Graytoes stirred, reaching a hand out and brushing Direfang’s knee. “Remember?”
Direfang cocked his head, not understanding.
“Remember the Before Time? Remember being free?”
The hobgoblin nodded. Graytoes and some of the others called their years before slavery the Before Time.
“Don’t remember,” Graytoes said, her expression sorrowful as she shook her head. “Only remember this. Remember Steel Town only. Memory gone of the Before Time.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Moon-eye waved his hands at Direfang to chase him away. “Wish memory not gone, Direfang. Wish the Before Time was still here.” Graytoes pointed to her forehead. “Wish the memory was not twisted and sour.”
“Direfang should go now and leave Moon-eye’s Heart alone.” The one-eyed goblin shook his fist for emphasis. “Direfang should not make Moon-eye’s Heart feel bad or sad. Moon-eye’s Heart has enough broken without breaking heart.”
Direfang rose and brushed at the front of his legs. His legs ached. Every inch of him was sore from working so hard bringing out the living and dead then carrying stones to place around the new well. He rolled his shoulders and looked through the sea of goblin bodies, hoping to spot Mudwort. There was no sign of her, and he turned back to the pair.
“The memory of the Before Time is still strong in here,” the hobgoblin said, tapping his temple with a long finger. He locked eyes with Graytoes while ignoring Moon-eye, who swatted at him. “The Before Time was better than this, Graytoes. Being free was better. Being free again would be good. Good, too, for Graytoes’ first baby to be free.”
“Pfah!” Moon-eye again tried to shoo Direfang away.
The hobgoblin went, cutting a swath through clusters of goblins in his search for Mudwort. He finally found her in the center of Hurbear’s clan, her red skin a stark contrast to their various shades of yellow.
“Listen,” she was telling them. She stamped her foot against the earth. “The quake will come tonight, tomorrow, no later. The ground will shake again and bring down the mountain. It will bring down slaves and Dark Knights and …” She stopped when she noticed Direfang looming above them.
“Remember the Before Time, Mudwort?”
She opened her mouth but said nothing. She crossed her arms in front of her, surprised at the unlikely question.
“Remember … before Steel Town?”
Mudwort looked upset, not only at being interrupted.
“Remember what it was like to be free?”
Hurbear’s clan backed up a few steps, giving Direfang more room.
“Slave since when, Mudwort?” The hobgoblin persisted.
She shrugged, some of her anger and irritation dropping away. She let her arms fall to her sides too. “Long time, Direfang. Slave since … too long to remember how long. A slave for many, many years. A long time. Too long.”
“Remember before Steel Town, Mudwort?”
Her eyes sparkled in the growing darkness. “Remember, yes. Think about it sometimes. Miss that time, Direfang. It’s bad to bring the memories back now. Bad, bad, bad. Such memories are painful and sad and terribly sour.”
“Remember what it was like to be free?”
She stepped close and looked up into his broad, scarred face. “Remember, yes. Certainly.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Hurbear had to draw closer to hear her next words. “Been thinking about it, too. Something else was destroyed with the quake, Direfang.”
“How much? How many of them?”
“All of them!” Mudwort stepped back and stared at the ground. “Remember free, Direfang? Remember when-”
“A slave since Ureeg was chief,” one of Hurbear’s clansmen interjected. He was one of the older goblins in the camp, his skin gray from age. He wore a woman’s blouse that dangled to his knees and that was tied at the waist with an old ribbon. The lacy collar fluttered in the breeze. “Slave a long time.” He waggled his thumb against his chest.
“That would be …” Hurbear pursed his lips and made a guess. “Ten years.”
“Twenty,” the clansman corrected, holding up the fingers of both hands and flashing them twice. “Ureeg became chief when Toothfew died. Twenty years since Toothfew died and-”
“Longer than that even,” Hurbear said, referring to his own years in servitude to the Dark Knights. “Slave forever. Slave always. Slave until dead.” The old goblin rounded his shoulders so his back looked humped like a turtle shell. “Feel dead. Should have died twenty years ago.”
“Hurbear was not always a slave.” Direfang turned away from all of them, looking east. The mound of goblin bodies was steadily burning but was slower than the previous pyre because the wizard had not magically fed it. The wind blew the acrid stink directly toward the pens and made the hobgoblin’s eyes sting and water. “Remember, Hurbear? Remember being free? Remember when there were no pens and no whips, and goblins could drink before goats and chickens?”
The old goblin shut his eyes. “Don’t want to remember. Direfang should not want to remember. Pain in remembering, as Mudwort says. And nothing good comes from pain.” When the old goblin opened his eyes again, he, too, stared through gaps in the press of bodies at the pyre. “Hurbear burn there soon enough, Direfang. Hurbear is old and very tired. All the slaves will burn someday. Direfang, too. Kayod and Quickfeet, Chima and Olabode will burn too, someday. All slaves burn. Then the spirits will be free. Then all will be free.”
“S’dards! All in Hurbear’s clan are damn s’dards.” Direfang growled and brushed by the clansmen, goblins parting to avoid being knocked down by the angry hobgoblin. He swung his arms as he went, fists tight and claws again drawing blood against his palms. A few followed him, one of them a tan-skinned goblin who’d been at the camp only a few months.
“Remember, certainly,” the tan goblin said. He tugged on what was left of Direfang’s trousers, but the hobgoblin did not stop until he reached the boundary of the pen.
Direfang glanced down at the tan-skinned newcomer, recognizing him from the mine but not knowing his name.
“Krumb,” he said. “Of the Brokenose Clan.”
“A long way from home, Krumb,” Direfang observed.
“Came south hunting. Went farther south when chased by a small dragon. Chased right into the ogre hills. Caught then. Slave then.” He spat at the recollection. “Hate ogres. Hate Dark Knights worse.”
“Should have stayed north and let the dragon feast.” Direfang leaned against the top slat and watched the funeral fire, his eyes burning and his mouth painfully dry. He wondered when the slaves would be given water. The water in the well had smelled sweet. The corner of his lip raised when the wind gusted stronger and the stench from the pyre intensified. “Dark Knights will smell this too, the stench will wash over all of Steel Town. Sink into the boots and cloaks and skin.”
“Remember freedom,” Krumb said. “Memory is fresh.”
“Mudwort says the wards are gone.”
Direfang didn’t get much of a reaction from Krumb, the new slave not yet knowing firsthand about the wards and the columns of flame. But the tan-skinned goblin had already figured out what was on Direfang’s mind.
“Escape?” Krumb said the word loud enough that the goblins gathered nearby could hear.
Instantly there was buzz of talk, turning into a debate that grew louder until a pair of Dark Knights walked by on their patrol. The slaves instantly quieted.
When the knights had gone past, Direfang beckoned the small group of goblins closer around him and said, “Escape this very night. Or escape tomorrow, no later. Escape when the next quake comes and the Dark Knights’ world once more shakes to pieces. Escape when the Dark Knights must fight the earth and will have no time to catch slaves.”
Krumb grinned broadly and scampered away to spread the word.