Jean Rabe - Death March

Saro-Saro turned his head and caught Direfang’s shocked expression. The old clan leader was clearly dying.

The skin of his face was sunken to such a degree that he looked skeletal, and even though little light reached back there, Direfang could see the telltale black splotches. There were large black knobs on Saro-Saro’s neck, of the sort that had decorated the limbs and necks of many of the goblins who’d died from the plague.

“Should have went into the sea with the priest,” Direfang said reproachfully as he neared, standing over Saro-Saro, but not too close. He shook his head at the clan members who still hovered close by; they risked getting the sickness by touching the old goblin.

Some of them had already caught it. Direfang heard coughs muffled by cupped hands; several goblins were sweating profusely. It was overly warm in the hold with the press of bodies, but the ones who sweated there were wrapped in cloaks and blankets, shivering.

“Leave,” Saro-Saro gestured forcefully to the clansmen nearest him. “It is time to speak to Direfang alone.”

“No.” Direfang held his hands out to his sides to block some of them from leaving. “The sick should stay here, away from the others. This one and this one stay. This one too.” He pointed to seven or eight more, making it about a dozen, with Saro-Saro, who were visibly afflicted. “The rest of you, go up on the top deck. The air is good there. Cause no trouble with the sailors, and be fast.”

The healthy ones protested at being sent to the top deck of the ship, where they feared the waves and water, but Direfang insisted.

The hobgoblin leader waited until the healthy clan members shuffled past; then he sat, keeping an arm’s length from Saro-Saro. The clan leader turned his head so he could better see the hobgoblin.

“Dying,” Saro-Saro said. “I am.”

“Yes.”

“The skull man said he could not help. The skull man’s magic is weak and used up.”

“Perhaps the skull man used too much of his precious magic healing goblins by the river days past.” Direfang heard goblins shifting around behind him, turned his head, and caught several edging close, trying to eavesdrop. He glared at them, and they backed away a little, but the hold was crowded and they could not go far.

“The skull man said four days, maybe five.”

“Before this ship reaches the forest.”

Saro-Saro nodded. “Will never see the forest because the skull man’s magic is weak. Will never see anything beyond this wooden cave, this hole made by sailing men.” He spoke softer, and the hobgoblin leaned closer out of respect for the old clan leader. “Slave for too long, Direfang. Too many years toiling for the hated Dark Knights. Should have had a better life. Deserved one, didn’t I? We?”

The hobgoblin had only a choked reply. He nearly reached out to touch Saro-Saro in sympathy but stopped himself and set his hands instead on his knees.

“Should have died, maybe, to the earthquakes. Would have been faster death and would not have hurt so much.” Saro-Saro’s voice dropped even lower, and Direfang crept forward just a little and saw that the pillow Saro-Saro’s head was on was crusted with blood and vomit. “This sickness, Direfang, it ruined all the plans. My plans.”

What foolish plans? Direfang wondered to himself, but he thought he would humor the dying goblin by nodding agreement. “Perhaps after this ship reaches the forest, the clan can still-”

Saro-Saro shook his head. He coughed once and made a gasping, raspy sound that caused some of his ill clansmen to shrink back against the hull. “No, Direfang.” The goblin coughed again, deeper and racking, his body writhing from the spasm.

Direfang held his breath and looked at the once-proud clan leader. He heard whispers behind him; two Woodcutter clan members were speculating that Saro-Saro likely would not live out the day. The hobgoblin cut a cross look over his shoulder, silencing the two.

The coughing subsided and Saro-Saro tried to speak again. His voice cracked, and the words sounded like leaves blowing across a dry riverbed.

Direfang saw that one of the black knobs on the old goblin’s neck had ruptured and was oozing an ugly green pus. He breathed only slightly, not wanting to inhale any of the sickness. The stench was so awful that he clenched his teeth and fought to keep from retching.

A goblin named Uren knelt at Saro-Saro’s shoulder. Uren had often worked under Direfang at the Dark Knight mine and had distinguished himself by rarely complaining and sometimes helping older goblins heft their ore sacks. Uren did not yet have knobs on his neck, but he sweated heavily, and he shivered so hard, his teeth chattered. There were a few black spots on his cheek.

The old goblin broke into another coughing spasm, and Direfang closed his eyes at the terrible sight. He heard other goblins coughing, though not as loud or hurtful sounding, heard a baby cry-the sound so rare down there that he knew it must be Graytoes’ Umay. He heard shuffling near him, felt something brush up against his back, and as he turned, he felt fingers dig into his legs.

Direfang’s eyes flew open, and he tried to scoot back as two goblins behind him, their clawed hands on his shoulders, forced him to his knees. Somehow Saro-Saro had managed to rally and was struggling to sit up with the help of Uren. The old goblin was the one who had dug his claws into Direfang’s legs, poking through the thin material of his leggings and finding flesh beneath. Saro-Saro pulled himself close the hobgoblin even as Direfang tried to shove away.

Saro-Saro scratched Direfang’s chest and spit in his face. At last Direfang threw off the goblins behind him and lurched to his feet then fell forward when the ship tossed. Saro-Saro continued to claw and spit at Direfang, reaching for him futilely. Uren and two other ill members of Saro-Saro’s clan piled on top of the hobgoblin.

“Die too, Direfang,” Saro-Saro rasped. “Join me in death.” A thick line of blood dripped over his lip. “Should have died on the mountain, you. Were supposed to die there.”

“Should have died, Direfang, so Saro-Saro could lead this army,” Uren hissed. “If Saro-Saro cannot lead, Direfang will not either!”

Direfang kicked out, knocking Saro-Saro away. The clan leader landed heavily on his back and started coughing wildly again, with the sick ones around him forgetting Direfang and huddling close to Saro-Saro. But the goblins behind the hobgoblin leader surged forward. Direfang spun to face them before realizing they were coming to his aid, indeed were going to brave the sickness to help him.

“Stay back!” He shouted at them all, glaring. “Farther back!” He waved a fist at the goblins, who backed away slowly and pressed together toward the center of the hold. “It is not safe here.”

Saro-Saro continued to cough frantically behind him, Uren joining in.

Two-chins was farther back in the hold, and he climbed on the shoulders of another goblin so he could better see what was going on.

“Get the skull man,” Direfang called, spotting Two-chins. “Be fast.” Once more the goblins tried to edge closer, partly out of curiosity and partly because some of them wished to help. “Stay back.” Softer, he said, “Stay away from the sickness and stay well.”

“Stay well, stay well.” The advice was passed back through the throng.

“Will Direfang die too?” Rustymane, a hobgoblin who also had worked as a foreman in the mine, spoke for the others, fearfully.

“Everything dies,” another hobgoblin answered stoically.

“But will Direfang die of the sickness?” Rustymane persisted.

“Maybe,” Direfang growled. “Maybe me, you, all of us.”

“Saro-Saro must account for this!” Rustymane insisted.