Death March s-2

by Jean Rabe

  Horace’s eyes misted. “I visited there in my youth, Schallsea, with my uncle and my oldest brother. A beautiful place with many streams that sparkle like diamonds in the warmest months. Most of the island is inaccessible because of its dangerous cliffs. But there are a handful of harbors, and I’m certain he’s taking this ship to the largest. That would be the Port of Schallsea, where my uncle once took his ship. A good thing it’s summertime, Foreman. In winter the harbors have been known to freeze solid.”

  Horace seemed lost in the memory, and his head bobbed in time with the gentle rising and falling of the Clare.

  “The lady’s island, K’lars called it.” Direfang coughed again and cursed to feel blood welling at the edge of his lip.

  “Aye, the island is said to have been born during the Cataclysm. When the New Sea rose and lands all around this part of the world dropped, one stretch didn’t, and they called it Schallsea. After the Chaos War, a famous Hero of the Lance came to it: Goldmoon.”

  Direfang nodded. He was familiar with some of the old tales.

  “That’s why these sailors call it the lady’s island, Foreman. This lady, Goldmoon, established the Citadel of Light, which was destroyed not too many years ago. Last I heard, it was being rebuilt, though.”

  “Why take this ship there?” Direfang’s shoulders were slumped, and he wrapped his arms around his chest, trying futilely to warm himself.

  “Because Goldmoon attracted many healers to her citadel. There are people there far more skilled in the divine arts than I. If anyone can cure this plague, it would be the priests on that island. Captain Gerrold is smart to head there. I must go and tell Grallik.”

  “Fine,” Direfang muttered. He groaned softly, his chin dropping, and slid forward, his chin striking the floor.

  THE CITADEL OF LIGHT

  There were flowers somewhere; Direfang could smell them. He couldn’t see them-something sodden and soft was draped across his eyes. But the flowers smelled sweet, and he knew they must be close by. They mixed pleasantly with the musky scent of himself and with that of grass that had been rained on recently.

  Gone were all the abysmal smells that had filled the cramped hold of the ship.

  He felt warm but not too warm. His fever had broken, and he could breathe without coughing. His jaw ached, though, and when he ran his tongue around in his mouth, he felt broken teeth and spots of dried blood.

  “You hit your head when you fell.” It was Horace’s voice. “Broke your jaw, which I was able to mend. The mystics here took care of the rest.”

  Direfang tried to get up, but a few pairs of strong hands pushed him back down.

  “Rest.” The voice was female and human, to his surprise. “I understand that you can speak Common.”

  Direfang tried to answer, but his throat was dry. He nodded, dislodging the wet cloth that had been covering his eyes. He blinked then closed his eyes again. The sun was high and bright and hurtful. He struggled to stay awake, but in the end gave in to the smell of the flowers and the feel of the soft breeze that played over his clean, bare skin. He’d registered that his ragged clothes had been removed and that the gouges on his arms and legs had been bandaged.

  “Sleep,” the woman insisted.

  He let himself do just that.

  The same woman spoke to him when he awoke again. “You are on Schallsea Island, Direfang, near the Citadel of Light. Horace thought it best to keep you and your brothers outside the citadel and the city.” She paused before continuing. “I am Aerlane, once of Solace. And I welcome you to our island.”

  “Schallsea Island,” Horace’s voice echoed. The priest must have been nearby as well. “Remember? The captain said he was taking us there. To the citadel.”

  “Citadel?” The word came out of Direfang’s mouth more as a croak. Again the light seemed bright, though not so strong anymore. Still, he closed his eyes. His ears would serve him well enough.

  “The citadel is as much a piece of our hearts as it is a construction. It is more spiritual than physical. Most of us worship Mishakal here.”

  That was a god Direfang had not heard mentioned before.

  “How did-?” Again Direfang’s voice cracked. Someone dripped water into his mouth, and he greedily swallowed the liquid.

  “The sailors brought you and the others here,” the woman continued. “Cassandra and Jemtal sent us to tend you. Jemtal was once the same as Horace; he was a former Skull Knight. My sisters and brothers here are all from the Healing Lyceum. More of us are on your ship now.”

  “Clearing it of the foul plague you brought aboard.”

  Direfang opened his eyes finally and saw Captain Gerrold standing above him, next to Horace. The hobgoblin sat up, a little wobbly. He found he was in a meadow, the grass tall and mixed with purple and yellow wildflowers. Five women and two men in flowing blue and white robes trimmed in silver stood behind Gerrold. The tallest and oldest, a painfully-thin woman with short, gray hair, had been the main speaker.

  Farther back stood four men in chain armor that glimmered under the late-afternoon sun. Had he slept most of the day away? Or how many days?

  Spear in one hand, shield in the other, the quartet stood at attention and immediately reminded the hobgoblin of the Dark Knights in Steel Town.

  “The Citadel Guardians,” the woman explained, following Direfang’s gaze. “They are a precaution only. Horace vouches for you.”

  There were other goblins in the meadow, but they were some distance away, and there were more blue and white-robed men and women in their midst, as well as more of the armed and armored Citadel Guardians.

  “Direfang, those goblins over there were found to have traces of the illness, and so the mystics are trying to heal them. They are far more proficient in healing than I,” Horace admitted. “Indeed, I envy their divine abilities.”

  Direfang saw the oddest figure standing near the goblin gathering. It looked like a beast but walked on two legs. Appearing a little taller than Direfang, the figure had gray-green skin covered with thin fur and a head that resembled a hyena’s. A red-gray mane sprouted from the top of its head and ran down its neck. It was dressed in a leather jerkin and loose-fitting trousers. If it wore shoes, Direfang couldn’t see them for the tall grass.

  “Orvago,” Aerlane named him, pointing toward the creature. “He is a gnoll, and one of Scanion’s druids from the Animism Lyceum.”

  “A gnoll?” Direfang’s eyes widened. Horace nodded to him reassuringly.

  “We do not judge here based on one’s race,” Aerlane said. “It is the heart that matters. Orvago is here because he is curious and because he has embraced nature’s arts.”

  “He is always curious,” one of the robed men said.

  Captain Gerrold stepped close and locked eyes with the hobgoblin, blocking his view of the gnoll.

  Direfang noticed that the captain had changed into a fine shirt and trousers and that his hair was combed and tied tight at the back of his neck.

  “That’s why I brought them all here, good lady. This one in particular. Good that you do not judge based on a man’s shell. And so you saved him, perhaps saved all of us.”

  “Barely in time for him,” she answered.

  “I’d not thought Direfang would make it the two days it took us to reach Pelican Cove. The island’s reputation spreads far across the waters, and I knew this was the only recourse, despite the distance. I thank you for allowing all of the goblins ashore, trusting woman. There are thousands, I know.” He broke eye contact with Direfang, turned, and took her arm, leading her away. “Now, tell me Aerlane, how does construction go on rebuilding the citadel? And can my men lend some of their muscle through the night? Carrying, cleaning, whatever we can do in Mishakal’s name. Take advantage of their gratitude now, and of all these goblins. The goblins are little, but they’re strong, and there are an awful lot of them.”

  One of the robed women, who looked little older than a child, knelt next to Direfang. “It was an old, old plague that
held you in its grip, one that the healers and mystics here had thought gone from this world. It is good that Gerrold brought you. And good that we can work to rid all of your ships of the last vestiges of this disease. The illness will not pain you and your brothers ever again.”

  “What is this place?”

  The girl passed him a crystal decanter of water and motioned that he should drink.

  The water was cool, and he held it in his mouth before swallowing.

  “This place? This island? This-”

  She cocked her head. “I thought Aerlane explained that. You are on Schallsea Island near the Citadel of Light. What more do you need to know? Everyone has heard of this place, and-”

  Horace cleared his throat. “Foreman Direfang has seen little of the world, Qel. He was …” The priest hesitated and let a breath whistle out between his teeth. “Until recently he and his kinsmen were slaves.”

  She frowned first, then suddenly beamed. “Freed slaves? Good. All of the gods’ creatures should be free.” She helped Direfang stand. The hobgoblin found her surprisingly strong for her size. “The citadel was founded long years ago as a place to develop mystic talents. Now it is a place of learning and healing. But more than priests and druids and scholars call this home. Heartspring is near here, and Captain Gerrold has sent some of his sailors there to take on grain and vegetables. Heartspring is a farming village. Some of your kind are scattered on this island too, and-”

  “Goblins? Or hobgoblins?” Direfang found that his full voice was returning. The cool water had soothed his throat and restored his energy. He wondered if there was something enchanted about the water.

  “In the wilds are many races, Direfang. A forest surrounds much of the island. Some goblins live here. Captain R’chet has offered to take more goblins on his ship, provided that they can be gathered and that they will not fear the presence of his minotaur crew. The captains tell me they are taking all of you to the Qualinesti Forest, where you will build a nation for your kind.”

  “Captain Gerrold and the minotaur R’chet speak too much,” Direfang growled.

  “There must be a hundred or more goblins on this island. To be truthful, they vex the farmers, raiding the fields and taking sheep. No one knows how they got here, but Captain R’chet wonders if a slave ship wrecked on the coast and these goblins are the survivors.”

  As they walked toward the host of sick goblins, Qel related some of the long history of the citadel to Direfang. “Goldmoon-”

  “A Hero of the Lance,” Direfang supplied.

  “Yes. Goldmoon was looking for a home for her mystics and settled on this island after climbing the Silver Stair. I will tell you about all that later. The dwarves of Hillhome built the initial citadel with its crystal domes. Knights of the Sword helped.” She paused. “Very many people helped. But a huge green dragon attacked the citadel during the War of Souls. It was looking for a great magical treasure. Some of the domes collapsed, and others were heavily damaged. But the mystics’ spirits were not harmed, and reconstruction is well under way. Some say the citadel will be more beautiful than ever when it is again finished.”

  The hobgoblin let the rest of her words fade, instead concentrating on the chatter of his kinsmen. He’d found her story interesting but unimportant, and he doubted he would remember it long after that day. He looked around for familiar faces and realized that many of the goblins were pleased and excited to see him.

  Two-chins rushed to him first, grabbing at his leg. “Clothes. Direfang needs clothes. Burned the old clothes, the people did.”

  “Clothes later,” Direfang returned. “Back on the ship.” He remembered he had that new package of clothes waiting for him in the captain’s cabin.

  “Could make a goblin home here,” Two-chins suggested. “Lots of trees, farms to raid, sheep and goats to-”

  “Goats!” That was blurted by Truak. The big hobgoblin stood and smacked his lips. “Like goats a lot, me do.”

  “Back on the ship,” Direfang said. “That is our home for now.”

  He spoke loudly, making it a command for the others to hear. “The forest that once belonged to the elves is not far now.” At least he hoped it wasn’t. He tried to picture the map Gerrold had showed him days past. He recalled seeing the island, but he couldn’t remember how much sea stretched between the island and the Qualinesti Forest. “Be fast,” he added. “Get back on the ship.” A part of him worried that Captain Gerrold might sail on without the goblins. He vividly recalled the anger in the man’s voice and the fire in his eyes when he accused Direfang of bringing the plague on board his ship.

  Looking around, he finally caught sight of Mudwort, who was well east of the assembly. She sat with the wizard; Grallik was hunched over so far that his forehead appeared to be touching hers. A snarl caught in Direfang’s throat; he disapproved of Mudwort aligning her magic with that man’s.

  “Back to the ship, now. Now!” The goblins around Direfang grumbled only a little, they were so pleased to be healed and happy to have the hobgoblin leader back among them. Two-chins picked a handful of the yellow flowers as he turned to head toward the sea. For his mate, he told Direfang, and he hurried to be one of the first back. The robed men and women slowly followed the goblins down a winding dirt path that stretched toward the sea. The guardians remained, eyes on Direfang and hands clenched tightly on the spears.

  Direfang approached Mudwort and sat near her and the wizard. His fingers were twined in the grass, like hers, and after a few minutes, he pulled up a long blade and slid it between two teeth.

  “Do what?” Direfang finally asked.

  “Looking for goblins.” Mudwort answered him in goblinspeak, which kept their words private from the wizard. “Calling the ones hidden on this island. The old, skinny woman asked for this. Wants the goblins away. Says it will be better for the goblins. Says there is no prejudice here. But those last words sound hollow.”

  Direfang nodded.

  “Still,” Mudwort continued, “calling the goblins on this island is good. Calling goblins from other places is good too.”

  Direfang frowned.

  “Still summoning them, Mudwort? We don’t have enough already?”

  She smiled. “Talking through the stone, Direfang. Calling goblins and hobgoblins through the earth. Many more goblins everywhere. Many listening too, and some talk back.”

  He noticed that her and Grallik’s hands were buried in the ground and that the grass had twisted around their wrists. He watched them for quite some time, aware of the guardians still standing rigidly but more aware of the meadow. He’d never felt so at peace before, and he allowed himself time to savor the moment.

  Twilight had claimed the sky by the time Direfang heard Grallik and Mudwort stir away from their magic. He’d sat there for hours! His legs were a little stiff, but he shook off the feeling as he stood.

  “Past time to return to the ship,” he declared brusquely in Common so the wizard would understand. Direfang suddenly wanted to don his new clothes. He felt fully healed, alive again. “Be fast.”

  Grallik likewise was stiff, picking up first one leg then the other and rubbing them to get the feeling back. “Aye, Foreman.” The wizard’s eyes glistened like polished black buttons. “Past time it is. And soon enough we’ll be in the Qualinesti Forest.”

  “The Goblin Forest,” Mudwort corrected him. She hadn’t stood, and her hands remained in the earth. “Go,” she told them. “Won’t be long now. Just a little bit more.”

  Direfang started to argue, but the wizard brushed past him, taking the same dirt path. The hobgoblin decided to follow as Mudwort wouldn’t listen to him anyway. Stubborn goblin, she was.

  “Just a little longer,” Mudwort said.

  The guardians remained, watching her.

  The forest she envisioned had more trees, though they were still all relatively young-hundreds and hundreds of saplings. Mudwort knew Saarh had done something to increase the number of the trees. Everything was more lush and g
reener, and there were more goblins too, plenty of younglings hanging on their mothers.

  They’d built a village, which consisted of dozens of rock and wood-domed homes atop hollowed-out earthen nests.

  “How long ago was this?” Mudwort mused, concentrating. “Long time ago to be certain. A long, long time.” When her mind had touched the forest as it existed in her time, during the seeing spell she’d just conjured with Grallik, there’d been no trace of the village. So Saarh and her followers had had enough time to build homes.

  She’d been careful not to search for the spear, buried somewhere in the ancient woods, wrapped in the once-beautiful piece of cloth. She didn’t want Grallik to know about the unusual spear, once wielded by Saarh. She could search for the spear because she was alone, but it was getting late, and she’d better be careful; she might miss the ship. She would find an opportunity to look later.

  “The spear of Chislev,” Mudwort murmured to herself. “Soon to be Mudwort’s.”

  She took a last magical glance at Saarh, who stood apart from her village, looking up at the twilight sky. Yes, there it was! Chislev’s spear was in Saarh’s hand, and her consort was at her shoulder. He no longer had the crooked face, and his leg and foot were not twisted. But Mudwort knew it was the same goblin.

  “The spear and the power will be Mudwort’s very soon.”

  A few days later, nearly five thousand goblins stood on the shore of the Qualinesti Forest, watching the longboats row back to the five ships that had brought them to land. More than one hundred fifty goblins had streamed from the woods to join Direfang’s ever-growing goblin nation on the journey from Schallsea Island.

  Grallik stood closest to the water, hand shielding his eyes as he looked toward the ship and the setting sun. Mudwort stood near the wizard, her back to the sea, peering inland, already wandering off on her own path.