The Rebellion

28

Stay!” Direfang raised his right arm, half turning around and signaling his army to a halt. “Leave the knights alone!” He turned and walked back to Mudwort, keeping his voice loud so both the goblins and the knights could hear him. “The priest offers healing in exchange for safety.”

Saro-Saro appeared defiant, opening his mouth to argue, but stopping when Hurbear pushed him. The cagey old goblin stood next to his counterpart. It was clear that Hurbear was wounded, centipede bites all over his arms and chest, and a patch of his hide was scorched where a piece of the burning giant centipede had struck him. He glared at Saro-Saro.

“It is time to see if the priest speaks true,” Hurbear said in the Common tongue. The old goblin padded slowly up the trail, his breath ragged. He favored his right side, for he had broken ribs. He passed Direfang but stopped well short of the knights. He raised his arm, waggling his fingers.

“Cure me, skull man,” Hurbear demanded.

“I well can. You will see that I only speak the truth, goblin.” Horace rolled his shoulders so his cape fell behind him entirely. He held his hands to his sides then brought them to his sword belt, unbuckling it and letting it drop.

All the goblins watched suspiciously.

Grallik unbuckled his sword belt too, but rather than letting it fall, he held it out, slowly walking down the trail with the priest until they stood together in front of Hurbear. Grallik dangled the sword belt in front of the old goblin, who was quick to grab it.

The wind gusted in that instant, pushing aside clouds and showing a patch of blue above in the sky. The stands of reeds in the garden whispered musically, and the faintest scent of flowers on the trail could be detected above the burn and stink of the village below. Then, just as abruptly, the wind dropped and the clouds sealed, making the sky look again like a solid plume of smoke.

“Our weapons will do us no good, Foreman Direfang,” the priest explained wearily. “There are simply too many of you. We know that.” He raised his voice so the goblins at the bottom of the trail could hear his words. “I know some of your language, not much. But those of you who speak the Common tongue, please translate for those who do not.”

The priest waited until the chorus of snarls and whispers rose and fell.

“I offer to heal those of you who are injured, to the best of my ability, until I’ve nothing left to give. I will heal this one before me first as proof of my pledge.”

“Hurbear.” The old goblin wanted the healer to call him by name.

“Why?” Saro-Saro shouted, stomping his foot and setting his hands angrily on his waist. “Why help, slavers? What would a skull man gain from such generosity?”

Hurbear translated Saro-Saro’s questions for the priest.

Grallik nodded, listening, then he walked all the way down the trail, edging past Horace, Hurbear, and Direfang, reluctantly walking past Mudwort, and coming within an arm’s reach of the press of goblins, jostling each other for a chance to reach out and grab and choke the wizard.

“We want to help you,” said Grallik, “and join with you because Steel Town is dead, my talon destroyed.”

“What? Foolishness! Destroy the knights!” a dirt brown goblin shouted.

“Hear what I have to say!” Grallik countered loudly. Though he hadn’t understood the words the goblins shouted, he well understood their malicious tone. He waited for Direfang, who had come up behind him, to translate his words. “You’ll get nothing from me-from us-if we are killed, if we are dead. But alive, we have value to you.”

“Kill the wizard!” Brak cried out. “Kill the wizard now! Don’t listen to the slaver’s lies.”

“Later! Kill the wizard later.” Saro-Saro said, raising eyes around him, holding Brak at bay with a harsh glance. “Kill the wizard any time later. Listen first.”

Sweat beaded thickly on Grallik’s forehead, but his eyes showed relief when the goblins didn’t surge forward. The vast army of them waited, nervously, for him to continue.

“I wish to join you, rather than rejoin the Order in Jelek.” Grallik swallowed hard at his own words, knowing that, one way or another, he was sealing a fate that he could never have predicted. “I could have let that great worm kill many of you. But I slew the great worm and kept you safe. I did that in order to join your army of ex slaves, help you and,” he lowered his voice humbly, “and learn from you.”

“Knights killed many slaves in the village.” The low, hissing voice came in the Common tongue from directly behind him.

“You are Mudwort,” he said respectfully, turning.

She did not know much of the human language, so Hurbear translated the rest of her speech. “Watched the wall of fire burn slaves,” she said. Her voice was laced with venom. “Smelled the bodies burn. Heard the slaves scream.”

“And your kind killed knights,” the wizard was quick to return, trying to keep his voice even. Grallik half-turned so he was addressing Mudwort as well as all the other goblins. “We could argue about who killed more and what was justified, but the argument would be wasted words. All of that is done, and Steel Town is gone. Many slaves are gone. Many knights are gone too. I acknowledge your victorious rebellion.”

Behind him, Mudwort brightened when Hurbear repeated those words in goblin-speak. Still, she spat her reply.

“Knights waste words often. Always. The Oath five times. Waste. Waste. Waste. Waste. Waste.”

Grallik closed his eyes and raised his hands to the fastening of his robe. In a swift motion, he tugged the garment free, showing a thin, earth-colored shift beneath. His left arm was bare, all of his old scars visible, and many goblins pointed at them. The scars on his neck looked thick and shiny, as did those on his left calf-the shift went only to his knees.

“I suffered too and now I denounce the Order,” he announced, the words hard to squeeze from his throat. “To join with you, I denounce the Dark Knights. I am willing-”

“Look at Hurbear!” Saro-Saro gestured up the trail.

High above and behind the wizard, the Skull Knight had been busy tending to the old goblin. Horace was kneeling on the trail, his face even with Hurbear’s, working his healing magic.

“Your ribs are broken!” He said it louder so some of the goblins below could hear. “This old fellow’s ribs are cracked!”

Hurbear nodded. “Ribs hurt. Breathing hurt. Skull man could mend the ribs maybe. Goblins kill the skull man otherwise. Kill the skull man slowly. Kill and-ouch!”

Horace prodded the goblin gently then turned so the throng could see his fingers glowing orange. There were ooohs and aaahs, shouted questions and curses, but the goblins held fast. “I follow Zeboim,” he proclaimed. A great many goblins spat at the mention of the sea goddess, recognizing her name in any language. Meanwhile the glow spread from his fingers to cover Hurbear’s side, brightening and sparking like fireflies then sinking in.

Hurbear recoiled, and the goblins gasped, many again calling for the knights to be killed. But a heartbeat later, the old goblin turned to face the horde and spread his arms, grinning.

“Ribs well,” he announced joyously. “No pain there anymore.” He turned back to face the priest and indicated places on his chest and arms that still hurt. “Mend more and live, truth-speaking skull man. Here and here, hurt here too.”

The priest hurriedly complied. When he was finished ministering to Hurbear, he took several steps down the trail and looked to Direfang. “You next, Foreman Direfang. Your arm will take some effort, and as I said, I might not be able to save it.”

The hobgoblin hesitated, glancing around at the skeptical faces of others before holding out his good arm and making a strong fist. “No, others first, skull man.” He indicated the army behind him. “The worst injuries first.”

The priest let out a deep breath. “I am one man,” he said softly. “A jaded, selfish man who wants to live to see the next day, and the next and the next.” Slightly louder, he said, “I haven’t the energy to heal many, not all. Not today.”

“As many as possible this day,” Direfang returned stoically. “More tomorrow and tomorrow. Then mend this arm. Mend as many as possible and live to see the next day and the next.” He looked over the goblin assembly, raising his voice commandingly. “Spikehollow, Erguth, take the knights’ weapons.” He pointed to the two in armor at the top of the trail. “Then bring the knights down here for more talking.”

Direfang slipped to the base of the trail then melded into the ranks of his army. “The knights are useful,” he told Mudwort as he passed. To the others, he announced, “Skull men cast spells that kill threatening things, also heal wounds. Useful alive, useless dead, the knights are.”

“Keep the knights!” That first voice came from deep in the crowd and soon became a chant. When the crowd again quieted, Direfang headed down, toward the lake, where he intended to quench his great thirst and soak his sore arm. He looked behind him to see Mudwort glaring, but the knights slowly wended their way through the crowd, which had parted to let them safely follow him down to the village.

“See that all the dead goblins are gathered and burned. Make sure that none dead have been missed. Search everywhere,” Direfang told a hobgoblin. “There will be a ceremony tonight to honor the dead and keep the spirits away.”

“The knights?” the hobgoblin posed. “How shall we treat them?”

“As slaves,” Direfang said.

Saro-Saro had been following close behind the leader of the rebellion. He turned to his clansmen, nodding. “Direfang does not die this day,” he said. “But Direfang will be watched.”