The Rebellion Page 9

  No, the Dark Knights in the camp probably didn’t realize he, too, had tried to escape ten years past and that, from time to time, he still entertained such a notion.

  He finally looked away from the camp and slave pens, shook off his musings, and returned to the shafts and worked even harder and faster, driven by the desire to find any slave left alive and to let no corpse rot there.

  Twilight was overtaking the sky by the time the Dark Knights signaled an end to the day’s toil. Before the quake, there always had been shifts working nonstop—all day and all night too; the mines were so dark anyway that it didn’t matter. But the knights were clearing the tunnels and calling everyone out—perhaps, Direfang thought, because the Dark Knights were spread so thin they did not have enough troops to supervise mining and guard the slave pens all night long.

  Direfang held four dead goblins in his arms, his mind so preoccupied he barely registered their weight. He didn’t know who they had been in life, their bodies were so crushed, he didn’t recognize them. There’d be no one to say words of remembrances for them when the pyre blazed again, but perhaps he could think of something good to say in their honor.

  The hobgoblin walked down the mountain trail just ahead of a Dark Knight taskmaster. He could hear the man’s shuffling step, so unlike the usual brisk march of the knights, and could hear the man’s ragged breathing. The knights had been trimmed in number and beaten down by the quake; the recovery work was hard, and they were not as alert as usual.

  The Dark Knights seemed as tired and defeated as the slaves.

  “Now might be a good time to consider another escape,” Direfang whispered. “Perhaps the only time. The wards and glyphs might be gone. Mudwort might be right. And if the wards and glyphs are gone, there will be no columns of magical flames to burn slaves and stop them from escaping.”

  The hobgoblin reached the base of the mountain and made his way toward the new mound of bodies piling up. The ceaseless talk of the slaves drifted through the air. Goblins always found something to chatter about. A Dark Knight was barking orders; he was the wizard who’d spent all his hours before the quake melting the ore. Direfang hated that man, but then, he hated all the Dark Knights. The wizard continued to bark orders, and the hobgoblin continued to listen as he arranged the four dead goblins he carried at the bottom of the pile. For some reason, he wanted them to burn first.

  The Dark Knight wizard was talking to a Skull Knight. Direfang caught a few snippets. The wizard said it was time to tend to the injured goblins. Then their voices dropped so low, the hobgoblin could not pick out a single word—not until he edged closer.

  Someone had found … something, Direfang understood. Something important that needed to be guarded.

  “Found what?” Direfang wondered as he shuffled to the nearest slave pen. But he did not immediately enter. He leaned against a slat, staring at the huddled, nervous goblins. They still stank of sweat, but it was the sweat of fear, not only labor, so the odor was doubly repugnant. He caught the attention of a goblin who, like him, seemed more interested in the camp activities than in his fellows. “Found something important, what?”

  “Water,” Folami said, approaching the foreman and poking at Direfang’s waist through a gap in the slats. He was tall for a goblin, the top of his head coming up nearly to Direfang’s chest. Folami hailed from an ancient clan, and his skin was the color of dry earth. He pointed toward the wizard standing near the center of the camp and licked his lips. “The Thorn Knight there says that water has been found. That’s the something important that causes the stir.”

  12

  BLESSED SALVATION

  Grallik ordered six knights in his talon—the only ones still healthy after the quake—to pull the slaves back from the well. They’d struck water, and the goblins and hobgoblins were greedily drinking it up and sloshing around in it—fouling the water with their dirty skin and thick sweat.

  “Blessed Salvation,” one of the knights had dubbed the well.

  Two goblins refused to leave the Blessed Salvation, so one of the knights pulled out a whip and started lashing them.

  The wizard called a halt to the beating and went over to the well himself, grabbing the disobedient goblins by their arms and yanking them away. The slaves cursed vigorously in the goblin tongue, and though the wizard did not know their stupid language, he could well guess the meaning.

  “Keep them all back!” he commanded his talon. “Wound them only if you’ve no recourse. The priests have enough to do and will not minister to any slaves you whip too harshly. I want no more dead or incapacitated slaves if I can help it. We simply cannot afford that right now. I don’t know how long it will take to replace the ones who died in the mines.”

  The wizard stared thirstily at the water then motioned to a trio of laborers, each man toting ropes and buckets. “Set a perimeter of stones around this … Blessed Salvation. Then start filling jugs and take the first to the priests. The injured need water for drinking and bathing. And our dead brethren not yet buried need to be cleansed.”

  “The horses?” That question came from the stablemaster. “They need water too, else we will have animals to burn along with the dead slaves before the next morning. The horses desperately need water, as much as the priests.”

  Grallik kept his tone civil because the stablemaster was not a knight and, therefore, not expected to understand protocol. Still, the man needed to be put in his place. “The men come first, Hiram. You’ll make no demands on me for the beasts. But I appreciate your concern. After enough water has been drawn for the injured and for all the knights here, you may take as much as you need for the livestock and the laborers.”

  The wizard turned to see a big, one-eared hobgoblin approaching. “And you will have some water for your fellows …” Grallik could not remember the name of the one-eared foreman, though he’d seen him often enough. He never could remember the name of any goblin. “But you must be patient.”

  The hobgoblin clearly heard the wizard say the livestock and laborers would get water soon enough. Even the horses came before the slaves. The goats and chickens—they, too, ranked above the slaves. The hobgoblin clenched his fists, claws digging into the palms of his hands and drawing blood.

  “Yes, sir,” the hobgoblin said, giving a slight bow to Grallik. “The slaves last, sir. The slaves are always last.”

  Direfang volunteered to help put stones around the well, both so he could be near the welcome water and so he could overhear the Dark Knights’ talk. Listening was how he had learned their language and how he came to know all of their precious methods and rules. He’d hovered around them, listening and watching, paying close attention, for years and years. And because they found him useful and obedient, they generally paid no attention to him.

  “I’ll not have the slave shifts working continuously, Marek. I need all the Dark Knights in the camp at night, not any in the mine.”

  “Guardian? But there are still four knights unaccounted for.”

  “We have many brothers injured, and it will be days before more Lily Knights are sent here from Jelek or Neraka. Days, a few weeks most likely. We don’t have enough healthy men to patrol Steel Town at night and supervise the slaves in the mine. The darkness hides much, Marek, and so we need to patrol the slave pens as a precaution. The wards, you know …” Grallik steepled his fingers under his chin and lowered his voice, shifting back and forth on the balls of his booted feet. “Many of them are down, useless. We can’t afford to lose any more slaves than we’ve already lost to that damnable earthquake. With all this chaos, and with all our wounded brothers, they might be tempted to try and escape.”

  “I understand, Guardian.”

  “But soon, when more knights are dispatched here, either I or Marshal Montrill will set the mine in continuous operation again. You can be sure of that. We must make sure all the shafts are clear and drill a new shaft near where the veins are thickest. In the meantime, we will send an envoy to the ogre chieftain and arra
nge to purchase more slaves.”

  The Dark Knight bowed perfunctorily. “Your dinner, Guardian? Shall I bring you something to eat, or will you …”

  “I will be eating with the wounded tonight, Marek, if I eat at all. And first I want to safeguard this well. Send Trelane and his brother …”

  “Ostan, Guardian.”

  “Send Trelane and Ostan to guard this well when they’ve finished their meal. Then send another knight to start the dead slaves to burning. I’ve got more important things to see to this evening than roasting goblin corpses.”

  “Yes, Guardian.” Marek pivoted, strode toward the laborers gathering pots and flasks for water, spoke quickly to one man, then continued on toward the Dark Knight burial detail.

  The torches and lanterns that illuminated Steel Town flickered in the wind, chasing shadows across ruined buildings and laborers huddled under makeshift roofs with their families. The wind moaned softly, mimicking the sounds of the wounded and accompanying a woman softly crying.

  Grallik stared numbly at the camp, his gaze flitting to the tavern owner and his wife, clinging to each other pathetically, then moving on to a knight limping toward the stable. “In a blessed several more days, everything will be operating again in hellish Steel Town,” the wizard mused aloud, unaware that the hobgoblin foreman was still close by and listening. “Marshal Montrill will have his command back, and perhaps I will obtain leave to go to Neraka for supplies. For a while there will be tents, just as in the beginning of this place. Tents upon tents, from one end of chaos to the other.”

  When his work stacking rocks around the well was done, Direfang returned to the slave pens without being allowed a drink.

  “No one has helped Moon-eye’s Heart.” Moon-eye stared at Direfang accusingly. The goblin continued to hover over his mate, alternating between gently touching her stomach and blowing to keep the gnats away from her crusted eyes.

  “The skull men still tend to the knights,” Direfang said with a deep sigh, studying Graytoes’ legs. “Not so bad as yesterday. Swelling is down. Perhaps Graytoes’ legs are not broken after all.”

  The hobgoblin knelt down next to Graytoes and gingerly felt her legs. He watched her face, looking for a reaction. Direfang had learned a little about administering to the sick, again from watching how the Dark Knights did it. She didn’t grimace very much when he increased the pressure.

  “No, not broken,” Direfang pronounced happily. “So Graytoes should lay quiet and rest as long as the Dark Knights allow.” The hobgoblin frowned at his own words because he was already making a plan to get all of the slaves moving—as many as would dare come with him later that very night. “Graytoes should rest. Good time to rest.”

  Moon-eye continued to fret. “Not broken, really?”

  “No, not broken.” Direfang’s breath whistled out between his teeth, showing his irritation at having to repeat himself.

  “Baby not broken?” Moon-eye put his ear to Graytoes’ stomach. “First baby.”

  Direfang regarded the pair for a few moments then lowered his voice. “The baby of Moon-eye and Graytoes is not broken. And the baby does not have to be born a slave.”

  Moon-eye gasped, pulling his chin close to his neck. “Moon-eye slave, Graytoes slave, first baby slave. Moon-eye slave since …” He paused and rubbed at his chin, trying to remember just how many years had passed since he’d been a slave and how many years he’d lived in Steel Town. “Slave since …”

  “Slave since the ogres of the Blood-Claw Chieftain swept into the village,” Direfang said, pointing to himself. “Slave since childhood. Slave since fifteen years come the next Dry-Heat.” Direfang used the dwarf term for the height of summer, another expression he’d picked up by listening to the people who weren’t slaves in Steel Town. “Here since fifteen years come the next Dry-Heat. Fifteen bad years.”

  The hobgoblin sucked in a deep breath and looked away from the couple. Despite the loss of goblins to the quake, the pens had never before seemed so crowded. Without any shift operating in the mines, all the slaves were gathered there in camp. The awful smell and noise were disconcerting. The breathing, wheezing, snorting—there was no escaping the noise of so many. The pop and hiss of fire was added to the din. The Dark Knights had started burning more goblin corpses.

  Graytoes stirred, reaching a hand out and brushing Direfang’s knee. “Remember?”

  Direfang cocked his head, not understanding.

  “Remember the Before Time? Remember being free?”

  The hobgoblin nodded. Graytoes and some of the others called their years before slavery the Before Time.

  “Don’t remember,” Graytoes said, her expression sorrowful as she shook her head. “Only remember this. Remember Steel Town only. Memory gone of the Before Time.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Moon-eye waved his hands at Direfang to chase him away. “Wish memory not gone, Direfang. Wish the Before Time was still here.” Graytoes pointed to her forehead. “Wish the memory was not twisted and sour.”

  “Direfang should go now and leave Moon-eye’s Heart alone.” The one-eyed goblin shook his fist for emphasis. “Direfang should not make Moon-eye’s Heart feel bad or sad. Moon-eye’s Heart has enough broken without breaking heart.”

  Direfang rose and brushed at the front of his legs. His legs ached. Every inch of him was sore from working so hard bringing out the living and dead then carrying stones to place around the new well. He rolled his shoulders and looked through the sea of goblin bodies, hoping to spot Mudwort. There was no sign of her, and he turned back to the pair.

  “The memory of the Before Time is still strong in here,” the hobgoblin said, tapping his temple with a long finger. He locked eyes with Graytoes while ignoring Moon-eye, who swatted at him. “The Before Time was better than this, Graytoes. Being free was better. Being free again would be good. Good, too, for Graytoes’ first baby to be free.”

  “Pfah!” Moon-eye again tried to shoo Direfang away.

  The hobgoblin went, cutting a swath through clusters of goblins in his search for Mudwort. He finally found her in the center of Hurbear’s clan, her red skin a stark contrast to their various shades of yellow.

  “Listen,” she was telling them. She stamped her foot against the earth. “The quake will come tonight, tomorrow, no later. The ground will shake again and bring down the mountain. It will bring down slaves and Dark Knights and …” She stopped when she noticed Direfang looming above them.

  “Remember the Before Time, Mudwort?”

  She opened her mouth but said nothing. She crossed her arms in front of her, surprised at the unlikely question.

  “Remember … before Steel Town?”

  Mudwort looked upset, not only at being interrupted.

  “Remember what it was like to be free?”

  Hurbear’s clan backed up a few steps, giving Direfang more room.

  “Slave since when, Mudwort?” The hobgoblin persisted.

  She shrugged, some of her anger and irritation dropping away. She let her arms fall to her sides too. “Long time, Direfang. Slave since … too long to remember how long. A slave for many, many years. A long time. Too long.”

  “Remember before Steel Town, Mudwort?”

  Her eyes sparkled in the growing darkness. “Remember, yes. Think about it sometimes. Miss that time, Direfang. It’s bad to bring the memories back now. Bad, bad, bad. Such memories are painful and sad and terribly sour.”

  “Remember what it was like to be free?”

  She stepped close and looked up into his broad, scarred face. “Remember, yes. Certainly.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Hurbear had to draw closer to hear her next words. “Been thinking about it, too. Something else was destroyed with the quake, Direfang.”

  “How much? How many of them?”

  “All of them!” Mudwort stepped back and stared at the ground. “Remember free, Direfang? Remember when—”

  “A slave since Ureeg was chief,” one of Hurbear’s clansmen interjected. He was on
e of the older goblins in the camp, his skin gray from age. He wore a woman’s blouse that dangled to his knees and that was tied at the waist with an old ribbon. The lacy collar fluttered in the breeze. “Slave a long time.” He waggled his thumb against his chest.

  “That would be …” Hurbear pursed his lips and made a guess. “Ten years.”

  “Twenty,” the clansman corrected, holding up the fingers of both hands and flashing them twice. “Ureeg became chief when Toothfew died. Twenty years since Toothfew died and—”

  “Longer than that even,” Hurbear said, referring to his own years in servitude to the Dark Knights. “Slave forever. Slave always. Slave until dead.” The old goblin rounded his shoulders so his back looked humped like a turtle shell. “Feel dead. Should have died twenty years ago.”

  “Hurbear was not always a slave.” Direfang turned away from all of them, looking east. The mound of goblin bodies was steadily burning but was slower than the previous pyre because the wizard had not magically fed it. The wind blew the acrid stink directly toward the pens and made the hobgoblin’s eyes sting and water. “Remember, Hurbear? Remember being free? Remember when there were no pens and no whips, and goblins could drink before goats and chickens?”

  The old goblin shut his eyes. “Don’t want to remember. Direfang should not want to remember. Pain in remembering, as Mudwort says. And nothing good comes from pain.” When the old goblin opened his eyes again, he, too, stared through gaps in the press of bodies at the pyre. “Hurbear burn there soon enough, Direfang. Hurbear is old and very tired. All the slaves will burn someday. Direfang, too. Kayod and Quickfeet, Chima and Olabode will burn too, someday. All slaves burn. Then the spirits will be free. Then all will be free.”

  “S’dards! All in Hurbear’s clan are damn s’dards.” Direfang growled and brushed by the clansmen, goblins parting to avoid being knocked down by the angry hobgoblin. He swung his arms as he went, fists tight and claws again drawing blood against his palms. A few followed him, one of them a tan-skinned goblin who’d been at the camp only a few months.