Draath grunted in disagreement and ran the spear tip across the palm of his hand, drawing a thick line of blood. “Obsidian is the very best,” he said. “And it is very difficult to break.” He put the finished spear off to the side and happily sucked on his wound. A youngling collected the spear and carried it to a growing pile.
The Boarhunters were making spears too, but theirs did not have stone tips. They affixed pieces of the spine that had run down the dragon’s back, dragon teeth, and talons to hafts. The youngest clan members did not have the luxury of using dragon parts. They sharpened the ends of the wood with knives and rubbed the knobs off the hafts so they would be easier to hold and more balanced to throw.
“Kroan used to work the dirt with magic,” Lurreg explained. “Kroan listened to the dirt and heard Mudwort’s call.” The clan leader bowed his head ruefully. “But Kroan was killed by the dragon. No remaining stonetellers in this clan.”
“That is …” Draath gestured toward a young goblin, little more than two feet tall. He had the same coloration as Lurreg, but his eyes were as black as the piece of obsidian Draath fitted to another spear.
“Olag,” Lurreg said, still not meeting Draath’s eyes.
“There is magic in Olag,” the Skinweaver said. “It can be coaxed out.”
Lurreg brightened and passed another haft to Draath. The Skinweaver crooked his finger at the young goblin, who hesitated a moment before cautiously approaching. Draath grabbed his arm and tugged him to the ground, shoving a piece of obsidian into his small hand. He took another spear haft, cupped his hand around Olag’s, and forced the stone to the top of the wood.
“Find the magic inside, Olag. Tell the stone what it should do.” The Skinweaver poked a finger at his chest. “There is magic in your heart. Find it.” Draath cast his spell on the stone, pulling the energy from Olag. “Together, Olag. Feel it?”
The young goblin nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide as the obsidian began to flow and fasten to the spear.
“Together, sculpt the point,” Draath continued. He pulled more energy from the youth as the edges grew sharp and shiny.
Flamegrass clansmen, taught by a hobgoblin named Gokop, were fashioning breastplates from dragon skin. The largest scales were being made into formidable shields.
“Preparing for war,” Gokop said, grinning wide.
Others looked up and smiled back.
Direfang wished Spikehollow were with him. Spikehollow had been a slave in the Dark Knight mining camp. When the goblins made their escape, Spikehollow had joined Direfang in looting weapons from fallen knights and using those weapons against their remaining foes. The young goblin had been an able fighter, strong and determined, and if he were there, he would be useful. But Spikehollow had died weeks past, an early victim of the plague that wiped out so many of the Steel Town clansmen.
Dozens of goblins were crowded around Direfang. He gripped a long sword in one hand, which had been taken from a Steel Town knight, and held a hand axe in the other. He’d given his best knife to a feisty young goblin named Tilk.
“Watch me.” He crouched and held the sword level to the ground then swung it so fast, it whistled through the air. He followed it with a chopping motion with the axe. The hobgoblin repeated the maneuvers, pointing out each step.
All of the goblins in the group bore weapons, most of them short swords and daggers that had been taken from the corpses of Dark Knights or stolen from the ogre and dwarven towns they’d passed through on their flight from the mining camp. They did their best to imitate Direfang’s motions. The hobgoblin paused to congratulate the goblins who were correctly mastering the moves.
“How long, Direfang?” That came from Jando-Jando, who wielded two knives, one of which was missing its tip, and the other of which had a broken handle. “How long practice?”
“Practice until the weapons are too heavy to hold,” the hobgoblin answered as he showed them how to thrust and parry with a blade. “Practice until the hands that hold them feel as heavy as boulders. And then practice some more and more.”
Direfang had never received training with a sword or any weapon for that matter. He’d been taught how to use a pick in the mines, and some of those principles applied to fighting. But he’d studied the Dark Knights when they were drilling. In the slave pens, there was little to do except eat and listen to the chatter of the clans. So he had focused on the knights, who also inadvertently taught him their language and how to read.
Rustymane was training another group of goblins, all of those wielding knives. Rustymane was nearly as proficient as Direfang, having also been a foreman in the mines and having also wisely studied the Dark Knights. Encountering beasts such as a tylor in Neraka and bloodragers and the dragon in the forest had forced Rustymane and Direfang to become experts with weapons.
Sallor and two other Skinweavers were teaching the youngest group of goblins how to wield spears. Although most of the goblins who had come across the mountains to join the city knew how to hunt, the former Steel Town slaves lacked even those survival skills. Wielding a spear was foreign to them.
Direfang demanded that all the goblins take a turn with the weapons, even the younglings.
“Damn the dragons and bloodragers!” he proclaimed as he raised the sword above his head and brought it down to stop an inch from the ground. “This city will not fall again. The goblins will be prepared for the next monster or enemy that tries to destroy everything the clans have built. Never again will the clans be caught unawares. Never again!”
“Never again!” Jando-Jando echoed. “No more dead goblins. Never. Kill the next monster! Slay the next dragon! Never again.”
“Never again!” repeated Nkunda, the goblin who long before had attacked Direfang in the mines. “Never again! Never again!”
The chant blew across the ruined city like a bitter wind.
Thya’s fingers were splayed across a patch of dirt that had been pebbled and burned by the dragon’s caustic breath. Grallik joined her, pulling up his long tunic and sitting so his knee touched hers. He ran his fingers over the earth and shuddered.
“I feel it,” he said, the awe thick in his voice. He’d been working spells so often with the goblins, mentally digging the earth bowls in particular, that the magic was coming easier to him. “The ground aches, like a man who’s been punched. It is as sterile as a barren woman. Nothing will grow here again.”
Thya shook her head. “A long time from now, things will be better. Time changes all. When all these clans and the offspring of these clans are dust, the earth will heal. That is the way of things, Grallik. The earth always heals.”
“So much wisdom in you.”
She cocked her head.
“I was in Steel Town, you know,” he said softly.
Thya and her clan had not been among the mining camp slaves. She had heard Mudwort’s call and followed them through the Nerakan mountains. She did not know Grallik’s past.
“I was a Dark Knight.”
Thya nodded. “Heard the stories. A Gray Robe, I heard.” She pursed her lips as if she’d bitten into something sour.
“And I thought goblins were stupid things. Then.” Grallik studied a spot on the ground. He was silent for a moment, the chant of “Never again” reaching his ears. “Then, I thought that, Thya. But since, I have learned a lot from Mudwort.”
“Mudwort says the Gray Robe starves for magic.”
It was his turn to cock his head.
“Maybe I do,” he said, bemused. He splayed his hands next to hers, just as Graytoes joined them. “Yes, I think I do.”
She sat next to Thya, placing Umay between them. “Moon-eye said there was magic in here.” She pointed to her heart. “Used it with Moon-eye, sniffing through the ground.”
“Used it with me to fight the dragon. Use it again,” Thya encouraged.
Graytoes leaned over and kissed Umay on the forehead. The baby cooed. She copied Grallik and Thya, but her fingers did not sink into the earth as theirs did. “Not much magic then and now.” She made a tsking sound. “Certainly not much help now. Sorry.”