She searched their bodies to see if by some wonder either had possessed a waterskin or if there was something tasty in their pockets that she could give to Direfang when she found him. They had nothing.
She knew where her hobgoblin friend had been assigned that day. She had spotted him toiling in a winding, narrow side tunnel when she hauled out her fifth or sixth sack of ore. She followed the main tunnel down until she reached a branch that would take her to Direfang’s workstation.
The ground purred ominously as she went, and stone dust filtered down and caked her eyes. There were many piles of rocks and broken beams and crosspieces to wend her way around, and she stumbled and tripped more than once. Mudwort cursed in the old tongue; she was normally so sure-footed.
She squeezed through a crevice that hadn’t been there before the quake and paused to press her face against the wall. Water ran down the wall, but not the thin rivulets she often saw-no, a wide stream that thrilled her. She drank more than her fill, not stopping until she feared her belly would burst. Then she cupped her hands to the stream and splashed it over her, turning until her back was flat against the wall. The water eased the pain from the whip marks.
She thought she could stand like that forever. The stream of water was more pleasant than the infrequent rains and she did not have to share it with anyone. The water pooled around her feet and ran into a thick crack. Mudwort listened to the soft splash it made against her shoulders and neck and believed there was nothing more wonderful in all the world than that very spot in the accursed Nerakan mine. The glorious water, all hers. The knights would not be back for a long time. Oh, eventually they would use their priests and wizard to move the rocks and order the slaves back in with their picks and shovels. But that would take time because they had no digging beast anymore.
Perhaps it would take forever.
She momentarily forgot about the whip marks on her back and about Direfang, forgot she was a slave and that she was hungry and could well starve if she stayed put. She thought only about the glorious water and the way it felt running wetly over her. She stretched her bony arms above her head and let her fingers play in the water then touched the backs of her hands to the stone and felt the rocks stirring again.
Mudwort bent to the faint tremor, trying to discern a meaning in the gentle vibration that pulsed through the stone. The grumbling ground had caused so much destruction already, had made some tunnels barely passable, had made other tunnels not passable at all, and had killed so many goblins.
What more destruction could the ground demand?
She concentrated, able to put more effort into deciphering the words since the water had filled her and lulled her. She could hear distinct words, in her own language. Mudwort slipped back around to face the wall, held her breath, and pressed her nose and mouth against it.
“What say?” She’d not tried talking to the rocks before. And she did not really expect them to reply. Still, she put her ear to the stone, all the while reveling in the feel of the water sluicing over her. “What say? Please say again.”
She heard more words, soft yet sounding horribly urgent. A moment more and she realized she recognized the voice. It wasn’t the rock speaking, it was her friend Direfang, and somehow his words were being transmitted through the wall of the mine. Taking a last long gulp of water, she pushed away from the blessed stream and followed the narrow shaft.
Another turn, another short passage, and she caught the flicker of a lantern ahead. Direfang was holding the lantern in one hand and clawing at a jumble of rocks with the other. The ceiling had entirely collapsed on that part of the tunnel, and from behind the rubble came the cries of trapped slaves.
Direfang was nearly seven feet tall, the largest hobgoblin in the slave pens, easily twice Mudwort’s height. He had to stoop in a tunnel that was at best six feet high. His hairy dark gray hide was covered with chips of stone and dust, and there were places on his upper arms and chest where the hair had been ripped away and blood glistened fresh. His broad face was covered with dark splotches that would soon become ugly bruises, his pug nose and his chin were badly skinned, and the pair of trousers he wore-some of the hobgoblin foremen had clothes-were shredded.
“Mudwort help.” Direfang cocked his head, the side without an ear toward the goblin, and gestured with his hand that held a rock. “Mudwort!” It came out as an order, in a stern voice he typically reserved for the slaves he supervised, and Mudwort’s narrowed eyes and curled lip made it clear she did not like his tone. “Help now, Mudwort.” This repeated order was even sterner and punctuated with a growl.
Mudwort, still wonderfully wet and refreshed, glared at her friend and turned to face the collapsed tunnel he stood near. She did not pull out rocks, as Direfang continued to do, but studied them. For a moment she considered returning to the place where the water ran freely down the wall, then her gaze locked onto a large stone shot through with blood red veins. She touched it then another stone and another.
None of the rocks there felt different. Neither did the flat of the stone floor or the intact sections of tunnel walls she brushed with her hands. But the purring had stopped. She couldn’t ascribe any emotions to the stone, certainly not the nervousness she’d sensed before. They seemed to be … at peace, she decided after a moment. So the mountain was finally sated and the mine was done-done shaking. She released a great breath and closed her eyes in relief.
Mudwort didn’t see Direfang scowl at her, but she did hear him shuffle away and, with a tink, set his lantern down somewhere behind them.
She leaned forward until her chin touched the jumble of rocks. She tasted one, spitting out the dust that thickly covered it, then placed her damp palms against a few of the smoother stones.
“Here,” Mudwort pointed to a section as close to the ceiling as she could reach. “Rocks thin.” Mudwort ran her fingers over the rubble again to be sure, stretching as high as she could. Then she let out another deep breath and started plucking the smaller rocks out from a spot just over her head, careful not to cause a cascade that could bury her. She carried the rocks away from the collapsed pile, setting them against the wall near the lantern. She saw spatters of blood on the base of the lantern, starting to dry and turning dark, and she glanced at Direfang. Both of his clawed hands were bleeding from pulling at the rocks. Her back bled fresh too; she’d opened the whip marks with her stretching.
The lantern oil had burned out by the time they managed to create a hole in the rubble big enough for a lean hobgoblin to squeeze through. Though the mine was black as pitch, Mudwort and Direfang could still see well enough to help the first slave through, then another, one after the next. All of goblinkind saw reasonably well in the dark, but the lanterns made things easier, and they’d been relying heavily on them in the mine. One of the goblins on the other side also had a lantern and carefully passed it through. It cast an eerie glow on the debris and battered survivors.
Mudwort recognized only a few of the slaves. None of them mined in her tunnel and perhaps were not even from her pen. One she knew for certain, though, a pot-bellied older goblin named Saro-Saro. Direfang pulled him through the hole and roughly sat him down then turned to grab another one.
“Mudwort was right about the bad something coming to the mine,” Saro-Saro said. He brushed furiously at the stone dust covering his leathery hide. He couldn’t manage to get it all off, finally giving up with a disgusted grunt. His back and shoulders bled in numerous places, and a deep gash on his belly glistened in the light. “Squeezed through,” he told Mudwort as he pointed at the worst wound. “Hurt to squeeze through.” A sad expression claimed his face. “Squeezed bad and walked on the smashed ones. Walked on broken brothers.”