Jean Rabe: Goblin Nation

Her husband would understand her blood lust, she thought. He’d been a Dark Knight once, in the very early years of their marriage. But he’d injured his leg in a fight with a pair of young Solamnics, and though he’d slain them, one had managed a severe blow. The Skull Knights healed him but could not properly set his leg on the battlefield. He’d retired to raise their daughter.

Bera thought rarely of her daughter, a beautiful woman with her eyes set in her father’s face and with aspirations for only marrying well and raising a family. The girl had never shown an interest in the Order; perhaps that was why Bera had given back so little interest or affection. But when the fight was through and the necessary reports made to those above her, perhaps Bera would go home to visit the girl-woman, she corrected herself. Time was fast and elusive. She would visit her husband and daughter, who she hoped had found a man to marry and provide for her. Then she would look to her next posting and perhaps a coveted promotion.

“Commander!” Doleman shouted a second time to get her attention.

He’d been wounded, though not seriously, a slice on his upper sword arm. Bera moved closer to give him cover as he switched his sword to his left hand and transferred his shield to his right.

“My thanks, Commander.”

“Slaying another goblin would be thanks enough,” she returned.

He nodded and bull-rushed forward, his shield knocking down a goblin as he raised his sword and brought it down at an angle to sever the leg of another opponent. The one on the ground scrambled to rise again, but Doleman jumped on top of him, heel digging into the goblin’s neck and crushing and strangling him.

“Debt paid, Commander!”

“Aye, Lieutenant.” She turned to encounter a large goblin preparing to attack her. The creature wielded a club in its right hand and a wavy-bladed dagger in its left. More disgusting than its fellows, the goblin had two miniature heads hanging from its belt. They bobbed against its legs as it darted forward.

Elf heads, she realized with a start. Bera had studied goblins and knew there were sects that took trophies, such as hands and heads. She’d read about a tribe that shrunk the skin, believing it captured the spirit of the enemy. The visual proof of that legend gave her one more reason to despise goblinkind.

“Filth,” she cursed at it. “A disease on the face of Ansalon.” She changed her pattern of attack, raining blows down in a staccato fashion until the head-toting goblin tried to stumble back. But there were goblins behind it, and it was blocked from retreat.

“A disease!” she hollered. “And I am the cure.” She ran it through. Her heart sang with joy, and she whirled to find her next opponent, her next hated enemy, another treat for her sword.

Graytoes was at the rear of the goblin throng. She could have stayed on the bluff. Should have, maybe, she thought. Younglings were gathered there, watched over by the oldest goblins and hobgoblins who were deemed too fragile or too wounded from the previous battle to fight. She could have helped them.

Perhaps she should have stayed to take care of Umay, to keep her out of danger; Direfang had told her to stay. Orvago had stayed. She’d heard the gnoll tell Direfang that he was better at protecting and defending and healing. It was not his place to go on the attack.

“My nature will not allow me to pick sides, Foreman Direfang,” he’d said. “But I will fight to save these goblins on the bluff. I will stay here and do my best to hold the bluff.”

Graytoes could have stayed with Orvago. Horace had stayed too. The Skull Man was broken and resting, tending wounded goblins when he’d briefly revive. Horace wasn’t a Dark Knight any longer, so Graytoes decided that she could finally like him. Graytoes could have stayed with Horace and helped with the wounded.

But Graytoes was curious above all else, and in truth she prided herself on being part of Direfang’s army. With Umay strapped to her back in the leather pack, she still could use her hands to fight well. She carried a long knife in one; she thought it was the weapon Direfang had dropped after gaining the magnificent axe. Because it had been Direfang’s, she knew it was fine and strong and would be enough to protect her and Umay.

Jando-Jando had gone ahead of her and was probably very near the front of the war party. She worried he might fall to a Dark Knight. Jando-Jando was not as good a fighter as she. Graytoes didn’t love him like she’d loved Moon-eye, though she thought perhaps with time she might. But Graytoes didn’t want to be without a mate again, which was the main reason she followed the thousands of goblins through the woods, looking for Jando-Jando. She thought that if she were near him during the fighting, he wouldn’t die. She’d not been near Moon-eye when he’d died. Watching over Jando-Jando would give her some purpose. And it was an excuse not to remain on the bluff.

Besides, there was a little magic in her, and she could join it with Draath’s and maybe Olag’s if she could find them in the melee. She wished Thya and Mudwort had not left the city. Their magic was very strong, and it was easier to mingle her magic with theirs. The female stonetellers brought out the best in Graytoes.

Mudwort, especially, made the magic simple. But Draath was good too, she thought. She didn’t like to look at the tiny elf heads strapped to his belt, and she didn’t want to touch his fingers; she pictured them pulling the skin loose from elf skulls. But she could work some spells with Draath when she closed her eyes. Together, they could help defeat the knights and thereby help Direfang. Graytoes hated Dark Knights more than she hated anything else. She hoped there were a few elves among the enemy so Draath and Sallor and their kinsmen could add to their disgusting collection. But she would not watch them do it.

Umay slept blithely, despite Graytoes’s rushing over uneven ground, jumping knobby roots, and sometimes being jostled by goblins who raced near her and faster and occasionally pushed her out of the way. Umay slept although she was probably hungry. In all the confusion and activity, Graytoes hadn’t fed her.

“Win for Umay,” Graytoes told herself. “Beat the Dark Knights. Kill all Dark Knights. Then go back and milk a goat and feed Umay. Bathe Umay, and sing an old song Moon-eye liked.”

Graytoes liked the forest, despite the bloodragers and the dragon and other dangers, and she wanted Umay to grow up in the nice, green place. Not on the bluff, though; there’d been too much death there. The ground was tainted with all the blood from dead goblins and Dark Knights. Nothing good could grow on such terribly tainted ground. Graytoes decided that after all the Dark Knights were dead, she would have a long talk with Direfang. The goblins must build a city somewhere else. Along that same river, fine, but somewhere else, not within sight of the tainted ground.

She would build a fine earth bowl home with Jando-Jando, one better than even what Mudwort had made. She could use her own magic to do the digging, and together they’d make it a large home so Umay would have lots of room to grow up in. Maybe they would put a wall inside of it, dividing up the space, the kind of innovation that Qel was rumored to have in her home. Then Umay could have her own space when she got a little bigger.

“Graytoes loves Umay very much,” she said.

Graytoes had been running for a while before she noticed things changing around her. Ground animals were scampering through goblin legs, all of them racing in the opposite direction, toward the south, tripping over each other and exposed roots-running for the sake of running, she thought. Larger animals-deer and boars and maybe bigger things by the thrashing-also rushed through the woods. All of them hurried away from where the goblins headed. Maybe they were afraid of the coming confrontation. Maybe the battle ahead was too fierce.