Death March

by Jean Rabe

  Grallik coughed deeper, the hacking spasm painful, and he looked around, again searching for the priest. Grallik wanted Horace to tend to him, but he saw the priest was lying on his stomach, young goblins hovering nearby and jabbing at him. “Dead?”

  The wizard glanced up to what was left of the ridge, seeing more goblins streaming down, including Mudwort and the one he thought was named Boliver. The two had been watching from a high perch, out of reach of the tylor’s rock-shattering breath.

  A sharp intake of air drew Grallik’s attention back to the tylor. It was ready to loose another one of those earth-rending breaths, and the wizard flattened himself against the ground in preparation for the blast. But the tylor angled its head down, sending the shimmering waves to break apart the stone that gripped it.

  “Be fast! Be deadly!” Direfang shouted as he closed. The cry was repeated by hundreds of goblins in the swarm until the words swelled to a roar that echoed off the mountains and added to the hellish din.

  The hobgoblin leader raced straight toward the tylor’s snapping mouth, his sword pointed like a lance and his free hand waving the goblins in front of him out of his path. Direfang threw back his head and howled something in the goblin tongue. An instant later he drove the sword into the beast’s tongue, the blade sinking through to its bottom jaw and lodging there. Unable to pull the sword free, Direfang snatched up a knife lying by a goblin corpse and darted to the beast’s side, barely missing a blow from its wildly swinging head.

  Direfang scrambled over stone that was breaking apart at the tylor’s feet, jumped in to strike powerfully with his knife, and leaped back.

  “It is free!” That came from Spikehollow, who was wielding two long knives dripping red with the tylor’s blood. “Be fast! Be deadly, Direfang! The monster is loose!”

  The tylor shimmered brightly, and Direfang and Spikehollow charged in unison, stabbing repeatedly at its side and finding that the mottled green-brown patches were softer. They worked at a frenzied pace, urging their fellows to do the same, all caught up in the bloodlust.

  The beast started to fade, and for a moment it seemed that it would disappear and shift away to safety, but Direfang continued his relentless assault, as did Spikehollow and the others.

  Then the tylor stopped shimmering and opened its maw and released an ear-splitting howl so loud and painful that it dropped the nearest goblins to their knees. Direfang momentarily lost his grip on the knife, pressed his palms against his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and stumbled back.

  Another lance of fire shot down, and the tylor crumpled.

  “It is dead!” Saro-Saro cried. “The dragon is dead!” The cagey old goblin had remained at the edge of the throng, standing on a mound of rubble from the collapsed ridge. He continued to shout, but the cheering of hundreds of his kinsmen blotted out all other sounds.

  Saro-Saro climbed down from the rubble and pushed his way through the press of goblins. Age granted him respect, and his kinsmen moved aside. Spikehollow helped him to climb up on the tylor’s side. The old, yellow-skinned goblin balanced on the beast’s shoulder, raised his arms, and waited for the clamor to subside. It took several moments.

  “A feast this night,” Saro-Saro began, waiting again until the cheers dwindled. “A feast in the memory of fallen friends.” He pointed to the bodies scattered around the tylor. He patted his stomach and lowered his head as if in reverence.

  “A feast!” Spikehollow echoed. “Saro-Saro calls for a feast!”

  Direfang watched the old goblin pontificate atop the dead beast. Direfang’s head pounded from all the noise, and he ached all over, though he knew his injuries were not so bad as many of his fellows’.

  He spotted a young goblin named Chima cradling a broken arm, her dark orange skin marking her as a member of the Flamegrass clan.

  Another goblin of the same clan, Olabode, rocked back and forth on his hips, bottom lip held between his teeth to prevent him from crying out. A piece of bone jutted up through his thigh.

  All around, others were nursing similar and worse wounds.

  “Priest!” Direfang called, craning his neck this way and that. “Skull man! It is time to render aid!”

  But Horace did not answer and was nowhere to be seen.

  7

  SECRETS

  Mudwort found Horace beneath a mound of goblin children. She thought the priest was dead and tried to roll him over so she could get at the jug of water that hung from his belt. But he was heavy, and after a few attempts, he groaned and startled her.

  “Should be dead,” she muttered. “Too bad the skull man’s not dead.” Louder, she said, “Direfang!” Mudwort gestured to the hovering children. “Get Direfang, now!” Mudwort poked her finger at the tallest to get them moving. “Be fast!”

  They scurried off, only two of them heading Direfang’s way, the rest scattering. She glanced once more at the priest, who was making a snuffling sound against the dirt, and wrinkled her nose. He smelled of sweat and blood. Though he wasn’t much more stinky than her kinsmen, he carried the aroma of a Dark Knight. The smell reminded her of the mine where she’d slaved for too many years.

  “Hate the skull men,” she hissed. She spit at the priest, kicked his leg, and turned to survey the bloody scene. Saro-Saro had put his clan in charge of butchering the tylor, and the yellow-skinned goblins were busy scrabbling over the carcass that was silhouetted by the setting sun.

  Mudwort had watched the battle against the beast from high on the ridge and managed to avoid any injury when part of it collapsed. She’d thought the tylor a hideous monster then, but it looked worse in death, glistening from the hundreds of wounds the goblins and hobgoblins had inflicted on it. Pieces of hide hung loose, the edges fluttering in the breeze. A rib showed at its middle where a hole had been hacked so the goblins could get at its insides. Insects swarmed around it, thick like a haze, and she would swear she could hear the incessant buzzing even at that distance.

  There’d been insects in the mine too, tasty beetles mostly. There had been more insects around the slave pens too, at times thick as ooze, biting and getting in the goblins’ eyes and mouths. Perhaps there would not be so many flying insects in the Qualinesti Forest, she mused. And perhaps she would ask Direfang or one of the young goblins to bring her a nice tasty piece of tylor meat so she would not have to stand in the bug-cloud and wait for her turn.

  Direfang intended to lead all of them to the Qualinesti Forest, a place she had discovered in one of her earth-visions. The Dark Knights said the place was distant, far across a sea. Perhaps the bugs stopped at the sea.

  She watched members of the Flamegrass clan drag the dead goblins into a pile quite a ways from the carcass. Insects were swarming there too.

  Less than one hundred goblins were dead, she guessed, maybe sixty or seventy—a hefty loss but not terrible. It was bearable. She knew someone in the Flamegrass clan would count the bodies, and someone else would try to collect names for the remembering ceremony. Certainly she’d known some of the goblins who had been killed by the beast, though perhaps she had not known them by name.

  Mudwort had not been close to any of them.

  A loner, she counted only Direfang as a friend, and that was because he had forced his friendship upon her. When he was a foreman in the mines he had taken it upon himself to make sure she ate and stayed strong. He had recognized her magic and respected her ability, believing in her earth-visions.

  In Steel Town she had claimed a corner of one of the slave pens, and though she was never afforded much space, the other goblins and slaves for the most part left her alone. She knew that many of them considered her mad, though she also knew that she’d gained in their esteem since she predicted the earthquakes.

  Only a handful of them claimed to understand her magic, and they were goblins with a similar talent. Moon-eye had special magic in him too; she wished he had not lagged behind and died. She would miss mingling spells with him, and she would miss his bad singing.

 
Boliver could easily mingle his magic with hers. She drew her face into a scrunch as she peered at the food lines and searched for him. She didn’t spot him in the milling mass, and for a moment she feared that perhaps he was among the pile of bodies. But a few seconds later she spotted him, nearing his turn at the carcass. She thought it possible Boliver had more talent than she did. Was he keeping the true extent of his power a secret from her?

  Mudwort heard murmured conversations from the goblins standing in line and from small groups moving away from the carcass, sated for the moment. She saw one of the younger goblins, Knobnose, point to her and heard a one-armed goblin claim that she was to blame for all of their troubles, all the many deaths, that it was she who had found the tylor, after all.

  But she hadn’t killed anyone, she told herself with a frown. She had only directed the goblins there, hadn’t forced any of them to swarm the beast. They’d all been looking for something big to kill and eat, and all she did was discover the tylor with her earth-magic. They should be praising her rather than blaming her. The half dozen goats she’d found yesterday had satisfied only the older goblins and the children. Direfang had allowed only the weak and vulnerable to eat the goats. The others had watched jealously. She’d found water after that, with the help of Boliver.

  It was their own grumbling bellies that had killed them, she decided. Their hunger clouded their minds like the insects clouded the dead tylor. And it caused them to attack a creature that should have been left alone. So their empty bellies and the creature were to blame, not her.

  “Dards,” she whispered to herself. “Fools, the lot. Dead to hunger and stupidity.”

  Besides, it was only sixty or seventy that had died, she guessed. The earthquakes and the volcanoes had killed many, many more.

  The tylor had not killed her friend Direfang, thankfully, and it had not killed the principal clan leader, Saro-Saro, and so no real harm was done. She smiled. The great carcass would feed the eight hundred goblins left alive. Her own stomach rumbled, and she patted it.

  “Later,” she told herself. “Eat later.” Mudwort had no intention of standing in line and being jostled by her hostile kinsmen and swarmed by the bugs. “There will still be plenty left later. So much left that—” She looked up to see Direfang looming over her.

  “The priest?”

  “Found him, Direfang, see? Not dead, the skull man,” she gestured. “But dying, maybe. Dying, hopefully.”

  Direfang slid past her, knelt, and carefully rolled Horace over so that he was facing the sky. The water jug the priest had tied to his belt had shattered. Pieces of it had sliced through the leather leggings and were lodged in his hip and leg.

  “Dying, definitely, Direfang. One less Dark Knight to watch and worry over,” Mudwort declared flatly. “Only two left soon, the wizard and the other one.” She pointed to the base of the ridge where the human named Kenosh was helping the wizard to his feet. Kenosh was the last surviving member of the wizard’s talon. She wrinkled her nose. “Hate Dark Knights. Hate them more than anything.”

  “It is a good hate,” Direfang admitted. The hobgoblin carefully pried the jug shards out of the priest’s leg and scowled when one of the wounds started to bleed freely. Direfang looked to one of the goblin children who had returned to hover. “Chima and Olabode have water. Spikehollow has water, Leftear too. Go get water.” The largest child hesitated only a moment then dashed away.

  “Direfang, why help a Dark Knight?” Mudwort turned her back to the priest and sat against him.

  “Because this Dark Knight is a skull man.” Direfang carefully prodded the priest’s side, cocking his head when Horace twitched. “Saving the skull man saves goblins. This skull man is a very good healer.”

  “What is good is that Direfang leads this army,” Mudwort said. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, letting the last rays of the sun warm her face. Her fingers drifted down to bury themselves in a small patch of ground she had willed to soften like clay. “Unfortunately, Direfang also heals the hated Dark Knight.”

  Direfang’s reply was muffled by the earth she’d let her senses slip into.

  Leftear followed the goblin children to Direfang. One long-fingered hand was wrapped around the neck of a water-skin, the other around a stringy piece of tylor flesh he’d grabbed. He shoved the bloody chunk into his mouth and thrust the waterskin at the hobgoblin. Direfang took it, and Leftear hurried off to get another piece of meat.

  There wasn’t much water in the skin, so the hobgoblin poured only a little into his cupped hand and dribbled it on the priest’s face. He spread the water around with his fingertips, an oddly gentle gesture, and he opened the priest’s mouth and poured a little water down his throat.

  Direfang heard the crunch of boots and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the wizard approaching, leaning on Kenosh for support. Spikehollow followed them, warily watching the pair, knife held ready.

  Direfang returned his attention to the priest, giving him more water, then leaned back and waited.

  Noise swelled around Direfang—goblins still whooping in victory, a few arguing over chunks of meat, Saro-Saro barking orders, and finally the priest coughing loudly. There was a great sighing sound, and for an instant Direfang feared the beast had come back to life. But when he heard it again, he realized it was just a gust of wind coming down what was left of the ridge and stirring the dust at the bottom.

  Direfang helped the priest sit up as the wizard shuffled closer. The hobgoblin got Grallik’s attention and pointed to the pile of bodies. “Wizard, use the fire magic on the dead ones.”

  Grallik shook his head. “I can’t. Not now. There’s nothing in me, Foreman. Later, though. I’ll burn all of them for you later. I promise.”

  Direfang growled at the title of foreman. He had been a foreman in the Dark Knight mines for several years. The title afforded him a few favors, though he was treated little better than the rest of the slaves. The position had also forced him to push his kinsmen to their limit, garnering him some permanent enemies. “Then help the skull man, wizard. Find the strength to manage that, at least.”

  “I’ll help him.” That came from Kenosh, who had eased Grallik down next to the priest and slid into Direfang’s place. The middle-aged knight had a careworn face, and the wrinkles across his forehead were deep with concern.

  “Be fast about it, then.” Direfang handed the waterskin to Kenosh. “Spikehollow has more water.” He trundled toward the tylor carcass, intending to eat his fill before all the choice parts were gone.

  Mudwort was distracted by all the talk. She pulled her fingers out of the dirt and shuffled away. Finding another patch of ground and sitting on it, her fingers boring in again.

  The priest watched Direfang leave before he gestured for more water. When he’d drained the skin he rocked upward and struggled to his knees. He placed his hands on his knees and started praying. Spikehollow stepped back, suspicious.

  “Zeboim, called Rann in my homeland, give me strength and health.” His fingers glowed orange, the color quickly spreading to his leggings and rolling up to his bare chest. Expending the magic made Horace sweat, and Kenosh used the hem of his tabard to wipe the priest’s face.

  “Zeboim, Sea Mother, heal my battered body.” The glow brightened and crept up his neck, then disappeared. He moved his right hand to his thigh, where the blood still pulsed. He pushed against the worst cut, the blood welling up through his fingers. Again his hand glowed orange.

  Spikehollow dropped his waterskin, snarled with disgust, and headed back to the carcass for more tylor meat.

  “Zeboim, if I have not angered you by throwing in my lot with these creatures, aid me. Mend my wounds.” After a few moments, he moved his hand over his chest, where he suspected his ribs were broken. The glow darkened over the worst injuries, and he pulled his hand away. The blood had crusted and the cuts had sealed. “Help me up, would you, Kenosh? Zeboim has blessed me, and now I must tend to the others.”

  Grallik
had been watching the priest intently. “Horace? So you are well?”

  “Aye, reasonably so. I’ll mend you first, Grallik, before the hobgoblin comes back. Else he’ll insist I heal the goblins first.” The priest edged toward the wizard, his hand starting to glow again. “Fools they were to attack a tylor, you know that.”

  “You should have let it kill them,” Kenosh said angrily. He was staring at the goblins still slicing chunks of meat off the carcass. “Guardian Grallik, I think this all a …”

  “A … foolish thing we’ve done by being here? No, we’re better off with the goblins,” Grallik said. He kept his voice low as there were goblin children within earshot. He doubted the young ones knew any of the human tongue, but he should be careful regardless. “When the earthquakes ripped Steel Town apart, and the lava buried what was left, there was nothing to be done but leave.”

  Grallik paused and hung his head. He sucked in a sharp breath when Horace prodded his ribs and arms. “I faced a demotion because Steel Town was lost under my watch and because my wards failed and the goblins escaped. Kenosh, you would have been demoted as well. You call me Guardian, but that title was buried with Steel Town.”

  Kenosh nodded, his eyes still fixed on the feasting goblins.

  “And Horace’s loyalties were not with the Dark Knights,” Grallik continued. “You know that as well as I. Clearly they were not.” He saw the priest frown at his comment, though he said nothing. “Horace, you wanted to return to Ergoth. You told me such.”

  Horace was sweating again, as he worked the healing magic on Grallik. The orange glow that had spread from his hands covered practically every inch of the wizard. Grallik’s undertunic was ripped in several places from his tumble down the ridge, and much of his pale, scarred flesh showed through. The priest could do nothing about the long-existing scars, but his spell closed the most recent wounds. Grallik began to breathe easier.