Jean Rabe - Death March

“Won’t need the ship beyond the Qualinesti Forest.”

“Then I could buy it back from you,” Gerrold suggested. “Everything I have here for the Clare . Though that would be a bargain for me and a bit of a loss for you, given what you paid the original owner.”

“So be it. Fine.” Direfang took another pull. The wine had relaxed him. He didn’t mind quite so much the rocking of the Clare anymore.

“And I ask again, the wizard? Grallik N’sera?”

Direfang raised an eyebrow. The captain was a persistent devil.

“What about the wizard? Why does he interest you so much?” the hobgoblin asked.

“Will he remain your slave after we reach the Qualinesti Forest?”

Direfang finished the wine and rose from his chair, careful to hold on to the table to steady himself. He’d not had anything so strong since … well, probably never, he realized. He grunted at the captain. Some questions he still wouldn’t answer. The hobgoblin leader shuffled over to the corner where the packs and scroll tubes were piled up, and began to riffle through his treasures.

Mudwort’s stomach clenched. She sat in the hold on a tall crate at the prow, as alone as possible in the crowded wooden cave. The motion was worse there with the ship rising and falling. It was not so pronounced at the opposite end, where most of the goblins huddled, including Saro-Saro, who was wrapped in his green blanket, his head on a pillow he found somewhere, trying to sleep.

She didn’t like the close air and longed terribly for a fresh breeze that would carry away some of the mustiness of her kinsmen. The smell from all the bodies crammed together was strong and clung bitterly to her tongue. No amount of spitting would get rid of it. She breathed shallowly and cupped her hands over her mouth to keep out the foulest of the aroma. Added to everything was the smell of waste and vomit, which hung heavy in the room as some of the goblins were perpetually sick from the motion of the ship. And a dozen seemed to be still sick from the illness that had taken so many by the river.

“S’dards , not to have washed with the skull man in the sea,” she muttered. “S’dard Direfang, not to wash the sick ones over the side now.” The hobgoblin had to know that some of Saro-Saro’s and Cattail’s clans were ill with spots, she thought. Though she hadn’t seen the hobgoblin down in the hold since the beginning of the trip. Maybe he was oblivious that the illness lingered. “S’dard Direfang.”

How could her fellow goblins not be bothered by the nasty smells in the stale, close air? They seemed more worried about the sea. Perhaps it was because their senses of smell were not as keen as hers. Perhaps it was because so many of them slept and were oblivious.

Not all of the goblins were down in the hold breathing all of that fetid atmosphere. Some were in the galley; the cook had demanded they eat in shifts. The goblins did not argue about which clan should go first; they were subdued from the storm and the loss of their kinsmen to the storm. And they were grateful for something cooked that was certain to be tasty.

Seven members of the Rockbridge clan-the only members of that clan to survive the earthquakes-were on the level above, inventorying the food and goods at Direfang’s request. It was a useless task, as there was no way to alter what had been purchased, and it was likely the clansmen would forget the numbers of the various whatnots they counted, thought Mudwort. Perhaps the exercise was merely intended to give those goblins something to do.

Despite goblins being washed over the rail, more continued to venture up on deck, too curious for their own good, Mudwort thought. A big wave would take care of the too-curious ones; she wished again it would take care of the dozen or so who were sick with spots.

She had not enjoyed her brief foray on the deck, which was why she preferred to wallow in the conditions down there. However, she had found some pleasure in calling down the lightning and ruining the pursuing pirate ship. She was angry at herself for letting the wizard take all the credit for her ingenious, destructive magic. At the time she’d not wanted anyone to know she’d discovered such a powerful, new enchantment. She liked to keep secrets. But then she thought she might have gained some more respect because of her heroism and perhaps a spot in a cabin above where conditions had to be better.

Boliver had been elusive; she’d inquired about him among the others several times in the past few hours. He wasn’t a member of the Rockbridge clan, so he was not conducting the useless inventory directly overhead. Neither was he down there. She hoped he hadn’t perished in the storm.

She hadn’t remembered seeing him get into one of the longboats at the mouth of the river, so he might have been one of the stubborn eighteen who remained on the shore. Boliver was stubborn; that was possible. Or he might have been tossed over the side during the storm. Her magical scrying told her he was not on one of the other ships either. A mystery-the disappearance of Boliver.

Mudwort’s stomach clenched tighter because she missed her friend. Boliver and Moon-eye had been the only goblins she really talked to. She’d spent quite a bit of time with Boliver since leaving Steel Town, mingling magic and learning more than a little from him. She enjoyed his company because he was a smart goblin and because joining their spells had been so effortless. He’d been a shaman for his clan in the Before Time, and she suspected he was more powerful than she.

She thought he’d been left behind on the shore, too frightened of the sea to get in a longboat. She could use her seeing spell to look for him in the pine woods to be certain. But she was weary right then, drained of some power. The attack on the pirate ship had left her in need of rest. And if Boliver was dead or gone, then she would find out soon enough.

She tried to relax rather than concentrate on her assorted complaints and the mystery of her absent friend. The wood of the crate felt good against the backs of her legs, the wood of the prow against her neck and shoulders. The ship rocked ceaselessly and creaked constantly, however, an unpleasant, worrisome sound. Yet the noise was enough to keep some of the snores and chittering of the goblins at bay.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Saarh was with Brab, the crooked-faced goblin, in the heart of the young forest. The clan was nearby, digging bowl shaped depressions in the earth between clumps of willowy birch and ash trees. It had rained earlier, shortly after dawn, but it was not a long or intense storm.

The rain made all the greens and browns brighter, fed the ever-thirsty trilliums so close to the ground, brought out rich and wonderful scents, and, above all, made the earth soft for digging. Saarh’s goblins were making homes; they would circle their depressions with stones and small logs, and later weave branches to cover them to keep out the worst of future rains. Saarh’s goblins had never constructed such dwellings before, but she’d seen things like that in her seeing spells, and she decided the clansmen would feel safer sleeping in the earth pockets.

Busy, the goblins did not need her for a while, so Saarh and her consort wandered west.

“Ril bore a youngling last night,” the crooked-faced goblin told her.

Saarh nodded, though she had been unaware of the news. “Yes, Brab, a fine youngling that will grow strong in these woods.” She’d been using her magic to search through the earth, trying to pinpoint the power she searched for. It lay in that direction; she felt the pull.

“Others will bear younglings in the next few months,” he continued. “The food is plentiful here, so no more younglings should die from shrunken bellies.”