Jean Rabe - Death March

“Raise the sails!” Captain Gerrold set his fists against his hips and watched as Horace inspected the wet, dazed hobgoblin. “Get back you, all of you.”

But the goblins who’d been gathered amidships didn’t understand the commands in Common and clustered around Direfang.

“Get them below,” Gerrold said, looking daggers at Direfang. “All of them. I don’t want a single one getting tangled in my lines or tripping my sailors. Don’t want another one jumping over the side either … or being tossed over like garbage.”

Direfang looked around slowly, still half in a daze. The eyes of the goblins shifted away as most of them drifted off, following the captain’s orders. The hobgoblin leader met the angry stare of Gerrold.

“The illness is in here.” He stabbed his thumb at his chest. “And it spreads like a fire over a mound of dead. The illness will move to here and here and here”-he pointed to the men who were wet and apparently had helped him into the longboat-“and there; sooner or later the illness will spread to them.” He gestured to K’lars, giving him a nod. “Don’t doom this ship. And look to the other ships. If there is more plague with the goblins-”

Gerrold stormed forward and grabbed Direfang’s tunic at the breastbone. “Doom? The plague was brought on the Clare , and you throwing yourself overboard won’t get rid of it. The damnable thing is in deep in the hold and probably seeping into the very wood of the ship.” Spittle flew from the captain’s lips, his face twisting with anger. “I didn’t order your rescue for any noble reason, hob. I need you to control these goblins. They seem to follow you. We’ll be arriving at your damnable forest soon enough. But first we’re going to the lady’s island, Schallsea Island, like I’d planned. Not just for new line and sails now. I mean to rid my ship and my men of this insidious disease. Everything and everyone must be made whole or die.”

He released his grip on the hobgoblin, pivoted on his leather heels, and returned to the wheel.

“Takes something to get the captain mad,” K’lars said in a low voice. “Did you hear him call the Clare his ship? I think he just bought it from you, Direfang. Paid you in full when he had us haul your sorry hide out of the sea and changed his course for the lady’s island. Bought it with the lady’s healing hands, the captain did.”

Direfang gaped dully at the sailor, shivering, whether from the illness or his ordeal, he couldn’t say.

K’lars beckoned to Horace. “I think maybe you better get this big rat into the hold with all of the other rats, eh? Best right now if the captain doesn’t see much of them. Captain Gerrold’s got a mad streak on that’ll take this ship to the Blood Sea and back.”

Horace gestured to Direfang, and the hobgoblin slowly followed him toward the stairs.

“Schallsea Island?” Horace asked.

“Aye, the lady’s place,” K’lars returned.

Direfang followed Horace below.

“Predominantly human,” Horace was explaining to Direfang, some minutes later. The hobgoblin sat on the stairs that led into the lower bay. Horace stood facing him. “Schallsea Island is near Abanasinia, separated by the straits. A big island, two hundred or more miles long, but less than half that at its widest point.”

The hobgoblin coughed and shivered. He and Horace were as alone as possible, even the most curious of the goblins not wanting to get too close to him-maybe because they were afraid they might catch the illness, maybe because he had disgraced them with his behavior. Word had already spread that Direfang had tossed Saro-Saro and some of his clansmen over the side to their deaths.

Horace’s eyes misted. “I visited there in my youth, Schallsea, with my uncle and my oldest brother. A beautiful place with many streams that sparkle like diamonds in the warmest months. Most of the island is inaccessible because of its dangerous cliffs. But there are a handful of harbors, and I’m certain he’s taking this ship to the largest. That would be the Port of Schallsea, where my uncle once took his ship. A good thing it’s summertime, Foreman. In winter the harbors have been known to freeze solid.”

Horace seemed lost in the memory, and his head bobbed in time with the gentle rising and falling of the Clare .

“The lady’s island, K’lars called it.” Direfang coughed again and cursed to feel blood welling at the edge of his lip.

“Aye, the island is said to have been born during the Cataclysm. When the New Sea rose and lands all around this part of the world dropped, one stretch didn’t, and they called it Schallsea. After the Chaos War, a famous Hero of the Lance came to it: Goldmoon.”

Direfang nodded. He was familiar with some of the old tales.

“That’s why these sailors call it the lady’s island, Foreman. This lady, Goldmoon, established the Citadel of Light, which was destroyed not too many years ago. Last I heard, it was being rebuilt, though.”

“Why take this ship there?” Direfang’s shoulders were slumped, and he wrapped his arms around his chest, trying futilely to warm himself.

“Because Goldmoon attracted many healers to her citadel. There are people there far more skilled in the divine arts than I. If anyone can cure this plague, it would be the priests on that island. Captain Gerrold is smart to head there. I must go and tell Grallik.”

“Fine,” Direfang muttered. He groaned softly, his chin dropping, and slid forward, his chin striking the floor.

There were flowers somewhere; Direfang could smell them. He couldn’t see them-something sodden and soft was draped across his eyes. But the flowers smelled sweet, and he knew they must be close by. They mixed pleasantly with the musky scent of himself and with that of grass that had been rained on recently.

Gone were all the abysmal smells that had filled the cramped hold of the ship.

He felt warm but not too warm. His fever had broken, and he could breathe without coughing. His jaw ached, though, and when he ran his tongue around in his mouth, he felt broken teeth and spots of dried blood.

“You hit your head when you fell.” It was Horace’s voice. “Broke your jaw, which I was able to mend. The mystics here took care of the rest.”

Direfang tried to get up, but a few pairs of strong hands pushed him back down.

“Rest.” The voice was female and human, to his surprise. “I understand that you can speak Common.”

Direfang tried to answer, but his throat was dry. He nodded, dislodging the wet cloth that had been covering his eyes. He blinked then closed his eyes again. The sun was high and bright and hurtful. He struggled to stay awake, but in the end gave in to the smell of the flowers and the feel of the soft breeze that played over his clean, bare skin. He’d registered that his ragged clothes had been removed and that the gouges on his arms and legs had been bandaged.

“Sleep,” the woman insisted.

He let himself do just that.

The same woman spoke to him when he awoke again. “You are on Schallsea Island, Direfang, near the Citadel of Light. Horace thought it best to keep you and your brothers outside the citadel and the city.” She paused before continuing. “I am Aerlane, once of Solace. And I welcome you to our island.”

“Schallsea Island,” Horace’s voice echoed. The priest must have been nearby as well. “Remember? The captain said he was taking us there. To the citadel.”

“Citadel?” The word came out of Direfang’s mouth more as a croak. Again the light seemed bright, though not so strong anymore. Still, he closed his eyes. His ears would serve him well enough.

“The citadel is as much a piece of our hearts as it is a construction. It is more spiritual than physical. Most of us worship Mishakal here.”