The Rebellion

21

They could have been carved from wood, the goblins standing mute and staring wide-eyed in the cobbled-together slave pens. They didn’t register their freed brothers urging them to run. And the one pushed over by Crelb did not even try to rise up from the ground.

Behind them, Steel Town was rubble. Fires still burned, illuminating bodies, broken homes, and a few laborers who risked the goblins’ wrath by poking through piles of debris looking for relatives. Direfang had told the goblins to let the humans be. There had been more than enough killing. The hobgoblin was more interested in getting the rest of the slaves organized and out of the mining camp.

“Stay then,” Mudwort hissed at the goblins who couldn’t shake the spell they were under. “Sheep, go ahead and stay. Sheep, go ahead and die to the Dark Knights left in this place. Die in the mines to the still-angry earth!” She edged by Direfang and wove her way through the entranced slaves. “Die in Steel Town and let the spirits fill the rotting bodies!”

Her words finally stirred some of them, particularly mothers with babies who feared the notion of their younglings dying in another quake. If none were left to burn the bodies or scatter the bones, their children’s spirits would likely be lost and tortured forever. A group of mothers nervously gathered up their young and tugged them, following after Mudwort.

Still, there were many goblins who had never known anything but Steel Town, had been born in that place and did not know anything except the barren camp and slavery. The unknown frightened them. They refused to leave, huddling defiantly.

“Come east,” Direfang told the ones who were ready to follow. He spoke loudly to be heard above the throng, but his words didn’t carry much strength. He was tired physically and tired of trying to persuade the weak minded. “Fools, the lot,” he muttered, half to himself. “Fools to stay.”

The surviving Dark Knights had all but vanished, hiding in the infirmary, Direfang thought scornfully. Their numbers pathetically reduced, the knights had made no attempt to return to fight with the rebellious slaves and-for a time-they would be satisfied with the docile ones remaining.

The hobgoblin flirted with the idea of leading the army to the infirmary and slaughtering the knights down to the last one. But there had been enough death, he told himself again, and he worried that the Dark Knight wizard might be there and might call down fire upon them. Best to leave with their victory, he decided. And best to leave some knights alive to tell the grand tale of the goblin rebellion.

“All right then, stay and serve the taskmasters,” Direfang told the still-enchanted slaves, still mute, staring dumbly. “Stay well,” he added after a moment.

Direfang gestured, and his army headed out, most of the slaves who were undecided about whether to stay or go allowing themselves to be pushed along with the crowd, in the end leaving only a hundred or so slaves behind. The exhausted hobgoblin asked Spikehollow to take the lead for a while; then he dropped his sword and picked up a hesitant goblin with his good hand, half dragging him along with the rest.

“Stay well,” he repeated loudly over his shoulder. “More likely stay and die, as Mudwort says. Stay and be sheep to the few Dark Knights.”

Direfang took a last look at the camp, weary eyes sweeping over rubble made hazy by dusty air. He focused on where the tavern had once sat, remembering the music that sometimes spilled out of that building and the knights’ laughter that used to make him angry. His gaze moved to a lone charred chair that stood in the center of what had been the store, then to a pile of steadily burning goblin bodies elsewhere. Firelight made pools of blood shine darkly everywhere, and he vowed to find a stream in the mountains so he could wash the Dark Knight blood off his hide.

He wasn’t sad to leave that place, nor was he happy. The hobgoblin realized he no longer felt anything about the camp where he’d spent so many years as a slave. He felt no emotion, just emptiness.

At the edge of his vision, Direfang saw a female hobgoblin slap her mind-clouded mate, and when that didn’t work, she picked him up and carried him across her back, complaining. Other goblins were doing the same. A particularly burly hobgoblin toted two goblins under each arm. Some of the entranced goblins were coming to their senses, whether by the prodding of their fellows or because the magic was finally wearing off. They acted as if they hadn’t seen the battle that had just played out, and they chattered questions to their fellows, who didn’t take time to answer.

Still, there remained dozens who refused to accept freedom. Dozens who stayed in their falling-apart pens and did not even turn around to watch their brothers leave.

“East,” Mudwort called. “East, Direfang says!”

The word became a new chant that swelled rhythmically.

Mudwort climbed on the shoulders of a hobgoblin in the middle of the army. “East, Erguth.” She glanced over her shoulder at still-burning fires and at the slaves who clung to Steel Town.

“Fools,” she spat. Then she turned her gaze to the eastern horizon, which was slowly lightening. The battle had lasted hours. It was the misty time before dawn. “Wonder what the Dark Knights will chant this day when the sun comes up,” she mused. “Wonder how many are left to repeat their worthless oaths and credos. How many will say wasted words in that man’s hole? There aren’t that many voices left.”

Direfang lengthened his stride, wincing with each step of his right foot. He never looked back, though many did, some continuing to call out to friends left behind.

The hobgoblin released the goblin he was carrying to rub dirt out of his eyes. It didn’t help, and another rubbing only seemed to make matters worse. His eyes throbbed, his neck was stiff, and his arms felt as heavy as the ore sacks he used to drag from the mine. The pain in his head made it difficult to think.

He locked his eyes on the distant foothills, and for a moment he wished he would have stayed there when they’d first bolted. It would have been easier, certainly less hurtful, fewer would have died-goblins and knights. But they wouldn’t have gained the food and blessed water, wouldn’t have freed Mudwort and hundreds of others, wouldn’t have had the pleasure of slaying the men who had once whipped them.

Pleasure, he thought, almost smiling.

Suddenly his mind was flooded with images of the past already receding: the mine and the camp and what he might have been doing that very instant if the quakes had never struck and never destroyed the wards and glyphs and weakened the knights, injuring and killing so many. He would be working in the mines, a foreman but also a slave. He would be struggling under sacks of ore, ordering goblins to dig faster, walking the tunnels to check on his charges. He was feeling something after all. Tears from painful memories welled in his eyes and helped to wash away some of the dirt.

Direfang continued to think of the sad, horrible past, forcing himself to feel deeply in order to give his eyes a washing and a measure of relief from the dirt. He thought of all the whippings he’d received, remembered what it had felt like to have his ear cut off. He walked faster, feeling stronger, reaching the front of the pack and passing Spikehollow. Despite the pain, he kept up his pace, not wanting a single goblin to be ahead of him or see his tears.

“Show no weakness,” he whispered.

The sky was gray by the time he’d walked the first mile. It was a murky, misty blanket draped across Neraka. It looked empty, no sun yet, no stars or moons, no clouds. His eyes eventually were washed and felt better. He didn’t think about the past anymore. The wave of emotion passed. He welcomed the emptiness again, not wanting to feel anything for a long while.