Death March

by Jean Rabe

  The wind was knocked out of him, and white pinpoints of light flashed in his head as it struck a rock, the sensation as hard as a hammer blow. He momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he was still rolling down the side of the mountain, but he no longer cradled Graytoes. Direfang bounced off a bush that had managed to grow in a patch of earth in a bowl-shaped depression. He flailed about with his arms, trying to grab onto something. The bush slipped past, but his fingers caught on a shale outcropping.

  Direfang held on tight and regained his footing, scrambling to his feet and taking a few steps before the rock he held on to snapped off and he went tumbling again. He felt a few ribs break, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He spat as he continued to fall, sucking in dirt and gravel with a mouth already full of blood.

  He thought he heard Mudwort calling for him and someone else shouting for Graytoes as he continued to bounce against rocks; Direfang’s tumble to the bottom felt as if it were taking forever; he hadn’t thought the mountainside that high, that precipitous.

  Where was the bottom?

  Something jabbed at his leg, and he briefly felt a sharp pain. But then the pain was gone and he felt and saw nothing.

  “Direfang is gone,” pronounced Saro-Saro. The old goblin carefully leaned over the side and looked down. “Cannot see Direfang. It is a long way down. Too far to see. So Direfang is gone and lost.”

  One of Saro-Saro’s youngest clansmen, Pippa, leaned with him. Pippa was a human name that meant “one who adores horses.” Pippa was named after a woman in Steel Town, the wife of a blacksmith who had died in the first earthquake. Pippa’s mother hadn’t known what the name meant when she chose it, only that she liked the sound of it. Pippa had recently learned the meaning and did not hide her disdain for it; Pippa hated horses only a little less than she hated Dark Knights.

  “Cannot see Direfang either,” Pippa said. “Direfang is dead, then. Graytoes is dead too,” She crossed her thin arms and stepped back. “Careful, Saro-Saro. This mountain might be hungry still.”

  The goblins around Saro-Saro moved anxiously, some shifting back and forth on the balls of their feet, others wringing their hands, a few tittering nervously.

  “If Direfang is dead.” That came from Chima, a young goblin who still favored her ribs and her arm from her encounter with the tylor. “If Direfang is dead …” She looked nervously to Saro-Saro.

  The old goblin puffed out his chest, making sure he had a safe perch. “If Direfang is dead—”

  “Direfang is not dead.” Mudwort cut Saro-Saro off. “The earth says so.” She squatted and ran her fingers along the rocks at her feet. “The earth says that Direfang is not dead.” She wrinkled her nose ruefully. “Graytoes is alive too. Empty, empty Graytoes.”

  Mudwort stood and peered over the side, seeing a navigable way down. “We should be done with this horrid, hurtful mountain,” she said. “Tired of walking on all these mean rocks. We should join Direfang at the bottom where the ground is flat and not so hurtful.”

  Saro-Saro shook his head in protest. Pippa copied the gesture and stuck out her lower lip.

  “Direfang is the leader,” Mudwort insisted. She looked around the old goblin and his clustered clan members, seeing the three Dark Knights. She spat and growled. “Skull man, Direfang and Graytoes need help.” She gestured for him to follow her.

  Horace’s face registered his skepticism at the notion of climbing down so steep a slope. “No,” he said softly. “I do not think I can handle that. It is too sheer.” But he carefully moved through Saro-Saro’s clan, Grallik and Kenosh following. What passed for a trail was so narrow and precarious that Horace nearly pushed a goblin off as he went.

  “Follow now, skull man,” Mudwort scolded. She lowered herself over the side, finding handholds and footholds and skittering down like a spider. Chima was next, moving slower because of her still-sore side; Olabode, who still nursed his once-broken leg, came after. “Follow, skull man!” Mudwort hollered. “Be fast, skull man!”

  “Maybe there will be time to rest at the bottom,” Pippa said hopefully. She turned to Saro-Saro. “Need some help climbing?”

  The old goblin stared at the Dark Knights who were slowly making their way over the edge. “It would be easy to push the knights off,” he heard one of his clansmen whisper. That brought a rare smile to his wrinkled visage.

  “Don’t need help, Pippa,” he said as he carefully lowered himself over the side and struggled to find his first foothold. “But thank you, young one.”

  Pippa hurried over to help him anyway, staying even with Saro-Saro as he climbed down slowly, and pointing out places that looked easy to grab. “Rest at the bottom,” she repeated. “So tired of all the sharp rocks. Take care!”

  Saro-Saro gave her a nod. “Rest at the bottom, loyal Pippa.”

  The climb down took several hours. One hobgoblin and two goblins fell trying to make the descent, the hobgoblin bashing his head open on a protrusion of granite and dropping like a rag doll. One of the two goblins disappeared screaming down a crevice, the other broke his legs and arms and was promised tending by the priest.

  They spread out in the valley at the base of the eastern mountain range, looking up the western side at similarly imposing peaks. Grass grew in patches as far as they could see to the north and south, and the dirt was thick and cushioned their steps. Far to the south, black birds picked at something in the grass, seemingly oblivious to the goblins’ presence. The air was still because the mountains on either side shielded the valley, and the heat of the afternoon sun was cut by the shadows from the western range.

  “Should have come down the mountain yesterday,” Saro-Saro said as he reached bottom. He dug the ball of his sandaled foot into the ground. “This feels much better. Not going back up into the mountains ever again.”

  While the Skull Knight saw to Direfang, the goblins searched in the dirt for grubs and sucked on roots they dug up. Chima stretched out on her back and rubbed her shoulders against the ground. Olabode lay nearby, snoring soundly despite the chattering of his fellows.

  Saro-Saro scratched his rump and looked around for a good place to sit. The yellow-skinned clan leader was possibly the oldest goblin in the horde, and his age and position gave him a measure of respect; he would claim the best place to rest.

  Pippa followed Saro-Saro and scanned the ground for a suitable spot for the old one. “Hungry, Saro-Saro?” He didn’t answer her, but she continued. “Me terribly hungry. Mudwort needs to find more food. But never dangerous food again.”

  It had been two days since the tylor was slain, and finding no other great beast since then, they’d been eating the occasional few goats they’d caught and digging in the dirt for insects. Their course had followed a high mountain stream, so water had been plentiful, as had nightcrawlers buried in the mud along the banks. Spikehollow had caught a fish early that morning and had shared it with Saro-Saro. But the mountain stream was gone, and some of the goblins chatted nervously about their hunger and thirst.

  The old goblin settled on a slab of limestone just as a hobgoblin was about to sit on it. He shooed the hobgoblin away and rolled his shoulders, tossing his head first one way then another, trying to work the kinks out of his old body. Many in his clan gathered around him. Not all the yellow-skinned goblins in the horde were of Saro-Saro’s clan, but most were, roughly two hundred of them. Most of the time, they clung together.

  Goblin skin tones ranged from yellow to dull orange to red to shades of brown. Most goblins in any given clan were of similar color, which also tended to mark them as from a specific part of the country. Hobgoblins were not so colorful; their hides were primarily gray or brown, and no features associated them with one clan or another.

  Saro-Saro slowly regarded the goblins who sat around him, all of them giving him the respectful distance of an arm’s length or more.

  “Good to rest,” Spikehollow said. He was always in the front rank, and stood at that moment shoulder-to-shoulder with Pippa before dro
pping to the ground. He wiggled his toes and cringed when the skin cracked and oozed. “This would be a good place to sleep.”

  Pippa nodded. “No more walking today. The skull man said Direfang needs to rest.”

  Their gazes shifted over to where Direfang was being worked on by the priest and wizard, Mudwort standing behind them, harshly exhorting them to hurry up and heal the hobgoblin leader. A whimpering Graytoes had been carried down the mountain and stood behind Mudwort, being shushed by her repeatedly.

  “Spikehollow needs rest too,” Spikehollow added with a sigh.

  “And Two-chins,” another goblin added. He referred to one of the goblins who had fallen off the mountain. “Two-chins is badly broken. Two-chins is hurt worse than Direfang.”

  Saro-Saro rested back on his arms and raised his head so he could look at the western peaks. “Resting is good,” he admitted. He yawned wide. “Sleeping here will be good.”

  “Good that Direfang will be well,” one goblin said.

  Spikehollow softly growled, sharply glancing at the speaker. “It will be better when Direfang is dead and Saro-Saro leads us.”

  The old goblin kept his eyes on the peaks and smiled.

  11

  AN EMPTY BOTTLE

  Isaam folded and refolded his blanket until it was thick enough to serve as a cushion. Then he sat on it and tucked his legs to the side. Around him the camp buzzed with activity. Larol had led a hunting party into a small gorge, and they’d returned with four large wild pigs, more than enough to feed everyone.

  Isaam heard Zoccinder grumble that he would have preferred the pigs spitted and slowly roasted, the juice conserved and used to flavor the roots that also had been collected. But there wasn’t time for that.

  The wizard watched a half dozen men slice thin slabs of meat off the carcasses; they would cook quickly. Isaam did not like to eat animal flesh, convinced that, while it was tasty, it also dulled his mind. Still, on the march he had no other option; keeping his strength up was more important that sticking to a meager and not always reliable diet of vegetables and fruits.

  He fumbled in his pocket for the empty ink bottle and brought it out, noticing that all the dirt and smoke smudge had been rubbed away against the fabric in his pocket. The early-morning sun made the clean bottle shimmer.

  “Crystal,” Isaam pronounced. “Not common glass.” He’d not used it for scrying before when the light was bright enough to show its true nature. “Expensive, from the looks of you.” He wetted the tip of his index finger and ran it along the half-melted lip of the bottle until the motion produced a faint hum.

  “Anything?”

  The word was loud and startled Isaam. He’d been so intent on the bottle and on the scent of the roasting pork that he’d not noticed Bera’s approach.

  “Nothing yet, Commander.” Isaam noted that Zoccinder, though hovering around the fire, was keeping a watchful eye on Bera. “Give me a few moments, please.”

  Bera plopped down opposite him, unmindful of the dirt and pebbles. She fixed her gaze on the bottle and sucked in a deep breath. “All right. Well?”

  Isaam cupped his hands and brought them together so the bottle nested in them. He lowered his gaze until all he saw was the bottle. He didn’t like others watching, particularly Bera, when he cast such spells. The enchantments were not always successful, and he did not want to appear a failure.

  He pressed his thumbs against the sides of the bottle and focused on the little piece of his reflection he could see—one eye and the left side of his face. Isaam didn’t need books and scrolls to cast his spells; they were ingrained in his memory. He needed only to summon up the enchantment in his mind.

  Words tumbled from his lips, also not necessary to the spell, but something he did from habit, a ritual he’d acquired from an old mentor. The words were Elvish; Isaam’s mentor had been an elf. And though Isaam was human, he enjoyed the melodic sound of the Elvish language.

  As the final phrase faded, the crystal shimmered and Isaam’s reflection winked out, to be replaced with the scarred face of Grallik N’sera. Isaam shuddered at the image, as he had each time he’d looked in on the wizard. The fire that had disfigured Grallik’s face and the left side of his body must have been terrible.

  “I … I think I see him,” Bera whispered.

  Isaam concentrated on the image until it expanded and hovered like a floating pool between himself and Bera. Then he willed the figure of Grallik N’sera to be smaller so that the wizard’s surroundings could also come into focus. A rocky spire shadowed Grallik, but the magical vision had limits, and so Isaam could not see to the top of the spire or mark any formation that might give them a better view of the wizard’s location.

  Bera wanted to know precisely where the goblins and Grallik were, and so far Isaam’s magic had been unable to provide that information.

  “He would be handsome,” Bera said, “were it not for the scars. They look painful besides ugly.” She paused, and added, “I pray they are painful still. The traitor deserves to suffer.”

  The vision revealed nothing else but goblins, their numbers stretching away into the distance as far as the bottle permitted.

  “Hundreds of them,” Isaam said. “Hundreds and hundreds … and far too many for this force to take on.” He did not see Bera shake her head in disagreement.

  A cheer went up behind them, and Isaam realized the first of the pork was being served. It did not take long to cook meat cut so thin. The wizard was hungry and found his mouth watering at the smells wafting toward him. But the vision—and Bera’s presence—held him.

  He tried to shift the scrying scene by turning the bottle in his hands ever so slightly. Only more goblins were revealed, nothing of the land around them to help pinpoint the location. Some of the goblins wore Dark Knight tabards and bits of armor, and several had Dark Knight knives and swords strapped to their waists. He couldn’t pick out any leader, unless Grallik N’sera was the leader, nor could Isaam see the Ergothian priest or any of the other Dark Knights reputed to be missing and probably in the goblins’ company.

  “Your magic is …”

  “Worthless, Commander?”

  Bera let out a deep breath that sent a ripple across the vision. “No. No.” She rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin with her hands. “I appreciate what you can do, old friend. Magic is so far beyond me; I’ve truly no understanding of it. Pardon my frustration. I just want to find the traitorous Dark Knights and slay the goblins they escaped with. My orders—”

  “Commander!” Zoccinder jogged toward her, wiping his mouth then his fingers against his tabard. “Our scout has spied goblins in a vale to the south, and they’re getting ready to move.”

  Isaam stared at the image. The goblins there looked settled in and sluggish, not ready to move anywhere. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bera was on her feet and rushing away.

  “Break camp,” she called. “We move south now!”

  The image of Grallik and the goblins folded in on itself, and all Isaam saw was an empty ink bottle in his hands.

  12

  REORX’S CRADLE

  The dwarf screamed and the goblins charged, whooping and drawing their knives, their feet pounding loudly against the ground. The dwarf had surprised them, standing up on the far side of a stream she’d been kneeling at to wash clothes.

  A copse of trees rose beyond her and the stream; willowy pin oaks and silver maples glittered pale green with dew in the early-morning sun. The goblins had been fixated on the trees, so they hadn’t noticed the female dwarf at first.

  They were thirsty, and the stream had been their destination; Mudwort had found it in a vision with her earth magic. But Mudwort had said nothing of the short, stocky dwarf woman.

  If the dwarf hadn’t screamed and startled them, they might not have killed her. They might have simply let her run away, or they might have tried to talk to her and asked where they were in the Khalkists; Direfang wanted to know how many miles they’d
traveled since leaving Steel Town and how many more they had left to go.

  But the scream rattled them and sealed her fate. And she wouldn’t stop screaming, her cries getting louder and more hysterical as she waved her arms like an ungainly bird trying to take flight.

  “Quiet!” Spikehollow had shouted at her in the goblin tongue. “Quiet now, short woman!”

  But she didn’t understand goblinspeak, so she screamed some more, eyes wide and staring at the hundreds of goblins who were marching through the valley straight toward her. Fear rooted her to the bank.

  Spikehollow was the first to reach her, splashing across and driving his long knife into her stomach and killing her with a single blow. Pippa and Leftear were close behind and slashed at her too, not realizing she was already dead. The next few goblins were caught by the frenzy and turned her into a pulpy mass.

  “Should have shut up,” Spikehollow said ruefully, as he stepped away from the body and washed the blood off his hide in the stream. “That short, fat, ugly woman should have listened and shut up.”

  “The woman’s clothes are ruined,” Pippa said, frowning and pointing to the bloody rag that used to be the dwarf’s shift. “Shoes all right, though. Short, wide shoes.” She shouldered her way up to the body, crawling between the legs of a hobgoblin and tugging the leather slippers off. She sloshed them around in the water to rinse off the blood and pranced away with her prize.

  Chima draped herself over a small basket near the body and clawed angrily at her kinsmen who were trying to see what was inside. Leftear growled at her and waved his knife, but she wouldn’t budge from the basket.

  “Enough!” Direfang had not been at the front of the column, and he’d been late to catch up with the dwarf killing at the stream. Since his tumble down the mountainside, he’d been forced to move slower because of a twisted leg and blurry vision. He’d nearly died back there, and the Dark Knight priest had saved him—just as the priest had also saved Graytoes and Two-chins. But the priest told Direfang some of the mending would have to come on its own, and that could take days.