Death March

DIREFANG’S DISTRACTIONS

Grallik had told Direfang that the trees in the Qualinesti Forest were so thick in some places that their leaves blocked the sunlight. The hobgoblin had a difficult time imagining such a place, but he tried. Although he wasn’t born a slave, he’d never lived far from the aridness of Neraka. All he’d known was scarred, scabrous land and a hard life. There’d been a few trees, but not a single one in Steel Town proper. He was looking forward to seeing so many trees that he would not be able to count them all.

Many days past, Mudwort’s magic had told her that the Qualinesti Forest would be a good homeland for the goblins and hobgoblins who had escaped from Steel Town and followed Direfang through the mountains. He’d earlier believed that the Plains of Dust would be best. When he was a slave, he’d caught glimpses of the Dark Knights’ maps, and the Plains of Dust to the south had always intrigued him. From listening to the knights, he knew the Plains were not as arid as their name implied, and he envisioned plenty of land for the goblins to spread out on. He heard more than one knight say there were few ogres in the Plains.

But he trusted Mudwort and had grown fascinated with the notion of the huge, thick trees of the former homeland of the elves. As he walked at the head of the long goblin column, he tried to picture such trees. The daydream occupied him and kept his mind off the events that had killed so many of his kinsmen-the earthquakes, volcanoes, ogres, and most recently, the tylor. And it kept him from worrying about Graytoes, whom he carried.

His legs ached from traveling so many days with little respite. The soles of his feet were like leather from working in the mines for so many years. Still, they gave him much pain. The mountain trail had so many sharp shards that they cut through his thick pads and made him dread each step.

Many of the goblins and hobgoblins had boots that they’d taken from the Dark Knights during the escape from Steel Town. Others had taken sandals and shoes from the ogres in a town they’d sacked high in the mountains. They’d obtained their clothing from both of those places, though Direfang thought shoes were the most important acquisitions. He had not taken any for himself, though he had been quick to take a tunic off a dead ogre. He’d left the shoes for the other, weaker ones, but he regretted not grabbing a pair for himself. His weary feet hurt.

He vowed to grab the next pair of shoes for himself if they came across another ogre village or patrol.

In the wonderful elf forest, perhaps none of them would need shoes. Perhaps the ground would be soft and comfortable to walk on, like a green carpet. And he hoped there would be plenty to eat. He would have to approach Mudwort soon about using her earth magic to find more beasts, a large herd of goats or sheep-something that would not be so difficult as the tylor to kill, something that would feed all the hungry goblins following him.

He stopped on a narrow promontory, staring down and ahead at what passed for a trail. Weeds grew in small pockets of dirt that had been caught in shallow depressions, but for the most part everything looked brown and dead. Some goats did come that way; he spotted their spoor, and if goats managed to negotiate that trail, goblins could too. But it would not be an easy path.

Direfang scratched his chin and glanced over his shoulder, seeing the three Dark Knights a dozen yards behind him and towering over the goblins. Even though the knights had been beaten down by the trek and were treated as slaves, they held their proud posture.

Direfang squared his shoulders and affected a similar mien. He looked as if he had been chiseled from a block of granite, compared to the humans. His features were rough and thickly scarred, his build was lean but muscular. The humans had smooth skin and features that seemed small and foolish. He didn’t like knights, and he hated what they and their kind had inflicted on the goblins at the mine. Direfang’s throat grew dry at the memories of watching goblins being whipped for not mining fast enough or not carrying enough rocks in their sacks.

He couldn’t get some of the horrifying images out of his head, and tears threatened his eyes.

“At least free now,” he muttered to himself. He’d tried to escape once before, many years earlier. And when the knights had caught him, they beat him until he couldn’t stand and poured salt in his wounds. They’d cut off his left ear and hung it on a thong around his neck, and they’d forced him to return to the mines immediately. Those who had tried to escape with him were killed, and Direfang was certain he’d been spared because of his strength and size; he was too valuable a laborer to slaughter. Too, he was certain he’d been promoted to foreman a few years after that failed escape because the knights had forgotten who he was and what he had done. Hobgoblins and goblins looked the same to men.

Sadness and anger rushed through him in waves, and the images from the mining camp became more vivid in his mind. All of the past several years-the beatings, the torturous hours of toiling in the belly of the Dark Knight mountain, the scant meals, the stink of the slave pens-all of it overwhelmed him and he sobbed.

“Think about the trees,” he told himself.

He brushed at the tears with his forearm and kept his back turned to the others so no one could see his weakness. It was a terrible thing for a leader to cry, he knew. It was bad enough that Graytoes continued to whimper over the loss of her mate.

Direfang tried nurturing his rage over the Dark Knights’ treatment of him and the others, over the number of goblins lost to the earthquakes and volcanoes, over the muddled attack on the tylor, and all the violent deaths at the hands of that foul creature. The rage inside him burned like a column of the wizard’s fire and finally chased away his tears.

“Should kill the three Dark Knights maybe,” he whispered to himself. It might get rid of some of the stench that hung in the air; the humans had a distinct, unpleasant odor, worse than goblins, Direfang thought. Direfang wondered if it was the scent of evil, as he knew of no more evil creatures than the Dark Knights who worked the slaves.

“Might feel better with the Dark Knights dead.” But the knights might still come in handy. The skull man was necessary as none of the goblins possessed his ability to heal wounds. And the wizard’s fire magic had proved useful. The one called Kenosh had not been particularly helpful, but he’d not yet given Direfang an excuse to kill him either. “Maybe kill some Dark Knights later,” he said. “The wizard and the other one.” That might help erase some of the terrible memories of being their slave at the mines. “But maybe keep the skull man for healing when we need it.”

He shifted Graytoes to nestle in his other arm. She could walk, but when she did she shuffled along mindlessly, and Direfang worried that she’d get trampled by her kinsmen or might fall off the edge of the trail. He felt responsible for her, for all of them; they’d designated him their leader.

“Didn’t want to be a leader,” he said. Graytoes looked up at him quizzically. He spoke in the Common tongue of man-both for practice and because most of his kinsmen didn’t understand the language. “Still don’t want to be a leader.”

Maybe the others followed him because they were used to him ordering them around in the mines. Or perhaps it was because of his size. At nearly seven feet tall, Direfang was an imposing figure, and the scars that riddled his body made him look even more intimidating.

“Moon-eye,” Graytoes murmured. Her shoulders shook as she broke into another wail. “Moon-eye …”

“Is dead,” Direfang finished for her, switching to the goblin tongue. “Moon-eye is dead and best left forgotten. Better to think about lots and lots of trees. There will be too many trees to count, Graytoes. And the shade will feel very good. We are going to a wonderful place, Mudwort says. Qualinesti.”

At last, the image of the trees took precedence in his mind, Graytoes quieted, and he marched along with a measure of ease.

The trail was riddled with knifelike shards of shale and limestone, however. Direfang himself couldn’t avoid all the troublesome spots, and behind him he heard goblins complain and cry out in pain; the wizard gasped and stumbled, the priest catching him. Good that the knights looked after each other, Direfang thought. Goblins might do well to look after one another.

“How much longer to the trees, Direfang?” It was the first time Graytoes had mentioned something other than her lost mate.

The hobgoblin shrugged. “Miles, Graytoes. Many, many miles.”

He knew how to measure miles but had no idea how many miles they’d actually traveled or how many miles they had yet to go. The mountains began far to the north of Steel Town and cut south into ogre territory, running well more than one hundred and fifty miles, if his memory of the Dark Knight maps he’d studied was true. Flat on the map, nothing more than brown paint that looked like earthworms, there’d been no hint how imposing and difficult to cross the mountains truly were. He’d lived in the foothills before Steel Town; it was where a hunting party of ogres had caught him. Scattered villages of ogres supplied the Dark Knights with slaves.

But those foothills were not so difficult to traverse as the mountains, and the goblins in the line behind him constantly complained about the arduousness of the journey. A part of him wished they would all go their own ways and leave him alone.

He paused and closed his eyes and tried to picture one of the Dark Knight maps. The Khalkist Mountains stretched into Khur, where ogres were the dominant population. Not even the large number of goblins and hobgoblins following Direfang would stand a chance against them. If he recalled one of the large maps correctly, the mountains curved like a fishhook around the eastern edge of the New Sea. He intended to lead the goblins around that edge and strike out west, avoiding the ogre country and cutting through the swamp.

“Wish I had a map,” he muttered.

“Map?” Graytoes tugged on his arm. “What’s a map? Direfang has talked about a map before. Is it a pretty thing?”

“A map …” He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut tighter, trying to figure out how to explain it to her. Graytoes wasn’t stupid, but she had never seen a map. “Yes,” he thought, ignoring her question, “a map would be very useful. It would show these mountains, and the Qualinesti Forest. And it would show how many more miles all the goblins must walk.”

He opened his eyes again just as he took a misstep and slipped down the side of the mountain. The world spun one way, then another, as he fell. Holding Graytoes close and trying to shield her with his body, he briefly regained his footing but stumbled again. Clumps of dirt and scrub grass flew, and tiny stones bit him all over.

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 dropping 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.