Jean Rabe - Death March

The goblins had spread out behind Direfang, stretching as far across as the village and standing several ranks deep, yet none of them dared to step past the hobgoblin. They continued to whisper, though, a shushing that was similar to the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees.

“Do the dwarves pray for Reorx to come down and smite this army?” Boliver had moved up next to the priest and was speaking now, with Mudwort close behind him. Boliver was addressing the priest; he was one of the few goblins to fluently speak the human tongue. “Or do the dwarves pray to have all hobgoblins and goblins spirited away? What can this god do, skull man? This Re-or-ax?”

“Nothing,” Spikehollow softly muttered. “Gods do nothing.”

“Gods …” Horace took a deep breath and tilted his head back, wondering where to begin. “Reorx is called Elian, the Anvil, the Forge, and the Weaponmaster. The patron of smiths and craftsmen across Ansalon, he is said to toil with Shinare to improve the lives of dwarves. The World Smith, with his hammer and under the direction of the High God of Krynn, he forged the stars and the world and shaped the souls of mortals from the breath of Chaos. Reorx is the supreme god of the dwarves, and gnomes and kender revere him as well. Reorx-”

“But goblins revere no gods,” Direfang said tersely.

A young goblin jabbed Direfang in the back of his sore leg. “Do not understand,” she hissed. “All this babble. Do not understand!”

Boliver tried to translate some of the discussion, which was relayed down the ranks. The goblins began chattering about what little they knew, all the talk about the strange dwarf creatures and their supposed god.

“What do the dwarves say, priest?” asked Direfang.

Horace wiped his face with his big hands, and brushed at his leather leggings, which were still filthy despite his stop in the stream. He cocked his head, trying to make out the words.

“Never seen dwarves,” Leftear whispered. “Are short, fat humans also dwarves?”

Horace listened. “I can’t make out all the words.”

“Bah! The words make no sense to me,” said Direfang.

The wizard had come up behind the priest and the hobgoblin; his gaze flitted between the dwarves and Direfang. “I can’t understand them either, Horace. I had no call to learn their language. But I’ll wager they’re praying for their souls. They know they’re going to die. These goblins will-”

“No more blood,” Direfang repeated. “Not this day, wizard. There’s been enough blood today.” He motioned again for his fellows to stay back then plucked at the priest’s arm. “Come now, skull man. Talk to the dwarves.” The hobgoblin shuffled down one of the garden paths toward the assembled dwarves and the stone anvil.

“Gray Robe, watch the homes,” Horace cautioned over his shoulder.

“Just in case,” Grallik added. “Just in case there are warriors waiting to spring a trap.”

The dwarves continued to pray, some of the women’s voices rising louder and the words coming quicker as the hobgoblin and the priest neared. When the pair came to within a few feet of them, an ancient dwarf with thin, gray hair tied loosely behind her head got to her feet with effort. She nervously looked between the priest and Direfang, and she kept mouthing her prayer.

“Woman,” Direfang began. “Quiet, woman!” His words sounded like a fierce growl, and the hobgoblin half expected the dwarf to start at the sound.

But she didn’t even meet his gaze, staring at his stomach while her lips kept moving in the prayer.

“Woman,” Direfang began again. The hobgoblin looked back to the eager mass of goblins. “Dwarf …” He knew he needed to find a way to communicate with the dwarves soon, or his army would descend on that place and kill anything that moved. He’d need to prove the dwarves useful and worth allowing to live. He stretched an arm out and poked the shoulder of the frantically praying old female dwarf.

“Listen, woman!”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his and showing her anger. She stopped praying and spoke, but the words were still all foreign, except for Reorx, which she repeated several times.

Direfang let out an exasperated sigh. “Skull man!”

“Let me try something.” Horace glanced uneasily at the goblin army. “You don’t need to butcher these people, Foreman Direfang. They’ve no weapons. They all look to be simple farmers and-”

“Talk to the farmers, then, priest. Talk fast and tell me how simple they really are.” But the priest might be right, Direfang thought; not even the sturdiest among the women had a knife or cudgel.

“We come to your village …” Horace tried speaking in the tongue of gnomes, a language with which he was more familiar; his words were halting, however. “We mean you no harm, and …”

Most of the dwarves had stopped praying. They still knelt around the stone anvil, but they were paying attention, staring at the priest. The expression on their faces revealed that they understood his words. The ancient dwarf shuffled closer and looked up into Horace’s wide eyes.

“Harm? Mean us no harm?” Tears glistened in her eyes as she answered in the gnome tongue. “Your monsters butchered our men and our priest. Killed a divine man of Reorx! Your monsters will butcher us next. Reorx save our souls. And Reorx damn yours!”

Direfang found the language thick and fuzzy-sounding. It reminded him of the noise rocks made when they tumbled down the mountainside. Still, he listened closely, hoping to pick up anything he could understand.

“They are not my monsters,” Horace told the ancient female dwarf. “At the moment, I am their slave. They’ve done me no real harm, though, and if you are careful, you will stay safe too. But you have to be careful. And you have to listen to me.”

She narrowed her eyes and thrust out her chin, looking to Direfang and making a gesture with her fist. “Murdering monsters, they are. Reorx save us. Monsters come to Reorx’s Cradle.”

“That is the name of this …” Horace searched for the word. “Town?” he said finally.

“Reorx’s Cradle.”

“I’d have thought to find dwarves inside the mountain. You’d have been better off there. These goblins would not have found you.” Horace closed his eyes and mouthed a quick prayer to Zeboim. “And my goddess and your god willing, perhaps what’s left of your town can remain unhurt. The … foreman … is not as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.”

She returned her gaze to the priest, balled her fists and set them against her hips. “I ask only that the young be spared, and one of the mothers be spared to lead them from this place.”

Direfang, listening in frustration, catching only a few words at intervals, snarled and jabbed at the priest. “What does the dwarf say, skull man? Secret words are a dangerous thing.”

The goblins had pressed closer, some edging into the garden to the west, eyeing the vegetables and the caterpillars that crawled on them, then eyeing the dwarves. Their chatter grew louder.

The priest quickly translated what he and the old dwarf had said. “There are no more men in this village. You killed all of them.”

“But the homes?”

“Aye, they would suggest that more dwarves live here than we have been told, Foreman. You are smart to see that. This is not so small a village. Still, I can’t explain why, but I think she is telling the truth.”

Pippa and Leftear had made it to the garden and were plucking beans off a bush and stuffing them into their mouths. Saro-Saro was near them, on one of the paths, and he pointed to the nearest home and turned to his clan.

“The strange talking, it is done,” Saro-Saro proclaimed. “It is time to take. To take everything.”