Death March

by Jean Rabe

HALF OF THE ARMY

  Horace was becoming increasingly familiar with the goblin tongue, though he continued to stumble over some of the words.

  “My healing skills are considerable,” the priest told the gathering in occasionally halting speech. “But I cannot stop the ravages of this plague. The dwarf village was thick with the disease, and you carried it away with you. You wear it on the clothes you took, the blankets, the shoes, you eat it in the food you stole from the homes. We should have realized something was amiss when the population of the Cradle seemed so small.”

  He paused. “And now your numbers are dwindling as well.”

  There were reeds along that stretch of river, dry with the summer, and when the wind gusted, they clattered like finger bones shaken in a pot. Horace listened to the rustling reeds for a moment and dropped his gaze to a patch of ground, black from blood that dying goblins had coughed up.

  “I don’t know why some of us have been spared,” he continued, stepping forward to stand next to Direfang. “We should separate from those already sick. To help stop the spread.” For the most part, that had already been done; there was a dividing line, a crack in the ground that ran perpendicular to the river and stretched toward a copse of birch trees. “I will continue to minister to the sick ones, at the very least to ease their passing. And when the plague has run its course, we can move on.”

  Saro-Saro was not among the sick. He strode up to Direfang, chest thrust out importantly; Pippa followed at his side. He glowered at the priest and tipped his chin up.

  “This clan will not stay here and risk the sickness. We will not listen to the skull man.” He waved imperiously to indicate all the yellow-skinned goblins behind him. “This clan will not die, nor will the Flamegrass goblins. This clan—all the clans—will leave today.”

  “Saro-Saro should lead!” Pippa cried. It was the first time any goblin had so openly questioned Direfang’s authority. “Direfang must step aside! It is time for Saro-Saro!”

  A swell of protest rose from those loyal to Direfang, but chants of “Saro-Saro” rose in volume as well.

  “Lead, then!” Direfang spit, jabbing a finger at Saro-Saro and nearly toppling the old goblin over with his vehemence. “Take the damnable task. And take whoever will follow. Die on the march along the river.” The hobgoblin’s face was slick with anger.

  “Not whoever will follow,” Saro-Saro shot back. “All!”

  Horace nervously backed away from the arguing goblins, finding Grallik sitting on the slab of slate on the riverbank. The priest sat next to the wizard, closing his eyes and concentrating on the rustling of the dry reeds, so difficult to hear over the chatter.

  “It is good, Gray Robe, that you do not speak their language. The words are ugly and troublesome today,” Horace whispered.

  Grallik nodded, pricking his ears, trying to pick out the few words he could understand.

  Pippa had pushed her way up close to Direfang and stood there, next to Saro-Saro, glaring at the hobgoblin leader.

  “It is good that Direfang does not want to lead,” Pippa declared smugly. “Good that Direfang is stepping aside without a fight. Direfang lives that way. The weak way. Direfang does not have to die so that strong Saro-Saro can lead.”

  The hobgoblin’s supporters also pressed forward, sticking their angry faces close to members of Saro-Saro’s clan and the Flamegrass clan. Direfang felt detached from the argument, wishing that Saro-Saro would just leave and take all the goblins with him. He thought of Mudwort and searched the gathering for the shaman, finally seeing her and Boliver well to the north, hands thrust into the earth and paying no attention to the disturbance.

  Pippa had climbed on the shoulders of a Flamegrass goblin and was raising her fist in the air. “Saro-Saro leads!”

  “Leads where?” shouted a red-skinned goblin called Skakee. She was young, born in the slave pens, and she’d worked all her shifts under Direfang. “Saro-Saro leads the clans to the Abyss?”

  “Leads where?” more goblins shouted; some of them had never liked the insolent Pippa, others were simply curious to know where Saro-Saro was going to take them if he was becoming the leader.

  “South!” Saro-Saro proclaimed decisively. The throng quieted down to hear him. Even his opponents stopped to listen. “Away from here and the sickness. Together the clans will build a nation.”

  “With Saro-Saro as its king!” Pippa cried.

  Horace shook his head and whispered to Grallik. “Gray Robe, if they leave now, they will spread this plague to cities to the south. Nor can they march very far with so many of them sick.”

  The wizard shook his head ruefully. “Look at them. Really look at them. I don’t have to understand their language to understand what’s going on. It’s some kind of clan rivalry. The yellow ones seem to prefer that old goblin as their leader.”

  “He’s called Saro-Saro,” Horace supplied.

  “But there are not so many in the clans that support him. Most of the goblins and hobgoblins stand with the foreman, and I think they will wait for the illness to pass. Some are too tired and sick to go. Most will stay and not spread this damnable disease.”

  The priest was staring at Pippa. She herself had just started coughing and raised her fist to cover her mouth. Black spots showed under her arm. The goblin she stood upon coughed also.

  “Soon there will be fewer on both sides, Gray Robe,” Horace said, agreeing with Grallik. “Another clan of goblins joined this mob this morning. But soon nothing will matter for many of them.”

  The debate continued to rage, Direfang standing in the midst of the clans, arms crossed indifferently over his chest with his gaze locked most of the time on Mudwort and Boliver. The hobgoblin answered a few questions from time to time. But for the most part, he remained quiet and neutral, just listening to others.

  Horace pointed to Direfang, speaking almost admiringly. “The foreman dreams, I think, of being away from all of this.”

  Grallik studied a tear in the leather along one tip of his boot. “I never envisioned this disaster when we left Steel Town,” he said softly. “I, too, had dreams. I thought I would learn goblin magic, and it would benefit us all. Just yesterday I thought I had convinced Foreman Direfang that I knew a faster route to the Qualinesti Forest. I still believed we could escape all these problems.”

  Horace raised an eyebrow. “Your home, yes, the forest?”

  “The home of my youth. By the sea,” Grallik admitted. “I was going to find a way to get us all there, safely.”

  Horace stood. “The sea.” He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Zeboim’s element. Yes, I see now. There would be hope and promise in that path. I must talk to the foreman.” He pushed his way through the squabbling goblins to reach Direfang.

  A fire burned steadily for the next several days as goblin corpses were burned, remains scattered, and ceremonies held to honor the dead. So many had sickened in the meantime that the talk of leaving and of Saro-Saro leading was almost forgotten.

  Pippa, Saro-Saro’s main cheerleader, was one of those who died fastest.

  “Pippa is remembered,” Saro-Saro declared at the naming ceremony. “Pippa was loyal and smiled and chattered loudly often. Pippa loved Spikehollow.”

  “Pippa is remembered,” Skakee repeated. “Pippa will be reborn healthy and far from this sad place.”

  Direfang had seen too many dead bodies burned. He did not directly participate in the ceremony that included Pippa, though even he hovered at the edge of the crowd and listened respectfully.

  “Bignose is remembered. An old one, Bignose was born in the Before Time. Good that Bignose died free.”

  “Zeek is remembered. Zeek bragged and scratched in the dirt. Remember bragging Zeek.”

  “Urknor feared storms and the volcanoes. Urknor ate worms and grubs and rarely shared. Urknor is remembered.”

  “Bosti is remembered. Bosti lied often, and Bosti stole. But Bosti fought well and killed two Dark Knights in Steel Town. Bost
i the Brave Liar is remembered.”

  The names of the some of the dead were unknown, particularly those from clans that had recently joined with the goblins from the rebellion, and the dead ones from new clans were honored with speeches about the march through the mountains and about how good it was to die outside of Steel Town and so far from the hated iron mine.

  “Kenosh is remembered too.” Horace murmured those words aloud, but he stood well away from the goblins, praying to Zeboim at the riverbank. He prayed for Kenosh, but he also prayed for the souls of the dead goblins; mostly he prayed for himself and Grallik, whose fates would be grim if left to the whim of Saro-Saro.

  Roughly half of the goblin force had died to the plague in less than a week, and not quite one thousand remained. Some of the survivors had caught the disease and recovered, but Horace took no credit for that. It was a mystery why some few recovered, while most died. Some still carried hints of the disease, in their coughs and black spots, but their symptoms had not worsened.

  And so Direfang finally had declared it was time to move on.

  “Follow Saro-Saro,” he said after that last naming ceremony, raising his voice so all heard him clearly. “Saro-Saro can be the leader now.” The hobgoblin then struck off to the south without another word, Mudwort and Boliver loping behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, Grallik and Horace headed out too, the latter praying fervently to Zeboim that Saro-Saro’s clan members would not claim them and keep them from following Direfang.

  To the humans’ surprise, nearly all the goblins fell in line behind them, still arguing about who should lead and where they should go. Less than one hundred lagged behind, clustered around Saro-Saro and proclaiming their steadfastness to the yellow-skinned goblin.

  Yet as the main force of goblins continued to move farther away, more and more of Saro-Saro’s clan peeled off and hurried to join the larger body. In the end even the old goblin and the handful of his most loyal supporters grudgingly joined the mass movement. They wore angry, contemptuous expressions.

  “Direfang must die,” one of Saro-Saro’s clansmen muttered. “That is only solution to Direfang.”

  “Yes,” the old goblin agreed. “Yes, indeed.”

  Direfang had not expected all the goblins to follow him, but looking over his shoulder, he accepted the inevitable and slowed his pace to accommodate their shorter legs. He thought about his hundreds of dead kinsmen as he walked, the smell of their burned bodies still thick in his nostrils. And he realized that although he had only half of the army that he’d had before, the burden of leadership, the task of bringing all those goblins to a safe homeland, that job, that responsibility was still heavy.

  Another dozen died to the illness before they reached the mouth of the river and stood on the shore of the New Sea—where, to their astonishment, another eighteen clans of goblins were waiting for them.

  “The call was answered!” called Thya, an overly tall goblin who rushed forward to meet Direfang. “The shaman’s call was heard and answered. We’ve been waiting for you here. Waiting to join the march to a homeland. Together, goblins will be safe and free.”

  Direfang shuddered to see the many goblins who rushed forward to meet their new comrades. His following was replaced almost as swiftly as it was depleted, it seemed. The sickness would take some, but not all, of them. Many more would join and continue with the goblins following Direfang. The hobgoblin shook his head. So many goblins following him, following him. Following him where?

  25

  A FEAST OF GEMS

  It was early morning; the sun wasn’t yet up, and the sky was a pale gray contrast to the dark waters of the inland sea. Many of the goblins busied themselves socializing with the new clans while filling the bottles they’d taken from the glass tree with river water. Others were staring mutely at the sea. No one had ever seen so much water.

  “This is a young sea,” Horace explained, his face beaded with sweat. He still hadn’t recovered his strength; his healing was still in demand. “At least as far as the entire history of the world is concerned, it is young. It was born when the Kingpriest of Istar demanded too many things of the gods. Angered by his insolence, they raised some land masses and sank others. Ansalon’s most beautiful plains were among the places the gods drowned with the Sirrion Ocean. The people named the divinely created water the New Sea.”

  Horace took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. “The dragons have played a part in the formation of this sea too. A section of the eastern part of the New Sea became a swamp, thanks to the great black dragon they called Sable. They say Sable is dead now, and so the swamp slowly is retreating. The New Sea will grow larger again. It is a few thousand feet deep in some places, difficult to navigate in others, particularly where it brushes the great swamp with its tribes of bakali and other lizard-folk.”

  Horace waded out into the water, Grallik nearby the hobgoblin following both of them closely, listening skeptically.

  Direfang scowled. “Keep all those words in the human tongue, skull man. Some clans might not cross this New Sea after learning how deep it is … and how dangerous.” He looked to the goblins near the shore. “Some will not even come into the shallows to try to lose the plague. And look how many foolish goblins there are now.”

  “Easily three thousand, I’d wager.” The priest’s expression grew troubled as he noticed Saro-Saro and a few dozen of his clansmen clustered well back from the shore. But he turned back to stare at the sea. His expression turned serene; he bowed his head and traced a symbol in the air. “I feel the Sea Mother’s presence,” he said. “Zeboim’s breath gently stirs the waves.”

  Some goblins near them spat at the mention of Zeboim, but Horace and Grallik and Direfang waded farther out, while behind them, a handful of goblins tentatively entered the water.

  “May the last vestiges of the plague be washed from all of us. Cleanse us, Sea Mother.” Horace traced another symbol in the stirring surf, his fingers playing along the top of the water. Then he closed his eyes and prayed at length. Grallik, too, bowed his head, though he was not given to praying even in the most dire times.

  Direfang motioned for other goblins to join the priest in the shallows. Some refused, terrified at the immenseness of the New Sea. They huddled in groups on the shore, watching as, gradually, more and more of their fellows edged out until the waves sloshed around their waists. Some of them playfully slapped at the water.

  Grallik’s eyes sought out Mudwort. The shaman was one of the hesitant ones, he noted, wrinkling her nose and looking around for Boliver. But he was already out in the water. She raised her lip in a brave snarl and stepped from the shore until the water rose around her ankles, then her knees, and finally her waist. She felt the pouches at her side shift in the current, and she placed her hands on them protectively. A little farther, and the water was up to her chest. She’d go no deeper as she didn’t know how to swim.

  “Sink,” she said with a sneer. “Sink and die and be food for the fishes. Knights would be good food for fishes.”

  Skakee quickly joined Mudwort, her youthful exuberance apparent; she seemed unafraid. Skakee held her breath and dipped her head in the water, came up and shook herself out, then splashed around and dunked again until Mudwort became annoyed.

  Mudwort moved away from the others and peered back at the bank. Saro-Saro and some of his clan members were still huddled there. She couldn’t hear their conversation over the lapping water, but she suspected the words were not good. She squinted to study the old goblin, hoping to see him coughing, with black spots on his arms. He’d pose no threat to Direfang if he were dead.

  Saro-Saro caught Mudwort staring at him and gave her the evil eye, turning his back so she could not see his face.

  Many of the goblins stayed in the water while the priest prayed and continued to trace symbols in the air. Grallik and Direfang waded back to shore and plopped on the ground.

  Some risked speaking to Horace, but he ignored their words and dropped to his k
nees, the water swirling around his chin.

  Gulls dipped down, finding small fish along the surface. Their cries were at the same time harsh and musical, and some of the goblins imitated the noise. A bell sounded far off, and Grallik told Direfang it was a ship’s bell. Direfang waited to hear more. He knew Grallik knew much about the sea and wanted to talk.

  “They say nothing lives below two hundred feet,” Grallik said. “It is not that way with all water, but with this body. They say that the depths here are far saltier and colder and hide caverns and all manner of things. But fish are plentiful near the surface.”

  “You know this how?” asked Direfang.

  “I traveled it once, when I was young, and the captain talked a lot. I guess I paid attention.” Looking out, he saw that Horace had finished his praying; he was splashing seawater on his face, coaxing the goblins to do the same. “I disembarked at a Dark Knight outpost to the west. And I haven’t seen this sea or any other for nearly forty years.”

  Direfang grunted. Probably that was interesting talk for humans, but not for him.

  “My plan, Foreman,” Grallik began hesitantly. “The one I mentioned to you earlier. Perhaps we should speak of it now.”

  “It is impossible now.” Direfang’s eyes were dark and sad, and his brow deeply furrowed. “Too many goblins. All of it impossible.” The hobgoblin let out a deep breath, a sigh that was almost a moan.

  Grallik was taken aback. The hobgoblin suddenly seemed so lost, so uncertain. He opened his mouth to say something, but Direfang waved his words away.

  “There is a shorter way to the Qualinesti Forest.” Direfang gazed at the water, straining to see an opposite shore. He looked east, where the mountains curved around the New Sea and led to ogre country and the swamp … eventually, if his recollection of maps was correct, that path would lead to the Plains of Dust.

  “Yes, the shorter way you spoke of before.” Grallik gestured west, and the hobgoblin followed his gesture with his eyes, sweeping the shoreline. “It is not impossible, Foreman. Difficult, oh yes, very difficult. But it is not impossible. Not if—”