Jean Rabe - Death March

“Saro-Saro is dying,” Skakee chimed in. “Like Direfang will die now, I think. Saro-Saro’s blood and sickness is mixed in Direfang’s wounds. It will be an empty, sad forest without Direfang.”

The goblins quieted. Some of them stared in disbelief that Saro-Saro would do such a thing to Direfang, purposely spreading the foul illness. Others looked grief-stricken and angry. A few trembled in fear and tried to squeeze their way to the front of the hold, wanting to get as far away from the sick and dying ones as possible.

“Please, Two-chins,” Direfang pleaded. “Get the skull man. Be fast.”

Two-chins climbed off his kinsman’s shoulders, eyes on Direfang as he backed toward the stairs.

“Be fast!” echoed Graytoes. “Be very fast!”

Direfang’s growls kept the dozen ill clansmen an arm’s distance away. He could barely stand upright in that section of the hold; the top of his head brushed the low ceiling. The ropy muscles in his arms bunched, and he clenched and unclenched his hands in a silent fury that raised his temperature and quickened his heart.

He wanted to shout oaths at Saro-Saro and his foul clansmen, telling them they were all fools. He’d led them from Steel Town and into the mountains, at one point giving everyone the option of going their own way, perhaps in clans, perhaps scattering. He practically begged them to leave him alone; that was his deepest desire. Some goblins did leave then, Hurbear’s clan. Direfang wished he would have followed Hurbear.

Direfang wasn’t sure how that had all happened. Whose idea was it that he should lead the goblins to a new homeland? A foreman in the Dark Knight mines, they’d been following his orders for a few years, yes. But there had been other sturdy foremen, such as Rustymane, who stared at him at that moment with a vacant expression.

Was it because it was he who had urged them to rebel and flee the mining camp? They’d followed him then, so they kept on following. Then more and more and more kept arriving, thousands. That was Mudwort’s doing. He trusted Mudwort, but she shouldn’t have told so many others to come and follow him.

Mudwort said the goblins felt they owed their lives to him.

So he felt responsible, even for Saro-Saro and his vile bunch.

Direfang’s legs stung where the old goblin’s claws had ripped the flesh. His shoulders ached where Uren and a few others had bitten and scratched him. He felt Saro-Saro’s bloody spittle drying on his face and wondered if the illness that was claiming the old goblin was even then wending its way into his body. Half of the offending goblins had knives they’d taken from Steel Town or the ogre village they’d raided; why hadn’t they just killed him swiftly with their knives?

Because Saro-Saro didn’t want Direfang to die fast, the hobgoblin knew. The clan leader wanted Direfang to catch the illness and suffer as he was suffering. Well, suffering was nothing new to Direfang, he thought bitterly. His life had been nothing but suffering, the thick scars and his mangled ear a testament to that.

The main reason for the ignominious attack was because Saro-Saro had wanted to be the leader. His illness would prevent that.

Direfang gave a low moan, startling the others who were closest by, sending them back a few steps. If Saro-Saro had expressed such a desire when they’d first left Steel Town, the hobgoblin leader reflected ruefully, Direfang would have eagerly relented.

“Who will lead now, Saro-Saro? If not you or me?” Direfang’s words were plaintive and couldn’t be heard by many goblins in the hold.

“It doesn’t matter,” the dying, old goblin hissed. “Does not matter,” Saro-Saro repeated. “Just that it will not be Direfang.”

The hobgoblin leader suddenly felt a weakness in his legs. Did the illness strike that quickly? Or was the ship making him dizzy again? He felt as if he were floating, lifted by his pounding heart and the swells the Clare climbed. A few hundred goblins watched him, not a one speaking, all of them staring at him and Saro-Saro.

Rustymane edged closer. Rustymane could lead, Direfang thought, staring at his old friend. He’d been a good foreman, though not for more than a handful of months before the earthquakes struck. Rustymane had reddish, wiry hair and only a few scars on his face and arms. His hands were large, the fingers stubby. His wide eyes held a hint of kindness, tears now threatening at the edges.

Direfang turned his head to stare angrily at Saro-Saro. The old goblin was propped up on his pillow, Uren at his shoulder, both of them coughing and sweating and shivering in the meager light that reached that far end of the ship. The others in bad condition surrounding them also shivered, the closest ones glaring at Direfang. He continued to clench and unclench his fists, wanting to lash out at the clansmen and hurt them as they had hurt and betrayed him. But he could do nothing worse to them that what they already suffered.

“The knives. Set the knives down.” Direfang spoke fiercely, snarling for emphasis. “The knives. Be fast.”

They did lay down their knives, to the hobgoblin’s surprise. He stalked forward, using his feet to kick the knives behind him and well away from Saro-Saro’s band of diseased loyalists. He heard scrabbling and knew other goblins were snatching up the weapons behind him.

No one spoke for long minutes then, though he could hear his own breathing, fast in his anger and exertion, and he could hear the forced breathing of Saro-Saro and Uren also. He heard the groaning of the wooden ship and hurried footsteps from overhead. Someone heavy was coming down the steps.

“Skull man, take care,” Direfang cautioned.

None of the goblins spoke as Horace threaded his way through them.

“Foreman Direfang …”

Rustymane had moved up alongside the priest and was relating the tale of Saro-Saro’s attack.

Horace looked different that day. He was dressed in a pale green tunic that draped to mid-thigh, with dark blue leggings that were tucked in the tops of a pair of shiny, brown boots. A black vest with faint green and blue embroidered leaves at the shoulders fit a little too tightly. The clothes had been purchased by Grallik, the hobgoblin knew. Direfang thought it fortunate that he’d not yet changed into the clothes Grallik said had been purchased for him. The clothes would be contaminated if he had the sickness.

The priest looked as though he’d swallowed something bitter after listening to Rustymane. He squinted, not seeing as well as the goblins could in the relative darkness of the hold.

“I’d thought the sickness past,” he said with genuine regret. “I thought we’d left it on the shore of the New Sea. The salt cleansing the last trace. With Zeboim’s blessings …”

“The sea. Zeboim. Did nothing for Saro-Saro,” Direfang finished.

Horace changed his expression, trying to look optimistic. “Foreman, you’ve weathered being near the ill before, under the black willow along the river where so many goblins died. You will weather this. You are healthy and you have willpower and-”

Direfang gestured toward Saro-Saro and Uren and their followers. “What of these goblins? Can Saro-Saro’s clansmen be healed?”

“I thought …” Horace shifted so he could better see around Direfang. “I thought I should start by helping you.”

Direfang shook his head, beckoning Horace forward. He ordered the healthy goblins back, sending some up to the galley and more of the stout-hearted up on deck. “Do not get in the sailors’ way,” he cautioned. When the shuffling was finished, about three hundred and fifty remained below, and they kept as much distance as possible from Direfang and Horace and the coughing, spasming ill. Yet because there was more room in the hold, the air was not so thick anymore.