“And why should this one speak to you of anything?” sneered the gob. “You mules could never understand our plight.”
Myn pressed the knife to the gob’s throat. A single drop of blood wept from the tip. “Try me,” she said.
“We gobs are created by, beloved of, and cursed by Muolih, the Spreading Darkness, the Murderer of the Creator,” the Gob squawked through the chokehold.
“Yeah, yeah. I know that. My mother wouldn’t shut up about it. He’s as imaginary as a mule father.”
“No!” cried the gob, with shocking vehemence. “He is real. Lodii, our leader…she learned of a place the orcs call Rait Tirat…the Tomb of the Rebel. There, entombed, is Nyir Rvi, the Murderer of the Creator.”
“Fairy tales,” Myn said. “I didn’t come all this way to hear bedtime stories meant for particularly dumb children.”
“Believe what you want, mule,” said the gob. “Lodii marches the Gob Legion into the heart of the ancient desert to find our creator and master. Lord Eyon may have freed us, but it is Muolih who will save us.”