The hobgoblin stepped away from Grallik and the priest then turned to address them sternly. “The Dark Knights did not give the slaves in Steel Town any such concessions. Never enough water. The slaves had such courtesies only rarely.”
Horace looked surprised at the hobgoblin’s vocabulary and command of the Common tongue. The words were not so polished as if they had come from a human mouth. There was a rasp to Direfang’s speech, but the language was recognizable.
“Dark Knights held no regard for slaves-no shoes, only scraps of clothes for some but not all. Food not fit for the pigs the knights kept in pens.” Direfang growled so loudly, the goblins nearby recoiled. “Slaves asked the Dark Knights for little, and slaves were usually granted nothing.”
Beyond the pen, the goblins were forming into clans and columns and lining up to follow the trail out of the village. The steam obscured some of them and made the scene grayer.
“I ask for water and to be clean,” said Horace with dignity. “Please, Foreman. I mended goblin upon goblin yesterday, and I will heal more today. I would mend you now while your arm can be saved-perhaps can be saved. In exchange I ask for very little. I ask for water.”
Direfang studied the priest. “The skull man uses words well. Uses the word asks, not demands, says please. The skull man knows that words make a difference. So mend this arm, please, skull man, and then follow Brak to the lake.” The hobgoblin indicated the young goblin standing to his right.
Direfang used his right hand to lift his left arm and set it on the top rail of the fence then nodded to Horace, who approached. Aneas and Kenosh moved up behind the priest. Grallik stayed close by, close enough to watch.
“I will need water or preferably something much stronger, such as ale or rum. Do you have any strong drink here, Foreman Direfang?” Horace wiped the sweat off his face and met the hobgoblin’s stern gaze. “Can they, your goblin guards, get me something to cleanse your wound?”
Direfang translated the request to the goblin called Crelb, who hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave his post. The hobgoblin repeated the message, and Crelb finally left.
Horace spat on his fingers to clean the dirt from them, then prodded the area around Direfang’s wound, careful not to touch the actual gash that was purple and swollen and oozing. “You should have let me see to this yesterday. In hours it has worsened.”
Direfang offered no reply as the priest continued his poking.
“Does this hurt?”
The hobgoblin shook his head. “Once it hurt then nothing. Yesterday it hurt again but only a little, not much. Today nothing.” He looked at the sky and scowled. “The army must leave soon, skull man, hurry with this arm …”
“If I want water and my bath, yes?” Horace held his open left hand over the deep cut and gripped the hobgoblin’s wrist with the right. His shackles and chains made it difficult.
“Zeboim, mother goddess, this wound is grievous.” The sweat on Horace’s arm shimmered, and a glowing sheath formed just above his skin. It brightened from yellow to white, and motes of light appeared in the glow. At first the motes were the size of beetles, but in the passing of a few heartbeats, doubled in size and skittered down his arm and over the back of his hand, spilling down his fingers and onto Direfang’s arm.
Grallik expected the hobgoblin to show some reaction from experiencing divine magic, but Direfang didn’t blink, didn’t budge. He stood patiently as the lights sank into his skin. A moment more, and the magical sheath slid off the priest’s arm and became part of the hobgoblin’s skin. Suddenly Direfang smiled, opening and closing his left hand.
“You are not free of the infection yet, Foreman. Ah, the sentry returns.” Horace made a show of the difficulty of moving with his chains, stretching to reach the jug Crelb held out to him. “Foreman, if only you would …”
Direfang grabbed the jug with his right hand and passed it to the priest. Horace uncorked it and breathed in the smell. “Oh, this is very strong. And I’d wager very bad tasting. I wonder if it will make things worse.” He poured some into his other cupped hand and touched his tongue to the liquid. “Not poison. No, I can tell poison.” He proceeded to pour most of the contents on the cut, bathing the wound in the potent alcohol. “I can see bone, here, Foreman Direfang.”
Again, the hobgoblin offered no reply.
“The sword that cut you was not clean, Foreman Direfang. Not like a Dark Knight to have his blade dirty, but I suppose it was as much to be expected given the circumstances in the camp.” The priest rubbed a little of the alcohol on his hands, set the jug between his feet, and investigated the wound again. “Mother Zeboim, grant me the strength to save this limb.”
The rest of Horace’s words were foreign to Direfang, though he recognized them as the singsong uttering of a healing spell. The hobgoblin heard the goblin sentries chatter nervously behind him as the priest droned.
“Does the priest mean to kill Direfang?” Crelb whispered.
“No, he is magicking Direfang,” Brak corrected. “That is much more likely. Magicking Direfang to let the knight slaves out. Casting a spell on Direfang like the priests cast a spell on the slaves who stayed in Steel Town. But Direfang has a strong mind. It cannot be muddled, will not go sour.”
“Don’t like magic,” another goblin muttered. “Don’t like Dark Knight magic most of all. Magic makes the skin itch.” Direfang almost smiled, hearing the goblin scratch himself to illustrate.
“I don’t suppose you would tell me what they’re saying,” the priest mused as he worked on Direfang. His hands glowed again, brighter than before. He ran his thumbs along the edges of the wound. The other knights, Grallik included, continued to watch, as fascinated as the goblin guards.
“If the skull man wants to know what the goblins say, the skull man should learn the language.”
Horace let out a throaty chuckle. “I suppose Guardian Grallik and I will have to do just that if we’re to stay with you. And apparently you mean us to stay, else you wouldn’t have put us in these uncomfortable chains.” Horace’s thumbs smoothed at the hobgoblin’s skin as though he were smoothing the wrinkles out of a garment. “Will you supply a teacher for us, Foreman Direfang? Teach us the goblin tongue?”
The hobgoblin stared at his wound. Horace had distracted him with his talk. In the passing of a few heartbeats, his wound had closed, leaving a fresh scar behind. He felt a dull pain, which he welcomed because he’d not been feeling anything in the arm. Pain, instead of numbness, was good.
“Now lean down, will you?” Horace picked up the jug and splashed a little more alcohol on his hands, again making a show of the chains making it difficult for him to work his healing. “Farther. You’re too tall otherwise for me to get at that head gash. Hmm … looks like you were kicked by a horse.”
Direfang noticed that the priest’s eyes looked tired and red rimmed, more so than when he’d started. So the magic did exact a price. Horace wasn’t pretending. When the priest was finished, he pushed himself away from Direfang. Then he tilted the jug back and took a few swallows, draining it.
“Brak, take the skull man to the lake.” Direfang gestured to the empty jug. “That could hold water now. The slaves may have it for their wants.” The hobgoblin breathed deeply, feeling better with each passing breath. Then Direfang stepped away from the rail and turned to meet Grallik’s gaze. “The army leaves soon, and the slaves with it. The slaves could stay here, but there would be no safety in that.” He waved his repaired arm to indicate the village, pointing at the steam coming from some of the vents. “Mudwort says this is a bad omen. Only the blind would call it otherwise. This army leaves very, very soon. Wizard, skull man too.”