Jean Rabe: Death March

“Help those first,” Direfang told the priest. “But only if there is a chance the clansmen can be healed. Only if , skull man.”

Horace, nodding grimly, tended to Uren first. Saro-Saro lay quietly, shivering, staring hatefully at Direfang. “You should have called for me earlier,” the priest said to those in Saro-Saro’s clan who were afflicted. He spoke bluntly, irritably, in the goblin tongue. “This has progressed beyond the power of my magic. I do not think I can do anything for you. Why, in the name of all the Sea Mother counts holy, did you not call for me before now?”

Uren coughed into his hands, blood dripping onto his fingers. He wiped the blood on his shirt, which was already smeared with blood and vomit. “Thought this maybe was sickness from the water, skull man. The up and down, side to side. The wind and whoosh and-”

“No, not seasickness. Clearly,” Horace answered. He coughed too but not from the plague. The stench from the waste and the disease made simple breathing difficult for the priest.

“Some got well before,” Uren said hopefully. “Back by the river. Some got sick, then got well. Some of those are down here.” He gestured with a bloody hand toward a group of Saro-Saro’s clansmen who stood well back from the sick. “Watched them get well.”

“A few,” Horace admitted. “But not many. Don’t know why. The plague killed nearly everyone else it touched.” The priest seemed weary and defeated. “I will try to ease some of your suffering.” He looked solemnly at Saro-Saro, and the old goblin nodded in understanding. “But I cannot heal you. The illness has taken too firm a hold. I can bless you, pray to Zeboim that your spirits-”

“Stop!” Direfang barked when he heard Horace’s words. “Your healing will not help Saro-Saro and those others?”

Horace shook his head. “Sorry. No. More skilled healers than I could perhaps do something. But I will try to take away some of the pain and-”

“Will the illness spread? To the ones who are healthy?”

Horace shrugged, but his glum look told Direfang that it was likely.

“Perhaps this hold can be cleansed. To help?”

“Well, yes, I’ve spells that can-”

“Then forget the healing. Do this cleansing. Worry about the healthy, forget the dying.”

Direfang clomped past the priest and grabbed up Uren and another goblin who was close to him. Tucking the two under one arm, he grabbed two more with the other. They squirmed against him, kicking and biting and drawing more blood. But the illness had taken some of their strength. Direfang headed toward the stairs.

“Stay away. Stay back from the sick,” Direfang called over his shoulder to the healthy ones. “Use your knives to keep the sick back there. Understand?” He didn’t wait to hear the replies.

Two-chins had been hovering on the stairs, trying to take everything in. He followed Direfang up the stairs, trailed by Two-chins’ mate. More goblins started up, but Rustymane cried out.

“Wait!” he shouted, stomping to the stairs and pushing goblins away. “Wait until Direfang comes back. Wait and keep the sick from leaving. Direfang means to protect all of the clans. Direfang will-”

“What will Direfang do with Uren and …?” Graytoes had squeezed between two hobgoblins. She looked up at Rustymane, holding Umay close, the baby sleeping despite the ruckus. “What will Direfang do?”

Rustymane growled softly, silencing her and the other restless goblins.

Meanwhile Direfang had wrestled the four plague-ridden goblins up to the deck. He gulped in the fresh, salt-tinged air, gathering his strength. He ignored the shouts of the goblins gathered around the main mast. K’lars was at the capstan, huddled over some device. The half-ogre stopped what he was doing and headed over to Direfang.

“What are you doing?” K’lars nearly had caught up before Direfang spun around to confront him.

“Stay back. See the sickness?” Direfang gestured with his head to Uren, held tight though squirming under his armpit. “Stay back and stay well.” Then Direfang reached the port rail and one by one hurled the goblins over the side. “The sickness ends here.”

The hobgoblin returned belowdecks, making two more trips, Horace following him on the last one, his wide eyes disbelieving. The goblins protested and screamed as Direfang pitched them over the rail, all save the last-Saro-Saro, who had grown too weak to resist or say anything. Direfang held the old clan leader like Graytoes cradled Umay. He took no pleasure in what he had to do.

“Die free, Saro-Saro,” Direfang said bitterly. He coughed, and he saw Saro-Saro’s eyes sparkle with the hope that the illness had quickly taken hold of the hobgoblin. “Die fast, old one.” Then he dropped Saro-Saro over the rail, the goblin striking the side of the ship before hitting the water and immediately going under the swirling waves. None of the goblins had known how to swim, so the strongest of them bobbed only once or twice before drowning quickly.

Horace gripped the rail and stared at the spot where Saro-Saro had been. “I–I-I don’t understand, Foreman Direfang. To kill them like this …”

“The illness, this plague, had already killed those goblins and enough others,” Direfang said vehemently. He motioned to the goblins edging away from the mast. “Stay back and stay well.”

Two-chins’ mate spoke a little of the human tongue, and she tried to explain to K’lars about the plague and the goblins who were sick in the hold and who were now lying at the bottom of the New Sea, she hoped being devoured by the fishes.

The half-ogre’s eyes widened. He stared angrily at Direfang and took a step toward the hobgoblin leader. “No one told me or Captain Gerrold about any plague. No amount of coin would have gotten you this ship or the other ships, I’m certain, if we had known-”

Horace cut him off, interposing himself between the half-ogre and Direfang. The half-ogre thrust a hand against the priest’s shoulder, but Horace stood firm and spoke forcefully.

“We thought the plague had passed, I promise you,” Horace said. “We’d not have come on this ship if we thought there was a threat to you. Zeboim is your goddess; you follow her, same as I do. I swear on the silvery hair of the Sea Mother that no harm was meant and that my best efforts will go toward ensuring that no harm shall result to you-”

“No!” Two-chins flailed his arms in the air then pointed to the rail.

Direfang was climbing over.

“Rustymane,” Direfang rasped. “Rustymane can lead now. The skull man can cleanse the hold.” The hobgoblin coughed and wiped at the line of bloody drool spilling over his bottom lip. “The mistakes end here. My responsibility ends. The illness ends here.”

He dropped over the rail.

Mudwort was oblivious to the commotion on deck. She’d heard goblins tromping past the galley door and caught a glimpse of Direfang. She’d noted the surge of goblins piling into the galley and crowding on the benches, waiting for food.

The wizard sat across from her; he’d moved from his table to hers when Two-chins came in to get the priest.

“More room!” Mudwort told a goblin who tried to sit next to her. She stretched and reached out her arm, indicating the goblin should give her that much extra space. “Farther away,” she repeated to the hobgoblin who started to settle in next to Grallik. She added a withering glance and thrummed her fingers against the table. The goblin and hobgoblin complied.

The plate in front of her had been licked clean. For nearly two days, she’d been caught up in her latest seeing spell, and it had left her famished and tired. Sated, her eyelids drooped and she yawned.