Jean Rabe - Death March

The old goblin settled on a slab of limestone just as a hobgoblin was about to sit on it. He shooed the hobgoblin away and rolled his shoulders, tossing his head first one way then another, trying to work the kinks out of his old body. Many in his clan gathered around him. Not all the yellow-skinned goblins in the horde were of Saro-Saro’s clan, but most were, roughly two hundred of them. Most of the time, they clung together.

Goblin skin tones ranged from yellow to dull orange to red to shades of brown. Most goblins in any given clan were of similar color, which also tended to mark them as from a specific part of the country. Hobgoblins were not so colorful; their hides were primarily gray or brown, and no features associated them with one clan or another.

Saro-Saro slowly regarded the goblins who sat around him, all of them giving him the respectful distance of an arm’s length or more.

“Good to rest,” Spikehollow said. He was always in the front rank, and stood at that moment shoulder-to-shoulder with Pippa before dropping to the ground. He wiggled his toes and cringed when the skin cracked and oozed. “This would be a good place to sleep.”

Pippa nodded. “No more walking today. The skull man said Direfang needs to rest.”

Their gazes shifted over to where Direfang was being worked on by the priest and wizard, Mudwort standing behind them, harshly exhorting them to hurry up and heal the hobgoblin leader. A whimpering Graytoes had been carried down the mountain and stood behind Mudwort, being shushed by her repeatedly.

“Spikehollow needs rest too,” Spikehollow added with a sigh.

“And Two-chins,” another goblin added. He referred to one of the goblins who had fallen off the mountain. “Two-chins is badly broken. Two-chins is hurt worse than Direfang.”

Saro-Saro rested back on his arms and raised his head so he could look at the western peaks. “Resting is good,” he admitted. He yawned wide. “Sleeping here will be good.”

“Good that Direfang will be well,” one goblin said.

Spikehollow softly growled, sharply glancing at the speaker. “It will be better when Direfang is dead and Saro-Saro leads us.”

The old goblin kept his eyes on the peaks and smiled.

Isaam folded and refolded his blanket until it was thick enough to serve as a cushion. Then he sat on it and tucked his legs to the side. Around him the camp buzzed with activity. Larol had led a hunting party into a small gorge, and they’d returned with four large wild pigs, more than enough to feed everyone.

Isaam heard Zoccinder grumble that he would have preferred the pigs spitted and slowly roasted, the juice conserved and used to flavor the roots that also had been collected. But there wasn’t time for that.

The wizard watched a half dozen men slice thin slabs of meat off the carcasses; they would cook quickly. Isaam did not like to eat animal flesh, convinced that, while it was tasty, it also dulled his mind. Still, on the march he had no other option; keeping his strength up was more important that sticking to a meager and not always reliable diet of vegetables and fruits.

He fumbled in his pocket for the empty ink bottle and brought it out, noticing that all the dirt and smoke smudge had been rubbed away against the fabric in his pocket. The early-morning sun made the clean bottle shimmer.

“Crystal,” Isaam pronounced. “Not common glass.” He’d not used it for scrying before when the light was bright enough to show its true nature. “Expensive, from the looks of you.” He wetted the tip of his index finger and ran it along the half-melted lip of the bottle until the motion produced a faint hum.

“Anything?”

The word was loud and startled Isaam. He’d been so intent on the bottle and on the scent of the roasting pork that he’d not noticed Bera’s approach.

“Nothing yet, Commander.” Isaam noted that Zoccinder, though hovering around the fire, was keeping a watchful eye on Bera. “Give me a few moments, please.”

Bera plopped down opposite him, unmindful of the dirt and pebbles. She fixed her gaze on the bottle and sucked in a deep breath. “All right. Well?”

Isaam cupped his hands and brought them together so the bottle nested in them. He lowered his gaze until all he saw was the bottle. He didn’t like others watching, particularly Bera, when he cast such spells. The enchantments were not always successful, and he did not want to appear a failure.

He pressed his thumbs against the sides of the bottle and focused on the little piece of his reflection he could see-one eye and the left side of his face. Isaam didn’t need books and scrolls to cast his spells; they were ingrained in his memory. He needed only to summon up the enchantment in his mind.

Words tumbled from his lips, also not necessary to the spell, but something he did from habit, a ritual he’d acquired from an old mentor. The words were Elvish; Isaam’s mentor had been an elf. And though Isaam was human, he enjoyed the melodic sound of the Elvish language.

As the final phrase faded, the crystal shimmered and Isaam’s reflection winked out, to be replaced with the scarred face of Grallik N’sera. Isaam shuddered at the image, as he had each time he’d looked in on the wizard. The fire that had disfigured Grallik’s face and the left side of his body must have been terrible.

“I … I think I see him,” Bera whispered.

Isaam concentrated on the image until it expanded and hovered like a floating pool between himself and Bera. Then he willed the figure of Grallik N’sera to be smaller so that the wizard’s surroundings could also come into focus. A rocky spire shadowed Grallik, but the magical vision had limits, and so Isaam could not see to the top of the spire or mark any formation that might give them a better view of the wizard’s location.

Bera wanted to know precisely where the goblins and Grallik were, and so far Isaam’s magic had been unable to provide that information.

“He would be handsome,” Bera said, “were it not for the scars. They look painful besides ugly.” She paused, and added, “I pray they are painful still. The traitor deserves to suffer.”

The vision revealed nothing else but goblins, their numbers stretching away into the distance as far as the bottle permitted.

“Hundreds of them,” Isaam said. “Hundreds and hundreds … and far too many for this force to take on.” He did not see Bera shake her head in disagreement.

A cheer went up behind them, and Isaam realized the first of the pork was being served. It did not take long to cook meat cut so thin. The wizard was hungry and found his mouth watering at the smells wafting toward him. But the vision-and Bera’s presence-held him.

He tried to shift the scrying scene by turning the bottle in his hands ever so slightly. Only more goblins were revealed, nothing of the land around them to help pinpoint the location. Some of the goblins wore Dark Knight tabards and bits of armor, and several had Dark Knight knives and swords strapped to their waists. He couldn’t pick out any leader, unless Grallik N’sera was the leader, nor could Isaam see the Ergothian priest or any of the other Dark Knights reputed to be missing and probably in the goblins’ company.

“Your magic is …”

“Worthless, Commander?”

Bera let out a deep breath that sent a ripple across the vision. “No. No.” She rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin with her hands. “I appreciate what you can do, old friend. Magic is so far beyond me; I’ve truly no understanding of it. Pardon my frustration. I just want to find the traitorous Dark Knights and slay the goblins they escaped with. My orders-”

“Commander!” Zoccinder jogged toward her, wiping his mouth then his fingers against his tabard. “Our scout has spied goblins in a vale to the south, and they’re getting ready to move.”