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Direfang was helping the last trapped goblin, one cradling a broken arm. Then he pulled down a dozen more stones so a larger hobgoblin could fit through with two ore sacks she refused to leave behind. “How many smashed?” Direfang demanded of the final survivor to be saved.

She shrugged and positioned the ore sacks over her shoulders, shook her head brusquely, and started up the tunnel that would take her by Mudwort’s blessed stream.

“How many?” Direfang repeated to the goblins clustered around him. There were more than two dozen who had crossed from the other side.

Saro-Saro sucked on his lower lip. “Broken? Smashed? Many, Direfang. Too many goblins have been smashed and broken. Should have listened to Mudwort. Should have believed Mudwort about the very bad something.”

“Quake,” Direfang replied. “It’s called an earthquake, Saro-Saro. And knowing it was coming would not have changed anything. The taskmasters would still have sent goblins to the mines. Goblins would still have been smashed.” He paused, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, it probably smashed a lot of Dark Knights too.”

“Many knights dead too,” said Mudwort. “Many, many.”

“Not enough of them Dark Knights,” Saro-Saro grumbled. “Too many goblins smashed, broken. Not enough knights broken.” He spit a gob of mud out on the ground. “Not enough water.” He looked up the tunnel. The hobgoblin with the ore had trundled out of sight. Then he looked up at Direfang, cocking his head. Saro-Saro obviously didn’t want to stay in the mine any longer, yet he didn’t want to go outside either. “Ore lost,” he said. “Back there. Left it. Trouble, trouble, trouble.”

Direfang reached out a clawed hand and almost touched Saro-Saro then gestured up the tunnel. “Go outside. Safer there. There will be no trouble for escaping the mine and leaving the ore behind. All must go now. Make certain a knight does some mending, one of the skull men.”

“Yes, find a skull man.”

The Skull Knights were usually quick to heal goblins and hobgoblins injured in the mine-not out of any sense of compassion or because their priestly order required them to help, but for the economic reasons. If they let the goblins die, there would be a smaller slave pool. A smaller mining force meant less ore would be mined each day, and that would not be acceptable to Marshal Montrill. Direfang knew the Skull Knights would see to their own first, but once Saro-Saro and the others got outside, they would eventually be helped.

“Hurry,” Direfang ordered. “Hurry now. Take Leftear too. The skull men help heal.”

Saro-Saro glanced at the goblin with a broken arm then gave Direfang an uncertain look. “Trouble, trouble, trouble,” he muttered. “Should have listened to Mudwort.” Then he turned and headed up the tunnel, the rest of the freed goblins and the other hobgoblin slowly following him.

When they were gone, Direfang picked up the lantern and checked the oil, turning the wick down to conserve the light.

Mudwort watched the rescued miners as they headed toward her precious stream, knowing they would stop and drink and enjoy the water that she thought of as her own discovery.

“Mudwort goes first.” Direfang interrupted her thoughts. He pointed with his free hand toward the gaping hole through the rubble. “Help find more goblins not smashed. Do not let the mountain win by keeping the bodies.”

He spoke to her in the goblin tongue. She knew he was fluent in man’s language-perhaps in others too. He’d been around men longer than she had, practically raised as a slave, he’d told her once. He had escaped and been recaptured more than once. Mudwort knew that with a little effort she could learn much more of man’s ugly speech. But she had more important uses for her mind.

“Mudwort goes first,” he repeated.

With a sigh, knowing she could not refuse her only friend, Mudwort thrust the thought of the cool water to the back of her mind, climbed up the rubble and through the hole, and waited on the other side for Direfang. She sniffed the air, finding it fusty and dust-filled and choking. She wanted to be in the water or outside where the air was better, looking down the mountainside and delighting in the destruction Steel Town had suffered. She cringed when she heard some rocks tumble and saw stone dust filter down from the ceiling. She half expected to be buried by a cave-in, but only a few rocks were disturbed as Direfang forced his broad shoulders through the gap and joined her, his lantern held gingerly in one hand.

He stank of sweat and blood, and she moved away from him but found the air no better a short distance ahead. She reached her left hand to the wall and gingerly touched the stone, then pressed her palm against it before moving deeper and repeating the gesture. Once, she put her ear to a spot, but heard nothing other than Direfang’s breathing and the pounding of her heart. At another place she paused and put her mouth to the wall where a rivulet of water ran down from an underground stream just overhead. A half mile later, they stopped where a shaft had collapsed. Caught in the rocks were easily a dozen slaves, arms and legs protruding at sickening angles, picks and scraps of canvas from ore sacks in the mess.

Blood pooled at the base, and Direfang stepped in the sticky puddle when he tugged on a pick until it came loose suddenly and brought several chunks of stone down near them. He stepped back again to get a better look at the collapse.

“Tarduk!” Use care, Mudwort warned. She sensed that the mass might be unstable and could tell that at its top was a slab of ceiling filled with thick cracks. She tipped her chin up and got Direfang’s attention. Another crack appeared and thickened as they watched, spreading in all directions. “All smashed, the goblins here. All dead, Direfang. Nothing to save.”

“But Direfang could break the dead to save the spirits.” He made a move toward the wall of rubble again, bowed his head almost reverently, then reached out and clutched an arm protruding from the jumble of rocks. He tore it off, and the next and the next, flinging the limbs against the wall behind him. Then he made a move to start grabbing the rocks to clear the corridor but stopped when Mudwort tugged at him and shook her head, mouthing smashed smashed smashed.

To convince him to leave that place alone, she touched the rocks warily, avoiding the jutting limbs that looked as though they were grasping at her.

She continued brushing across one rock after another, finding one chunk especially smooth and dark and with a winding red vein that suggested a rich ore content.

“Thick here, this collapse,” she told Direfang after several moments. “Too thick. Rocks deep behind here. Rocks forever.”

The hobgoblin stayed an arm’s length away but held the lantern close. A line of drool spilled over his lower lip and onto the floor. “Goblins trapped behind it, dead or not.”

“Maybe,” Mudwort admitted. “But nothing to be done now.”

Direfang snarled. “Later, then.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe. Come back with more help later. Dig the goblins out.”

Mudwort entertained the notion of leaving the tunnel right then and visiting her wonderful stream on the way to looking down on the Dark Knights’ ruined camp again. “Later come back, Direfang. With more goblins to help dig out the dead.”

Direfang turned, straightening and knocking his head against the ceiling. He snarled again and stooped to retrace his steps until they came to a place where another shaft bisected the main one. There was a collapsed section several yards ahead that did not completely seal off the tunnel. He crept closer.

There was blood on the wall, streaks that could have been made by goblins and hobgoblins squeezing themselves through. Direfang would not be able to fit through that tight spot, so Mudwort turned to retrace her steps.

Then she heard the tink of him setting the lantern down and the crunch of rocks being moved out of the way.