Jean Rabe - Death March

“Zeboim, called Rann in my homeland, give me strength and health.” His fingers glowed orange, the color quickly spreading to his leggings and rolling up to his bare chest. Expending the magic made Horace sweat, and Kenosh used the hem of his tabard to wipe the priest’s face.

“Zeboim, Sea Mother, heal my battered body.” The glow brightened and crept up his neck, then disappeared. He moved his right hand to his thigh, where the blood still pulsed. He pushed against the worst cut, the blood welling up through his fingers. Again his hand glowed orange.

Spikehollow dropped his waterskin, snarled with disgust, and headed back to the carcass for more tylor meat.

“Zeboim, if I have not angered you by throwing in my lot with these creatures, aid me. Mend my wounds.” After a few moments, he moved his hand over his chest, where he suspected his ribs were broken. The glow darkened over the worst injuries, and he pulled his hand away. The blood had crusted and the cuts had sealed. “Help me up, would you, Kenosh? Zeboim has blessed me, and now I must tend to the others.”

Grallik had been watching the priest intently. “Horace? So you are well?”

“Aye, reasonably so. I’ll mend you first, Grallik, before the hobgoblin comes back. Else he’ll insist I heal the goblins first.” The priest edged toward the wizard, his hand starting to glow again. “Fools they were to attack a tylor, you know that.”

“You should have let it kill them,” Kenosh said angrily. He was staring at the goblins still slicing chunks of meat off the carcass. “Guardian Grallik, I think this all a …”

“A … foolish thing we’ve done by being here? No, we’re better off with the goblins,” Grallik said. He kept his voice low as there were goblin children within earshot. He doubted the young ones knew any of the human tongue, but he should be careful regardless. “When the earthquakes ripped Steel Town apart, and the lava buried what was left, there was nothing to be done but leave.”

Grallik paused and hung his head. He sucked in a sharp breath when Horace prodded his ribs and arms. “I faced a demotion because Steel Town was lost under my watch and because my wards failed and the goblins escaped. Kenosh, you would have been demoted as well. You call me Guardian, but that title was buried with Steel Town.”

Kenosh nodded, his eyes still fixed on the feasting goblins.

“And Horace’s loyalties were not with the Dark Knights,” Grallik continued. “You know that as well as I. Clearly they were not.” He saw the priest frown at his comment, though he said nothing. “Horace, you wanted to return to Ergoth. You told me such.”

Horace was sweating again, as he worked the healing magic on Grallik. The orange glow that had spread from his hands covered practically every inch of the wizard. Grallik’s undertunic was ripped in several places from his tumble down the ridge, and much of his pale, scarred flesh showed through. The priest could do nothing about the long-existing scars, but his spell closed the most recent wounds. Grallik began to breathe easier.

“Aye, I intend to return to Ergoth,” Horace stated. His hands moved to Grallik’s arm. “This is broken, but it is a simple break.” He worked to set the bone, just as Grallik worked not to cry out in pain. “And I intend to return when the first opportunity presents itself. I know, Gray Robe, that you’ve got some secret reason for joining with these escaped slaves. You can tell Kenosh and I that it’s for our good, all for the best, that we’re safer in their company. And safer we are. But you’ve got your own reasons for all of this. And I cannot ken those reasons.”

Grallik did not reply. A wave of dizziness was washing through him as the priest finished adjusting the broken pieces of bone. The priest’s hands were overly warm against his arm.

“Your bone will mend, Grallik. Do not move, else it will not heal straight.” Horace had shifted so that his back was to the throng of feasting goblins and the picked-over carcass.

Grallik gritted his teeth. The healing was an uncomfortable process. When the warmth receded and the priest started to release his grip, the wizard said, “My feet, Horace. Can you do something to ease-?”

“Skull man!” The bellow came from behind the knights. Between bites of tylor flesh, Direfang had noticed what they were doing. He shouted at the priest. “Healing work to do! Be fast!”

“You can tend to me later,” Grallik said in a low voice. Kenosh stepped away. “I am not hurt so terribly bad.”

Horace let out a ragged sigh and clenched and unclenched his fists. “Zeboim tests me, Gray Robe. Perhaps it was she who set me on this course with the goblins, not you. And perhaps she will reveal her secret before you reveal yours.” He brushed his hands on his tattered leggings and adopted a slight smile. He turned to face the hobgoblin and raised his voice to answer Direfang. “Until I cannot stand, Foreman, I will aid your people.”

Direfang grunted and pointed to a slight female from the Flamegrass clan.

“Merely a broken leg,” Horace muttered as he headed in her direction. Over his shoulder, he called, “Kenosh, if you would aid me please.”

The knight hesitated only a moment and, avoiding Grallik’s glare, followed the priest.

Horace spent the next few hours mending bones and closing deep cuts. There were some goblins he could not save, and those were added to the pile of bodies. When the priest was spent, the hobgoblin ordered remnants of tylor flesh brought to the Dark Knights.

The three knights ate alone, though Spikehollow watched them from his post on a flat rock. Horace and Kenosh were quick to consume their meager portions, but Grallik only nibbled at the raw flesh, wrinkling his nose and breathing shallowly.

“You need to stay strong,” Horace scolded him. The priest wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “It doesn’t matter that it tastes like leather.”

“Raw leather,” Grallik spat. “I’ve not eaten uncooked meat before.”

“And none of us have been subservient to goblins before,” Horace said. “Eat, Grallik. I’ve no healing left to give you, and that damn foreman-”

“Direfang,” said Kenosh vehemently. “His name is Direfang.”

Grallik took a nibble. “Using his name gives him a measure of respect, Kenosh. Makes him more of an equal. And a hobgoblin certainly is no equal to a man.”

Kenosh shrugged and brushed his hands on his tabard.

Spikehollow climbed off his rock and headed their way. The sun had set, and in the growing darkness, his gray-brown skin looked almost black.

“Hard to tell one goblin from the other,” Horace said. He looked to Grallik. “That one there. Do you know that fellow’s name?”

“Spikehollow,” the wizard whispered. “One of the few names I do know. It’s odd, like the name of an ugly weed.”

Spikehollow stopped a few feet short and pointed his knife at Grallik. “Time for the ceremony,” he said. “Time to burn the bodies.”

The wizard dropped the piece of tylor flesh and looked to the mound. His hands grew warm with the beginning of a spell. He shuffled toward the corpses, favoring his foot where the boot had worn through, and he pointed a slender finger at a little broken goblin at the edge of the pile. Flame arced from his index finger and touched the goblin’s blood-soaked shirt. It smoldered for a moment before the fire took hold.

Spikehollow watched the flame spread and the goblins gather around the mound to remember their fallen kinsmen. The stink was strong from the burning bodies and all the blood, not to mention the tylor carcass.

The caws of crows mixed with the crackling of rising fire and the whispered conversations of goblins and hobgoblins. Insects still swarmed everywhere and created an annoying thrum.