Jean Rabe - The Rebellion

The journey toward the Plains of Dust had cost a high, high price.

To his surprise, it hadn’t claimed Moon-eye and Graytoes. Somehow the pair had managed to make it across crevices that other goblins had died trying to traverse. He watched Moon-eye still fawning over his mate, smoothing at her face and singing softly in her ear, the only song the one-eyed goblin knew.

Low sun in the warm valleys

All goblins watch the orange sky

Looking for shadows of ogres

Knowing the time’s come to die

Direfang looked up and to the south, seeing through the gloom and rain the glowing, red-orange tops of the three volcanoes and rivers of lava still streaming down two of them. Steam rose up from the craters, the rain cooling the magma.

“All goblins watch the orange sky,” he mused. “Knowing the time’s come to die.” He turned when he heard a scrabbling sound behind him. Mudwort was climbing a mountain path, not much of a path, more a trail for goats. Direfang looked at the ground at the base of the path, noting a circular worked stone, old and with ancient symbols carved in it.

“Don’t think there’s anything to eat up there,” said a hobgoblin called Bug-biter, who had stolen up behind him. Barely past the youngling stage, she stood at his side, also watching Mudwort. “Not even bugs. The rain would have washed all the juicy bugs away. There’s only tired legs to be had up there. Tired, tired legs and aching stomachs.”

“Safety is up there,” Direfang proclaimed, raising his voice and repeating himself loudly so all the goblins near him could hear and spread the word. “The Maws of Dragons continue to disgorge the fire.” He pointed north. “Not safe here.”

“Maybe it’s not safe anywhere,” Bug-biter snarled. Still, she lowered her eyes respectfully and nodded that she would follow Mudwort, who was already several yards ahead. Bug-biter let out a great sigh and nudged Brak to join her.

Brak did not move.

Bug-biter threw back her head and howled. “No more dead!” she shouted. “No more dead to the Maws of Dragons and the whips of Dark Knights. No more dead to an angry earth.”

She dropped next to Brak, as did Direfang. Despite the rain that had rescued so many others, the hobgoblin was sorry to see the ash thick around Brak’s unmoving lips and nose.

“Dead because there was no more air to breathe,” Bug-biter said bitterly. She grabbed Brak’s left arm and with a mighty tug tore it loose. “Don’t want the spirit to come back here to this body.” She tossed the arm away, then, with nary a backward glance, turned and climbed after Mudwort.

While most of the goblins were trudging up the trail, Direfang lingered with the three Dark Knights and a small group of goblins who didn’t care to budge. He picked up a fist-sized rock and indicated that Grallik should stretch out his chains, then he began striking a link near the wizard’s right wrist. After several blows, the link parted, and he worked on Grallik’s ankle shackles. Next he turned to the priest’s chains then handed the priest the rock and pointed to Kenosh.

Horace started hitting Kenosh’s chains, his effort clumsy.

Direfang turned to a small group of goblins huddled together, who were reluctant to head up another mountain. “Safer up there,” he insisted. “Above the rivers of fire and closer to good air. Probably no food.” He would not lie to them. “Probably nothing at all up there but more rocks. But Mudwort says it’s where we should go, and that is important.”

One of the goblins crossed her spindly arms in front of her chest. “Tired of climbing, Direfang. Glad to be free, and glad to be alive. But tired of climbing. Why go up the mountain, only to slide down it again on the other side? Easier, Spikehollow says, to go around. Easier is better.”

“But look, Spikehollow is climbing.” Direfang pointed up the treacherous trail. The goblins were making their way around sharp spires that looked like teeth. “Spikehollow is not going around.” He bent and plucked the stone out of the priest’s hand and helped him hammer at Kenosh’s chain. After a few solid whacks, Kenosh was free. “These men are not going around.” He glared at the Dark Knights, daring them to disagree.

Direfang had not been speaking in the Common tongue, so they didn’t know what he had said. But Grallik guessed well enough at the meaning and, with a deep sigh, he turned and started up the trail. Kenosh was slow to follow him.

“Skull man?” Direfang spoke in the human language.

Horace ran his fingers over the top of his head and let out a whistling sound between his clenched teeth. “I am not a man built for this ordeal, Foreman Direfang. But I have managed to make it this far. If you want us all to visit God-shome, fine. Just don’t expect me to be fast about it.”

“Godshome?”

“Aye, Foreman Direfang, that is where the little red-skinned goblin is leading you.” The priest took a despairing look up the mountainside, brushed at the burned spots on his trousers, and gamely started moving. “Godshome. A place I suspect no one has visited for more than a long time.”

The goblins gathered at the base debated vigorously among themselves. Then one or two started after the knights with the rest quickly but grudgingly following behind.

“Godshome.” Direfang did not like the sound of the place. He didn’t care for Krynn’s gods because Krynn’s gods had never cared for goblinkind. He took one last look around the narrow valley, spotting a soft, orange glow in the distance and wondering if the rivers of fire were coming after them.

“Safer up higher,” he told himself. “Safer at Godshome.”

It took more than a day to reach the top of the mountain. After a few hours, the rain had turned into a soothing drizzle, and the drizzle didn’t stop until long hours after that. At times groups of goblins rested because someone’s legs gave out. Direfang carried one of the smaller goblins who’d been reluctant to climb. The knee and ankle of her left leg were swollen, and the hobgoblin said he would ask the priest to mend her ailments once they were at the top.

Direfang kept a vigilant watch to the north, observing the volcanoes. One was still erupting. How could there possibly be any fire and melting rock left inside the earth? he wondered. In the far distance, at the very edge of his vision, he saw more glowing mountains. Six in all, he counted.

Certainly nothing could remain of Steel Town, and the ogre village was also gone, destroyed. Perhaps all the ogre villages in that northern part of the Khalkist range had been obliterated. Had Jelek been swallowed too?

So traveling north might have been no safer, Direfang mused. Just as many in his army-perhaps all in his army-would have died if he’d chosen that direction instead. It buoyed his spirits a little to think that heading toward the Plains of Dust might have been the wise course after all.

But climbing the mountain they were on …

Once Direfang reached the top, he was convinced Spikehollow was right. They should have walked around it instead.

It looked as though the top of the mountain had been smoothly hacked off by a sword-a wide rim surrounded a bowl-shaped depression. And at the bottom of the depression sat a pool of black rock, polished like a shiny mirror and reflecting all the constellations of the summer night sky.

Well, at least they were far enough from the Maws of Dragons and the rivers of fire that they were safe-safe from those dangers, at least. There’d be other dangers, of course.

It might not even be night, Direfang mused. The clouds were still so thick, the sun or moons could not be glimpsed through the gray dark. But if the sky could not be seen, how could the black mirror reflect all the stars back?