Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [9]
"How many goblins remain?" Shakti asked tiredly as she massaged her aching temples.
"About forty," responded the overseer.
Shakti's head jerked up as if pulled by a string. "That's all? Herders or breeders?"
"About half and half, but all of the goblins have been herding. To help keep order, the slaves have all been moved into the main hut."
That was more bad news, for it meant the goblins lacked both the time and the privacy needed to procreate. Not that goblins required much of either, Shakti noted with distaste as she turned back to the ledger. Once again, she cursed the fate that had taken her away from the work she loved. At least the war had accomplished one thing: the rules that kept students sequestered at the Academy had been relaxed, for many of the young fighters, wizards, and priestesses were needed at home. The students had unprecedented freedom to come and go, and permission to leave was not difficult to obtain from the distracted masters and matrons.
At that moment a drow male clad in the rough clothes of a common laborer burst into the room. He slammed the heavy door behind him and bolted it in place.
The goblins are revolting!" he cried.
The voice was familiar to Shakti; it belonged to a handsome drone who provided her with an occasional dalliance. She recognized the tone: a gratifying mixture of fear and disbelief. The faint, coppery smell of his blood drifted toward her. She was familiar with that, too. But these pleasant memories registered only on the edges of Shakti's thoughts; her concern was with the herd and her nearsighted eyes remained fixed on the page. "Yes, they certainly are," she agreed absently.
The male fell back a step, his jaw slack with astonishment. He well knew that Shakti Hunzrin was capable of a good many things, but humor was simply not among them. Fbr a moment even the shock of the goblin uprising paled. Yet a second look at Shakti's peevish, squinting countenance convinced the drow of his error.
He brushed aside his momentary surprise and strode toward the desk. He thrust his wounded arm close to Shakti's eyes, so the myopic priestess could make out the marks of goblin fangs, the long red scores of their claws.
The goblins are revolting," he repeated. At last, he had her attention. "You've sent a message to the city guard?" Shakti demanded.
He hesitated, a bit too long. "We have."
"And? What did they say?"
"Donigarten has it own protections," the drow quoted tonelessly.
Shakti let out a burst of bitter laughter. Translated, that meant only that the ruling matrons had more important matters on their minds than the loss of a few goblin slaves and the premature slaughter of some of the rothe. The rest of the city was safe from any unpleasantness that might occur on the island, for the only egress from Donigarten was by boat, and the only boat was secured, docked behind the office. Which meant, of course, the goblins would attack this very room.
Shakti snatched up her magic pitchfork-the weapon of choice for the Hunzrin family-and acknowledged her fate with a grim nod. It had come to this: the house nobles were forced to do battle with their own slaves.
At once there was a scrabble at the door, the sound of goblins clawing at the stone with their small, taloned fingers. The Hunzrin princes flanked their sister and raised their unblooded weapons. Shakti, however, had no intention of waiting out the little monsters. It never occurred to her she might flee. The rothe herd must be cared for, and that was what she intended to do.
So Shakti leveled her pitchfork at the door. Bracing the weapon against her hip, she covered her eyes with her free hand. The tines of her weapon spat magic. Three lines of white flame streaked toward the door, and the heavy slab of stone exploded outward with a spray of fragments