Death March s-2

by Jean Rabe

  Sailors steadily worked on the deck, some painting rails that looked as if they were in no need of painting. Most of the sailors were dark skinned.

  “Ergothians,” Grallik said to himself. “Horace’s people.” The wizard was glad then the priest hadn’t come along on his errand. Horace had made it clear he wanted to return home, and that vessel would have lured him. Ergothians were noted for their ship building, and the Corvan put the others in port to shame. But what was such a fine, fine ship doing in that small town? Grallik wondered about that, briefly, but knew, more important, that a ship of that impressive size could easily accommodate a significant number of goblins and hobgoblins. That was the ship for him.

  Grallik hefted one of the pouches filled with sapphires, about to make his move. Then he hesitated. That particular ship was too …

  “Perfect,” he pronounced. “Too fine and fancy.” While it would well suit him-and it would delight Horace-it would be too conspicuous for a cargo of goblins, so he moved on, looking.

  Grallik knew nothing about ships other than which ones looked bigger, flashier, or cleaner. He couldn’t put a name to the type of any of them. He couldn’t guess how fast they’d run, how seaworthy they might be. He knew he was not well suited to his task, while the priest would have been the right man. Ergothians were all sea barbarians, at home on the waves. How Horace got stuck in a desolate, dry mining camp in the middle of Neraka was puzzling. Grallik would have to remember to ask him about that later.

  Grallik required several big ships, not just one, anyway; they needn’t all be as huge as the Mercy Corvan. Again he wondered briefly just what a ship that size was doing in the New Sea, particularly at a town so far to the east. But it wasn’t his concern, he decided, so he moved along to the farthest dock west.

  “That could do.”

  The ship he was staring at had a similar form to the Mercy Corvan, but it was not as long, and it did not seem to sit as heavy in the water. It boasted three masts, though the sails were down on all of them, and only one pennant, which was blue and white striped and fluttering dog-eared from a post at the back.

  “Clare could be just one of those I’m looking for.”

  For that was the ship’s name, painted in red, flowing script on the bow. Another name had been initially etched beneath that, but the paint had been scraped off so only a trace of a few gray letters could be seen. The Clare was not in the same tip-top condition as the Corvan; her paint was peeling on the trim, looking like fish scales baking in the sun. The wood appeared more weathered, lines were frayed here and there. Not as seaworthy, Grallik suspected, but seaworthy enough for the New Sea.

  Not so many sailors were busy on her decks, and those he could see were in well-worn clothes.

  “Perfect indeed.” He headed toward the Clare.

  The crew looked … well, they looked hungry, needy. The ship was definitely in need of funds, and his would be a well-paying venture. There wouldn’t be many questions asked, Grallik hoped. And perhaps the sailors would point him to other ships that could be just as easily rented.

  “Is the captain here?” Grallik cupped his hand over his eyes and peered up to the rail.

  “Aye. Whatcha want with ’im?” The sailor who answered was a half-ogre with thick stubble on his chin.

  “I’ll take that matter up with him,” Grallik returned brusquely.

  “You’ll find ’im in the Tattered Sail,” the half-ogre shot back. “Ask for Gerrold.”

  Grallik remained on the dock for a few more minutes, pacing up and down and giving the Clare a closer inspection. She could certainly hold a lot of goblins. Across from the Clare rested a ship of similar length and draft called The Elizabeth, and next to her, an ungainly looking vessel, obviously a merchantman, called Linda’s Grady. Would the three be enough? Probably not, he mouthed, recalling an image of all the goblins frolicking in the surf. He glanced around at other ships that were near and far.

  “Gerrold is his name,” the half-ogre called, rousing Grallik from his reverie.

  The wizard nodded and went in search of the tavern, found Gerrold, and made a deal that would put Gerrold in charge of the expedition.

  Later in the afternoon, he visited several shops and steadily paid out small sapphires to purchase plenty of barrels of water, one hundred crates of dried meat, sacks upon sacks of fruit, bags of flour, hundreds of chickens-all he could find in town-and a few milking goats, and had all delivered to Gerrold at the Clare, who had the rest dispersed among The Elizabeth, Linda’s Grady, Star of Lunitari, Wavechaser, Shinare’s Prayer, and The Balifor Breeze.

  Six ships, he’d settled on. Well more than enough. Grallik had decided to err on the side of excess in the event one or more of the captains backed out when they laid eyes on their passengers.

  Back in the heart of the merchant district, he purchased the entire stock of several clothiers’, everything the city’s dozen cobblers had, and all the blankets three weavers displayed, along with crates of spun yarn in the hopes some of the goblins could learn how to knit. Rumors flew around the port about the wealthy, scarred half-elf who was buying enough to feed and clothe an entire town. An entire army was more like it, Grallik thought, bemused.

  The rumblings made the citizens keep their distance and show him respect, so he did nothing to squelch the rumors.

  He took care to find garments and boots that would likely fit Horace and the near seven-foot-tall Direfang. He hoped that would put him in better stead with the irascible hobgoblin leader. The special clothes he ordered wrapped in canvas and tied securely with twine to keep them separate from the rest of the goods.

  From listening to the men on the dock, he learned he needed rum to mix with the drinking water in order to keep it from becoming fouled during the journey. So he purchased dozens upon dozens of casks, and he added to that a case of the finest wine the port town offered, on which he scrawled his name.

  He returned to the tailor’s he’d visited early in the morning and had him sew a secret pocket into his shirt. There he hid some of the fortune remaining-a dozen small sapphires-in the event he needed them at some point in the future.

  There were a few more stops: a chandler for cases of candles and oil, which might come in handy; bakers for loaves upon loaves of bread, which would have to be eaten relatively quickly while they were fresh; he doubted that would be a problem; and a blacksmith’s for an assortment of tools simply because Grallik thought hammers and nails and such might be useful eventually.

  He purchased lanterns, goose-down pillows, wheels of cheese, tins of tobacco, three hundred pounds of hard candy-all that the candy maker had on hand-three hundred tanned cow hides from a merchantman who had just come ashore, and two shaving kits and several bars of soap, which he tucked in his backpack for himself and Horace. He also acquired several maps-of the coast around the New Sea, the Kharolis Mountains, the northern section of the Qualinesti Forest (he could find none of the entire territory), and an old map of what the world had looked like before the Chaos War. He expected Direfang to be quite pleased with the maps.

  Finally, he purchased several chests of books; he didn’t bother to look at the topics or titles. Grallik had lost all of his precious tomes in the earthquakes in Steel Town; many of them were spellbooks, but some were simply interesting treatises on the Dark Knights, Nerakan history, or tales of the gods. He relished reading and knew Horace did too. And he could justify the books, saying that Direfang himself knew how to read; he might even want to use the books to teach some of the goblins to read also.

  One last stop: a cook shop recommended by Captain Gerrold. Exhausted from his extensive shopping expedition, he settled at a table far from the door, a habit he’d picked up in Steel Town’s only tavern. His timing was excellent; after the serving girl brought out a plate of bread, soft cheese, and quince marmalade, people started arriving in droves for the evening meal.

  Grallik was careful not to eat too much, limiting himself to the venison custard. There were bits o
f bacon in it, and bacon was something he hadn’t enjoyed since his posting to Steel Town. There was also wine, cinnamon, ginger, saffron, dates, and prunes; he savored all the ingredients. He finished his meal with a torte made of ground cherries, cheese, sugar, and rose petals.

  “Aye, it will be a long while before I have such divine fare,” he told the serving girl. “A glass of wine, and I’ll be on my way.”

  The sun was just setting as he made his way back to the Clare. He strode up the plank and greeted Gerrold, giving him the signal to motion for the crew to make ready to leave the port. The other five ships he’d made arrangements with were waiting in the harbor; they would follow the Clare. The wind was strong, and the sails snapped and billowed as they were raised.

  “Everything’s loaded in the holds.” That came from the half-ogre Grallik had met earlier. His name, he had learned, was K’lars, and he served as the bosun’s mate. “A lot of food, you’ve bought. All manner of things. Quite a lot of ships you’ve acquired too.”

  Grallik stood at the rail, wrapped his long fingers around the wood, and looked up to see the sky full of gulls and blackbirds.

  “We’re picking up many passengers,” Grallik said when he heard K’lars step closer. “Captain Gerrold is well aware of the arrangements.”

  “And these passengers …”

  “Just set your course for the mouth of the river to the east. I don’t know the name of the river.” Grallik hadn’t even bothered to ask the name of the town. He knew he could find the town later, though, if he wanted. It would be on one of the maps he had bought.

  “All these passengers are waiting there, at the river?”

  “Yes,” Grallik answered tersely.

  “Didn’t want to come to town to get on these ships? What’s the matter with ’em?”

  Grallik had already begun to dislike the half-ogre who was too curious for his own good. He turned and glared at him. “You’re being paid to crew this ship,” he answered. “Paid better than you ever were paid before. But I’m not paying you to ask questions.”

  “It’s your ship,” K’lars admitted, bowing slightly. He walked away, barking orders to the men in the rigging. “These are all your ships.”

  “Only until we reach the mouth of the river is this my ship,” Grallik muttered under his breath. “Then Foreman Direfang will reclaim the leadership of this ship and all the others, for certain.”

  But K’lars was right. Grallik hadn’t simply purchased passage for the goblins. He’d purchased the ships outright.

  THE BEAR

  It was a fat bird with short wings, all of it the color of the earth. An ugly bird, Saarh thought, but it might be tasty, and there looked to be a good amount of flesh on it. She crawled toward the fat bird through ferns damp from the previous night’s rain. She took in the smells as she went, appreciating the flowers the best. All along that part of the forest floor were ground-hugging, three-leafed plants with tiny white and red blooms. They were beautiful flowers, though they had settled sourly in her mouth when she tasted them. She was quickly learning what was edible and what was not.

  The fat bird was the size of her head, and it was poking at something at its feet. Bugs, probably, she thought. Saarh didn’t much care for bugs, but some beetles were all right; the big green and black ones were all right if she was hungry enough.

  The bird fluffed its tail, startling her. But Saarh held her position, peering through the fronds and discovering that it wasn’t so ugly after all. Its tail was not like that of other forest birds. It was fan shaped, showing black and white stripes. The bird ruffled the feathers around its neck, those the color of mud and looking soft and contrasting sharply with an orange line she hadn’t noticed before around its eyes. No doubt the bird was alerted to her presence, because it pawed at the ground nervously, yet it hadn’t been spooked so much to make it fly away.

  Perhaps what it was nibbling at was too tasty to give up easily, Saarh thought. Or maybe the bird was too fat to spring away and fly. She held her breath and continued to watch the fat bird, marveling at the play of dark colors across its body when a stream of sunlight came through the branches and splashed across it.

  A beautiful bird, really, Saarh decided. Pity she was going to have to kill it. The goblin shaman was hungry, but she waited, studying the bird a while longer. It ate a little more of whatever was on the ground in front of it before waddling into a thicket. The light was dim there, the branches directly overhead were tightly woven.

  Saarh crawled closer, careful not to make a sound. She held her breath when she caught sight of the bird again. It had settled itself on a patch of tiny twigs and dead leaves, fluffing its feathers and craning its neck around to preen itself. The shaman’s keen eyes noticed thick bands of dark yellow on its breast.

  It was a beautiful, beautiful bird, which had conveniently made its nest on the ground.

  When she was near enough that she could smell it-a musky scent that pleasantly filled her nostrils-Saarh stuck her thumb in the ground and made a clacking sound. The bird spooked that time, jumping off its nest, wings flapping and head bobbing up and down and beak opening. The bird appeared more comical than menacing, and Saarh even giggled a little as she cast a spell.

  The bird skittered back and forth in front of its nest, still flapping but not flying away, being protective, and also being totally unaware that the ground was turning to mud around its feet. A moment more and the mud oozed up over its talons then instantly hardened, trapping it.

  Saarh stood and brushed the dirt from her hands and stomach, walking toward the terrified, angry, squawking bird and playing with the beads of one of her necklaces as she went. She stopped directly over the bird, admiring its feathers, then grabbed and wrung its neck, tugging the bird free and starting to pluck its feathers.

  She set aside the prettiest feathers as she worked, thinking she might make them into another necklace or give them to Brab as a gift. Brab was the crooked-faced goblin who kept closest company with her. He was among the throng of goblins tearing up small trees to fashion them into tools and torches and firewood. He was occupying the entire clan so she could have that precious time alone.

  The bird would taste good after being cooked over some of that firewood, but then she would have to share the food. So Saarh ate it raw, careful to pick out its organs, which she thought tasted too salty. When she’d consumed most of the sweet flesh, she set a few strips aside for Brab, wrapping them in maple leaves and tying the small bundle with long strands of grass. The feathers she stuffed into a pouch that dangled from her newest necklace.

  Finished with those tasks, she crept toward the nest. She’d not heard any cheeping sounds, so she knew there were no baby birds. She grinned wide when she saw the eggs-eight of them, each about the size of her thumb-a special treat. She sat with her legs protectively wrapped around the nest, one by one picking up the eggs, registering their warmth, then digging a claw into each one so she could break it and suck out the liquid.

  Thoroughly sated, she rose and stretched, declaring it a very good morning indeed. She wasn’t ready to return to the goblins, though she was curious about their progress. She was more curious about the power she’d sensed in the forest, which was the ultimate reason she’d brought them all there.

  She walked west. The air was moist, a carryover from the previous day’s deluge. The ground was damp but not muddy. Saarh discovered it was coolest up against the trunk, where the leaves held the summer sun at bay. Between knobby roots, the ground cover was thick with low-growing plants that boasted tiny, teardrop-shaped leaves. They looked so delicate, Saarh hesitated to walk on them.

  There were few truly large trees, so Saarh knew the forest was young. But she also knew it could grow into something magnificent; her magic had revealed that to her. She wanted her tribe to grow with the forest. A few trees ahead tilted precariously, nearly blown over in the previous day’s storm. She continued walking, seeing one recently felled, the leaves still vibrant, the broken ro
ots sticking out in all directions. Farther along she spotted a tree growing through a wide crack in a big rock. Curious, she touched its bark, feeling bumps and ridges and finding a sap that smelled rich. A tree nearby had stringy pieces of bark that she could pull off in thin strips.

  Saarh intended to bring Brab that way later and show him the amazing plants. She stopped when something chattered at her. An unfamiliar sound, she tipped her head back and searched through the branches.

  The creature making the noise was small and looked vaguely ratlike. She’d seen plenty of rats before, but this one was light brown, its tail incredibly bushy. Its small ears were pressed forward against the sides of its head, and it held a nut in its front paws.

  Saarh watched it while it chattered loudly and scampered back and forth, putting the nut in its mouth so that one side of its face bulged.

  “Scolding.” She realized the creature was angry that she had intruded into its territory. “Maybe tasty.” Saarh enjoyed cooked rats. But she patted her full stomach and moved along.

  She came to another fallen tree large enough to sit on. Black bugs the size of her little finger scampered across the rotting wood, and she noted the small footprints of animals that likely lived beneath the log. A small tree had sprouted from the dead one, and Saarh thought that odd; all the other trees she’d seen grew from the earth. She shook her head. No, not all the trees, there had been that tree growing through the rock.

  “Trees are amazing,” she said. “Better than the stone of the caves.”