The last statement made Grallik snort derisively. Many goblins knew there were pure, clear streams in the mountains. But there were ogres, too, in those mountains, and both priests mentioned the terrible ogres again and again.
When the priests were finished with their divine magic, the few knights posted as guards had a more docile crowd of prisoners.
The Ergothian Skull Knight reported to the wizard. “Guardian Grallik, the divine incantations we cast are strong and persuasive, but they are not all-encompassing. Some of the slaves will shrug them off before morning, and we will have to refresh the spells. Fortunately most of … these pitiful creatures have been cowed by the mines and the whips. The incantation will reinforce their low esteem and dwell inside them for a long, long while.” He shook his head as if clearing some cobwebs. “Our spells are taxing and will limit the healing we can perform the rest of this night.”
“But the spells were necessary,” Grallik said.
“Aye, Guardian.” The Ergothian nodded good night and made his way to the new infirmary. Moments later, the other Skull Knight followed.
The wizard stood silent for some time, watching the slaves milling, the tavern man and his son constructing a corner of a pen, and the knights patrolling along the east border of the slave area. He looked for the red-skinned goblin, finally spotting her. She was ruddy with health, though she looked overly thin. Her elbows and knees protruded as if her skin were stretched too tight over her bones. Somehow she’d acquired a scrap of cloth, which she was wearing like a tabard. There was something about her that intrigued him … something, not only her ability to predict the quake.
Her head looked too large for her neck, her shoulders exaggerated. She might have been beautiful in goblin terms or horribly ugly. Grallik knew so little about the creatures.
She stared back at him, unblinking and with an unreadable expression. Grallik wondered if she had a name-if any of them had names, for that matter. The other goblins gave her a little space, perhaps out of respect. Were the camp not in such chaos, Grallik thought he might approach her and try to communicate with the slave. He wanted to know how she guessed the second quake was coming and how she had moved the earth under his fire wall so a goblin could escape. Did she really do that? Or had his mind been playing tricks? Could she tell him anything about the strange behavior of the volcanoes?
Did she have some divine spark like the Skull Knights? Was she a shaman to whom magic had been born, as in some men?
He’d been born with an arcane spark, but it had taken years of cultivation to master various spells. It seemed to come so naturally to the Skull Knights and, perhaps, to the red-skinned goblin. The question continued to preoccupy him: Was magic stronger in some creatures? Strong enough that it came naturally and without effort? The red-skinned goblin had no tomes, powders, or talismans, yet she had some power.
“Are you a creature of magic?” He spoke the question aloud, knowing not one of the goblins could hear him.
The rational part of the wizard, that part that had studied under high-ranking Thorn Knights and, before them, Black Robe masters, believed that the most powerful spells-the most powerful spellcasters-were molded by diligent study and practice. But if he’d heard her correctly, if she had predicted the quakes, and if he’d truly seen her part the earth beneath his flames with her fingers, then that red-skinned goblin was a shaman with some sort of primal power.
He felt the brush of something against his scarred hand, and it sent a shiver through him. He glanced down and saw that a silk handkerchief, singed and dirtied, had floated on the breeze and touched him. He blinked and looked back to the slaves. The red-skinned goblin had melted into the throng.
17
Saro-Saro sat cross-legged on a patch of dirt in the shadow of the rise. He scratched at the ground with his narrow, crooked fingers, drawing stick figures and trees then erasing them. He brushed his hands on his threadbare tunic, which had belonged to a child in camp who had outgrown it. Little more than a rag, it was filthy and sweat stained, but it was still better than what most of the goblins wore.
Saro-Saro tipped his head back and sniffed. The air was dry, the clouds high and thin, holding no hint of rain. “Stink,” he pronounced. “Not so bad as Steel Town, though.” He opened his mouth, waggled his tongue, and gulped in the air. Then he returned his attention to digging in the ground in earnest. Moments later, he was rewarded by finding a thick grub. Like a prize, he held it up and made sure some of his fellows saw his treat. Then he popped one end in his mouth and bit it off, sucking on the juice before finishing it.
The goblins and hobgoblins had spent the day in the foothills, sleeping, tending to their injured, and searching for food, namely grubs, insects, and roots. Direfang wanted to return to Steel Town for better food, water, and the remaining slaves, but as of the previous night, he had no support.
It was not that the escaped slaves didn’t want to rescue their brothers, they just didn’t want to do it that night. They’d run far and were suffering, and Direfang’s words could not inspire them. Many of them were too exhausted to go any farther, and some simply could not because of their injuries. So Direfang posted sentries, while Moon-eye chattered worriedly about ogres and minotaurs until he fell asleep.
Though they searched hard in the immediate area, they found no water. But there was juice in the grubs and millipedes that were plentiful several inches down in the earth, and that helped.
When the sun started to set and the goblins showed signs of restlessness, Direfang tried again to rouse them.
“Hobgoblins, goblins, are still in Steel Town,” Direfang said.
“Mudwort still there,” Saro-Saro added.
“Food, water, clothes, all those good things are in Steel Town too,” the hobgoblin continued. “All of those things could be Saro-Saro’s and Brak’s and Folami’s.”
“Moon-eye’s too,” Graytoes cut in.
“Very thirsty,” Moon-eye added.
“Thirsty,” Saro-Saro admitted. “Bug juice is not enough.”
“Moon-eye’s Heart needs water,” said the one-eyed goblin.
“Thirsty, but not stupid. Only goblins with sour, mad minds would go back to that hell place,” another countered.
“Not go either,” Spikehollow decided. “Maybe stay here and live. Or go south and live.”
Rescuing their fellow slaves simply didn’t motivate them, Direfang realized. He had tried to stir them up with words of revenge and retribution, but he got better results with his persistent references to the water and food in Steel Town.
“Thirsty,” Saro-Saro repeated, waving his spindly arms around to quiet those nearest to him. He held up the skin of a grub he’d sucked empty. “Hungry for better things.”
Direfang tried appealing to their pride. “Goblins can be enslaved but not be defeated,” the hobgoblin said. “Now there are too few knights, too many goblins.” He talked about how easy it would be to crush the Dark Knights who had treated them so cruelly for so long. It would be easy to take all the water and food and supplies they wanted.
“Unprepared the Dark Knights will be,” Direfang said. “So very busy cleaning up Steel Town and tending the wounds of the hurt ones. The Knights will never expect the goblins to come back, fight.”
By that time he had persuaded most of the escaped slaves, with only a handful still grumbling their objections to his plan.
Direfang selected thirty goblins from among those who volunteered to accompany him. Then, after thinking it over, he ordered most of the others to follow him and the volunteers at a distance as they made their way back to the camp.
“But not all the way. Not yet. While it is dark, can be quiet and fast,” he said. “Later comes the attack, when the clouds are thickest. Be quiet and be fast and be strong.”