Jean Rabe - Death March

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.