Jean Rabe: Goblin Nation

He looked for his axe, spotted it, and grabbed it up with his free hand. Then, without hesitation, he clumsily charged at the closest bloodrager. It was snapping at a quartet of goblins. Direfang saw an opening and hurled his axe. It cleaved into the beast’s side and brought a shrill, piercing howl. The goblin foursome descended on the beast to finish it off, and Direfang stumbled toward the next bloodrager, a long, skinny one that was threatening Knobnose and his clan members.

A crackling noise pierced the din and stopped the hobgoblin, followed by a boom of thunder and the smell of something sharp and acrid. Then there was another loud crack, followed by a third and a fourth. Out of the corner of his eye, Direfang saw a thin bolt of lightning lance overhead and strike one of the bloodragers. A whoosh signaled another blast of fire from Grallik.

Mudwort was responsible for the lightning strikes; Direfang knew that without seeing the red-skinned goblin shaman. She must have heard the commotion from their nearby camp and come running-along with dozens and dozens of others. Suddenly the ground was covered with raging goblins and hobgoblins. Their battle cries rose deafeningly.

Direfang no longer tried to command the horde; they were frenzied and beyond listening, a sea of small, furious bodies swarming around trunks and over the remaining bloodragers. He sank to his knees and pressed both hands to his neck. He closed his eyes for just a moment. It would be so easy to give in to his pain, he thought. Just keep his eyes closed and pass from the bothersome world. His life was still flowing out over his fingertips. “So very easy,” he whispered.

But nothing had ever been easy for him, and he would fight for life if for no other reason than to stay with his army and lead it to its destiny-fulfilling his duty. Yet his fingers were so slick with blood, he had a hard time holding them in place.

“Fight,” he whispered. “Fight and live.”

“Yes, live. Be well, Foreman Direfang.”

The hobgoblin pried his eyes open; they were sticky with sweat and grit. A young human woman stood over him, pale hands shiny with magic.

“You are gravely wounded,” she said. “But you are not yet beyond my touch.”

Her name was Qel, and Direfang knew very little about her. She looked little more than a child, small and delicate with silvery-white hair that fell to her shoulders. She’d joined his army when they had stopped at Schallsea Island so the mystics could cure some of the goblins suffering from the plague.

Direfang was not fond of humans, but he knew the goblins had no healers among them, so he had accepted her presence. He had been magically healed before, by an Ergothian priest of Zeboim who had traveled with the goblins for a time. That magic was warm and soothing and powerful. But Qel’s vibrant touch felt much different.

A chill passed from his neck to his toes, bringing out goose bumps and causing him to tremble and his teeth to chatter. There was nothing soothing about her healing; he felt uncomfortable and suddenly itchy, like tiny insects were crawling across his skin, most of them centered on his neck. He was tempted to brush her hands away, not sure if he could trust her. But he sensed that without her ministrations he would die from loss of blood. So he endured the prickly, cold sensations for countless long minutes as the cacophony continued around him.

It seemed as if all the goblins were chattering, their conversations an irritating, indecipherable buzz. There was the faintest clicking sound of branches nudged by the wind and the single cry of some hunting bird. Then there was his heart, pounding loudly in his ears. All of the sounds stirred together caused his head to ache.

Then he felt Qel’s hands flutter down his arms and grasp his fingers. She squeezed them and made them feel as if they’d been thrust into an icy stream. She was healing them, he realized, but her ministrations hurt nearly as much as the wounds themselves.

“You need rest,” Qel said a moment later, stepping away. Her hands were covered with his blood; she bent and wiped them on the grass. “I’ve others to tend to.” She gave him a faint smile and retreated to the base of an oak that had been damaged by Mudwort’s lightning. Two injured goblins were propped against it.

Direfang waited a moment more before lumbering to his feet, the pain lessening. He looked away from the scattered bodies as he headed toward Mudwort. For the moment, he did not want to consider how many had died. He would learn the tally soon enough. Then the air would be filled with more fire and the pungent odor of fallen, burning goblins. Voices would be raised in memory of dead clansmen. The ritual of death and remembering would be repeated, as it had been so often, too often, on their journey to freedom.

Mudwort was sitting next to Grallik; both had their heads bowed, and their lips were moving as if they were conspiring. The mass of goblins whooped and danced victoriously around the bloodrager carcasses. The army would dine well that night.

“Foreman.” Grallik acknowledged Direfang’s approach. The wizard always referred to Direfang as Foreman, either as a measure of respect or simply because it had been the hobgoblin’s title when he slaved in the mine. Grallik had been his enemy then; while Direfang didn’t think of him as an enemy since the slave camp, well, Direfang still wasn’t sure what he was.

“Grallik, Mudwort.”

Mudwort did not look up.

The hobgoblin sat cross-legged in front of them, his back to the dancing throng and the goblin corpses. Direfang was still weak.

“Bloodragers, these things?” Direfang placed his big hands on his knees. He noticed that the cuts on his fingers had mended. The last of Qel’s magical chill suddenly vanished. She had done her job well. “Is this forest filled with these bloodragers?”

Grallik shook his head.

Direfang studied the half-elf wizard, as if the scars on the left side of the man’s face comprised a map. More scars ran down the man’s neck and the left side of his body from a fire long ago, the hobgoblin had heard. The wizard’s shirt concealed the worst of the horrible marks.

“No, Foreman. Bloodragers are a rare thing. I’d only ever spotted one during my youth, and though that was a long while ago, the image and the subsequent vivid tales I’ve heard made me recognize these creatures as the ’ragers.” He paused and looked around Direfang. “Bloodragers are the dark side of the woods, nature twisted by magic and fueled by something beyond this world.”

“Explain,” Direfang said.

Grallik sighed, a dry sound that melted into the clicking of thin branches directly above. “Dire wolves, Foreman. Bloodragers are dire wolves infected by some arcane disease, perhaps on purpose, perhaps a magical experiment gone awry. The latter is more likely, I think. Terrifying and thoroughly feral, they live only to kill. There are not thought to be many of them in the world. But … perhaps … that belief is incorrect.”

Direfang nodded. “There were many here, wizard. Far too many, in fact.” He paused, thinking. “Is the flesh …”

“Harmful? Diseased?” Grallik shrugged. “I’m certain the woman or the gnoll will have some enchantment floating around in their heads that can make the meat safe to eat. Pray that you cook it this time. I’ll not eat it raw. No more. I’m done with such fare, and I’ll …”

Direfang shut out the rest of the wizard’s words as he glanced over his shoulder, still avoiding looking at the goblin corpses. Some of the goblins had started skinning the bloodragers, with a reasonable amount of care, he noted. They were obviously trying to preserve the hides. A few months past, Direfang knew they would have simply hacked into the bodies for the choicest pieces of meat and left everything else to rot with no thought of the future. His followers were finally thinking differently, planning ahead, and that was a good thing, he thought.