The Rebellion

13

As the pyre burned steadily, Direfang studied the Dark Knight patrols until he had their dull and predictable schedule memorized. He tried to calculate how many knights were healthy and able to fight-about one hundred, he guessed. There were about two thousand goblins and hobgoblins in the pens.

He’d earlier overheard the wizard say that roughly one-third of the slaves and one-third of the Dark Knights had died in the quake and that another third of the Dark Knights were injured, some severely. Many of the slaves were also injured. One of the Skull Knights would be visiting the pens soon, and those with the mildest injuries would heal quickly.

Two thousand slaves to one hundred healthy Dark Knights. The numbers were in the goblins’ favor. Of course the numbers always had been in their favor. The goblins and hobgoblins were just too beaten down to resist. And the threat of the wards and the fiery, killing glyphs, that was a decisive factor.

It was nearly midnight, and word had spread through all the pens that Direfang was planning an escape. Only a few dozen volunteered to go with him, and many more tried to talk Direfang and the others out of their foolish notion.

“Slaves always,” Thema insisted. “Being a live slave is better than being dead.” She was a slight and rather pretty goblin, not yet scarred by too many years in the mine.

“Go out of Steel Town, and you will die,” Folami agreed. “Direfang die. Goblins following Direfang will die. All die.” Folami was a member of Krumb’s clan, and though he had not been a slave for more than a year, he shook nervously as he spoke at the very thought of striking out from the camp.

The whispering and argument had attracted the attention of the Dark Knights, but none knew enough of the goblin tongue to understand what was being said. The four knights who patrolled between the pens and the well watched the pens warily, however, and one of them regularly stepped close and, waving his sword, ordered the goblins to quiet down.

“Won’t go back in mine again,” Saro-Saro said, his rough voice kept soft. “Mudwort says the world will shake again. Won’t be in the mine when it shakes this time. Follow Direfang and die, go to the mine and die. All will die anyway, so follow Direfang. Maybe die faster. Maybe die free.”

“The Dark Knights will make all the slaves go back to the mine tomorrow,” Thema added. “Heard the knights talk. Heard a skull man say dig and dig and dig until the tunnels open for ore again. Dig and dig and dig until dead.”

“Not dig and dig if we escape this night.” Saro-Saro’s tone was defiant. The cagey old goblin’s eyes glimmered with a vitality they hadn’t shown in some time. His clan members stayed close, some of them excited at the prospect of escape, a few nervous and shifting, one scratching his arm so hard it bled.

“Escape when the quake comes,” Direfang repeated. He waved his hand for those nearby to be quiet as the knights came close again. When the knights moved on, he continued. “Escape tonight, maybe. Tomorrow, no later than that. Escape during quake. Been a slave too long, been a slave since-”

The hobgoblin stopped when he saw a Skull Knight approaching, flanked by two other knights. They carried a jug of water and strips of black cloth that must have come from the Dark Knights’ own tabards and cloaks. One of them carried a pouch with symbols on it, and Direfang knew from the watching the priests before that it contained medicinal herbs.

“Hush all of this talk of escape,” Saro-Saro advised. “Quiet for now.” He hurried toward the knights, pointing to the deep scratches on his stomach. Because of Saro-Saro’s age and standing in the pen, goblins parted for him, and he got to the railing quickly, eager to be the first patient.

“Good Saro-Saro is being helped. Easier for Saro-Saro to escape if healed.” This was muttered by an elder female goblin in Saro-Saro’s clan.

“Quiet the escape talk,” Thema and Folami snarled in unison at her.

“Dark Knights do not understand goblin speak,” the elder female hissed.

“A few do.” Direfang edged by the trio and was soon at Moon-eye’s side. The Skull Knight treated a half dozen goblins before it was Graytoes’ turn. None of the knights stepped inside the pen to minister to the injured slaves. They simply reached through the slats to dribble water on wounds, apply a few powders and crushed leaves, and wrap bandages. One beckoned the injured, making it clear that goblins who stayed in the center of the pen would not be treated.

“Help Moon-eye’s Heart,” the one-eyed goblin pleaded to the knights. The words were in the goblin tongue, and if the Skull Knight understood them, he gave no indication. Moon-eye hovered close, a hand darting out to reassure Graytoes then withdrawing, not wanting to get in the Skull Knight’s way.

Direfang watched the priest, who seemed emotionless. His gloved hands carefully pulled Graytoes closer until she was stretched out parallel to the slats and he could work on her more easily. The priest wrinkled his nose at the smell of the slaves, who washed only when it rained-a rare occurrence there; the pen always reeked with piles of dung. After a moment, the priest turned his head and made a gagging sound.

“Help Moon-eye’s Heart. Please help …”

“Stop your insipid nattering,” the Skull Knight demanded. He spoke in the common tongue of man, but Direfang, alone among the slaves, understood him perfectly. “Step back. All of you back. The smell of you is too strong.”

Direfang pulled some of the goblins farther away but made no attempt to tug Moon-eye, who clung to Graytoes.

“By the Dark Queen’s heads, this stench … it’s worse than the last time I came here.” Despite his revulsion, the Skull Knight continued to minister to Graytoes. “This one’s legs are bruised badly but not broken. Terribly painful, I would imagine.” He tugged off one of his gloves and held his hand above Graytoes’ legs. A soft orange glow spilled down from his fingers and spread across her hide. “This will make the swelling go down and cut the pain.” The Skull Knight looked up at Direfang, knowing the hobgoblin understood him. “You will explain this to them?” He indicated Graytoes and Moon-eye. “This goblin pair? Explain about her legs? She should not walk for a day, perhaps two. You will explain?”

“Yes,” Direfang answered.

“She is pregnant,” the Skull Knight observed.

“Many of them are,” one of his knight attendants said brusquely. “Marshal Montrill favors them breeding. The young grow fast. Breeding makes more slaves for the mine.”

“Yes, when they stop crawling and crying for mama and are old enough to walk,” the second knight agreed. “They’re not fit for anything until they stop nursing and can stand on their own. Fortunately, that doesn’t take too long.”

Most of the younglings were kept in the pen farthest south, where their cries were less likely to disturb the Dark Knights’ barracks. Graytoes would be moved there when her time came near.

“Good that so many of the females are pregnant now, eh?” one of the knights added. “We’ll need more very soon to replace the ones killed in the mine.” He, too, wrinkled his nose at the smell. He took a small jar out of a pocket in his tabard, pulled off the cork, and rubbed the salve under his nose. He passed it to his fellows, who gratefully followed suit.

“In fact, it is the pregnancy, more than her bruised legs, that weakens this one,” the Skull Knight continued. His ungloved hand rested on Graytoes’ stomach. “The child inside causes her distress, the position of it is wrong.”

“What say?” Moon-eye leaned close, looking back and forth between the Skull Knight and Direfang. “What say about Moon-eye’s baby? Say something about Moon-eye’s baby?”

The hobgoblin nodded reassuringly but didn’t translate.

“The issue inside of her might yet shift, but perhaps this one’s insides simply were not meant to carry a child,” the Skull Knight said, as much to himself as to anyone else. He glanced at his attendants. “But she cannot mine in this worrying condition. Not effectively in any event.”

“A parasite, she is, then,” one of the knights muttered. “Eating, drinking, and doing nothing. But too young to throw on the burning pile from the looks of her. A sorry parasite!”

Some of the goblins understood a few of the words, and those who didn’t caught the knight’s disparaging tone. They growled softly and spat; some shook their fists. But they made no move to draw closer. Any threatening action might end in a beating. And that would end the healing.

“A parasite, yes, which we cannot have,” the Skull Knight said flatly. “My magic cannot change the position of the baby inside her.” He splayed his fingers. “But my magic can remove the danger and bring her back to work as quickly as possible.”

A sickly green light centered on the back of the Skull Knight’s hand and darkened and spread, oozing down his fingers and sinking into Graytoes’ stomach. “Watch the slaves and be ready,” the priest cautioned. The knights straightened and wrapped their hands around the pommels of their swords.

Graytoes screamed and arched her back.

Moon-eyes shouted, “No!” and grabbed at the Skull Knight, trying to rip him away from his mate. But the priest was too strong and pushed Moon-eye off with his free hand. The green light brightened and covered all of her stomach.

The goblins in that area of the pen grew agitated, many of them shouting questions, some pressing forward and hurling threats at the Skull Knight, if he deliberately hurt Graytoes. Direfang was helpless to intervene. He barked at the slaves, ordering them to stay back and held his arms outstretched to keep them away from the slats of the pen.

“No!” Moon-eye wailed, drawing the syllable out much longer than usual. “Direfang, make the skull man stop! Moon-eye’s Heart the skull man breaks! Stop, please, please stop!”

The Skull Knight finally finished, rising slowly and watching Graytoes’ belly shrivel. She screamed and screamed as her baby was expelled in a pool of blood, its small form unmoving, dead between her legs. One of the attendant knights picked it up and gestured toward the burning corpse pile.

“This goblin will need to rest tomorrow at least,” the priest told Direfang. “Then the day following, if her legs have mended, she can work in the mine a half shift.”

“And full shifts all her following days,” one of the knights added.

The priest and his attendants moved on, continuing to circle the pen, checking on more wounded goblins and treating some. But they were already weary of the job and announced another priest would be along in the morning to see to the rest.

They left behind a haunting medley of sounds: the crackling of the pyre, Moon-eye’s wails and Graytoes’ gasping sobs, angry murmuring from groups of goblins. Then a gentle rumbling sound began beneath their feet.

“The quake is coming!” Mudwort exclaimed, suddenly appearing next to Direfang. “The angry earth is talking again.”

“Time to be free,” Direfang said. He looked out over the heads of the goblins and hobgoblins, to the east beyond the pyre. He took a step in that direction but stopped when someone grabbed his tattered trouser leg. It was Moon-eye.

“You carry Moon-eye’s Heart,” the one-eyed goblin implored. “Direfang, it is time to leave this Dark Knight hole. There is nothing but death and hate here.”