Grunting with his new burden, Direfang carefully picked his way down the trail.
THE SONG WITHOUT WORDS
Spikehollow, waking in the shade of pine trees, heard a constant whoosh in his ears. The river flowed nearby, whooshing incessantly.
Conversations filled the air, competing with the squawk of blue jays objecting to the goblins’ presence. The crunch of twigs added to the hubbub, someone violently stomping on a dead branch to split it. There was also music nearby, a tinkling sound that was not rhythmic but was engaging. He wished the latter noise were louder to drown out the birds and the talking. Then he heard another whoosh, but it was different, signaling the start of a fire. Were goblin bodies being burned?
Spikehollow bolted to his feet then tottered and nearly fell.
Pippa, hovering over him, tugged him down so he plopped on the ground in a sitting position. Saro-Saro was nearby, the old goblin holding court with members of his clan, who were responsible for the loudest chatter. Saro-Saro glanced at Spikehollow and sucked in his lips in a disapproving expression. He shook his head for good measure then looked up at the mountain.
It was clear to Spikehollow that Saro-Saro was angry with him for not killing Direfang when he had a good chance. It was also clear to Spikehollow that Direfang had saved his life and had carried him down the mountain. Squinting as the late afternoon sun hit the side of the mountain and made the granite in it sparkle, Spikehollow looked up the hard trail they’d just come down; it was just as steep as the one on the other side.
He blinked furiously when he realized there were dozens of goblins nearby who he did not recognize from the march. Where had all the new ones come from? Was he imagining them in his fever?
“Hunter’s Ridge clan,” Pippa explained, patting him on the shoulder. “More than two hundred, Direfang said. Came from these trees, said the clan answered Mudwort’s call. Said more are coming.”
Spikehollow groaned. His legs ached even more than before. He was still cool from his damp clothes, though the bad chill had left him and his head had stopped pounding. Other than his aching legs, he felt a little better.
He heard the crackle of a fire starting to take a good hold and turned, craning his stiff neck over his shoulder. Leftear had spitted a pig and was roasting it. Spikehollow anticipated a fight as the pig was not big enough to feed even the smallest clan.
“The skull man did some tending,” Pippa said. She edged closer and felt his cheek. “Not burning so much now. The skull man helped Spikehollow some. Feeling better?”
Her face loomed large, her eyes shiny and wet, as if she’d been crying over something. Spikehollow thought about asking her what was bothering her, but he knew Pippa. She was talkative and would tell him soon enough.
“Bugteeth is dead,” she said finally.
So that was her unfortunate news.
“Bugteeth didn’t fall,” she added. “Bugteeth got sick like Spikehollow, and the skull man couldn’t help. The skull man didn’t tend Bugteeth soon enough. Direfang had the skull man tend Spikehollow first. Bugteeth couldn’t wait for healing.”
Spikehollow glanced around Pippa and saw Saro-Saro still scowling. Bugteeth had been the most loyal to the old clan leader.
“Where is Direfang, Pippa?”
“Still alive. Talking with the Hunter’s Ridge clan leader.” Pippa helped Spikehollow up when it was clear he was refusing to stay put. “Should wash those clothes, Spikehollow. Stinky stinky.” She held her nose for effect and pointed to the river.
Spikehollow ignored her for the moment, wanting to find Direfang and the source of the odd music. He stepped away and looked to the river. Goblins were lined up along the bank-some resting, some of them bathing, many of them drinking their fill, most all talking. It was like a carpet of bodies stretching to the north and south, some of them grouped into clans. They spread back into the trees too, and the music was coming from there. He didn’t see Direfang, so he decided to pursue the music first.
He tried to follow the odd notes, Pippa shuffling behind him.
“Spikehollow should wash those clothes,” she insisted.
He waggled his fingers behind him, hoping to silence her. Both hands free, he remembered he’d lost his treasure bag. A small price to pay, he decided, for breathing the air of life. He would not be able to kill Direfang. Spikehollow had a sense of honor, after all. Saro-Saro would have to find someone else in the clan to tend to the matter … or handle it himself.
Spikehollow still intended to see to Saro-Saro’s demise, but he didn’t need to worry about that just then. He was grateful he was no longer dizzy and the priest’s ministrations had helped. He still felt a little tired, and there were the aches that plagued him. But he was recovering, it was certain. And he’d not really showed signs of weakness to any of the others; he hadn’t been the one to ask the skull man for help; Direfang had done that for him.
The pines smelled heady. Even with hundreds of goblins around, the trees had a strong, sweet smell that was like nothing else Spikehollow had experienced in his life. The young goblin had not been born a slave and, in fact, had spent only a relatively short time in the mines of Steel Town. But his native land was filled with rolling hills and saw grass, and the trees had broad leaves and thick trunks. There were pines north of Steel Town, but he’d never got a close look at them or smelled them before. In the mining camp, all he smelled was sweat and dirt, the harsh scent of iron being drawn from the rocks, and sulfur when the volcanoes smoked.
“It smells wonderful,” he said, walking deeper into the forest.
“Yes,” Pippa agreed. She came up to his side and touched his arm. Was she trying to claim him? “Is this the forest Direfang was leading us to? Saro-Saro said it was much farther away.”
“Not this forest,” Spikehollow said. The trees were tall and grew close together, but from his view on top of the mountain, he knew it wasn’t a very large forest, just a strip of pine trees that paralleled the river. “But this is a good forest.”
“Why not stay here, then? Saro-Saro’s clan could stay here; the Flamegrass clan too. Might not have to kill Direfang then. Direfang can go on to that other forest. Why not stay here?”
Spikehollow thought it a reasonable question. But there were too many goblins for the small forest; it was too close to Neraka and the Dark Knights, and also too close to ogre territory.
He shook his head. “There is a better place for goblins, a safer one. Maybe Mudwort knows best.”
She pursed her lips, considering that, and her fingers trailed up and down his arm. “Good that Spikehollow is not sick anymore.”
“Yes, it is very good.” He stopped when the odd music grew louder, and he looked up, seeing bottles hanging from a tall pine. Its lowest branches were at least six feet off the ground, and as the breeze rustled the branches, the music came from the bottles.
“Why would anyone hang bottles from a tree?” said Pippa, releasing Spikehollow’s arm and coming to stand directly under a dark blue bottle with a long, fluted neck. It was tied to the tree with a piece of leather. “What a silly thing to do.”
Nothing else hung from the tree save pine cones, though farther up were several birds’ nests, old ones that had not been used in years. Spikehollow looked from one bottle to the next. Some were tiny, no bigger than his thumb, others were as big around and as long as his forearm; the bigger ones were tied on with multiple leather strands.
Some of the bottles clacked dryly against branches; others made rustling sounds against the needles. But the ones close to other bottles clinked merrily against each other in the breeze and made whistling noises from the wind sweeping across their open tops. There were more bottles than Spikehollow could count.
“A good, not silly, thing to do, hanging all of these,” Spikehollow corrected her. “It sounds good, all these bottles.”