Jean Rabe - Death March

She gave no indication that she’d heard or understood him and moved past the table and straight to a chest at the end of a short four-poster bed. If the priest had not come inside, Mudwort would have tested the bed, having had nothing comfortable to sleep upon for years and years; she wondered how soft it and the pillow were. She ran her fingers over the edge of the chest, eyes on the quilted coverlet that draped over the bed and fell to the floor.

She sniffed the air. It was musty and dead-smelling in that place, and Mudwort instinctively knew it hadn’t been lived in for a while. Yet there were possessions everywhere-ceramic dishes on a counter, a tall mug banded with copper, a small cask that might have held ale. The table had what she guessed was a shrine in its center: a totem of the same dwarf depicted on the hide, Reorx, circled by smooth stones she guessed came from the stream.

Whoever had moved on had left more than a few possessions behind. Maybe there was something interesting in the chest. She opened it, and out of the corner of her eye watched Horace step to the kitchen counter. The priest walked stooped over as the ceiling was low. He reached for a towel and wiped the juice from the tomato he had just eaten off his hands and face.

Just then two goblins rushed in, chattering and looking around for things to take.

“Out!” Mudwort spat.

They swung about and went elsewhere.

“The foreman is in a hurry for some parchment,” Horace said. He opened a cabinet door, bent over, and peered inside. His voice came muffled. “One of those women is going to draw him a map. He wants us to be quick.”

Still, Mudwort did not let on if she understood him.

Horace repeated the gist in her tongue, and she nearly dropped the lid on her fingers in surprise. So that much was clear; she had not known that he understood goblinspeak.

Quickly she turned away, sorry she had let him know that she understood him at all, in any tongue.

He shrugged, continuing to search. She heard him moving things around in the cabinet. Over her shoulder she stole glances at him, finding him more interesting-at the moment-than what might be in the chest.

“Why come here?” she asked finally in goblinspeak.

“In here? With you?” he replied, not understanding.

“No.”

“With you and the rest of the goblins? When Steel Town was destroyed?” He stopped poking around for a moment. “I’m not sure … Mudwort. Perhaps because the Gray Robe asked me to. Perhaps because Zeboim gave me the nudge. Or perhaps because following all of you goblins seemed like the most attractive option at the time.” He returned to searching through the cabinet. “Ah, books!”

He retrieved three small volumes, bound in the dyed hide of some animal. Two were red, like Mudwort’s skin, the other was faded blue. Horace set them on the counter and leafed through the first.

“I don’t read Dwarvish,” he said, half to himself. The next seemed equally perplexing to him, and so he set it aside. But the faded blue one was blank. “This will work.” He squatted and searched through the cabinet, a moment later finding sticks of charcoal tied together with a strip of cloth. “The foreman is in a hurry,” he repeated. “I should take these to him now.”

“Yes, go. Take those things to Direfang. Be fast.” She peered inside the chest. “Leave me alone.”

Horace left the home without another word, and Mudwort breathed a sigh of relief to be rid of the foul human. She could give her full attention to the chest’s contents. A thin summer blanket was folded on top, and that she took out carefully, thinking it a prize. Underneath the blanket rested a jumble of things that brought a pleased gasp. She reached for the things, eager like a child receiving birthday gifts. Her fingers danced over carved wooden dwarves, depicted standing straight like soldiers-one with a crown, another in robes, one a woman. She thought they might be toys or playing pieces for some game. She scooped them out but wrapped her fingers around the woman-piece.

The descriptive detail was incredible, and Mudwort brought the woman-piece close. Even the eyes were carved finely, wide and open, the carved expression looking wise and kind. Mudwort sniffed it, barely detecting any scent, and placed it carefully on the blanket.

Whoever lived there either died or left in a terrible hurry to leave behind such precious belongings. She decided the set of carved dwarves must have some value. Two sets! Below the first were more figures, carved from a darker wood and shining with some sort of lacquer. There was a woman-piece among that set too, and as before she inspected that one and set it aside. There was also a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco that smelled sweet. Maybe the skull man would like those items; he was plump and so given to fleshly excesses.

There were several small, empty pouches made of soft leather. She put the pipe and tobacco in one, the two women-pieces in another. She found a belt, woven of strips of leather and decorated with green and red wooden beads. It was more colorful than any worn by the dwarves she’d observed outside, and so it must be clothing for special occasions. She tried to put it on, but found it much too big. But when she wrapped it twice, it worked, and she tied the leather bag containing the woman-pieces to it.

There were no clothes, else Mudwort would have replaced the dirt-stained tunic she wore. But there were other interesting objects at the bottom of the chest-beads. Her fingers flew to them, and she brought up string after string. One was a necklace of simple beads, polished and roughly round, carved from some tree with wood so dark it looked almost black. She draped it around her neck and looped it twice because it was so long. Another string was much shorter and made of beads carved into the shapes of animal heads: boar, bear, wolf, ram, and a vicious-looking cat. The eyes were tiny stones that glinted dark blue. The string went quickly around her neck too. Some of the necklaces at the bottom were made of clay beads that were old and chipped. One string was broken, and the beads bounced across the floor before she could catch them.

“Beautiful.” The rare word came out as a croak. The last strand she brought up from the bottom of the chest was made of tiny golden links festooned with small blue stones that caught and held the light that came through the high, narrow window. That strand she held against her bosom for a long moment before putting it in the pouch on her belt. She knew better than to wear something like that and draw too much attention to herself.

The chest stood empty, but she continued to study it; something about it didn’t seem right. She leaned into it and thumped its bottom; the chest did not look as big on the inside as it did on the outside. She was rewarded with a hollow sound, and she tore at the bottom until a piece of wood came loose. Under it were seven leather pouches, so old they were cracked like a parched riverbed.

At that moment Leftear came into the home, grunting and shuffling. “Direfang says take everything that seems valuable,” he said, barely sparing her a glance. He didn’t see her treasure, nor her scowl at him or her waving him away. Instead he went over to the cabinets, roughly breaking a door when he carelessly pulled it open. Then he began grabbing mugs to dump into a canvas sack, along with other things he didn’t bother to take the time to identify.

Mudwort opened the pouches and looked inside.

“Lots of valuable stuff here,” she whispered to herself. She spilled the contents of three of the pouches onto the floor, and it was that noise that caught Leftear’s attention.

“Rocks,” he said, looking at her dismissively. “Just lots and lots of rocks.” He went to the table and plucked the carved wooden Reorx off it and dropped it in his sack. “These rocks are bigger, prettier.” He scooped up some of the polished stones that had ringed the idol and dropped them into the sack. “Might be worth something.”