Jean Rabe - Death March

“A year?” he wondered aloud. It sounded as though it would take longer even than a year to reach the Qualinesti Forest-two, maybe. He tried to picture the mountains and the swamp and the Plains of Dust. His army did not dare to follow any major roads for fear of alerting cities of enemies who could outnumber and outfight them, and the knights who were bound to be tracking them.

“A fool to take on this foolish quest,” he muttered to himself. The horde of goblins would be noticed-somewhere along the trail-and men would come after them.

“A map, priest. Is there one in this Cradle?”

“No, Foreman,” Horace replied after talking to the dwarf elder. “But she says her sister can draw you one. If the goblins agree to leave quickly, her sister will cooperate. Her worries are genuine and I share them, Foreman. The longer we stay here, the greater chance these women and children will be-”

Direfang waved away the rest of his words and traced the etchings on the anvil with his fingers. “Reorx had done little to help these dwarves,” he mused to himself. He turned and set his back against the stone, relishing the cool smoothness that seemed to draw some of the pain out of his body.

“Priest, tell the woman …” Direfang folded his arms across his chest and carefully detailed his instructions.

The priest knelt in front of the old dwarf, so she would no longer have to look up to meet his eyes. He spoke slowly, as he did not know all the intricacies of the gnome language.

“Your village will be thoroughly looted. The goblins will take every scrap of food, every piece of clothing, all of your shoes and anything they consider valuable. Do you understand?”

The glaring old dwarf woman nodded.

“They will take anything that might be used as a weapon because they need more weapons and because they do not want to leave you with anything that you might come after them and attack them with. Though you are few in number compared to this army, they do not want you following them and posing any threat.”

She nodded again. The light had gone out of her eyes, and the wrinkles in her face had become more pronounced. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“They will kill half of your animals now, and they will feast and celebrate before they move on. The rest of the animals they will take with them, so they can feast later.” Horace’s voice quavered as he delivered the last of the harsh news. “They will strip your garden, trampling every last plant in the process. They will carry it all away and leave you nothing to eat, but at least they will leave you your lives. I know that they will leave you that much … Foreman Direfang has promised.”

She shuddered and hugged herself as if a freezing wind were whipping around her.

“Do you understand?” Horace repeated.

“May Reorx send your souls to the deepest part of the Abyss,” she answered flatly. “May his Cradle be your demise.”

Irritably Horace turned away from her, addressing Direfang. “There must be some parchment in one of those homes … for your map.”

The hobgoblin was watching the hundreds of goblins milling at the edge of the garden. Some were sitting, a few sleeping, but most were agitated and felt constrained by his orders to stay put. Their eyes were begging, questioning, accusing. Well past them, a wisp of smoke curled up through the trees, signaling that the wizard had begun burning the dead goblins. After the goblins feasted, Direfang would hold a brief ceremony for the few who had died.

“Chima,” he mused, remembering. She’d been rash, and she had chattered often when he preferred quiet. But she had been a hard worker in the mines, never complaining to his face, never accepting her lot. He would miss her. “Too much blood.” He sighed.

Direfang’s face turned dark and hard. He needed to feed his army, and to clothe them-as goblins coveted garments of any kind, which accorded them marks of respect. And so it was good they’d come upon that village, which had been unable to defend itself. At the same time, the hobgoblin leader felt sad for the few surviving dwarves. Their homes would soon be empty.

“Priest, yes, find this parchment,” he answered Horace finally, “and find something to write with. A map is important.” He paused. “And make sure the map drawn is true. No deception from Reorx’s children.” Direfang saw the old female dwarf had heard his words and bristled at his mention of their god.

Horace lumbered to his feet and looked at the houses, unsure of where to start. Goblins streamed in and out of them, the latter with canvas sacks over their shoulders or baskets in their arms. Some dragged blankets bundled up and stuffed with junk.

“Mudwort, go with the skull man.” Direfang wanted to make sure none of the looting goblins hurt the priest-and also, the hobgoblin leader wanted the priest watched. “Mudwort! Be fast!”

The red-skinned goblin had plopped herself down in front of the crowd, watching the priest talk to the ancient dwarf woman and observing Direfang as he dealt with all of the preparations.

She jumped up, her face an unreadable mask. Mudwort made her way up one of the paths that cut through the garden, plucking a tomato as she went. She studied it for a moment, then tossed it to the priest, following her, who did not hesitate to eat it.

Direfang watched the pair walk off. He wanted to search the homes too, thinking there might be something tasty or useful inside them, some little treasure he could claim … perhaps some leather he could fashion into shoes. He’d been curious about what the Dark Knights had kept in their homes, and he wondered the same about the dwarves.

But he couldn’t leave the dwarves unguarded at the anvil; the goblins surely would descend on them. Only his presence would keep the mob in check. So later he would ask Mudwort and Spikehollow to describe what they saw and smelled, and later he would look through the spoils and perhaps find something left over.

The dwarves around him were praying again, whispering in their gravelly voices, a few rocking back and forth and closing their eyes so tightly they looked as if they were in pain.

The goblins were chattering, their prattle mingling with the dwarves’ praying and making Direfang’s head hurt. The bleats of terrified goats and sheep and the squeals of pigs cut through all the noise. The goblin voices rose in excitement.

“Food soon,” he said, too softly for anyone to hear.

Direfang did not see Saro-Saro slip deep into the goblin crowd and gather his most trusted clansmen close.

Mudwort brushed by Spikehollow and Leftear and selected one of the more promising homes that didn’t appear to have been ransacked yet. The priest followed her without a word.

The home was tilted to one side, as if the dirt on one end had gotten tired of holding the stones up. It was a ponderous and ugly building, she thought, carved bricks as dark as an overcast sky, all squat-looking like the people who lived there. The only spot of color was a painted symbol on the hide door, and that was cracked and weathered. She stopped in front of the hide door and smoothed out the folds. The painting was an outline of a stern man’s face. Like the dwarf men who’d been killed outside the village, he had a long beard. She put her nose against it and made out tiny drawings of hammers and anvils entwined in the beard.

“Silly,” she pronounced it as she moved the hide aside and went inside. After a moment, Horace followed her. The home consisted of one room, a low table in the center separating the kitchen from the sleeping area.

“Reorx,” the priest explained. “On the hide, that is a drawing of their supreme god. It is said he dared to refer to Chaos as the Father of All and of Nothing.” After a heartbeat, he added, “But I understand that the gods mean nothing to you.”