Jean Rabe: Goblin Nation

Lost in his musings, Direfang unknowingly wandered off the familiar game trail. The trunks were closer together, and in spots he had to squeeze through clumps of birches. The fog hid exposed roots, and the hobgoblin stumbled here and there, catching himself on low-hanging branches.

Direfang usually liked the smell of the forest, from the flowers that hung on vines high in the canopy to the rotting wood pieces and fallen leaves on the floor. But he had a difficult time smelling any of it that morning, as his own stench overpowered everything else; it was a strong, redolent mix of sweat and dirt but mostly of caked, dried blood that was heavy under his nails and matted in his fur. He scratched at some of the scabs on his fingers then stopped himself; he didn’t want to open the wounds that Qel had healed.

He would find a stream and wash himself, drink his fill, and return to the goblins to start the day’s tasks. There must be water nearby, as he heard faint gurgling. Had he not stunk so badly, he could have sniffed his way to it.

The fog had thinned to a fine, lacy mist by the time he found an egg-shaped pond as cerulean as a clear sky and dotted with lily pads and rosy pink blooms that lay flat on the surface. It was fed by a small stream no wider than his thigh. He sat at the edge of the pond and cupped his hands to take a drink; then he froze. On the other side, still as a rock, stood a fawn with wide eyes and large, perfect ears.

“Beautiful,” Direfang murmured.

He stared at the creature for long minutes, holding his breath and remaining as still as the forest creature.

Finally it blinked and dipped its muzzle for a drink, deciding the hobgoblin was no threat. Direfang remained motionless, studying the delicate animal. There’d been no deer around Steel Town, and Direfang had not seen one since his youth. He’d never seen one so young and fragile-looking.

The fawn drank deep and began nibbling on the bark of a sapling that grew at the pond’s edge.

Direfang rose slowly and slipped quietly around the pond. He brushed against a spreading fern, making a shushing sound that caused the fawn to glance up. His approach noted, the fawn resumed nibbling.

“Beautiful, beautiful creature,” Direfang murmured again. He stopped when he was a few yards away, not wanting it to bolt in fear. The fog was all but gone, and he could see the fawn’s tapered legs, its front two, splayed wide, had white markings that looked like socks. Its sand brown back was dusted with spots, like large snowflakes that had come to rest and not been permitted to melt. Its nose was shiny, as dark as the round, unblinking eyes that again took in Direfang.

“Curious, eh?” Direfang edged his foot forward. He fully expected the fawn to run, for it appeared nervous. “Stay,” he whispered fervently. “Please stay. Do not run.” He took another step then another. He wanted Mudwort to see the creature, or Rockhide or Graytoes, or anyone who might appreciate its beauty. “Do not run.”

He tentatively stretched a hand toward the fawn and watched its nose twitch, trying to take in all the scents of the hobgoblin. A little farther and Direfang’s fingers were a forearm’s length from the top of its head. Direfang knew it would feel pleasing to his touch.

A little farther.

One more step.

The hobgoblin’s stomach softly rumbled. He’d not shared in the bloodragers the previous day, and he’d not eaten anything yet that morning. The fawn would taste good and would be more than enough to fill his empty belly.

“Do not run, beautiful creature.”

A little closer and the hobgoblin stepped on a thick twig, his weight snapping it and spooking the fawn. It sprang away, but Direfang was just as fast, arm shooting out, fingers closing on the fawn’s neck.

He hoisted the fawn, grimacing when its small, flailing hooves repeatedly struck him. It made a mewling sound like a goblin baby.

“Sweet meat,” he said. “Soft skin.” He would give the hide to Graytoes for her baby.

With his free hand he reached for the axe tucked into his belt. “Die fast and painless.”

It mewled more shrilly, and its hooves churned faster. He held it out farther so it could not touch him.

“For food and for Graytoes’ Umay.” Direfang brought the axe up and behind his shoulder. One stroke would do it.

He saw his face reflected in the wide, black eyes and saw foam fleck along its mouth. He hesitated then dropped the axe.

“Too beautiful.” He lowered the fawn to the ground and released it. In its panic to escape, it nearly tangled itself in the reeds at the pond’s edge. But a moment more and it was clumsily running away, vaulting over a wide patch of saw grass and losing itself behind a clump of birches, mewling the whole way.

Direfang waded into the pond until he was up to his hips. After a moment he sat, feeling the cold water swirl around his shoulders. He tipped his head back and watched a V of birds pass overhead.

He stayed that way for longer than he had intended. When he emerged, he retrieved his axe and found the tracks he’d left on his way there. The fog gone, the exposed roots and fallen limbs were easy to navigate.

Direfang briefly considered bringing the goblins that way, as he wanted to establish a village near a body of water. But the pond and the stream wouldn’t be enough for his growing throng-more goblins had arrived from the dwarf mountains only two days past. He had sent groups of scouts out at dawn to the south and west to look for a considerable water source. He would send more in a few minutes when he returned to the camp.

The hobgoblin was nearly back to the game trail when he spotted a piece of worked stone near the trunk of an old willow. The odd, twisting spire reached as high as his chest, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it on his trek to the pond.

“The fog,” he said, realizing that must have cloaked it.

He padded toward the stone spire, careful to step over a large sticker bush.

The piece looked sculpted or carved from a type of stone he’d not seen before, and he’d seen plenty in the Steel Town mines and in the mountains they’d traipsed through to make their escape. It was a pink and gray color, both at the same time, but not granite, which also had those combinations, and it had clear crystals embedded in it he was certain would sparkle if the sunlight could reach through the willow leaves to touch it.

The base was as wide around as his thigh, the top a point no thicker than his finger. It was smooth-he confirmed that with a touch-and felt cool. He ran his hands along the surface, finding carvings on one side. Direfang had to stoop to see them.

“Words,” he pronounced, but none he could read. “Elven words.” That was a guess, seeing as how the woods once belonged to them. The letters, if that’s what they were, looked elegant and thin, like an elf would make, Direfang thought. He stared for several minutes, trying to commit them to memory and discovering that when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t picture any of them.

“Maybe a grave.” In Steel Town the Dark Knights buried their dead, setting up stones as memorials for the more important men. Maybe the elves did the same, and the artful spire was a monument of some sort that marked the remains of someone significant.

Direfang shrugged. If it was a grave, he didn’t have qualms about disturbing it. Bodies should not be buried, he believed firmly. They should be burned and scattered, nothing touching.

He squatted and dug around the base, carefully as his fingers still ached a little from the cuts he’d suffered. There wasn’t much of the stone beneath the ground, and after a little more digging, he was able to tip it over. At the bottom of the hole left behind were three rocks each the size of a goblin’s fist, smooth, as if they’d been worn for ages in a river, and covered in more of the graceful, thin letters. Each rock was a different color: rose like the shade in the small spire; a green so pale it was practically white and made the marks the most difficult to see; and bright blue, a most unnatural color for a rock.