Goblin Nation

A STORM-TOSSED CITY

Direfang slept on the bluff near his spire, or rather he tried to sleep. His thoughts wouldn’t let him rest. He was thinking too much, mostly about Skakee, a young goblin he’d been fond of once and who he had sent away. She’d been helpful on the journey to the woods and had never caused any real trouble before. But she’d seriously hurt Rockhide and really had shown no remorse for doing so.

Such behavior couldn’t be tolerated in his city. His city? He shook his head. No, Grimstone was right about that. The city belonged to all of them.

He hoped Skakee was faring well. He’d never cared for Grimstone and didn’t worry over what happened to the pudgy goblin. But Skakee … maybe he should have handled the matter differently.

Direfang had visited Qel late the previous night. Rockhide had still been with her, sleeping soundly as the two of them talked. She’d said a few of the old goblin’s ribs had been broken and that the tip of his nose had been bitten off; what was left of it looked infected. Another chunk of flesh was missing from his cheek. His legs were terribly bruised from being kicked, and both of his ankles were sprained. She’d spent quite some time pouring her magic into him.

“More than one little goblin caused all these injuries,” she’d said. “Had you stopped the fight any later, the old one would have died. Pity they would pick on one of so many years.”

Direfang saw that Rockhide was shivering under a blanket, and he remembered feeling cold when Qel had tended the wounds he’d received from a bloodrager. The healing was painful too, he knew.

“The old goblin will live,” she’d told him as he stared.

“Rockhide,” Direfang said, wanting her to speak his name.

“Rockhide will live,” she corrected herself. “I have trouble remembering faces and names. But I want him-Rockhide-to stay here the rest of this day and tomorrow. I worry about the infection. It may spread, and I may need to use more spells.”

Qel’s home would be shared with Orvago in the new city; Direfang thought it best that both of the mystics from Schallsea stay together. And the site was near the home of a few trusted hobgoblins who served as both protectors and spies. Her home would not be as small as the goblin houses when it was finished; it needed to be big enough for the two to sleep in and to accept a few patients. Too, Direfang wanted her and the gnoll to be reasonably happy there. The fight again illustrated the importance of having healers in the city.

Grimstone had been wrong about that, Direfang reflected. The mystics were useful to the goblin nation.

Posts had been driven into the ground to mark where the walls would go, and the skins of two bloodragers had been stretched across half of the space to serve as a roof until something better took its place. Lines dug into the ground showed where two interior walls would go; he doubted that the other homes would have the same luxury of divided space.

Direfang himself had not selected a spot to build a home, nor chosen goblins or hobgoblins to share it with. He didn’t know if he would ever. He’d had too many walls in his life-in the mines in Steel Town then being relegated to one of the pens where the knights had kept all the slaves. On one hand he thought it would feel good to have a building he could call home, a sense of ownership and a place of safety, where he could keep the chest filled with maps and books. But he also liked the idea of living out of doors, with nothing surrounding him. Some of the clansmen were digging burrows into the ground rather than building something they called a “too-human home.”

He rose and stretched, shaking off thoughts of Skakee, Rockhide, and Qel, and deciding he might sleep later-if sleep would come. It was the hazy time before dawn, and the wind was the strongest it had been since they settled there. It blew warmth across his face, with all the small branches clacking and making so much noise he couldn’t hear the lapping of the river. He headed east, along the edge of the bluff, staring at goblins upon goblins sleeping curled close to one another. He listened to their snores as he threaded his way through them-snores loud enough to be heard over the noise made by the wind. Only a few dozen goblins within his line of sight were up, either getting an early start on the day or not yet having gone to sleep. One waved to him. There was a sea of bodies, and more beyond the range of his vision.

All of it a dream and a nightmare, Direfang thought.

So many goblins in one place could never be captured like the small tribes and clans had been by the minotaurs and ogres in the Nerakan mountains. There were simply too many goblins for any force to capture, overcome, or enslave.

Safety and freedom in numbers, he’d preached to the horde when he first urged them to stay together. As he looked around, there were more than he’d ever anticipated. He hoped Mudwort was not calling more.

There would be room enough for them, certainly-Direfang had seen a map, and the forest looked as though it went on forever. But more goblins meant more chattering, more fights, more trouble finding food. He held his hand to his forehead.

Would Skakee be all right? he wondered.

He passed homes in various stages of construction. There were as many different styles of buildings as there were clans. The closest one to the edge of the bluff was nearly complete and resembled the tavernkeeper’s in Steel Town because the logs that formed the walls stood on end. It lacked windows, though a charcoal-drawn square on the logs on the west side indicated where one might be cut. The door was merely an opening with a deer hide hanging across it. The roof was crooked, made of branches woven together with vines and pitched like the tavernkeeper’s had been, high and sharp. The roof rattled in the wind, and he knew that the snores seeping out from behind the deerskin had to be loud because he heard them clearly.

A tent had been pitched close by, patched with animal hides, and tilted to one side. A corner of it was loose and flapped like a one-winged bird trying to take off. Several Skinweavers were sleeping inside, a small black pot sitting just beyond the entrance. Direfang wondered if they had boiled elf heads inside the pot.

A little farther on, Direfang saw a group of homes that were essentially lean-tos. Impatient members of the Flamegrass clan had built them quickly and haphazardly, unwilling to spend more time on something more substantial. Despite the time they’d spent chopping trees and clearing sections of ground, only a few dozen homes were essentially finished. It would take months, the hobgoblin knew, before there were homes for everyone.

“Months and months,” he muttered to himself, pausing to stare down the bluff. “Maybe years.” On a wide stretch of bank, some of the Fishgatherers had started to build one large building that would likely house twenty or more of their clan. It boasted a foundation made of stones they’d pulled from the shallows of the river. Logs lay near it, but not even one wall was started. The clan slept between the foundation and a stand of cattails that bent almost flat in the wind.

He felt a drop of rain and looked up. More drops hit his face. He closed his eyes and relished the feel of wetness, until the rain started to come down harder. It rat-a-tat-tatted against his hide and the lean-tos, and it woke up goblins sleeping outside unfinished dwellings. It pattered against the ground that had for long days been hard and dusty. In fact, it hadn’t rained for days, and so many of the ferns and wildflowers were wilted and brittle.

Direfang held his arms out, welcoming the deluge and a chance to wash the stink from his clothes and hide. He had a brief pang of worry over some of their supplies, but most were in chests-all of his books and maps were safe, all of it was tucked beneath the mushroom canopies of the big willows.

Many of the goblins did not share his gladness for the rain. Many howled and cursed as they scattered, looking for shelter. The Fishgatherers found it beneath an overhang of the bluff-Direfang watched them scurry there; then, though, a few of them raised their hands to the dark sky and danced.

The slap of goblin feet competed with the pattering of rain as the goblins scrambled for cover. He slowly turned to survey the bedlam, seeing a bunch of goblin fingers poking out from under the tent in an effort to hold it down. The loose corner flew free, and more of the tent flapped wildly. Nearby, goblins crowded into the home with the tilted, high-pitched roof.

Lightning flashed and in that instant, Direfang saw goblins who had been sleeping in a big oak scramble down the trunk. Another flash of lightning was followed by an unusually loud clap of thunder. He felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. Some of the younglings cried in fear, and their parents told them it was nothing to worry over. It was not like when the earth bucked in Neraka, and the volcanoes erupted. It was merely a storm.

A scream followed another flash, and Direfang watched the home that had been built to resemble the tavernkeeper’s totter. Goblins spilled out from behind the deerskin door just as the walls fell apart and the roof started to slowly cave in.

The rain pelted sideways, and the Flamegrass lean-tos took flight, goblins frantically trying to grab at the hides and sections of thatch that were careening across the open ground. He stood and watched helplessly. The rain was a solid sheet of gray that had turned patches of dirt into wide puddles and bent the smallest trees. He saw shapes in the gray, goblins scrambling from one place to the next, and in between gaps in the thunder, he heard their curses and the whoops of some of the younglings who seemed not to mind all the water.

The rare torrent went on for what seemed like a long, long time. At one point the wind blew so hard, it took Direfang to his knees. Then it suddenly lessened to a gentle patter, the bluster gone out of the storm. The sky was still dark, dawn held at bay by the still-thick clouds. Direfang’s eyes were keen, and he didn’t need the light to see.

Most of his city was in ruins. All it had taken was a great storm.

Walls had collapsed, roofs had blown away, and there were no traces of some of the lean-tos. Direfang padded toward Qel’s and discovered the bloodrager pelts torn loose from the posts. But Orvago had stopped the wind from stealing them; he and Qel held them around Rockhide in an attempt to keep the old goblin dry.

A few of the homes-or rather the frames of homes-had withstood the onslaught, but as Direfang had noted earlier they were better constructed than the majority. They were the property of the Boarhunters, the goblins who had seemed practiced at cutting down trees.

Another home not far from the edge of the bluff appeared to be unharmed. He headed toward that place. It was small and squat, the logs that made up its sides were short and rose little more than two feet off the ground. The roof was a tightly woven mass of grasses and thin branches.

“Mudwort?”

Direfang knelt at the entrance. He’d seen her building it, with the help of Sully, who she’d somehow coerced and directed into doing her bidding. The building was unlike any of the others, and he peered inside what passed for the door.

“Mudwort?” It was so dark inside that he almost didn’t see her. But then the shadows moved, and her eyes glowed red for an instant. She was alone. Where most of the goblins craved companionship and wanted to share their dwellings, Mudwort preferred solitude. They were alike that way, at least, Mudwort and Direfang.

“Was sleeping, Direfang.”

“Not in the storm. The storm woke everyone.” His eyes began to distinguish between the shadows, and he realized the floor of her home was not level like all the others. It was a bowl-shaped depression that was dug a few feet deep. That was why the walls outside were so short, her home was dug halfway into the earth. Inside, Mudwort could stand and raise her hands up and still not touch her ceiling.

Inside it was dry.

Direfang crawled in.

Mudwort puffed out her chest. “Direfang brings in the rain,” she sneered.

He smelled the muskiness of her and the richness of the earth too. He also smelled an assortment of herbs she’d gathered and was drying along one wall. Folded next to them was a tunic on a leather satchel, and a small pouch Direfang knew was filled with sapphires taken from the same dwarven village where Graytoes had found her baby. There was a polished wood cup and a few other small items that were inconsequential yet comprised Mudwort’s treasure.

He sat opposite her, discovering the bowl was deep enough that he did not have to hunch his shoulders.

“The city, Mudwort, is-”

“In pieces. Saw it fall. Saw the wind take the roofs and knock down the walls.” She shook her head and put on a sad face, though Direfang suspected her expression was ingenuous. “But saw Graytoes and Umay find shelter. Saw Grallik and Sully and-”

“Grallik lives with Sully.” Direfang had forced the wizard upon the hobgoblins, wanting him closely watched and at the same wanting him kept safe.

“The house of Sully, though not done, is not undone,” Mudwort finished saying. “Did not see a goblin hurt. Not hurt bad. Just the buildings.” She puffed out a breath, blowing dirt around Direfang’s knees. “The storm was not so bad then, Direfang.”

He intended to ask her how she saw the storm wreak such havoc when she was apparently inside, dry in her bowl. But he saw her fingers were dirty, and when he looked especially close, he noticed indentations in the earth where her fingers had been digging. She’d used her magic to watch it all.

“No, the storm was not horrible. But the homes were.” He craned his neck this way and that, looking at the sturdy construction of Mudwort’s little house.

“Built bad, most of them were,” Mudwort agreed.

“But not this one.”

She grinned wide.

He didn’t say anything for a while, listening instead to the soft patter of the rain against the roof and the slap of goblin feet, as well as the muted curses of those who had lost their homes. A gust of wind brought a little rain inside, wetting his back. It added a fresh scent that he breathed deeply.

“But not this one,” he repeated. “In the before time, Mudwort”-that was what they had called the time previous to their capture and enslavement by the Dark Knights-“did your clan live in homes like this? In the foothills of Neraka by the river branch?” He knew a little of where she had come from before being captured by ogres and subsequently sold. But she was secretive and didn’t speak much of herself or her past.

She shook her head. “Lived in caves,” she said.

“Where did Mudwort see such a home as this and know how to build such a thing?”

Her eyes clouded.

“Where, Mudwort?”

She dropped her chin to her chest, so she didn’t have to look him in the eyes.

“Mudwort.”

“In the earth,” she said finally, blowing out another breath and stirring the dirt. A goblin ran by the entrance to her home, throwing mud up behind his feet. Another chased him, dangling a shrunken elf head from his hand: just younglings playing. “Looking through the earth. Saw a clan with homes like this, a clan from a long while ago. Decided this home should look the same as one of those from long ago.”

Direfang ran his fingers across the bowl floor. The earth was hard and smooth, as if it had been sculpted, though there was loose dirt in the very center, probably from Mudwort using her magic. The floor of her home reminded him of a food bowl he’d watched a potter in Steel Town craft and later paint.

“Mudwort was smart to build such a fine, dry home.”

Again the red-skinned goblin beamed with pride.

“All of the homes in this city should be so fine.”

Mudwort opened her mouth and shook her head. “Direfang-”

“All will be so fine and dry.” He crossed his arms as he thought it over, deciding. “Mudwort’s magic will make many, many bowls like this. And Mudwort and Sully will teach the clans how to build homes just like this.”

Mudwort glared at him. “No, this home is special, Direfang.”

“All the homes in this city will be special, Mudwort. Then the storms will be no bother.”

She sputtered and shook her head, raised a hand as if to make a gesture, then irritably drew it down on her lap.

“When the rain stops,” Direfang said, turning and crawling out of her home. His broad shoulders scraped against the narrow opening. “When the rain stops, Mudwort will start teaching.”

She slammed her fist against the earth the moment he was gone.