Jean Rabe: Goblin Nation

Direfang plucked the blue one out first. It was at the same time brighter and lighter than the blue gemstones Mudwort had found in the dwarven village they’d passed through weeks before. Yet it was not the same type of stone as Mudwort’s, and it felt cool, even when he pressed it into his palm. Mudwort’s gemstones warmed to the touch, he knew. Odd, too, that there wasn’t a speck of dirt on the stones, nor was dirt embedded in the depressions where the letters had been carved into them, despite the stones having been buried for … certainly a long time.

Direfang picked up the other two stones and thrust all of them in the pocket of his tunic. He circled the willow, avoiding the thorny bushes that grew in profusion there, looking for more of the colorful, shiny stones. He widened his circle, coming upon the ruined foundation of a small building. A few of the foundation rocks remaining were still held together by mortar, like some of the buildings in Steel Town had been constructed. He traced their outline, brushing aside ferns and bushes and scratching the earth here and there, hoping he might find …

“Find what?” Direfang said. “Find nothing.” He wondered if he was just looking for an excuse to not return to the throng of goblins and start the day’s work. Was he becoming an old lazybones?

Still he persisted in his search, finally managing to unearth a few trinkets: a small, silver spoon with delicate scrollwork on the handle; a glazed earthenware mug that had survived whatever catastrophe had befallen the place; and a dozen pearls on a thin, rotted cord. He put the pearls and the spoon in his pocket. The mug was too large, and he almost left it behind. But it was a bit of curious treasure, and he thought he might find a use for it, so he untied his belt, ran the handle through it, and retied it.

Direfang ranged a little farther, looking for more ruins and spire stones. The undergrowth was thick, but he shuffled through it in a steady rhythm that coordinated with the clicking of a big, black bird perched on a branch overhead. He thought he might get lucky twice and stub his toes on another foundation and find more treasures. Where the sun cut through a lattice of branches, the thin beams looked like spun glass, a haze of gnats flitting through them. The gnats swarmed around Direfang too, but they were too trivial a nuisance to concern him.

Eventually he gave up searching, guessing that perhaps there’d been only the one building, the residence of some peculiar elf hermit who dined with fine silver and drank from a glazed mug. After one more sweep around the lone foundation, he returned to ogle the mysterious spire and dig just a little more in the dirt.

After a while he stood and shrugged. If it was a monument that marked a grave, it marked a deep one, and the hobgoblin had no desire to waste more time digging for bug-riddled elf bones.

A part of Direfang was irritated that he’d already spent so much time away from his goblin charges, curious about the polished rock spire and an old building foundation. It wasn’t like him to dally so long when there was work to be done, even though he did covet snatches of solitude and was a curious sort of fellow.

“Late,” he decided. “Terribly late getting back.”

He continued to stare at the sculpted stone spire. There was no dirt on its base, even the part of it that had been thrust into the ground. It was as if nothing could stick to it.

He had a thought. Was it magic?

If so, he should leave it there, maybe settle it back in its hole, maybe bring Mudwort to look at it and hear her opinion. The goblin shaman seemed to understand mysterious things of the earth. Maybe she could cast a spell and talk to it.

But what if he couldn’t find that place again, as it wasn’t on the game trail? And he might not have time to come back that way, as he ought to get busy moving the goblins farther away to a good water supply where the land had not been soaked with their kinsmen’s blood. So he bent and wrapped his fingers around the narrow part, hoisting it upright again.

Direfang grabbed the bottom with his free hand, sucked in a breath, and picked it up, holding it in front of himself as if it were a precious log he was carrying back to stoke a funeral pyre for dead goblins.

The spire was heavy, though not so heavy as he expected. Direfang was strong and somehow managed it. He used to tote sacks of ore from the mines in Neraka and told himself it was not as heavy as a big sack of rocks. Yet he struggled under it as he found his way back to the game trail, scratching his ankles and shredding the cuffs of his pants in the sticky bushes. It wouldn’t have been so onerous a task if he had not lost so much blood. He still didn’t feel as strong as usual.

Although Direfang couldn’t say why he wanted the spire, he knew he didn’t want to leave it behind. He had to set it down and rest briefly several times before he finally reached the spot where most of the goblins had been camped.

There’d been thousands of them when he’d left. Gaping, he saw that there was only one: a thin-framed, yellow-skinned female clutching a bundle to her chest.

It was Graytoes and her baby-a dwarf infant she’d taken from the village they’d passed through.

“Direfang!” she whooped when she spotted him.

He shuffled toward her, eyes cutting left and right in search of more goblins. He saw tamped-down grass and other evidence of their passing, and beyond Graytoes, in the gaps between large oaks, were the crude frames where the bloodrager hides were being tanned. He could smell the pong of the mixture Orvago had made and spread on the skins.

Some five thousand goblins had left the shore and come inland to build a nation, where still more had joined them. Many of the clans had camped a little distance away from the main group, and Direfang squinted and cupped his hand over his eyes, hoping to spot smoke spirals from cook fires.

“Nothing,” he said, eyeing Graytoes.

“Direfang was not lost,” Graytoes said happily, rising to meet him, face beaming when she glanced first at him then at her baby, Umay, who had just made a charming cooing sound. “Mudwort said Direfang wasn’t lost. Mudwort was right. Mudwort talked to the earth and told the clans that Direfang was swimming and getting rid of the blood-stink. Late, not lost.”

Direfang opened his mouth, but Graytoes kept babbling.

“Mudwort told the clans Direfang would come back when the blood-stink was gone. That another home site should be found, that more trees should be cut and-”

“Where is-”

“Mudwort said Direfang should have some alone time. Trees should be cut, Mudwort said, and water found. Mudwort said Direfang would want these things done. Rockhide and Bug-biter, Bentclaw, and Thya all agreed.”

“Where is-?”

“Mudwort said Direfang is selfless and doesn’t take enough alone time. Mudwort said-”

Direfang snarled and set the spire down. Graytoes stared at it, as if she’d not noticed him carrying it before.

“Oh! A big rock, tall and pretty, Direfang found. Mudwort did not say that Direfang had found a big, pretty rock. Said Direfang was getting rid of the blood-stink.” She sniffed the air. “Direfang got rid of the blood-stink and found a big rock. What is-?”

“Stop chattering for a minute! Where did Mudwort go? Where did all of the clans go?” Direfang’s words were a sustained growl.

Graytoes continued to stare at the spire, holding Umay against her with one arm and snaking out the other to touch the stone with her thumb. “Yes, pretty,” she said. “That is a very pretty rock, Direfang.”

“Graytoes!”

“Thya and Rockhide took some of the clans past the nut trees.” Graytoes’s eyes were still riveted on the stone, however. “Thya and Rockhide. Mudwort went too, after a while, and Grallik and Qel and …” She wrinkled her face, searching for a word. “And Qel’s hairy friend. Mudwort and Thya said to wait for Direfang. That Direfang was not lost. Just late. Said to wait for Direfang. Knobnose is cutting down trees with the Fishgatherers. Bug-biter too. Somewhere cutting down trees.”