Jean Rabe - Death March

“A map …” He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut tighter, trying to figure out how to explain it to her. Graytoes wasn’t stupid, but she had never seen a map. “Yes,” he thought, ignoring her question, “a map would be very useful. It would show these mountains, and the Qualinesti Forest. And it would show how many more miles all the goblins must walk.”

He opened his eyes again just as he took a misstep and slipped down the side of the mountain. The world spun one way, then another, as he fell. Holding Graytoes close and trying to shield her with his body, he briefly regained his footing but stumbled again. Clumps of dirt and scrub grass flew, and tiny stones bit him all over.

The wind was knocked out of him, and white pinpoints of light flashed in his head as it struck a rock, the sensation as hard as a hammer blow. He momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he was still rolling down the side of the mountain, but he no longer cradled Graytoes. Direfang bounced off a bush that had managed to grow in a patch of earth in a bowl-shaped depression. He flailed about with his arms, trying to grab onto something. The bush slipped past, but his fingers caught on a shale outcropping.

Direfang held on tight and regained his footing, scrambling to his feet and taking a few steps before the rock he held on to snapped off and he went tumbling again. He felt a few ribs break, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He spat as he continued to fall, sucking in dirt and gravel with a mouth already full of blood.

He thought he heard Mudwort calling for him and someone else shouting for Graytoes as he continued to bounce against rocks; Direfang’s tumble to the bottom felt as if it were taking forever; he hadn’t thought the mountainside that high, that precipitous.

Where was the bottom?

Something jabbed at his leg, and he briefly felt a sharp pain. But then the pain was gone and he felt and saw nothing.

“Direfang is gone,” pronounced Saro-Saro. The old goblin carefully leaned over the side and looked down. “Cannot see Direfang. It is a long way down. Too far to see. So Direfang is gone and lost.”

One of Saro-Saro’s youngest clansmen, Pippa, leaned with him. Pippa was a human name that meant “one who adores horses.” Pippa was named after a woman in Steel Town, the wife of a blacksmith who had died in the first earthquake. Pippa’s mother hadn’t known what the name meant when she chose it, only that she liked the sound of it. Pippa had recently learned the meaning and did not hide her disdain for it; Pippa hated horses only a little less than she hated Dark Knights.

“Cannot see Direfang either,” Pippa said. “Direfang is dead, then. Graytoes is dead too,” She crossed her thin arms and stepped back. “Careful, Saro-Saro. This mountain might be hungry still.”

The goblins around Saro-Saro moved anxiously, some shifting back and forth on the balls of their feet, others wringing their hands, a few tittering nervously.

“If Direfang is dead.” That came from Chima, a young goblin who still favored her ribs and her arm from her encounter with the tylor. “If Direfang is dead …” She looked nervously to Saro-Saro.

The old goblin puffed out his chest, making sure he had a safe perch. “If Direfang is dead-”

“Direfang is not dead.” Mudwort cut Saro-Saro off. “The earth says so.” She squatted and ran her fingers along the rocks at her feet. “The earth says that Direfang is not dead.” She wrinkled her nose ruefully. “Graytoes is alive too. Empty, empty Graytoes.”

Mudwort stood and peered over the side, seeing a navigable way down. “We should be done with this horrid, hurtful mountain,” she said. “Tired of walking on all these mean rocks. We should join Direfang at the bottom where the ground is flat and not so hurtful.”

Saro-Saro shook his head in protest. Pippa copied the gesture and stuck out her lower lip.

“Direfang is the leader,” Mudwort insisted. She looked around the old goblin and his clustered clan members, seeing the three Dark Knights. She spat and growled. “Skull man, Direfang and Graytoes need help.” She gestured for him to follow her.

Horace’s face registered his skepticism at the notion of climbing down so steep a slope. “No,” he said softly. “I do not think I can handle that. It is too sheer.” But he carefully moved through Saro-Saro’s clan, Grallik and Kenosh following. What passed for a trail was so narrow and precarious that Horace nearly pushed a goblin off as he went.

“Follow now, skull man,” Mudwort scolded. She lowered herself over the side, finding handholds and footholds and skittering down like a spider. Chima was next, moving slower because of her still-sore side; Olabode, who still nursed his once-broken leg, came after. “Follow, skull man!” Mudwort hollered. “Be fast, skull man!”

“Maybe there will be time to rest at the bottom,” Pippa said hopefully. She turned to Saro-Saro. “Need some help climbing?”

The old goblin stared at the Dark Knights who were slowly making their way over the edge. “It would be easy to push the knights off,” he heard one of his clansmen whisper. That brought a rare smile to his wrinkled visage.

“Don’t need help, Pippa,” he said as he carefully lowered himself over the side and struggled to find his first foothold. “But thank you, young one.”

Pippa hurried over to help him anyway, staying even with Saro-Saro as he climbed down slowly, and pointing out places that looked easy to grab. “Rest at the bottom,” she repeated. “So tired of all the sharp rocks. Take care!”

Saro-Saro gave her a nod. “Rest at the bottom, loyal Pippa.”

The climb down took several hours. One hobgoblin and two goblins fell trying to make the descent, the hobgoblin bashing his head open on a protrusion of granite and dropping like a rag doll. One of the two goblins disappeared screaming down a crevice, the other broke his legs and arms and was promised tending by the priest.

They spread out in the valley at the base of the eastern mountain range, looking up the western side at similarly imposing peaks. Grass grew in patches as far as they could see to the north and south, and the dirt was thick and cushioned their steps. Far to the south, black birds picked at something in the grass, seemingly oblivious to the goblins’ presence. The air was still because the mountains on either side shielded the valley, and the heat of the afternoon sun was cut by the shadows from the western range.

“Should have come down the mountain yesterday,” Saro-Saro said as he reached bottom. He dug the ball of his sandaled foot into the ground. “This feels much better. Not going back up into the mountains ever again.”

While the Skull Knight saw to Direfang, the goblins searched in the dirt for grubs and sucked on roots they dug up. Chima stretched out on her back and rubbed her shoulders against the ground. Olabode lay nearby, snoring soundly despite the chattering of his fellows.

Saro-Saro scratched his rump and looked around for a good place to sit. The yellow-skinned clan leader was possibly the oldest goblin in the horde, and his age and position gave him a measure of respect; he would claim the best place to rest.

Pippa followed Saro-Saro and scanned the ground for a suitable spot for the old one. “Hungry, Saro-Saro?” He didn’t answer her, but she continued. “Me terribly hungry. Mudwort needs to find more food. But never dangerous food again.”

It had been two days since the tylor was slain, and finding no other great beast since then, they’d been eating the occasional few goats they’d caught and digging in the dirt for insects. Their course had followed a high mountain stream, so water had been plentiful, as had nightcrawlers buried in the mud along the banks. Spikehollow had caught a fish early that morning and had shared it with Saro-Saro. But the mountain stream was gone, and some of the goblins chatted nervously about their hunger and thirst.