Death March s-2

by Jean Rabe

  “No time for food, Direfang. Be fast.” Saro-Saro’s messenger shook a finger at him and started down the flight of stairs that led to the lower hold.

  Direfang had not spoken to Mudwort since she had brought the lightning down on the Blithe Dagger and given the wizard credit for that magic. He wanted to sit with her, eat, and discuss the Qualinesti Forest-telling her it was much closer than he had imagined. He was looking forward to reaching land, but he had an important task he wanted her to attend to well before the ship stopped. He needed her to use her seeing spell again.

  “Later,” he muttered aloud, meaning, later he would catch up with Mudwort.

  “No, now,” the yellow-skinned goblin insisted, overhearing him as she stopped and turned halfway down on the steps. “Be fast.”

  Direfang was quick to follow her; if truth be told, he was genuinely curious what was happening that was so urgent in the hold. He took a deep breath before going down, knowing well the air would be thick and foul, and closing his eyes so when he reached the bottom he could open them and more easily adjust to the darkness.

  Only a few lanterns were lit at midpoint in the hold. No goblins clustered directly under them, as they seemed to prefer the darkness in the recesses of the wooden cave. The air was worse than the hobgoblin had expected, far, far worse than on his previous visit there. Not even the slave pens in Steel Town had reeked so badly, but then there was always air stirring around the pens in the mining camp.

  He coughed to clear his throat and followed the beckoning goblin. Direfang nodded to Two-chins and Rustymane and grunted a hello to Cattail, who’d been discussing the upcoming meal with some of her Flamegrass clan members. The discussion stopped and they started whispering as he passed by. Goblins always had secrets, he mused.

  The air grew worse the farther he went toward the rear of the hold, stepping between goblins and hobgoblins and seeing Saro-Saro surrounded by his clan at the very back of the packed group. The old goblin was stretched out, his green cloak covering him like a blanket. The goblin who’d led Direfang down there went over to Saro-Saro and dabbed his forehead with the hem of her dress.

  Saro-Saro turned his head and caught Direfang’s shocked expression. The old clan leader was clearly dying.

  The skin of his face was sunken to such a degree that he looked skeletal, and even though little light reached back there, Direfang could see the telltale black splotches. There were large black knobs on Saro-Saro’s neck, of the sort that had decorated the limbs and necks of many of the goblins who’d died from the plague.

  “Should have went into the sea with the priest,” Direfang said reproachfully as he neared, standing over Saro-Saro, but not too close. He shook his head at the clan members who still hovered close by; they risked getting the sickness by touching the old goblin.

  Some of them had already caught it. Direfang heard coughs muffled by cupped hands; several goblins were sweating profusely. It was overly warm in the hold with the press of bodies, but the ones who sweated there were wrapped in cloaks and blankets, shivering.

  “Leave,” Saro-Saro gestured forcefully to the clansmen nearest him. “It is time to speak to Direfang alone.”

  “No.” Direfang held his hands out to his sides to block some of them from leaving. “The sick should stay here, away from the others. This one and this one stay. This one too.” He pointed to seven or eight more, making it about a dozen, with Saro-Saro, who were visibly afflicted. “The rest of you, go up on the top deck. The air is good there. Cause no trouble with the sailors, and be fast.”

  The healthy ones protested at being sent to the top deck of the ship, where they feared the waves and water, but Direfang insisted.

  The hobgoblin leader waited until the healthy clan members shuffled past; then he sat, keeping an arm’s length from Saro-Saro. The clan leader turned his head so he could better see the hobgoblin.

  “Dying,” Saro-Saro said. “I am.”

  “Yes.”

  “The skull man said he could not help. The skull man’s magic is weak and used up.”

  “Perhaps the skull man used too much of his precious magic healing goblins by the river days past.” Direfang heard goblins shifting around behind him, turned his head, and caught several edging close, trying to eavesdrop. He glared at them, and they backed away a little, but the hold was crowded and they could not go far.

  “The skull man said four days, maybe five.”

  “Before this ship reaches the forest.”

  Saro-Saro nodded. “Will never see the forest because the skull man’s magic is weak. Will never see anything beyond this wooden cave, this hole made by sailing men.” He spoke softer, and the hobgoblin leaned closer out of respect for the old clan leader. “Slave for too long, Direfang. Too many years toiling for the hated Dark Knights. Should have had a better life. Deserved one, didn’t I? We?”

  The hobgoblin had only a choked reply. He nearly reached out to touch Saro-Saro in sympathy but stopped himself and set his hands instead on his knees.

  “Should have died, maybe, to the earthquakes. Would have been faster death and would not have hurt so much.” Saro-Saro’s voice dropped even lower, and Direfang crept forward just a little and saw that the pillow Saro-Saro’s head was on was crusted with blood and vomit. “This sickness, Direfang, it ruined all the plans. My plans.”

  What foolish plans? Direfang wondered to himself, but he thought he would humor the dying goblin by nodding agreement. “Perhaps after this ship reaches the forest, the clan can still-”

  Saro-Saro shook his head. He coughed once and made a gasping, raspy sound that caused some of his ill clansmen to shrink back against the hull. “No, Direfang.” The goblin coughed again, deeper and racking, his body writhing from the spasm.

  Direfang held his breath and looked at the once-proud clan leader. He heard whispers behind him; two Woodcutter clan members were speculating that Saro-Saro likely would not live out the day. The hobgoblin cut a cross look over his shoulder, silencing the two.

  The coughing subsided and Saro-Saro tried to speak again. His voice cracked, and the words sounded like leaves blowing across a dry riverbed.

  Direfang saw that one of the black knobs on the old goblin’s neck had ruptured and was oozing an ugly green pus. He breathed only slightly, not wanting to inhale any of the sickness. The stench was so awful that he clenched his teeth and fought to keep from retching.

  A goblin named Uren knelt at Saro-Saro’s shoulder. Uren had often worked under Direfang at the Dark Knight mine and had distinguished himself by rarely complaining and sometimes helping older goblins heft their ore sacks. Uren did not yet have knobs on his neck, but he sweated heavily, and he shivered so hard, his teeth chattered. There were a few black spots on his cheek.

  The old goblin broke into another coughing spasm, and Direfang closed his eyes at the terrible sight. He heard other goblins coughing, though not as loud or hurtful sounding, heard a baby cry-the sound so rare down there that he knew it must be Graytoes’ Umay. He heard shuffling near him, felt something brush up against his back, and as he turned, he felt fingers dig into his legs.

  Direfang’s eyes flew open, and he tried to scoot back as two goblins behind him, their clawed hands on his shoulders, forced him to his knees. Somehow Saro-Saro had managed to rally and was struggling to sit up with the help of Uren. The old goblin was the one who had dug his claws into Direfang’s legs, poking through the thin material of his leggings and finding flesh beneath. Saro-Saro pulled himself close the hobgoblin even as Direfang tried to shove away.

  Saro-Saro scratched Direfang’s chest and spit in his face. At last Direfang threw off the goblins behind him and lurched to his feet then fell forward when the ship tossed. Saro-Saro continued to claw and spit at Direfang, reaching for him futilely. Uren and two other ill members of Saro-Saro’s clan piled on top of the hobgoblin.

  “Die too, Direfang,” Saro-Saro rasped. “Join me in death.” A thick line of blood dripped over his lip. “Should have died o
n the mountain, you. Were supposed to die there.”

  “Should have died, Direfang, so Saro-Saro could lead this army,” Uren hissed. “If Saro-Saro cannot lead, Direfang will not either!”

  Direfang kicked out, knocking Saro-Saro away. The clan leader landed heavily on his back and started coughing wildly again, with the sick ones around him forgetting Direfang and huddling close to Saro-Saro. But the goblins behind the hobgoblin leader surged forward. Direfang spun to face them before realizing they were coming to his aid, indeed were going to brave the sickness to help him.

  “Stay back!” He shouted at them all, glaring. “Farther back!” He waved a fist at the goblins, who backed away slowly and pressed together toward the center of the hold. “It is not safe here.”

  Saro-Saro continued to cough frantically behind him, Uren joining in.

  Two-chins was farther back in the hold, and he climbed on the shoulders of another goblin so he could better see what was going on.

  “Get the skull man,” Direfang called, spotting Two-chins. “Be fast.” Once more the goblins tried to edge closer, partly out of curiosity and partly because some of them wished to help. “Stay back.” Softer, he said, “Stay away from the sickness and stay well.”

  “Stay well, stay well.” The advice was passed back through the throng.

  “Will Direfang die too?” Rustymane, a hobgoblin who also had worked as a foreman in the mine, spoke for the others, fearfully.

  “Everything dies,” another hobgoblin answered stoically.

  “But will Direfang die of the sickness?” Rustymane persisted.

  “Maybe,” Direfang growled. “Maybe me, you, all of us.”

  “Saro-Saro must account for this!” Rustymane insisted.

  “Saro-Saro is dying,” Skakee chimed in. “Like Direfang will die now, I think. Saro-Saro’s blood and sickness is mixed in Direfang’s wounds. It will be an empty, sad forest without Direfang.”

  The goblins quieted. Some of them stared in disbelief that Saro-Saro would do such a thing to Direfang, purposely spreading the foul illness. Others looked grief-stricken and angry. A few trembled in fear and tried to squeeze their way to the front of the hold, wanting to get as far away from the sick and dying ones as possible.

  “Please, Two-chins,” Direfang pleaded. “Get the skull man. Be fast.”

  Two-chins climbed off his kinsman’s shoulders, eyes on Direfang as he backed toward the stairs.

  “Be fast!” echoed Graytoes. “Be very fast!”

  DEATH ON THE NEW SEA

  Direfang’s growls kept the dozen ill clansmen an arm’s distance away. He could barely stand upright in that section of the hold; the top of his head brushed the low ceiling. The ropy muscles in his arms bunched, and he clenched and unclenched his hands in a silent fury that raised his temperature and quickened his heart.

  He wanted to shout oaths at Saro-Saro and his foul clansmen, telling them they were all fools. He’d led them from Steel Town and into the mountains, at one point giving everyone the option of going their own way, perhaps in clans, perhaps scattering. He practically begged them to leave him alone; that was his deepest desire. Some goblins did leave then, Hurbear’s clan. Direfang wished he would have followed Hurbear.

  Direfang wasn’t sure how that had all happened. Whose idea was it that he should lead the goblins to a new homeland? A foreman in the Dark Knight mines, they’d been following his orders for a few years, yes. But there had been other sturdy foremen, such as Rustymane, who stared at him at that moment with a vacant expression.

  Was it because it was he who had urged them to rebel and flee the mining camp? They’d followed him then, so they kept on following. Then more and more and more kept arriving, thousands. That was Mudwort’s doing. He trusted Mudwort, but she shouldn’t have told so many others to come and follow him.

  Mudwort said the goblins felt they owed their lives to him.

  So he felt responsible, even for Saro-Saro and his vile bunch.

  Direfang’s legs stung where the old goblin’s claws had ripped the flesh. His shoulders ached where Uren and a few others had bitten and scratched him. He felt Saro-Saro’s bloody spittle drying on his face and wondered if the illness that was claiming the old goblin was even then wending its way into his body. Half of the offending goblins had knives they’d taken from Steel Town or the ogre village they’d raided; why hadn’t they just killed him swiftly with their knives?

  Because Saro-Saro didn’t want Direfang to die fast, the hobgoblin knew. The clan leader wanted Direfang to catch the illness and suffer as he was suffering. Well, suffering was nothing new to Direfang, he thought bitterly. His life had been nothing but suffering, the thick scars and his mangled ear a testament to that.

  The main reason for the ignominious attack was because Saro-Saro had wanted to be the leader. His illness would prevent that.

  Direfang gave a low moan, startling the others who were closest by, sending them back a few steps. If Saro-Saro had expressed such a desire when they’d first left Steel Town, the hobgoblin leader reflected ruefully, Direfang would have eagerly relented.

  “Who will lead now, Saro-Saro? If not you or me?” Direfang’s words were plaintive and couldn’t be heard by many goblins in the hold.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the dying, old goblin hissed. “Does not matter,” Saro-Saro repeated. “Just that it will not be Direfang.”

  The hobgoblin leader suddenly felt a weakness in his legs. Did the illness strike that quickly? Or was the ship making him dizzy again? He felt as if he were floating, lifted by his pounding heart and the swells the Clare climbed. A few hundred goblins watched him, not a one speaking, all of them staring at him and Saro-Saro.

  Rustymane edged closer. Rustymane could lead, Direfang thought, staring at his old friend. He’d been a good foreman, though not for more than a handful of months before the earthquakes struck. Rustymane had reddish, wiry hair and only a few scars on his face and arms. His hands were large, the fingers stubby. His wide eyes held a hint of kindness, tears now threatening at the edges.

  Direfang turned his head to stare angrily at Saro-Saro. The old goblin was propped up on his pillow, Uren at his shoulder, both of them coughing and sweating and shivering in the meager light that reached that far end of the ship. The others in bad condition surrounding them also shivered, the closest ones glaring at Direfang. He continued to clench and unclench his fists, wanting to lash out at the clansmen and hurt them as they had hurt and betrayed him. But he could do nothing worse to them that what they already suffered.

  “The knives. Set the knives down.” Direfang spoke fiercely, snarling for emphasis. “The knives. Be fast.”

  They did lay down their knives, to the hobgoblin’s surprise. He stalked forward, using his feet to kick the knives behind him and well away from Saro-Saro’s band of diseased loyalists. He heard scrabbling and knew other goblins were snatching up the weapons behind him.

  No one spoke for long minutes then, though he could hear his own breathing, fast in his anger and exertion, and he could hear the forced breathing of Saro-Saro and Uren also. He heard the groaning of the wooden ship and hurried footsteps from overhead. Someone heavy was coming down the steps.

  “Skull man, take care,” Direfang cautioned.

  None of the goblins spoke as Horace threaded his way through them.

  “Foreman Direfang …”

  Rustymane had moved up alongside the priest and was relating the tale of Saro-Saro’s attack.

  Horace looked different that day. He was dressed in a pale green tunic that draped to mid-thigh, with dark blue leggings that were tucked in the tops of a pair of shiny, brown boots. A black vest with faint green and blue embroidered leaves at the shoulders fit a little too tightly. The clothes had been purchased by Grallik, the hobgoblin knew. Direfang thought it fortunate that he’d not yet changed into the clothes Grallik said had been purchased for him. The clothes would be contaminated if he had the sickness.

  The priest looked as thoug
h he’d swallowed something bitter after listening to Rustymane. He squinted, not seeing as well as the goblins could in the relative darkness of the hold.

  “I’d thought the sickness past,” he said with genuine regret. “I thought we’d left it on the shore of the New Sea. The salt cleansing the last trace. With Zeboim’s blessings …”

  “The sea. Zeboim. Did nothing for Saro-Saro,” Direfang finished.

  Horace changed his expression, trying to look optimistic. “Foreman, you’ve weathered being near the ill before, under the black willow along the river where so many goblins died. You will weather this. You are healthy and you have willpower and-”

  Direfang gestured toward Saro-Saro and Uren and their followers. “What of these goblins? Can Saro-Saro’s clansmen be healed?”

  “I thought …” Horace shifted so he could better see around Direfang. “I thought I should start by helping you.”

  Direfang shook his head, beckoning Horace forward. He ordered the healthy goblins back, sending some up to the galley and more of the stout-hearted up on deck. “Do not get in the sailors’ way,” he cautioned. When the shuffling was finished, about three hundred and fifty remained below, and they kept as much distance as possible from Direfang and Horace and the coughing, spasming ill. Yet because there was more room in the hold, the air was not so thick anymore.

  “Help those first,” Direfang told the priest. “But only if there is a chance the clansmen can be healed. Only if, skull man.”

  Horace, nodding grimly, tended to Uren first. Saro-Saro lay quietly, shivering, staring hatefully at Direfang. “You should have called for me earlier,” the priest said to those in Saro-Saro’s clan who were afflicted. He spoke bluntly, irritably, in the goblin tongue. “This has progressed beyond the power of my magic. I do not think I can do anything for you. Why, in the name of all the Sea Mother counts holy, did you not call for me before now?”