Death March

by Jean Rabe

  “But the clan must return someday, Saarh. Goblins belong to the earth.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “That is also certain, a return.”

  “Goblins were meant to live under the press of the dirt and stone.”

  The sky darkened suddenly and lightning began to flash. Many of the goblins had never witnessed such a display and stood transfixed. Some were terrified and ran for reassurance to Saarh and the goblin with the crooked face.

  The air was electrically charged and the wind gusted, setting Saarh’s beads to clacking and the young trees to bending. Thunder boomed, and a few goblins screamed in response. When the lightning came again and again, forking brilliantly and followed by more thunder, some of the goblins streamed toward the mountain.

  “Stop!” Saarh cried. But her pained voice was too soft.

  The crooked-faced goblin added his voice to hers, telling the clan to stop, and the goblins nervously returned.

  “This is a storm,” she explained. “Chislev’s touch. Nothing more.”

  “Chislev.” Mudwort spat. The goblins long ago revered some gods, that clan recognizing Chislev apparently. She spat again.

  “S’dards! Fools, the lot.” But she scratched her chin thoughtfully. Perhaps the goblins of long ago were unaware that the gods had no regard for their fate. Perhaps in that faraway time they’d not experienced slavery yet, had not been hunted and maligned by Krynn’s more powerful races.

  But they will learn the falseness of the gods, Mudwort mused. “A bad, sad, painful lesson.” She looked up, still keeping her senses locked into the seeing spell and focusing on the shaman. At the same time, a part of her registered Direfang approaching, a stern expression on his craggy face. She dropped her gaze and held tight to the scene from the past, angry with herself that she had not done her “seeing” farther down river where the hobgoblin wouldn’t have spotted her.

  Saarh raised a fist the next time there was a crack of lightning. The lightning illuminated her proud, determined face, her wide, wild eyes glistening with excitement. “It is Chislev calling this clan to this place. The lightning is Chislev’s touch.”

  “Chislev, Chislev, Chislev!”

  “Saarh is Chislev’s claw!” That was intoned by the crooked-faced goblin. “Saarh rules here! Rules for Chislev.”

  “Saarh, Saarh, Saarh!”

  The sky opened up at that very moment, the rain pattering against the ground and the goblins, loud and insistent; many who had never seen a storm were startled.

  “No fear!” Saarh tipped her face up and opened her mouth, drinking in the fresh water and knowing that many of her people would do the same to imitate her.

  “Saarh says ‘no fear!’” The crooked-faced goblin moved behind the shaman and rested his hands on her shoulders.

  “There is more here, in this little forest, than food and space to grow,” Crooked-face whispered softly into her ear. “There is more, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” she hissed. “There is much more.”

  “And that something more is …”

  “Is Chislev’s gift to goblinkind. There is power here. The pulse is too strong to be denied.”

  The lightning flashed, a wide, bright stroke, and the thunder boomed even louder.

  Direfang nudged Mudwort with his foot.

  She cursed as the spell slipped away and the image in her mind of the infant forest and the shaman melted away.

  “Mudwort, the wizard says there is a faster way to the Qualinesti Forest.” Despite the news he brought, Direfang looked positively glum, thought Mudwort.

  She got to her feet, excitement on her face. “Yes, the forest that the elves used to call home. That would be the best home for Direfang’s army. The forest … the one I saw in the vision … the forest …”

  “But the skull man does not want to leave this place,” Direfang interrupted, his face growing even more solemn. “The skull man says this sickness is a plague, and that the plague must not travel elsewhere. Says it must end here with the goblins.”

  Mudwort cursed again. “The skull man does not lead the goblin army; Direfang does. It is what Direfang says that matters, not what a hated Dark Knight says.”

  Direfang looked north to the dead black willow tree. “Mudwort, soon there may be no one left to lead. Even though more and more goblins arrive, everyone is getting sick. Everyone might die.”

  23

  THE PLAGUE TREE

  Rain clouds scudded across the moon, hiding the river and thickening the darkness beneath the black willow. Lightning flickered high overhead, but it was brief and did nothing to cut the shadows, and the thunder that followed was little more than a whisper.

  Leftear didn’t need the moon to see by. He found Horace tending a retching goblin, waited until the priest was done with that patient, then stepped in and picked the priest up by the throat and pressed him against the willow trunk. He cursed at him in the goblin tongue and shook him.

  Horace was so spent, he couldn’t defend himself. He feebly kicked out at Leftear, but his feet didn’t reach the goblin, who squeezed harder and drew blood.

  Still holding the priest, the goblin balled his free hand and rammed it into Horace’s stomach, grunting happily at the dull thud.

  “Again,” Pippa urged him. “Hit the skull man again, harder! Break the skull man! Make the man bleed.”

  “Kill the skull man,” that from a one-armed goblin called Upana. “Be fast!”

  Leftear grinned widely and hammered his fist into the priest’s stomach again and again, careful as he did so not to step on his sick kinsmen sprawled under the tree.

  Pippa was a few yards behind him, dancing between two ill goblins, deftly avoiding pools of vomit and blood while watching Leftear maul the priest. She’d briefly mourned Spikehollow’s passing on that very spot a scant few hours earlier and had instigated the attack to avenge his death.

  “The skull man did not save Spikehollow!” she hollered. “Kill the skull man! Get revenge for Spikehollow in blood!”

  “Stop! Leave him alone, you monsters!” Those words were spoken in the human tongue, coming from the wizard rushing up to them. Though the offending goblins didn’t comprehend the language of the man, they well understood that Grallik was also their enemy and, without releasing Horace, Leftear turned to threaten the newcomer, snarling in defiance.

  “Stop this now!” Grallik pulled his three goats as close as he dared, staying well short of the first rows of the sick. He strained to see through the darkness, but saw only black shapes shifting and groaning. “You’re fools, the sorry lot of you! Horace is your only chance to survive this plague!” When it was clear they didn’t fathom his words, he realized none of them spoke the human language; desperately, Grallik searched his memory for a spell.

  “What say?” Pippa called to Leftear. “What does the foul wizard say?”

  Leftear grunted happily and turned and punched the priest again.

  “The wizard wants Leftear to stop hitting the skull man,” Upana, who had caught the gist of the human words, explained. “The wizard is stupid. And the wizard cannot see in the dark.” The one-armed goblin laughed loudly and made a punching motion to imitate Leftear.

  More words tumbled from Grallik’s lips, those uttered in an arcane language that none but he could decipher. “I begged you,” the wizard said. “I warned you, you vile little things.”

  Grallik waited for the lightning to flash again, and when it did and he could see his target, he pointed his free hand at Leftear. Fire shot out, striking the hobgoblin squarely in the back and pitching him forward into Horace. The two fell in a heap at the base of the tree, while Pippa howled in rage. The goats tried to bolt, nearly pulling Grallik down, but he spread his feet and kept his balance, searching his memory for another spell and praying for another fork of lightning so his tired eyes could better spot his next target.

  “This will damn me,” Grallik muttered. “Kill me. Those flea-ridden monsters will—”

  “The
wizard killed Leftear,” one of the hobgoblin’s friends cried. “Kill the wizard! Revenge in blood!”

  “Yes, Leftear is dead. Stinky dead.” Upana grabbed at Leftear’s waist, gagging on the scent of burned flesh that mingled with the stench of the sick. He pulled free a long knife and rushed at the wizard. Keen as the goblin’s eyes were, he didn’t see a pool of blood near a coughing hobgoblin. Upana slipped in the ooze and fell down but was quick to struggle to his feet.

  “Stay away from me!” Grallik shouted. “I’ll not touch that blood! Keep your damnable sickness to yourselves!”

  Upana continued his charge, just as lightning flickered again, and the wizard blasted him with a ribbon of flame. The impact propelled the goblin back into a sick kinsman who was trying to rise.

  The fire and commotion caught Direfang’s attention. He and Mudwort had been too far away to see Leftear attack the priest, but he could tell there was trouble brewing beneath the tree.

  Another column of flame lit up the night. The flash almost blinded the hobgoblin, but it also served to reveal a group of goblins swarming at Grallik and toward the black willow.

  “Stay put,” he ordered Mudwort. “Stay away from the plague tree!”

  He lumbered forward toward the column of flame. Fingers of lightning again illuminated the wizard, who was being pulled down and pummeled. Another flash showed the glint of several blades.

  Direfang ran as fast as he could, not to save the Dark Knight, but to stop a brawl in which who knew how many goblins might be hurt. He was at the scene in a few heartbeats, and started pulling knives out of goblins’ grasps and hurling them into the river. Then he tugged the goblins off the wizard, who in such a short time was already badly beaten and cut.

  “What is the meaning behind this?” Direfang bellowed. Staggering, the wizard put his back to the hobgoblin’s. “Speak fast!” Direfang demanded.

  More goblins were rushing toward the black willow, all of them anxious to be a part of whatever excitement was happening.

  “Speak now!” Direfang screamed so hard his voice broke.

  He was answered by dozens of explanations that ran together and made no sense. The sound of the brawl at the tree, the goblins’ chattering, the river rushing by, and the thunder coming louder rose to a painful cacophony. The wizard was also trying to explain, and Direfang could pick out only a few of Grallik’s words.

  “Horace … attacked … monsters.”

  Direfang howled again, and the growing number of goblins around him hesitated and backed away. One risked darting in to slash at the wizard, but Direfang was faster. The hobgoblin spun, his big hand reaching out and closing around the goblin’s wrist. He picked the offender up and hurled him into the river.

  “This … ends … now!” Direfang snarled. He pushed his way through the mass of goblins and headed toward the base of the tree. “This ends now!” he howled again and again.

  The goblins edged back, cowed by his fury. Direfang carefully stepped between the ill and neared the trunk, pulling curious goblins aside until he reached Pippa. Her dress was covered in blood; her companions were just as blood soaked.

  Direfang threw a hand over his nose and mouth, but that couldn’t keep out the foul odors.

  “Leftear,” Pippa pointed. “The wizard killed Leftear.”

  “Burned Leftear and Upana,” another goblin interjected. He muscled his way past Direfang and took a stance on top of the unconscious priest. “All to protect this useless skull man. Goblins died to the wizard’s fire for no reason!”

  Direfang knocked the goblin off Horace’s stomach and kicked Leftear’s body away. He saw that the priest was still breathing. He bent and carefully picked him up, placed him over a shoulder, and struggling under the priest’s weight, carried him down to the riverbank. The hobgoblin laid him down at the water’s edge and put his own face inches above the water.

  He breathed deep, trying to clear his lungs of the terrible stench of burned flesh and rotting goblins. “All of this ends now,” he said when he finally stood up and faced the many who had followed him. “No more fighting. This isn’t worth it, none of it. No more bleeding.”

  “Direfang leaving?” one of the older goblins murmured. “Direfang angry and leaving?”

  He listened to a wave of similar questions before finally shaking his head. “No one should leave until the sickness runs its course. It must not spread beyond this place.”

  “Direfang not leaving!” a relieved goblin shouted to the crowd.

  “But the skull man must pay for not stopping the sickness!” Pippa had threaded her way to the riverbank and prodded Direfang with her finger. “The skull man—”

  The thunder boomed loudly, and Pippa stopped talking. Rain began falling, gently, and the goblins looked up and closed their eyes, letting the water sluice over their faces. It was quiet for several minutes, save for the pattering sound the rain made against the goblins and the river.

  “Leave the skull man alone,” Direfang said. There was little power behind his words, however. And leave me alone, his dour expression seemed to add.

  The rain came down harder, swelling the river and soaking Direfang and all the goblins gathered. Within the passing of a few moments, the sound of the rain grew until it seemed hurtful in its intensity. The ground began to rock, and the river shuddered when the thunder grew louder still. Direfang arched his back and let the rain massage it, craned his neck, and watched the river rise, the current racing. He glared around at all the goblins who were waiting for his next words, his leadership.

  “Direfang leaving? Not now, but later?” It was the older goblin again. She’d squeezed her eyes shut against the pounding rain, but she was turning her head this way and that to enjoy the refreshing wetness of it. “After the sickness, Direfang go?”

  The hobgoblin scanned the faces of the goblins pressed closest. The rain and the darkness shadowed their expressions and muted their whispered conversations.

  “Leaving?” asked the persistent goblin worriedly. “Direfang can’t leave.”

  Direfang made his way through the crowd and toward the black willow. He shivered as he stepped beneath its dead branches, shuffling now and then to avoid bumping into the sick. He couldn’t see them well, all but dark lumps against the dark ground. Yet he could hear them: moaning, whimpering, coughing, vomiting. And he could smell them; the stench was a wall he pressed through.

  The rain continued to come down hard but not hard enough to squash the stink or drown out the sounds of the ill ones’ misery. He found Leftear’s corpse and Upana’s too. He bent to pick up the two bodies then noticed that several more of the sick goblins near them were dead—not from any of the wizard’s spells, but from the illness. He pressed his head against the black willow’s trunk and let out a sob. It was a weakness to cry, but in the darkness only the closest sick goblins could see him. And Direfang knew they would die soon, telling no one of his shame.

  His shoulders shook in grief over the dead and dying, over the ragtag army that was so difficult to control, and over the whole of his life that had consisted of nothing good—only a dozen free years followed by many more of slavery and brutal beatings, relentless hard work, and finally his horrible situation. He dropped to his knees, scraping his face against the rotting bark. The smell of blood was stronger close to the ground.

  A goblin cried out softly, and Direfang reached to his right, feeling the goblin and touching blood and massive boils. He didn’t pull his hand away; rather he rubbed the goblin’s forehead and reached to touch others that were near.

  Let the sickness take me, he thought. Let it end all of this.

  The early-morning sky shimmered a soft pink, the color of the roses that used to grow in barrels outside the tavern in Steel Town. Mist curled across the top of the river and twined around tree trunks, hinting that the sun would burn the mist off soon and make for a hot day.

  Grallik and Horace sat together on a piece of slate on the riverbank, backs to the water and staring a
t the dead black willow. Bodies were piled like cordwood against its trunk. Kenosh’s was among them.

  “The last of my talon,” Grallik said dully. His face and arms were purple with bruises from the pummeling the goblins had given him the previous night. His leg carried an ugly welt where a goblin kicked him because he’d let the goats run away.

  Horace had fared worse. The Ergothian favored his left side and held his chin in his hands. His bruises were conspicuous, even on his dark face, his eyelids were swollen. A gash ran from his right ear to his throat, and it was only just crusting.

  “Kenosh was a loyal knight,” Horace said finally.

  “I will miss him. The best of my talon, he was.”

  The priest let out a sigh. “Perhaps we will join him soon enough, Gray Robe. The plague spreads, and I can do nothing to even slow it down.”

  Grallik rubbed at the corner of his lip, where an ugly scab was forming. “It was the dwarf village, wasn’t it? That’s where the plague came from.”

  “Aye, the spoils from the Cradle were tainted.”

  The wizard hung his head. “I … I am sorry I brought you into this mess, Horace. I was thinking of myself and—”

  “No.” Horace cocked his head to study the wizard. “The Sea Mother brought me into this situation, Gray Robe. And if we survive this predicament, it will be because she wills it.”

  “Wizard!” Direfang shouted from nearby. “Be fast!”

  “The Foreman calls,” the wizard said with a deep sigh. “So much for this respite.” Grallik carefully stood and tested his legs. “Coming, Foreman!” He called forth a familiar spell as he moved, pointing a slender finger at the black willow and closing his eyes when a gout of flame shot down to catch the top of the tree. “Burning the dead, as you requested, Foreman Direfang.”

  Before the sun chased the blush from the sky, the tree and all the bodies beneath it had turned to ash.

  24