“Direfang!” Spikehollow stomped his foot irritably in a puddle.
“Mudwort must be listened to. Mudwort predicted the quakes,” Direfang said softly. “Mudwort knew the mountains would break.”
“Hope this next mountain does not break too,” Spikehollow said ruefully, closing his eyes and leaning back against the mountain slope, pretending to sleep some more.
Direfang did not have to pretend. Sleep claimed him easily.
After hours had passed without the rain letting up, Direfang woke and made an attempt to take stock of what was left of his army. He could better see them that morning, after a night of rinsing and cleansing. Well, it felt like morning just because he finally could boast a good sleep, but he couldn’t say for certain what time of the day it was. There were still only clouds overhead-gray rain clouds and grayer clouds of ash and whatever else the volcanoes had belched up from the earth. His lungs still burned, but the ache had lessened, so he knew all the other goblins and hobgoblins had to be feeling better too. He listened to their chatter, finding some hopeful messages in their conversation. But he also heard a grimness and sadness.
When they’d left Steel Town, there’d been well more than one thousand of them, possibly as many as two thousand. And though some had wandered away during the trek south, the hobgoblin still had more than one thousand following him. He guessed that at best there were five hundred left. Even given that some had gone with Hurbear and his clan, that meant that more than half had been lost to the volcanoes.
The journey toward the Plains of Dust had cost a high, high price.
To his surprise, it hadn’t claimed Moon-eye and Graytoes. Somehow the pair had managed to make it across crevices that other goblins had died trying to traverse. He watched Moon-eye still fawning over his mate, smoothing at her face and singing softly in her ear, the only song the one-eyed goblin knew.
Low sun in the warm valleys
All goblins watch the orange sky
Looking for shadows of ogres
Knowing the time’s come to die
Direfang looked up and to the south, seeing through the gloom and rain the glowing, red-orange tops of the three volcanoes and rivers of lava still streaming down two of them. Steam rose up from the craters, the rain cooling the magma.
“All goblins watch the orange sky,” he mused. “Knowing the time’s come to die.” He turned when he heard a scrabbling sound behind him. Mudwort was climbing a mountain path, not much of a path, more a trail for goats. Direfang looked at the ground at the base of the path, noting a circular worked stone, old and with ancient symbols carved in it.
“Don’t think there’s anything to eat up there,” said a hobgoblin called Bug-biter, who had stolen up behind him. Barely past the youngling stage, she stood at his side, also watching Mudwort. “Not even bugs. The rain would have washed all the juicy bugs away. There’s only tired legs to be had up there. Tired, tired legs and aching stomachs.”
“Safety is up there,” Direfang proclaimed, raising his voice and repeating himself loudly so all the goblins near him could hear and spread the word. “The Maws of Dragons continue to disgorge the fire.” He pointed north. “Not safe here.”
“Maybe it’s not safe anywhere,” Bug-biter snarled. Still, she lowered her eyes respectfully and nodded that she would follow Mudwort, who was already several yards ahead. Bug-biter let out a great sigh and nudged Brak to join her.
Brak did not move.
Bug-biter threw back her head and howled. “No more dead!” she shouted. “No more dead to the Maws of Dragons and the whips of Dark Knights. No more dead to an angry earth.”
She dropped next to Brak, as did Direfang. Despite the rain that had rescued so many others, the hobgoblin was sorry to see the ash thick around Brak’s unmoving lips and nose.
“Dead because there was no more air to breathe,” Bug-biter said bitterly. She grabbed Brak’s left arm and with a mighty tug tore it loose. “Don’t want the spirit to come back here to this body.” She tossed the arm away, then, with nary a backward glance, turned and climbed after Mudwort.
While most of the goblins were trudging up the trail, Direfang lingered with the three Dark Knights and a small group of goblins who didn’t care to budge. He picked up a fist-sized rock and indicated that Grallik should stretch out his chains, then he began striking a link near the wizard’s right wrist. After several blows, the link parted, and he worked on Grallik’s ankle shackles. Next he turned to the priest’s chains then handed the priest the rock and pointed to Kenosh.
Horace started hitting Kenosh’s chains, his effort clumsy.
Direfang turned to a small group of goblins huddled together, who were reluctant to head up another mountain. “Safer up there,” he insisted. “Above the rivers of fire and closer to good air. Probably no food.” He would not lie to them. “Probably nothing at all up there but more rocks. But Mudwort says it’s where we should go, and that is important.”
One of the goblins crossed her spindly arms in front of her chest. “Tired of climbing, Direfang. Glad to be free, and glad to be alive. But tired of climbing. Why go up the mountain, only to slide down it again on the other side? Easier, Spikehollow says, to go around. Easier is better.”
“But look, Spikehollow is climbing.” Direfang pointed up the treacherous trail. The goblins were making their way around sharp spires that looked like teeth. “Spikehollow is not going around.” He bent and plucked the stone out of the priest’s hand and helped him hammer at Kenosh’s chain. After a few solid whacks, Kenosh was free. “These men are not going around.” He glared at the Dark Knights, daring them to disagree.
Direfang had not been speaking in the Common tongue, so they didn’t know what he had said. But Grallik guessed well enough at the meaning and, with a deep sigh, he turned and started up the trail. Kenosh was slow to follow him.
“Skull man?” Direfang spoke in the human language.
Horace ran his fingers over the top of his head and let out a whistling sound between his clenched teeth. “I am not a man built for this ordeal, Foreman Direfang. But I have managed to make it this far. If you want us all to visit God-shome, fine. Just don’t expect me to be fast about it.”
“Godshome?”
“Aye, Foreman Direfang, that is where the little red-skinned goblin is leading you.” The priest took a despairing look up the mountainside, brushed at the burned spots on his trousers, and gamely started moving. “Godshome. A place I suspect no one has visited for more than a long time.”
The goblins gathered at the base debated vigorously among themselves. Then one or two started after the knights with the rest quickly but grudgingly following behind.
“Godshome.” Direfang did not like the sound of the place. He didn’t care for Krynn’s gods because Krynn’s gods had never cared for goblinkind. He took one last look around the narrow valley, spotting a soft, orange glow in the distance and wondering if the rivers of fire were coming after them.
“Safer up higher,” he told himself. “Safer at Godshome.”
34
It took more than a day to reach the top of the mountain. After a few hours, the rain had turned into a soothing drizzle, and the drizzle didn’t stop until long hours after that. At times groups of goblins rested because someone’s legs gave out. Direfang carried one of the smaller goblins who’d been reluctant to climb. The knee and ankle of her left leg were swollen, and the hobgoblin said he would ask the priest to mend her ailments once they were at the top.