The Rebellion

30

What does Moon-eye smell?” Mudwort still had her head tilted up, eyes closed not because her magic required it but because there was something in the air that made her eyes sting. She leaned forward and breathed into his face then stretched back and stared at him. “What smell, Moon-eye?”

“Fire,” he answered, though the funeral pyres had been extinguished for quite some time. “Fire and stone. Stone smells, Mudwort. The rocks with ore smell different than this rock all around the village. The village rocks smell beautiful, but the rocks deeper and farther away smell as if they are in pain. Pain smells too … and suffering.”

Moon-eye fumbled for words to better explain everything he was sensing to Mudwort, but she waved him off.

“Understand fine,” she said. Then she thrust the fingers of her left hand into the small stretch of dirt between them, her nails plunging in effortlessly, as though she were driving them into warm butter instead of the hard-packed earth.

“The earth itself suffers,” she told Moon-eye. “Not right here, but it will suffer bad here soon. Farther away, it feels pain right now, like Graytoes felt pain when the skull man took the baby. And that pain will come closer, move through the earth like worms wriggling. Deeper there is intense suffering pain. Layers of pain and suffering.”

A hobgoblin walked past them, toting skins filled with some sort of potent alcohol over his shoulder. He paused and stared at Mudwort, her fingers stuck in the dirt, made a snorting sound at them, then moved on.

“Yes, pain smells strong and bad, Mudwort.” Moon-eye sniffed the air again to be certain. “Smells worse than men.” He gestured with his head toward the slave pens and smiled at his own humor. “Smell the dead ogres, rotting ogres, tasty sheep and goats and chickens. Smell those things too.” He nodded his head toward the far side of the village where the livestock was being kept. “Smell Graytoes too. That is a very good smell. But the pain of the rocks, that smell …” He made a face and spat, as if spitting out something spoiled.

“Join in this,” Mudwort said.

At first Moon-eye didn’t know what she meant. Then he tentatively brought a hand forward, near hers, prodding the hard earth. He recoiled in surprise when his fingers sank in alongside hers. The ridges above his eyes rose in curiosity, then his expression turned instantly grim and serious, his lips thrust forward. A moment later, he leaned close and drove both hands into the yielding ground, just as she had.

“Feels like mud,” he said with a slight grin. He moved his fingers easily through the hard earth, reaching out with his right hand and stretching until his fingers touched Mudwort’s own buried left hand. “Feels odd … but good.”

“Smell the world now,” Mudwort encouraged Moon-eye. She thrust her right hand deep into the ground and edged forward until she touched his left hand, keeping her hand close to his. “Think strong, Moon-eye. Think and do nothing else except think. See the world now. See the world together.”

Moon-eye’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but he quickly recovered. “Don’t understand, Mudwort! What is this?”

“There is something special about Moon-eye,” Mudwort explained. “Felt it a while back, in the slave pens. Could do nothing about it then-slaves then. Do something now, together. Smell the world together, Moon-eye. What do you smell?”

He sucked in a deep breath then another, his good eye widening even more as he explored his power. “Smelling the stone,” Moon-eye repeated. “Seeing the stone on the sides of mountains, smooth and pretty, shiny black. More stones are not smooth, though. Look like bugs have bored inside. Holes all over, and those stones feel rough and have felt pain. Are dead now, those stones. Some dead, but felt pain once.”

“Feel their pain too,” Mudwort said. “It is those rocks that suffered the most, the ones with holes. Warm, those rocks are like the charred wood at the bottom of a fire. Where are these hole-filled rocks, Moon-eye?”

The one-eyed goblin furrowed his brow and sniffed again, putting his face down close to the dirt until his nose brushed it. “Far … but not far.” He pressed his nose all the way into the earth, then quickly withdrew it. “Too close, Mudwort. The suffering pain is too close, the pain will come here soon. Leave here. Direfang must know now, all goblins must leave!”

Beneath the surface, Mudwort grabbed Moon-eye’s fingers before he could pull them out and held them tightly. “Tell Direfang soon, Moon-eye. Together tell him. But there is more to see and smell first. Learn more first.”

Moon-eye tried to tug free, but Mudwort’s grip was strong. “Look to the south, Moon-eye, where Direfang wants to go.”

He fought against her a moment more then relented. “The mountains glow, Mudwort. To the south and west, some mountains glow.” There was awe in his voice, his good eye glimmering excitedly. “The one nearest this village, the one seen from the top of that crest. It glows so very, very bright. And others. The ones near Steel Town glow brightest. The not-hurting mountains are to the north of this place.”

Mudwort said, “What the quake started, disturbing the sleeping, angry earth-”

“The glowing mountains will finish.” Moon-eye completed for her, grinning. “Good, the mountains will bury Steel Town forever.”

“But not good that they could bury any more goblins. Here, there is danger too.” Mudwort still held his hands tight. “There is more, Moon-eye. See it? See this amazing thing?”

“Yes. But what is it? Beautiful. What is it? Frightening. What is it?”

Mudwort shrugged as Moon-eye stared at the ground, cracks radiating outward from his wrists.

“What is that thing, Mudwort?”

She shrugged again, releasing his hands. “Direfang wants to go south, and that is to the south,” she said. “The frightening thing could be there, on the way.”

“Could be dangerous,” Moon-eye said, though his eye was still glimmering with excitement.

“Direfang does not need to know that,” Mudwort said flatly, standing and brushing the dirt from her palms. “Moon-eye thirsty?”

He nodded. “Direfang and Moon-eye’s Heart are at the lake.”

“Good to be thirsty, then, eh?” Mudwort led the way down the road, fully aware as she had been all the time, that the wizard was watching her, still watching her.

When Direfang approached the slave pen, the hobgoblin guards were quick to wake up the knights. A dozen goblins had gathered behind Direfang, all of them wielding knives.

“It is Grunnt’s turn to sleep now,” Direfang told the hobgoblin guard in charge. “Sleep very quick. Soon we go.” He spoke in the Common tongue to the knights, who were still rubbing their eyes. “Time grows near to leave this place.”

Grallik jumped to his feet, obviously angry with himself for dropping off to sleep in this filthy place. “Where are we going?”

Direfang worked a kink out of his shoulder and dug the ball of his foot into the ground. “South is all you need to know.”

“Where south?”

“Just south.” Direfang growled and thrust his bottom jaw out. “It is not safe here, Mudwort says. Clearly, it does not look safe.” He pointed to the sky, which had lightened a little, though the dark gray clouds remained an ominous sight.

The sky was light enough that Grallik could see the goblins already getting ready to leave the village. They had packs and sacks filled to bulging-skins fat with water from the lake. Jugs were also filled with water, stoppered, and held in nets slung over the shoulders of the stronger hobgoblins. Goats, sheep, and cows were tethered at the base of the trail, and the cows had sacks and blankets draped across their backs. The army was taking everything of value that could be carried or dragged along with them. The livestock would last them a couple of days but little more than that because of the goblins’ sheer numbers and ravenous appetites.

The sight of the army ready to march clearly alarmed Grallik, as did the steam rising from cracks in the ground that had appeared during the darkness. All over the village the earth had swelled, as though things beneath the ground were trying to push their way upward, cracks appearing everywhere.

“Thought more giant bugs were coming,” Direfang said. “Like the one killed by the fire spell. Not bugs, though.”

“But there wasn’t any trace of steam when the centipedes attacked yesterday, was there?” Grallik asked. “This is something else.”

“Something else. Something bad,” Direfang said.

Grallik stepped to the rail and leaned against it.

“Slaves,” Direfang said, nodding at Grallik then indicating the priest and the other two knights too. “Slaves will come along.” The hobgoblin looked again at Horace, who was still lying on the ground, listening. “Skull man!”

“You want me to tend you now?” Horace brushed futilely at his chest and back, unable to get the dirt and waste off. The priest seemed oblivious to the activity in the village and the steam rising from the ground. He was ready to resume his healing duties. “Aye, Foreman Direfang. And in return I ask that you let me bathe in the lake and drink my fill.” Then he looked around, realized the army was preparing to leave, and added, “At least grant me a skin of water to take with me.”

The hobgoblin stepped away from Grallik and the priest then turned to address them sternly. “The Dark Knights did not give the slaves in Steel Town any such concessions. Never enough water. The slaves had such courtesies only rarely.”

Horace looked surprised at the hobgoblin’s vocabulary and command of the Common tongue. The words were not so polished as if they had come from a human mouth. There was a rasp to Direfang’s speech, but the language was recognizable.

“Dark Knights held no regard for slaves-no shoes, only scraps of clothes for some but not all. Food not fit for the pigs the knights kept in pens.” Direfang growled so loudly, the goblins nearby recoiled. “Slaves asked the Dark Knights for little, and slaves were usually granted nothing.”

Beyond the pen, the goblins were forming into clans and columns and lining up to follow the trail out of the village. The steam obscured some of them and made the scene grayer.

“I ask for water and to be clean,” said Horace with dignity. “Please, Foreman. I mended goblin upon goblin yesterday, and I will heal more today. I would mend you now while your arm can be saved-perhaps can be saved. In exchange I ask for very little. I ask for water.”

Direfang studied the priest. “The skull man uses words well. Uses the word asks, not demands, says please. The skull man knows that words make a difference. So mend this arm, please, skull man, and then follow Brak to the lake.” The hobgoblin indicated the young goblin standing to his right.

Direfang used his right hand to lift his left arm and set it on the top rail of the fence then nodded to Horace, who approached. Aneas and Kenosh moved up behind the priest. Grallik stayed close by, close enough to watch.

“I will need water or preferably something much stronger, such as ale or rum. Do you have any strong drink here, Foreman Direfang?” Horace wiped the sweat off his face and met the hobgoblin’s stern gaze. “Can they, your goblin guards, get me something to cleanse your wound?”

Direfang translated the request to the goblin called Crelb, who hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave his post. The hobgoblin repeated the message, and Crelb finally left.

Horace spat on his fingers to clean the dirt from them, then prodded the area around Direfang’s wound, careful not to touch the actual gash that was purple and swollen and oozing. “You should have let me see to this yesterday. In hours it has worsened.”

Direfang offered no reply as the priest continued his poking.

“Does this hurt?”

The hobgoblin shook his head. “Once it hurt then nothing. Yesterday it hurt again but only a little, not much. Today nothing.” He looked at the sky and scowled. “The army must leave soon, skull man, hurry with this arm …”

“If I want water and my bath, yes?” Horace held his open left hand over the deep cut and gripped the hobgoblin’s wrist with the right. His shackles and chains made it difficult.

“Zeboim, mother goddess, this wound is grievous.” The sweat on Horace’s arm shimmered, and a glowing sheath formed just above his skin. It brightened from yellow to white, and motes of light appeared in the glow. At first the motes were the size of beetles, but in the passing of a few heartbeats, doubled in size and skittered down his arm and over the back of his hand, spilling down his fingers and onto Direfang’s arm.

Grallik expected the hobgoblin to show some reaction from experiencing divine magic, but Direfang didn’t blink, didn’t budge. He stood patiently as the lights sank into his skin. A moment more, and the magical sheath slid off the priest’s arm and became part of the hobgoblin’s skin. Suddenly Direfang smiled, opening and closing his left hand.

“You are not free of the infection yet, Foreman. Ah, the sentry returns.” Horace made a show of the difficulty of moving with his chains, stretching to reach the jug Crelb held out to him. “Foreman, if only you would …”

Direfang grabbed the jug with his right hand and passed it to the priest. Horace uncorked it and breathed in the smell. “Oh, this is very strong. And I’d wager very bad tasting. I wonder if it will make things worse.” He poured some into his other cupped hand and touched his tongue to the liquid. “Not poison. No, I can tell poison.” He proceeded to pour most of the contents on the cut, bathing the wound in the potent alcohol. “I can see bone, here, Foreman Direfang.”

Again, the hobgoblin offered no reply.

“The sword that cut you was not clean, Foreman Direfang. Not like a Dark Knight to have his blade dirty, but I suppose it was as much to be expected given the circumstances in the camp.” The priest rubbed a little of the alcohol on his hands, set the jug between his feet, and investigated the wound again. “Mother Zeboim, grant me the strength to save this limb.”

The rest of Horace’s words were foreign to Direfang, though he recognized them as the singsong uttering of a healing spell. The hobgoblin heard the goblin sentries chatter nervously behind him as the priest droned.

“Does the priest mean to kill Direfang?” Crelb whispered.

“No, he is magicking Direfang,” Brak corrected. “That is much more likely. Magicking Direfang to let the knight slaves out. Casting a spell on Direfang like the priests cast a spell on the slaves who stayed in Steel Town. But Direfang has a strong mind. It cannot be muddled, will not go sour.”

“Don’t like magic,” another goblin muttered. “Don’t like Dark Knight magic most of all. Magic makes the skin itch.” Direfang almost smiled, hearing the goblin scratch himself to illustrate.

“I don’t suppose you would tell me what they’re saying,” the priest mused as he worked on Direfang. His hands glowed again, brighter than before. He ran his thumbs along the edges of the wound. The other knights, Grallik included, continued to watch, as fascinated as the goblin guards.

“If the skull man wants to know what the goblins say, the skull man should learn the language.”

Horace let out a throaty chuckle. “I suppose Guardian Grallik and I will have to do just that if we’re to stay with you. And apparently you mean us to stay, else you wouldn’t have put us in these uncomfortable chains.” Horace’s thumbs smoothed at the hobgoblin’s skin as though he were smoothing the wrinkles out of a garment. “Will you supply a teacher for us, Foreman Direfang? Teach us the goblin tongue?”

The hobgoblin stared at his wound. Horace had distracted him with his talk. In the passing of a few heartbeats, his wound had closed, leaving a fresh scar behind. He felt a dull pain, which he welcomed because he’d not been feeling anything in the arm. Pain, instead of numbness, was good.

“Now lean down, will you?” Horace picked up the jug and splashed a little more alcohol on his hands, again making a show of the chains making it difficult for him to work his healing. “Farther. You’re too tall otherwise for me to get at that head gash. Hmm … looks like you were kicked by a horse.”

Direfang noticed that the priest’s eyes looked tired and red rimmed, more so than when he’d started. So the magic did exact a price. Horace wasn’t pretending. When the priest was finished, he pushed himself away from Direfang. Then he tilted the jug back and took a few swallows, draining it.

“Brak, take the skull man to the lake.” Direfang gestured to the empty jug. “That could hold water now. The slaves may have it for their wants.” The hobgoblin breathed deeply, feeling better with each passing breath. Then Direfang stepped away from the rail and turned to meet Grallik’s gaze. “The army leaves soon, and the slaves with it. The slaves could stay here, but there would be no safety in that.” He waved his repaired arm to indicate the village, pointing at the steam coming from some of the vents. “Mudwort says this is a bad omen. Only the blind would call it otherwise. This army leaves very, very soon. Wizard, skull man too.”