Death March

SARO-SARO’S SCHEME

Direfang awoke shortly before dawn, carefully picking his way through the sleeping goblins to the head of the column. Mudwort had said the pass would end soon, but she’d found a trail of sorts that wound up the western ridge that they could follow to the other side to reach the river. Direfang decided to take his charges along that trail and follow the river to the New Sea.

He walked south alone for a short while, seeking rare solitude. He was far enough ahead that he could no longer hear the snores of those still sleeping or the chatter of the ones just waking up. All he could hear was the whisper of the wind edging over the ridge and stirring the dust at the bottom.

How many days had he walked? How far had he come from Steel Town?

Hell Town-he’d heard the wizard call it that once.

Indeed, the Abyss could have been no worse than the Dark Knight mining camp. Direfang wore the years he’d spent there in scars. They were so thick in places on his chest, arms, and back that no hair grew there, making him ugly, a grotesquerie as far as humans and hobgoblins alike were concerned. He scratched at the left side of his head, where his ear had been; a small, jagged piece of flesh remained. His appearance and size had helped make him a formidable foreman in the mine. His arms and legs were thick with muscles from the hard labor in the camp, his hands and feet callused. He’d hoped to find shoes in Reorx’s Cradle, but he’d not had the opportunity to look through the homes. His first responsibility had been to keep an eye on all the goblins, keep them from rampaging or squabbling.

Besides, his feet were not hurting as badly as they had been earlier. Either the calluses were growing thicker or he was becoming used to the constant dull pain.

A large bird flew overhead, banking slowly and circling. It was a hawk of some kind, dark brown and with white tail feathers. There were other birds higher up, black specks seen against a pale gray sky. Direfang watched them for a few moments and savored the sweet air. There’d been birds around Steel Town, mostly scavengers. The large one that still circled was a predator.

Direfang dropped his gaze and opened the book filled with the dwarf’s charcoal maps. He guessed at where he was in the range, not far out of Reorx’s Cradle. He saw where the pass ended, probably a few hours of walking ahead, and there was a thin line indicating the trail that would take them over the western range. Mudwort had confirmed the authenticity of the map with her spell the previous night.

The Plains of Dust? He’d been thinking about that place lately, wondering if they should go there.

Mudwort had tried to convince him the Qualinesti Forest was a better destination. She and Moon-eye and Boliver had delved into the earth and searched for a good goblin home for the long-term future. They’d agreed on the Qualinesti Forest. Mudwort was undoubtedly right about the forest, Direfang mused. The forest would be the goblins’ best opportunity to build their nation.

But it was so far away. He tried to picture it on the maps the Dark Knights had stretched out across their long table. The forest was a world away.

Direfang had slept little the previous night, thinking about the long, hard journey ahead. He’d come to a difficult decision just a little while earlier-not one that would sit well with Mudwort. They would travel around the fishhook of mountains to the swamp, spend some time there hunting and resting to recover from the arduousness of their trek thus far, then they would head to the Plains. It would take them weeks and weeks to get to the Plains, maybe a few months. But the Plains were not so far from the forest … if he recalled the Dark Knights’ maps correctly.

That way, he could investigate the Plains, and Mudwort could have her way too.

Direfang closed the book and gave a last look up at the hawk, which still circled, but farther west and higher. He headed back to his charges, his twisted leg not bothering him as much anymore and his vision much improved over the previous day.

As he drew closer, he stared at the rag-tag army, all of them waking up-more than eight hundred, less than one thousand. There had been more before Hurbear’s clan broke away many miles earlier. About half of his charges wore clothes and scraps of armor taken from Dark Knights, ogres, and, just yesterday, the dwarves.

Few of them had been afforded the luxury of clothes in Steel Town. Neither had any of the goblins there had possessions. Since then, many wore clothing and all coveted various things they’d hauled away from Reorx’s Cradle and the other places they’d looted. The possessions had given them pride.

It was almost funny, Direfang mused. One goblin had claimed a stool half as tall as he was. It was awkward to carry, but he’d stubbornly refused to part with it or to trade it for smaller and perhaps more valuable things. Other goblins bore empty flowerpots, pans, ceramic mugs too big around to comfortably hold in their hands, books they could not read, vases, gardening tools, sacks of seeds and bulbs they probably would never plant, toys they’d snatched from dwarf children’s beds, sacks of flour, and many other things that Direfang had no names for. One old goblin led a pig on a leather leash; some held chickens and geese they’d stolen from the dwarves, and others tugged stubborn goats. A few of the bigger, plumper goats were protected from slaughter, and they were in the Dark Knight Kenosh’s care.

The Dark Knight priest said Graytoes’ stolen baby required milk, which the goats could provide. Direfang suggested the goblin younglings in the throng could also benefit from the milk. Hence a few goats were saved.

The entire army looked like refugees streaming from some village with everything they owned on their backs.

Indeed, they were refugees, and Direfang intended to find them a home.

Saro-Saro and his most prominent clansmen had claimed a wide spot in the trail, one where a rocky overhang sheltered them. Direfang stepped around members of the Woodcutter clan and beyond Graytoes, who belonged to no clan. She held the baby close, rocking it and singing an old song to the youngling that Moon-eye used to sing to her. She smiled at Direfang and immediately returned her attention to the baby.

Several Flamegrass clansmen were mingling with Saro-Saro’s clan. Direfang thought it good to see the two groups getting along.

“Saro-Saro.”

The old goblin snorted and got to his feet. He adjusted a green cape he wore over his shoulders, his fingers wiping off a silver pin that held it on. He nodded to Direfang and suppressed a yawn. Around him, members of his clan stood and stretched, some of them beginning to eat vegetables they’d harvested from Reorx’s Cradle.

“It is time to go over the mountains. The pass will end ahead where a trail leads up and to the west. It will be a few hours of walking to that trail.” Direfang pointed to the western range. “A narrow trail and probably difficult to climb. But there is a river on the other side.”

“Thirsty,” Pippa said. She sniffed at herself. “And dirty. Cleaning in the river would be good.”

Saro-Saro looked thoughtful. “A mountain trail. Steep?”

“Looks to be steep.”

“Dangerous?” Pippa asked.

Direfang shook his head. “Dangerous only to those who are not careful.”

The hobgoblin did not notice the glimmer in Saro-Saro’s eyes.

“This river,” Saro-Saro said. “The one on the other side. It leads to the New Sea Mudwort talked about?”

Direfang nodded. “Spikehollow?” Direfang looked around. He expected the goblin to be somewhere near Saro-Saro, as he usually was. “Where is Spikehollow?”

Pippa scowled and tugged on Direfang’s arm. “Spikehollow is a little sick,” she explained. “Maybe more than just a little sick. Maybe Spikehollow should have talked to the skull man last night. But Spikehollow-”

“Is fine,” Spikehollow finished, emerging from between two burly, yellow-skinned goblins. He still wore his quilt, but he’d tied it around his neck, wearing it like a cape. It looked garish, the colorful thing fluttering around his shoulders. “The sleep helped a lot, Pippa.”

Direfang turned and walked toward the front of the column. “Spikehollow will lead this army,” he said over his shoulder. “For a while. At least until the pass ends and the trail up the mountain begins.”

“The very steep trail,” Pippa whispered. She rubbed her hands together gleefully. “And when Direfang reaches the top …”

Saro-Saro’s voice became barely audible. “Spikehollow will push the big, ugly hobgoblin down the mountain.” He paused. “And this time Direfang will not survive.”

Spikehollow, nodding to them over his shoulder, followed Direfang. But the young goblin did not walk as fast as usual, and he was shivering despite the warmth of the early morning. He breathed shallowly to keep from coughing.

“Feel better,” Spikehollow said to himself, “but not much.” He tugged the quilt tightly around him and tried to pick up his pace, stumbling when he bumped into a goat tethered to the Dark Knight named Kenosh. He hurried around the three Dark Knights and avoided Graytoes. Spikehollow didn’t want the others to see him sick.

“Saro-Saro is old,” Spikehollow mused, knowing he stood a very good chance to inherit the clan at Saro-Saro’s passing. “Saro-Saro might not live to reach the New Sea. Spikehollow lead now, but soon it might be Spikehollow’s army truly.”

He passed a brown-skinned goblin he’d befriended in Steel Town, one who often worked the same shift as he in the mine. He’d given the goblin, Bugteeth he was called, the gray blanket he’d plucked from the home in Reorx’s Cradle. He stood tall as he passed him, not wanting to appear as sick as he felt. He smiled and gestured.

Bugteeth smiled a greeting, then turned and coughed and wiped a speck of blood off his lips.