Jean Rabe - The Rebellion

“Look out, Foreman!” Grallik shouted.

Direfang opened his eyes abruptly. Not releasing the chains, he brought his right arm up and brushed his forearm against his eyes. Through the haze, he saw another ribbon of red, narrower than the last but coming down right toward them, spilling out over the foothills and blocking their path.

“We are done,” Horace said.

Direfang tried to say “not yet,” but his mouth was parched. So he tugged hard, nearly pulling the spellcasters off their feet, and charged toward the lava stream, moving faster with each lunging stride. From somewhere behind, he heard Erguth shout for the other goblins to run and jump. Direfang did just that himself, clearing the lava stream, which was not yet very large, while pulling on the chains to yank the knights over the widening lava stream too.

Behind him he heard an agonizing scream. Glancing over his shoulder, Direfang saw the hobgoblin Grunnt trip into the lava and shrivel and burn, his cries pitifully dying away.

It wasn’t just the mountain the goblins left behind that was exploding, it was also the one directly across from it, and at least one other well to the north, that they could see.

“The three are one,” Mudwort was saying, trying to make Direfang and Brak understand. The two spellcasters were also standing close by, listening. “Those three, they are one volcano, not three. One volcano with three mouths. The earth says so.” She gestured to the south, where a narrow trail led between peaks. It was a trail used mainly by goats and didn’t look easy to navigate. A wider, gentler way led to the southwest, but Mudwort insisted that was not the way to go.

Direfang pointed at the southwest route. “The army would do better this way.”

She shook her head vehemently, spittle flying from her thin lips. “Maws of the Dragon, the skull man said. One volcano, though, not three, I say. Beneath the earth is a hidden pool of the hottest fire, and it spreads under the three maws, Direfang. It spreads to the mountains near Steel Town too. The quakes woke up the mountains, stirred the pool of fire, and that is why everything is breaking.”

Done with her explanation, she turned from them and dashed away along the narrow, difficult path, not bothering to look over her shoulder to see if they were following. Direfang had dropped the chains of the priest and the wizard. He looked at them, his expression weary.

“Keep up or die,” he growled. Then he sped ahead, tripping once, but picking himself up and keeping just behind Mudwort. The other surviving goblins, some just arriving out of breath, shouted to see him disappear-and followed.

Above and behind him, ash, rock, and pumice were spitting high into the air. The ash rose more than a dozen miles. Loud cracks and pops caused Direfang to run with his hands cupped to the sides of his face. The noise was as painful as any of the many burns and small injuries he had suffered on the trail.

To the northwest, the eruption column of one of the volcanoes was filled with twisted flashes of lightning. One more loud blast came from that cone, followed by an avalanche of rock as it began to collapse in on itself. In the process, the volcano disgorged a thicker, darker cloud of ash, and rubble crashed down the breaking slope, accompanied by belching, horrendous-smelling gas and melting rocks.

The air was impossibly hot to breathe, and with each step Direfang gained, he cursed himself for leading the goblin army in that direction. In his effort to avoid the Valley of Neraka and a great concentration of Dark Knight camps, he’d chosen instead to bring them straight into the belly of the Abyss.

Magma surged and the ground shuddered. Steam belched furiously, so scalding that it incinerated the goblins at the tail end of the army. Lava oozed up through tunnels and broke through the side of the mountain, creating a second eruption point through which gas and ash and melting rocks escaped. A searing, yellow-white river of molten debris spilled out, looking sluggish but picking up momentum and catching more goblins as it furiously wound its way down the mountain.

Had Direfang been at a high, safe distance, he thought he would have considered the vivid river of fire to be beautiful. But the horrors of the Abyss must be nothing near to it, he reflected as he raced on, coughing and sputtering and thrusting the pain all over him to the back of his mind.

Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw the Dark Knight spellcasters, with a number of goblins swarming around and past them. They flowed like the lava, he thought. But he couldn’t see much else. The rest of his vast army was obscured. There were just ash clouds in layers of gray and black, white-hot stone shards flying like snow in a blizzard, and in the distance a shower of red ash. The hellish landscape nearly sucked all the hope from him, but he turned back to see Mudwort, who was remarkably climbing higher and somehow faster, with Brak and Bentclaw only a few feet behind.

His fault; he’d brought them to that place!

His fault for thinking there was greater safety in numbers and that staying together was some prudent measure!

He should have told them to scatter with their clans like bugs running from a disturbed nest. Direfang knew he would have gone south, but not so many of them would have been encouraged to follow, not so many of them would have died. He could still hear their screams amid the crackling and popping, belching ash and gas, and the constant, damnable rumbling. No matter how much he concentrated on the sounds of the volcanoes, he could not blot out the goblin screams.

There was nothing he could do to save the doomed; the exploding mountains were not monsters or men he could fight. And no weapon on all of Krynn could combat them-not even the magic of the priest and the wizard, who doggedly trailed him. The hobgoblin doubted he would save himself.

Direfang could hardly breathe. Everything was so hot and horrible, the scent of ashes and molten rock and burning goblins filling his senses. He could smell pine burning too. Narrow trees grew in patches of dirt throughout the Khalkists, and he could see a stand to his right bursting into fire. Lower, pitch pines burst into flames. Farther to his right, where another volcano had erupted, a white-hot river of lava, wide and surging, rolled down the slope and swallowed more trees. Near it a chunk of stone gave way, then another as a massive rent was ripped in the mountain. With each new rent or gash in the rock, more lava poured out.

Anything in the lava flow’s path was doomed, he knew. There was no escaping from that terrible fate.

He realized he hadn’t seen a single goat or bird since the exodus from the ogre village. The animals knew, he thought, that the ground was going to erupt, that the Maws of Dragons were going to burst. Why hadn’t he noticed the signs and got the army out earlier? Direfang’s despair was profound and crippling, and if Grallik had not brushed by him, then Erguth right after, he might have stopped and given up.

“Hurry,” Horace wheezed as he drew even with Direfang, impressing the hobgoblin with his strength and determination. “If you die, who’s to keep the goblins from killing me?” Then, impossibly, the stocky priest managed another burst of speed and clawed his way up the twisting, narrow trail.

Direfang couldn’t reply, his mouth still so painfully dry. But the mountains answered for him, launching gouts of flame into the air, roaring their anger and sending plumes of ash up to join the gray and black clouds. He remembered the Dark Knights in Steel Town talking about wars and skirmishes and how the sounds were incredibly loud and chaotic and confusing. No battle could match the volcanoes, he knew, perhaps not even the Chaos War the knights were so fond of discussing.