Jean Rabe - Death March

Saarh stood and slowly approached the spear, a reverence in her bearing. She bowed to the spear then stretched a hand out, fingers tingling from the energy the thing exuded.

The wooden spear hovered a hand-breadth above the ground. It was green, as if it had been fashioned from a too-young tree whose bark had been stripped. Slivers of gold, silver, and platinum were inlaid along the shaft, forming designs that matched some of those the goblins had carved in the dome ceiling under the mountain. Tiny gems that sparkled in the last rays of the sun were sprinkled among the precious metal runes. They were diamonds mostly; Saarh was familiar with those gemstones that could be found in the warrens in the Kharolis. But there were also emeralds as bright and dark green as sugar maple leaves coated by rainwater. And there were a few yellow-hued stones that looked like shards of sunlight caught on the surface of a stream.

The tip was metal, not one of the precious kinds that formed the runes on the shaft, but something stronger and sharper than anything Saarh had ever known. It gleamed dully, and when she bent close to the ground to look at the tip, she observed her own reflection. Above the spear tip was a silver band that held small rings. Feathers dangled from the rings, dark yellow ones shot through with rich browns and vibrant greens.

“Chislev’s symbol, these feathers,” Saarh said in awe. “Chislev’s spear, this.”

Behind her, the crooked-faced goblin gasped. “The weapon of a god?”

“The only weapon this god wielded,” she softly returned. She stood upright again and pushed her hand forward, through an unseen force that held the spear poised above the earth. The shaman slowly wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the shaft. The power in the weapon flowed into her.

Mudwort had not been able to sleep, so she’d looked in on the shaman of long-ago. She’d used one of the uncut blue stones to help in the seeing spell as there were no rocks or earth beneath her to channel the magic through. Mudwort needed to send her magic through stone if she wanted to sustain a spell for more than a few minutes.

So that journey into the past had taken more than a few minutes. Indeed, Mudwort had been caught up in the enchantment for the better part of two days. Her throat and mouth were dry from lack of water, and her stomach ached because she had not eaten in a while. That no one had disturbed her during those two days surprised her. But then, she’d been sprawled against the crate, where the rocking sea was felt stronger than elsewhere. And she was still a loner and a member of none of the other clans.

She needed food, so she slipped off the crate, standing still for a few moments as her legs protested moving after being locked for so many hours in a rigid position. She nearly toppled into another crate, as she was dizzy from the ship and her hunger, and the stink in the air was palpable. Disgusting.

She climbed the stairs and headed to the galley. Something was cooking, meat and vegetables; the smell of potatoes set her mouth to watering. She didn’t care what the cook had thrown in the pot-she would eat her fill, and she would sleep and dream about Chislev’s spear.

What had once tugged the goblin who lived in the long-ago time tugged Mudwort.

Direfang must come now. Be fast.” Thus spoke a yellow-skinned goblin from Saro-Saro’s clan. Direfang could not recall her name, but he’d seen her hovering around the old goblin often enough.

The hobgoblin was standing on the deck of the Clare , leaning against the stern railing and watching the waves. It was somehow more relaxing, less unsettling to his stomach, than standing at the bow of the ship, and fewer sailors bothered him.

Direfang shook his head. Nearby was a signaler who’d been sending a message to Linda’s Grady at the hobgoblin’s request. Linda’s Grady trailed the Clare at the moment, and through the signaler, Direfang had learned that things were reasonably calm and secure aboard the other ship.

“Direfang must come now. Be fast.”

The hobgoblin let out a deep sigh, digging his nails into the railing. He could feel the gouges where he’d already marred the wood.

“How necessary is this thing that needs attention?” Direfang wanted to address the goblin by name, but try as he may, he couldn’t remember it. “Is something wrong?”

He did not even glance at her as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the water and on Linda’s Grady . The air was fresh and brisk there. And in the few days since they’d left the mouth of the river, he’d learned to enjoy listening to the sounds of the sails moving in the wind punctuated by the cries of seagulls.

“Necessary, Direfang. Be fast.” She prodded him in the leg so he would look at her, gave him a serious stare, then spun about on shoes she’d appropriated from the dwarf village. As other goblins had, she’d tied them on with twine so they would not fall off. But they noisily slapped as she walked away. “Be fast now, Direfang. Very fast.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure he followed.

On the level below deck he paused outside the galley. Mudwort was eating there, alone at a table. The priest and wizard were at another table, their plates empty but smeared with some sort of gravy. Grallik was sipping a mug of something. Horace’s head was bowed in prayer. Sailors toiled around them, cleaning up platters from an earlier shift, taking the dishes to a table and heaping on more food for the second wave of hungry goblins. The hobgoblin knew the cook and the sailors were not pleased at feeding so many mouths. But Grallik had bought enough food, and enough steel pieces had been spread around to keep the complaints muted and limited. Direfang wondered if the other ships also had enough food.

“No time for food, Direfang. Be fast.” Saro-Saro’s messenger shook a finger at him and started down the flight of stairs that led to the lower hold.

Direfang had not spoken to Mudwort since she had brought the lightning down on the Blithe Dagger and given the wizard credit for that magic. He wanted to sit with her, eat, and discuss the Qualinesti Forest-telling her it was much closer than he had imagined. He was looking forward to reaching land, but he had an important task he wanted her to attend to well before the ship stopped. He needed her to use her seeing spell again.

“Later,” he muttered aloud, meaning, later he would catch up with Mudwort.

“No, now,” the yellow-skinned goblin insisted, overhearing him as she stopped and turned halfway down on the steps. “Be fast.”

Direfang was quick to follow her; if truth be told, he was genuinely curious what was happening that was so urgent in the hold. He took a deep breath before going down, knowing well the air would be thick and foul, and closing his eyes so when he reached the bottom he could open them and more easily adjust to the darkness.

Only a few lanterns were lit at midpoint in the hold. No goblins clustered directly under them, as they seemed to prefer the darkness in the recesses of the wooden cave. The air was worse than the hobgoblin had expected, far, far worse than on his previous visit there. Not even the slave pens in Steel Town had reeked so badly, but then there was always air stirring around the pens in the mining camp.

He coughed to clear his throat and followed the beckoning goblin. Direfang nodded to Two-chins and Rustymane and grunted a hello to Cattail, who’d been discussing the upcoming meal with some of her Flamegrass clan members. The discussion stopped and they started whispering as he passed by. Goblins always had secrets, he mused.

The air grew worse the farther he went toward the rear of the hold, stepping between goblins and hobgoblins and seeing Saro-Saro surrounded by his clan at the very back of the packed group. The old goblin was stretched out, his green cloak covering him like a blanket. The goblin who’d led Direfang down there went over to Saro-Saro and dabbed his forehead with the hem of her dress.