Jean Rabe - Death March

“Precious rocks, mine are,” Mudwort said with a tinge of awe, looking away from the hobgoblin and stirring the stones. They were not faceted, like ones in a fine lady’s gemstones would be. But they glimmered nonetheless, blue like the surface of a lake when the noon sun hits it. “Humans would have a name for these rocks,” she mused. “Humans have names for all sorts of rocks.”

She managed to fit the rocks into one of the pouches, hooking it to her belt. Then she spilled out the contents of the other four. One contained more of the uncut stones, but the other three contained cut gems, the facets catching the light and drawing a gasp from Mudwort. There were, perhaps, two hundred or more of the cut stones.

“No food in here.” Leftear knocked over a shelf in his search for something to eat. “Going back to the garden,” he told her grumpily. “Going to fill up the rest of this bag with onions.”

She was quick to scoop up the remaining stones, redistributing them so they fit in two more bags, and those she also fitted to her belt. Then she climbed onto the bed and stretched out momentarily. It would be so easy to sleep here, she thought. Even though so many sounds from outside were drifting in-goblins gathering things, more goblins rooting through the garden, all of the noises running together. She thought she could sleep deeply regardless. The pillow was soft, and she thought she might take it with her but then thought better of it-one more thing to carry.

She pushed herself up, deciding she’d better leave or she would get left behind. She slipped off the bed and hesitated, then grabbed the pillow, shaking it out of its case. She took one more look around, and, seeing nothing else of interest, tucked the case under her arm and stepped outside.

Spikehollow poked his head into a home, one near the section of the garden filled with potatoes. He had made sure the goblins he supervised were working hard in the garden, and he saw his chance. He’d seen a few Flamegrass clansmen go into that home and quickly rush out again earlier. Nothing interesting to be found, they thought, as they’d only taken one sack from the place. Or perhaps the Flamegrass goblins were not observant and had missed something tasty.

“A quick look,” Spikehollow told himself. “Then back to the garden.”

He pushed the hide aside and darted inside but stopped as if he’d struck a wall. “Stinks bad,” he muttered. He made a choking sound and turned to leave, then changed his mind. “Stink kept the others away. The stink protects good things, maybe.”

He held his breath and picked through the shadows. It was dark in there, though it was bright outside. A tattered hide covered the lone window, and little light slipped in around its edges. Spikehollow made out a low table and two stools, a fireplace with a big pot hanging in it. A few logs were under it, slightly charred, but looking as though a fire hadn’t burned in it that day. He sniffed the air and recoiled; whatever was in the pot smelled bad, but it wasn’t the only thing contributing to the stink.

Three small beds were against the far wall, only one occupied; the other two had been stripped bare to the wood slats. Spikehollow sniffed again. “Stinky dwarf smell. Stinks worse than … than anything. Should leave and breathe the better air outside. Leave like the Flamegrass clansmen left-quick.”

But he was still curious and so inched closer. The dwarf on the bed looked old, his wispy white hair and beard resembling a mass of cobwebs. A colorful quilt was pulled up to his waist, and his chest was bare and ruddy in places. The quilt was made of yellow, red, and green squares, some with stitching on them. Even with the goblin’s superb vision, there wasn’t enough light to distinguish the intricacies of the stitches, but his fingers traced the outline of a flower in a vase, a bird, and a butterfly.

“Lots of wrinkles, an old, old man,” Spikehollow said. “A stinking one. A sleeping one. Sweating too. Sweating too much for a quilt.” The goblin pulled it off him. “Too stinky and sweaty a dwarf to waste a very nice quilt like this.”

Spikehollow wished for a treasure to take away from the village, not just something to eat. He wanted something to keep for himself, or perhaps he would give it to Saro-Saro. The old goblin might enjoy a quilt as fine as that. As he carried the quilt to the door, he spotted two more blankets on a shelf, one loosely woven and dyed green, the other gray and frayed. He carefully folded the quilt and set it down and pulled the gray blanket off the shelf.

Then he returned to the old dwarf and covered him with the frayed blanket. Even though Spikehollow meant well, he felt bile rising in his throat and he gagged.

“Worst stink ever.”

Holding his breath, he stared at the dwarf. The dwarf’s eyes never opened, and the goblin had to look closely to make sure the dwarf was indeed alive.

“Not breathing much,” Spikehollow decided. The dwarf’s chest rose and fell only slightly. “Dying, maybe. Old things die. And dying old things don’t need any lovely blankets.” The goblin cocked his head, noticing a swollen black spot on the dwarf’s neck, like a knob on a tree trunk. Spikehollow scowled. “Ugly, stinking, dying old thing.”

The stinking old dwarf with the black spot on his neck didn’t need the gray blanket, Spikehollow decided, and so he removed it, with the dwarf still sleeping. Spikehollow folded it and set it atop the fine, colorful quilt. Then he pulled the green blanket down too, deciding that was the one he would give to Saro-Saro. He would keep the butterflies and birds and flowers in vases quilt for himself. Satisfied, he took all three out into the sunlight.

Rustymane and Graytoes were heading toward the longest and narrowest home. It was their third stop on their explorations, and they had bulging pillow cases and satchels that they set outside the door. The work had kept Graytoes occupied, and she’d not whimpered or mentioned Moon-eye since they’d started foraging.

“Could live here, in this village,” Rustymane was saying. “This place tall enough. This one house anyway.” The other two homes the pair had looted had low ceilings, and the hobgoblin had had to stoop.

“Could live in the Qualinesti Forest, like Mudwort says,” Graytoes said, more cheerfully than she felt. Then Graytoes slipped inside, her eyes adjusting to the shadows and spotting movement. “Another dwarf.” She pointed, adding, “No more killing, Direfang says.”

Rustymane pushed past her, growling when the young female dwarf started shouting. She was the height of a goblin, though stockier and smooth all over, marking her as a child. The hobgoblin couldn’t understand her angry words, and so he shoved her against a wall.

“Quiet! Quiet, quiet!” He pinched his lips and bent until he was face-to-face with the short female dwarf.

The dwarf stopped yelling and started shaking, beads of sweat sprouting on her wide forehead.

“Stay!” he ordered, pressing his hand against her shoulder. He pushed, and she sat.

“Stay, dwarf!” Graytoes parroted. “Stay quiet!”

“There’s food in here,” Rustymane announced, looking around. “Lots of it, Graytoes. All of it mushy and sweet.” The hobgoblin leaned over a table, where several large bowls were filled with a pulpy mixture. He thrust two fingers in a bowl, and using them like a spoon, shoveled the pulp into his mouth. “Can’t put this in a bag, Graytoes. Might as well eat it.” He continued to feast, using both hands. “Want some?”

He didn’t see her shake her head or squeeze past him. Neither did he see what filled the rest of the one-room building. Small beds and cradles. Rustymane slurped the porridge so noisily that he didn’t hear the wave of soft gurgles and sighs or hear Graytoes coo back at the eight dwarf infants inside the place.