The Rebellion

17

Saro-Saro sat cross-legged on a patch of dirt in the shadow of the rise. He scratched at the ground with his narrow, crooked fingers, drawing stick figures and trees then erasing them. He brushed his hands on his threadbare tunic, which had belonged to a child in camp who had outgrown it. Little more than a rag, it was filthy and sweat stained, but it was still better than what most of the goblins wore.

Saro-Saro tipped his head back and sniffed. The air was dry, the clouds high and thin, holding no hint of rain. “Stink,” he pronounced. “Not so bad as Steel Town, though.” He opened his mouth, waggled his tongue, and gulped in the air. Then he returned his attention to digging in the ground in earnest. Moments later, he was rewarded by finding a thick grub. Like a prize, he held it up and made sure some of his fellows saw his treat. Then he popped one end in his mouth and bit it off, sucking on the juice before finishing it.

The goblins and hobgoblins had spent the day in the foothills, sleeping, tending to their injured, and searching for food, namely grubs, insects, and roots. Direfang wanted to return to Steel Town for better food, water, and the remaining slaves, but as of the previous night, he had no support.

It was not that the escaped slaves didn’t want to rescue their brothers, they just didn’t want to do it that night. They’d run far and were suffering, and Direfang’s words could not inspire them. Many of them were too exhausted to go any farther, and some simply could not because of their injuries. So Direfang posted sentries, while Moon-eye chattered worriedly about ogres and minotaurs until he fell asleep.

Though they searched hard in the immediate area, they found no water. But there was juice in the grubs and millipedes that were plentiful several inches down in the earth, and that helped.

When the sun started to set and the goblins showed signs of restlessness, Direfang tried again to rouse them.

“Hobgoblins, goblins, are still in Steel Town,” Direfang said.

“Mudwort still there,” Saro-Saro added.

“Food, water, clothes, all those good things are in Steel Town too,” the hobgoblin continued. “All of those things could be Saro-Saro’s and Brak’s and Folami’s.”

“Moon-eye’s too,” Graytoes cut in.

“Very thirsty,” Moon-eye added.

“Thirsty,” Saro-Saro admitted. “Bug juice is not enough.”

“Moon-eye’s Heart needs water,” said the one-eyed goblin.

“Thirsty, but not stupid. Only goblins with sour, mad minds would go back to that hell place,” another countered.

“Not go either,” Spikehollow decided. “Maybe stay here and live. Or go south and live.”

Rescuing their fellow slaves simply didn’t motivate them, Direfang realized. He had tried to stir them up with words of revenge and retribution, but he got better results with his persistent references to the water and food in Steel Town.

“Thirsty,” Saro-Saro repeated, waving his spindly arms around to quiet those nearest to him. He held up the skin of a grub he’d sucked empty. “Hungry for better things.”

Direfang tried appealing to their pride. “Goblins can be enslaved but not be defeated,” the hobgoblin said. “Now there are too few knights, too many goblins.” He talked about how easy it would be to crush the Dark Knights who had treated them so cruelly for so long. It would be easy to take all the water and food and supplies they wanted.

“Unprepared the Dark Knights will be,” Direfang said. “So very busy cleaning up Steel Town and tending the wounds of the hurt ones. The Knights will never expect the goblins to come back, fight.”

By that time he had persuaded most of the escaped slaves, with only a handful still grumbling their objections to his plan.

Direfang selected thirty goblins from among those who volunteered to accompany him. Then, after thinking it over, he ordered most of the others to follow him and the volunteers at a distance as they made their way back to the camp.

“But not all the way. Not yet. While it is dark, can be quiet and fast,” he said. “Later comes the attack, when the clouds are thickest. Be quiet and be fast and be strong.”

“Strong and fast!” Brak shouted. “Strong and fast with Direfang!”

“Angry and fast!” Spikehollow added. “Very, very angry!”

“Thirsty!” Saro-Saro barked. “Angry and fast and thirsty!”

When Direfang finally had them whipped into a fervor, he took off at a run toward the knights’ camp, not wanting to give the goblins a chance to change their minds and realize it was a very dangerous, perhaps very foolish, endeavor.

Direfang only half believed his own words about how easy it would be to surprise the knights. He had doubts himself whether it was a wise or stupid thing to do, to jeopardize their escape and return to Steel Town. But he thought of Mudwort and it made him sad and angry to leave her behind.

He’d tried to inspire the others just so he would have the advantage of superior numbers. Alone, he didn’t have a chance of success.

“My mind sour too, maybe,” he mused to himself as he jogged toward the camp, followed closely by the thirty volunteers and, farther back, by the horde of goblins. He mulled over his plan. “Mind is foggy to consider this. Mad? Could be mad.” It would have been easier to find a stream in the mountains or to raid a merchant wagon for supplies. But he had convinced himself that he couldn’t abandon Mudwort, and furthermore, he had convinced himself all the slaves should be free.

Though he had swayed most of the slaves, not all of them went with him. Moon-eye and Graytoes were still recuperating, and others shuffled away to the north and south along the foothills, refusing to go near the camp and unwilling to wait and see if Direfang would be successful and return. Direfang himself asked the older slaves and the ones badly injured to wait for him by the slope where they would not be a liability to his adventure.

Saro-Saro had argued strenuously in favor of joining Direfang on his rescue mission. Partly that was because the old, cagey goblin was nosy and wanted to see firsthand what would transpire at the camp. He didn’t want to hear gossip or legend about it afterward. Hurbear also argued in favor of going on the raid, though Direfang suspected the aged, yellow-skinned goblin would have sidestepped the issue if he could. But Hurbear wanted to look important in front of his clan.

Direfang took pity on him. “Hurbear needs to take care of Moon-eye and Graytoes,” the hobgoblin said. “It is important to keep Moon-eye and Graytoes safe. Graytoes hurts badly and must be watched. Hurbear should be in charge here.”

That pleased Hurbear, who climbed up the rise to sit next to Graytoes, head up and chin jutted out to look fearless.

“Graytoes be safe here,” Hurbear pronounced. “Direfang be quiet and fast. And Direfang will win.”

At first the hobgoblin set a demanding pace, then he slowed to a gentle lope, making sure his goblin army could keep up. About two dozen hobgoblins also followed him, though they took up the rear, at Direfang’s request, watching their smaller cousins to make sure none stumbled or got trampled. The clouds were still thick, and all of them had to rely on their keen vision to avoid the gaping cracks and piles of rocks created by the quakes. They had to make a long detour around a wide, ugly crevice, but otherwise took the shortest route to Steel Town.

Direfang stopped some distance away, alert to the faint glow of lanterns ahead and the smoldering pile of dead goblins. He held his finger to his lips and glared around at his band of volunteers, passing the word back for everyone to be quiet. Then he gestured to his followers and moved toward the camp.

The cloud cover had grown, and the shadows from the rises were thick and concealing. They could see the new slave pens in the process of being rebuilt. At least six knights patrolled each of the three pens in various stages of repair.

Direfang could smell the many burned bodies even though the wind was blowing toward the camp. He could hear the sounds of men talking and heavy objects being moved around the place. There was little noise coming from the slave pens.

He stared at the makeshift pens. Several hundred slaves were in the pens. Many of them had no interest in freedom, he knew, for they were born there and knew nothing else. Some had vacant eyes. But many had tried to escape with him when the second quake came. They just had not been fast or lucky enough.

“Save the goblins now?” Spikehollow whispered.

Direfang shook his head and edged north, passing the pens and heading toward a ridge on the far side of the camp.

“Save the goblins?” Spikehollow persisted. He tugged on Direfang’s trousers and pointed back toward the pens.

“Yes,” the hobgoblin replied with a hiss. “But this first. Be quiet.” He looked daggers at the young goblin. “Rob first, sow panic, then save the hobgoblins and goblins.”

Spikehollow instantly quieted and fell back. The hobgoblin stopped just east of where the Dark Knights had maintained their own burial ground. No one was digging graves at the moment, though a half dozen bodies were stretched out in a line, not yet washed and wrapped, and tainting the air with a sweet but rancid scent.

Direfang was grateful no knights patrolled there. The dead did not need to be protected and could not flee like the slaves.

“Good thing the dead are alone,” Direfang said so softly none of the goblins could hear. He crept toward the dead knights, motioning to Spikehollow and the others. At his signal, they started pulling swords and knives from the dead then scurrying away into the darkness to hide.

Then Direfang returned to the closest grave, staying low, and quickly digging at the mound. At a nod, the thirty goblins spread out and started digging at the other mounds.

“Foolish thing the Dark Knights bury the dead with weapons,” he whispered to Spikehollow. “The dead cannot use swords, so it is very foolish. But it is a good thing for goblins, eh?”

Direfang had never wielded a long sword. But he knew the one he retrieved from the first grave was sharper and far more formidable than his claws. He’d watched the knights practicing with such swords and sparring sometimes in the evenings, north of the pens. He believed he could use one well enough. He moved to the next grave and the next, staying low and wary to make sure no living knights came upon them. The other goblins also dug quickly and quietly. When they’d gathered three or four swords each, as well as an armload of long knives, they retreated to where they had piled the weapons.

Direfang ran to where his army waited, whispering news of the weapons they’d gained and the graves they’d gladly desecrated. He brought the goblins and hobgoblins to the pile of weapons and cringed when some of them whooped in joy.

“Quiet,” he warned. “There is no surprise without quiet.”

The hobgoblins and the largest goblins were given some weapons. It wasn’t the weight of the weapons that bothered the goblins-they’d been carrying ore, picks, and shovels for years and could manage the heft of the blades. It was their complete unfamiliarity with the swords that was the problem.

The long knives were another matter, and the goblins clutched them as easily as tools and lanterns in the mine.

“For water!” Direfang declared softly, his voice carrying to the others. “For clothes and goblins left behind!”

“Water,” Brak repeated, his eyes glimmering. “For lots and lots of beautiful water.”

They stole toward Steel Town, Direfang and Spikehollow in the lead. The Dark Knights had plenty on their minds. They had already forgotten about the escaped slaves. They hadn’t heard the goblins whooping and hadn’t considered the possibility of an attack from an enemy outside the camp.

The clouds were thick over the ruins, and though the wind would carry the army’s scent, the hobgoblin doubted the Dark Knights would notice the extra smell, not over the stink of sulfur and burned bodies and the dead knights not yet buried.

Direfang headed toward the slave pens, ducking and scuttling like a crab as they drew close. He motioned the others to copy his movements. They tried, but they made a low but steady noise in their number and awkwardness. The dark knights by the nearest pen heard them coming. The knights snapped to attention, one of them pointing to the east.

“The knights see! Run fast and be mean!” Direfang called to the goblins. “Kill the Dark Knights!”