Jean Rabe - Death March

Isaam stared at the image. The goblins there looked settled in and sluggish, not ready to move anywhere. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bera was on her feet and rushing away.

“Break camp,” she called. “We move south now!”

The image of Grallik and the goblins folded in on itself, and all Isaam saw was an empty ink bottle in his hands.

The dwarf screamed and the goblins charged, whooping and drawing their knives, their feet pounding loudly against the ground. The dwarf had surprised them, standing up on the far side of a stream she’d been kneeling at to wash clothes.

A copse of trees rose beyond her and the stream; willowy pin oaks and silver maples glittered pale green with dew in the early-morning sun. The goblins had been fixated on the trees, so they hadn’t noticed the female dwarf at first.

They were thirsty, and the stream had been their destination; Mudwort had found it in a vision with her earth magic. But Mudwort had said nothing of the short, stocky dwarf woman.

If the dwarf hadn’t screamed and startled them, they might not have killed her. They might have simply let her run away, or they might have tried to talk to her and asked where they were in the Khalkists; Direfang wanted to know how many miles they’d traveled since leaving Steel Town and how many more they had left to go.

But the scream rattled them and sealed her fate. And she wouldn’t stop screaming, her cries getting louder and more hysterical as she waved her arms like an ungainly bird trying to take flight.

“Quiet!” Spikehollow had shouted at her in the goblin tongue. “Quiet now, short woman!”

But she didn’t understand goblinspeak, so she screamed some more, eyes wide and staring at the hundreds of goblins who were marching through the valley straight toward her. Fear rooted her to the bank.

Spikehollow was the first to reach her, splashing across and driving his long knife into her stomach and killing her with a single blow. Pippa and Leftear were close behind and slashed at her too, not realizing she was already dead. The next few goblins were caught by the frenzy and turned her into a pulpy mass.

“Should have shut up,” Spikehollow said ruefully, as he stepped away from the body and washed the blood off his hide in the stream. “That short, fat, ugly woman should have listened and shut up.”

“The woman’s clothes are ruined,” Pippa said, frowning and pointing to the bloody rag that used to be the dwarf’s shift. “Shoes all right, though. Short, wide shoes.” She shouldered her way up to the body, crawling between the legs of a hobgoblin and tugging the leather slippers off. She sloshed them around in the water to rinse off the blood and pranced away with her prize.

Chima draped herself over a small basket near the body and clawed angrily at her kinsmen who were trying to see what was inside. Leftear growled at her and waved his knife, but she wouldn’t budge from the basket.

“Enough!” Direfang had not been at the front of the column, and he’d been late to catch up with the dwarf killing at the stream. Since his tumble down the mountainside, he’d been forced to move slower because of a twisted leg and blurry vision. He’d nearly died back there, and the Dark Knight priest had saved him-just as the priest had also saved Graytoes and Two-chins. But the priest told Direfang some of the mending would have to come on its own, and that could take days.

“Leave Chima alone!” Direfang barked. He had directed Spikehollow to lead while he’d drifted back into the heart of his army, walking at a slower pace. Rustymane, another hobgoblin, had been charged with carrying the still-whining Graytoes.

Direfang plodded forward as fast as his sore leg would allow, stopping when his feet sank into the cool mud of the stream bank. He stared across to the opposite bank and at the woman’s body, barely recognizable as a dwarf’s. Then he glanced at Chima, who still protected the basket filled with clothes.

“Take one thing from the basket,” he ordered Chima. “Only one.”

She raised her lip in a protesting snarl but bit off any reply. Then she dipped her head in the basket and poked through it until she came up with what she guessed was a child’s dress the color of wet saw grass. She pulled it on and stepped back.

“Saro-Saro’s clan should have the basket now,” someone behind Direfang said. “Saro-Saro-”

“Enough!” Direfang repeated. He whirled to face the goblins behind him, anger etched deep in his scarred face. “Savages,” he said, waving an arm to indicate the dwarf. “There was no threat here. No weapon. One woman washing clothes! No reason for this bloodletting!”

“But the fat woman screamed,” Spikehollow protested at Direfang’s side, still wet from the stream. He cleaned his knife on the grass and sheathed it. “Screamed and screamed. And that scream could have brought men with weapons.”

“Probably her screams will bring men.” Chima smoothed at her dress and adjusted it around her hips until it lay properly, though it was too big and hung to her ankles. “The woman screamed a lot. That short, fat woman-”

“Dwarf,” Direfang said with a sigh. He knew some of the goblins had never seen a dwarf. “That was a dwarf.”

“Just one dwarf,” Spikehollow added. He’d dropped his voice so only the closest goblins could hear. “One that will never scream again.”

“One that might have been worth talking to.” Direfang wiped a line of spittle from his lip.

More goblins splashed across the stream, some lingering in the water to drink. The Dark Knights drank too, and washed their hands and faces.

“Talking to one dwarf would not have been much help.”

“Need a map, Spikehollow. Need to know how much farther to the fishhook of mountains that goes around the sea. Need to know how many more days-”

“That dwarf did not have a map,” Spikehollow said sulkily. He cocked his head and opened his mouth to say something else, but Direfang waved him silent.

The sound of goblins splashing in the stream grew louder, and many were pushed up on the opposite bank to make room for their fellows. Direfang moved farther away to avoid being jostled.

“Rustymane and Graytoes will pass out the rest of those clothes.” Direfang gestured at the basket and snarled when some of the yellow-skinned goblins growled their objections.

Chima twirled to show off her dress. “There will be more clothes from other dwarf women. There will be more dwarves nearby. Dwarves are like birds, nesting together. Many dwarves, maybe.”

“But not too many,” Leftear said. “Don’t want there to be too many.”

“Look! Fat little men!” Rustymane shouted. “They’re here now!”

Gravel-voiced shouts and the sound of branches breaking came from the south. Dwarves appeared, weaving around the trees and charging toward the goblins, their stubby legs churning up the loam.

“See? That short, fat woman should not have screamed,” Spikehollow said triumphantly. “Look what comes now!”

A cheer went up from the goblins as they rushed to meet the dwarves’ charge, while a shiver raced down Direfang’s spine.

“More killing!” Chima exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she raced to join the fray.

“Tired of all the blood,” Direfang said. But he stood and watched and made no move to call a halt to it.

“Do not hurt the trees!” Pippa cried. She was sitting on the muddy bank and trying to put on her new shoes, but they kept slipping off because they were too wide. Goblins swarmed past her, rudely bumping her aside on their way to grappling with the dwarves.

There were only fourteen dwarves, wielding hoes, rakes, and shovels, their beards swishing around their waists as they dashed toward the goblins. The dwarves’ clothes were not so fine as what the men had worn in Steel Town, Direfang couldn’t help but notice, and not one of them wore a piece of armor.