Jean Rabe: Goblin Nation

Direfang opened his mouth to dispute that assertion and put the gnoll in his place, but Orvago continued stoically.

“Respect nature and respect its power, Foreman Direfang. I showed your kinsmen three days past how to approach this task, but you were not paying attention then. I showed more of them this afternoon, but you were elsewhere.”

Direfang turned back to the tree and gave it another vigorous chop, stronger in his ire, more wood chips splintering.

“Do not be stubborn. Let me teach you, Foreman Direfang.”

Another chop then another and another, each more vehement.

“Let me teach you before you kill some of your kinsmen or yourself with your ignorance.”

Direfang stopped in midswing, a soft growl rumbling in his throat. The gnoll druid had gone too far. “Ignorant? How dare-”

“If this tree fell the wrong way, Foreman Direfang, it could easily smash you.” The gnoll padded to the trunk, touching the bark almost reverently. He closed his eyes and whispered in a language Direfang had not heard before. “This oak is powerful,” he said in the common tongue. “More powerful than you or I.”

Grallik had explained to Direfang what a druid was: a priest who worshiped nature above Krynn’s gods. Grallik thought druids were typically humans or elves, and so figured there was a story behind Orvago’s calling. Too, he said he was surprised Orvago did not protest cutting down trees to build goblin homes.

“Druids regard trees as sacred,” the wizard had explained.

Direfang simply considered trees useful, but sometimes it was useful to cut them down, time-consuming and tiring too.

“These trees that I’ve marked for destruction,” Orvago said, his fingers fairly dancing over the bark, “will by their absence make this part of the woods healthier. Trees grow poorly if there are too many on a stretch of ground, as there is here. There is too much competition for the water that soaks into the earth and all the nutrients held there. The remaining stands will be stronger and more resistant to fire sparked by lightning. Across the river, the woods were devastated a while ago.”

Direfang gritted his teeth; he’d deduced that much when he saw the small pines on the other side of the river.

“But if you do not cut them down properly, there will be-”

The hobgoblin snarled, ending that part of the lecture. He gestured with his axe. “What is there to teach? An axe and a strong arm-”

“Is not enough.” The gnoll almost reluctantly backed away from the tree. “You must determine how fast the tree will fall, Foreman Direfang. And the path it will take to the ground. If this tree falls here”-the gnoll pointed north-“you will see there is a clear path for the trunk in this direction. No other trees will be injured when this falls, and wood from this oak will not be terribly damaged. Nor are there goblins there to be squashed by its plummeting weight.”

Direfang heard the groan of wood and spun to see the oak the Boarhunters had been chopping fall to the ground. It did not touch a single other tree on its way down. He raised an eyebrow: it was good that the clans were paying attention to the gnoll.

“Respect the tree,” the gnoll repeated. “Observe how it leans. Safer and easier for everyone if a tree is allowed to fall the way it leans. It is one of the reasons why I marked this one.”

“Because it leans to the north,” Direfang finished. “Where it is best for it to fall.”

He nodded. “Make your cuts in a wedge shape,” the gnoll continued. He spoke slower than usual, as if instructing a child. Direfang would have taken umbrage at the tone had he not decided the druid gnoll made some sense. “Make your wedge the shape of a slice of pink summer melon, Foreman Direfang.”

The hobgoblin shook his head, not understanding.

The gnoll indicated the shape with his hairy hands. “The missing wedge will sap the strength in the trunk. Cut a smaller wedge on the opposite side-the direction you do not want it to fall. The trunk will be so weakened that it will fall of its own accord and weight. Less work for you. Less pain for the tree.” He paused. “And never turn your back on a falling tree. Sometimes nature cannot be predicted.”

The gnoll left then, not looking back. With a shrug, the hobgoblin returned to his task, chopping more carefully on the side where he wanted the tree to fall. He was strong from carrying sacks of ore from the mines down to Steel Town. Chopping into the wood was much like hammering a pick against ore-soaked walls.

Yet he soon felt his arms burn from the exertion, the sensation reaching across his shoulders and halfway down his back. It was a feeling he didn’t mind, though. Because he heeded Orvago’s instructions and was precise in his cuts, the work kept his mind focused and off his other worries. Though there was considerable noise with other goblins chopping and chattering, he listened carefully and heard only the thuck of his own axe.

Many minutes later he was rewarded with a sustained creaking and cracking. He backed away, keeping his eyes on the trunk. Bark snapped and the creaking grew louder; then the tree fell slowly, the branches from others nearby seemingly stretching out to ease its passage to the forest floor.

It was dark by the time he’d cut the branches off it and pulled them over to a pile where younglings and older goblins worked to strip off the leaves and twigs. Nothing was going to waste in their enterprise; the twigs were fueling a fire over which roasted a small bear a group of hunters had killed. The thing would not be cooked thoroughly for hours.

Smaller animal carcasses were spitted too-there and elsewhere. Direfang watched as goblins braved the flames to pull off pieces of meat and swallow them whole. Other goblins ate rabbits and moles raw, shoveled insects into their mouths, and scraped the scales from blue-green pan fish that had been netted in the river. Despite all the feasting, he knew many goblins were going hungry. Not enough food had been caught, and even goblins within a clan were squabbling for more. One fight broke out over a rabbit, but Direfang ended it with a glare.

He padded away from the largest concentration of goblins and hobgoblins, returning to the bluff where his spire remained perched. Three goblins who had been eating around the spire scampered away to give him space.

Direfang’s arms ached, and he still felt the burn in the muscles in his back. Some goblins still worked; he could hear their axes. Most of the goblins seemed as determined as he was to build the city, though he wondered if that determination would fade as the days and weeks of constant, grueling work continued.

And food was hard to scrounge.

His stomach rumbled at the thought. Food was turning out to be more of a problem than he’d anticipated. On their march there, the goblins had foraged well enough. But they weren’t moving anymore. More than five thousand goblins in one spot would swiftly diminish the river’s fish population. Would he have to turn them all into farmers? It wasn’t a bad notion; some of the clans already had the skills. But he didn’t want a nation of farmers. Humans were farmers, not goblins and hobgoblins. No, he’d intended for them to build houses and cities like the men who had lived at Steel Town.

Or was that too many years in the Dark Knights’ company talking? Too many years of listening to their stories of home and of places they’d visited … Palanthas and Solace, Haven, Gateway, and North Keep. He’d seen illustrations of Haant, Jachim, Jotan, Ohme, Willik, Unger, and Rangaar. And on the sea journey to the forest, he’d read a book filled with small histories of Flotsam, Seahall, Endhere, and Ventshire.