, the wisest goblin he knew. And though he was free of Steel Town and did not want to go back there, neither did he want to leave her there if she had survived and was still alive. Without his protection, the knights might take revenge on her. And without her wisdom, he wondered how long he would last.
“How many more caught besides Mudwort?” Direfang wondered aloud, the half who did not race to follow him?
“Many. Lots,” Gnasher answered firmly. “Lots and lots caught behind the great wall of flame. Lots and lots left behind, still slaves. Lots were burned in the great wall of flame. Lots of slaves screamed and burned and died.”
“Slaves no more!” Saro-Saro waved his arm to get the assembly’s attention. “Freedom lies to the south. The better air is to the south. Forget the unfortunate left behind.”
“South now?” Brak and Folami asked in unison.
Direfang didn’t answer. He was listening to the faint call of a hunting bird and the soft growl of a big cat prowling in the hills above him. He registered the feel of the ground against the bottoms of his feet, the wild ground, different from Steel Town. The wind stirred the hair on the back of his neck and spun his own redolent scent around him.