Jean Rabe - Goblin Nation

Goblins streamed over the bluff and toward the river, despite Orvago and Horace yelling at them to climb to higher ground.

The river wouldn’t save them, the gnoll decided. The fire had already jumped the body of water and had caught in the small pines on both sides. The river might provide some temporary refuge, but soon the air would be filled with so much poisonous smoke that it would choke the life out of everything. And most of the goblins and hobgoblins could not swim for long anyway.

“I realize now why the old willow tree had been so worried,” Orvago murmured.

“I don’t understand.” But Horace was too busy to ask for an explanation. His healing hands weaved over another burned goblin.

“Chislev,” Orvago began. “Hear this prayer.”

“Sea Mother,” Horace echoed, his voice stronger and deeper than the gnoll’s, “Zeboim, mother goddess, she who is called Zebir Jotun, Zura the Maelstrom, and Zyr. Hear me.”

“Qel was right, Umay.” Graytoes sat against the base of a poplar, the dwarf baby cradled in front of her, gasping and sputtering. “Should not have taken Umay from that village. Should have left Umay there. Safe with dwarves maybe. Safer than here.”

There was nowhere to run, no safe place in that section of the forest. Trees burned everywhere, behind her, around her, and ahead of her toward the bluff.

The bluff was no safer, she realized.

In a detached way, Graytoes found the flames strangely beautiful-yellow, orange, red, white, magical in their brightness and intensity, pieces of flames shining like metal, all of it beautiful yet horrible.

“Umay would have lived well in that village. Would have grown strong and wonderful. Would not have been loved by Graytoes anymore, though, if left behind. And Graytoes does love Umay.” Graytoes twirled her fingers in the baby’s black hair. Umay’s breath came in shallow puffs. “Should not have stolen Umay. Qel was right. S’dard to have stolen beautiful Umay.”

Above the forest, watching all the beautiful, horrible fire he had wrought, Isaam stared in horror. He hadn’t counted on the wind shifting and the fire jumping to trees behind the knights. His magical shield was holding against the flames to the south, protecting Bera from the fire spreading in that direction, but he hadn’t the ability to protect her from the east and west, as the fire spread out of control. The Dark Knight leaders-and some of the goblins and hobgoblins-were in a clearing surrounded by the inferno.

Bera was there in the middle of it all, Isaam saw.

He would miss Bera, but he had no way to save her. He could not risk floating down to reach her, the smoke was so thick that he himself might perish. He could start but not stop the fire.

At least the enemy druid-wherever he was-could not help the goblins. Isaam had dried out the forest and saw to that. Isaam would mourn his gallant commander, certainly. And he’d tell those higher up in the Order that she’d accomplished her mission-slaying the goblins she’d been sent after. She’d killed them all and didn’t retreat despite a fire that rose all around her.

The traitor Grallik N’sera was to blame for the demise of Bera and the rest of the knights, Isaam would report. Grallik’s specialty was fire magic; it was well documented in his records. Grallik had brought down a column of flame in a part of the woods that was especially dry. Yes, Grallik started the firestorm and perished in it, causing the deaths of Bera and the rest of her knights. That was what Isaam would tell the council.

Only he had been able to escape, he would tell them, and only because he had a spell that allowed him to float above the earth. The spell did not allow him to carry the weight of another.

Bera would receive posthumous honors.

Isaam would miss her more than a little; he had served with her a long while. She was a brave commander, though doomed.

Isaam floated east, flying higher to avoid the flames and the smoke that continued to shoot toward the cloudless sky.

Mudwort heard Graytoes’s call, amazed that the yellow-skinned goblin could accomplish such stone-telling on her own. Perhaps she’d underestimated Graytoes. Or perhaps Graytoes had found a great well of magic inside in a moment of desperation.

Mudwort was well aware that a portion of the great Qualinesti Forest was burning but not all of the forest. The red-skinned goblin had ranged far to the north and was off by the coast. She was safe from the flames and the smoke. She couldn’t see or smell them, and she was glad she couldn’t.

She knew the forest burned only because when she touched the end of the spear to the earth, she could peer through the ground effortlessly. It no longer required a spell. Her magic was growing. She’d chanced to look in on Direfang moments past. Her vision of their first meeting in the Dark Knight mines had made her curious about his well-being.

That’s when she’d noticed the flames and taken in the scope of the firestorm. Doom was enveloping the goblins and their hobgoblin leader.

Mudwort would miss Direfang above all the others she’d left behind, and perhaps she would miss Graytoes too. But she was too far away to save them, and it was none of her business anymore.

She hoped they died quickly and without much pain and that the winds scattered their ashes and bones so nothing touched. She did not want their spirits returning to be trapped forever.

“Direfang is remembered,” Mudwort mused. “Direfang was a good, good friend.”

Within minutes she felt sand beneath her feet. She’d reached the beach. She liked the feel of it and let her toes sink in. Every sensation felt more intense to her. Mudwort knew it was because of the magical spear; it had heightened everything-her ability to stonetell, her spells, her hearing and sight and all her senses. It would take quite some time to discover all the magic inside of the god-tossed-away weapon.

Mudwort heard voices again, the rustling leaves to the east talking to her, crying out to her. “The forest aches,” they said. “The forest bleeds and dies. The forest hurts.”

“Only a part of the forest,” Mudwort returned contemptuously. “And only for a while.” She remembered looking at the young pines on the opposite side of the old, muddy river. “The forest will be born again. Maybe better. The forest will not be dead for long.”

The leaves persisted, as did another voice.

“Saarh,” she murmured, recognizing the voice finally.

“Yes. Mudwort, do something.”

Mudwort shook her head so hard, her necklaces became tangled. She wore all she had, even the pretty one with all the sapphire stones she’d feared another goblin would take from her. She didn’t fear anything or anyone anymore.

“Mudwort, do something,” the voice repeated.

“Do nothing, Saarh. Shut up, Saarh.” Mudwort discovered shortly after leaving the clearing that Saarh, or the spirit of Saarh, was lodged inside the spear. That was why Mudwort hadn’t been able to see Saarh when she’d peered into the future; she saw only the spear. And that was because Saarh was inside the spear. There were other spirits in there, too, older ones, but none of them as interesting as Saarh. Mudwort didn’t listen to any of the others. She’d already explained to Saarh that there was nothing wrong in abandoning Direfang and his following. “Direfang will be born again, like the forest will be born again.”

Mudwort continued north, walking closer to the water so the voices of the leaves would be harder to hear, the surf drowning them out.

“Can’t do anything anyway,” Mudwort said after several more minutes had passed and Saarh had lapsed into brief silence. “Too far away. Too tired. Not enough magic inside. Too, too far away.”