Death March

HOPE

Graytoes ran her finger along the baby’s bottom lip. It was soft, softer than anything she’d touched before. The goblins who walked at her side said the baby was an ugly thing. Its skin was too light and uninteresting; it was all smooth with no bumps or growths. And it cried for seemingly no reason.

At least its nose was wide, one goblin told her, and its eyes were reasonably large.

It didn’t have much hair on its head, another pointed out. So while it was a dwarf baby, it didn’t look like any of the dwarves in Reorx’s Cradle; they were all hairy creatures.

Graytoes knew the speakers hadn’t seen the other babies in the house. None of those babies had much hair, and admittedly the one she had taken had the least. She hadn’t picked that baby because of that fact; she’d picked it because it was the smallest and would be the easiest to carry. And she picked that one because she liked the cooing and gurgling sounds it made when it seemed to be happy. She told herself that the baby would be far happier with her and the rest of the goblins than stuck in a village that had been plundered to the point where nothing of any value remained.

She looked forward to naming the child. But what should its name be? A dwarf name might be appropriate, but Graytoes had never seen a dwarf before Reorx’s Cradle, and she did not know any of their type of names. Goblins and hobgoblins were often named after their physical traits or acquired habits or sometimes for the area in which a clan lived. Her dead mate, Moon-eye, had been given his name because one of his eyes was a solid white, overlarge orb that looked like a full moon. Bugteeth ate bugs, probably from a very early age, and often legs and wings got stuck to the front of his teeth. She had no idea how Mudwort got her name, as she was red skinned and did not at all look like any patch of mud.

Then there were goblins named after ancestors, such as Saro-Saro. She’d heard him say that his grandfather Saro was a clan leader, and because he was the second Saro in the family, they doubled the name. Spikehollow said he thought he was named for the tall, scratchy reeds that grew around his home. Some goblin names made no sense to her, seeming to be sounds more than anything else. Other names likely had a significance known only to the parents or the clan.

If Graytoes had a name when she was a youngling, she couldn’t recall what it was. She’d acquired Graytoes in Steel Town, working in the mines. Her feet were often gray with stone dust, in stark contrast to her yellow skin. Graytoes didn’t want her baby to be named for her slave work or her bug-eating or Baby Graytoes. She needed something special to call the child.

Wide-nose, she could call her baby that.

Or Large-eyes … no, that would always remind her of Moon-eye, and that would make her sad.

Smooth-skin. That would be a good choice, except as the baby got older, its skin might not stay so smooth.

Sabak, that was the interesting name of an old goblin hero she’d heard a story about in Steel Town. Maybe Sabak.

Direfang-Direfang would honor the hobgoblin who led the escape from that hated mining camp. But that was too long a name, she decided after running it around on her tongue a few times.

Hmm … Paxtan, that was a goblin word for traveler, and the baby would be traveling a lot before settling down in the forest Mudwort had told her about.

“Lek,” she finally murmured aloud.

A goblin at her shoulder cocked his head. “Small one?”

That was what lek meant.

“This baby needs a name,” Graytoes explained. “A very good one.”

“Lek,” the goblin repeated. “It is small, that baby. But it will get bigger. It might get bigger than Graytoes.”

“If it lives,” said Pippa, who had drifted close out of curiosity.

The goblins had reached the end of the pass, and Graytoes looked up to see Spikehollow start to climb the trail. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the challenge ahead, and she shook her head. It would not be an easy climb, especially with the baby and the satchel on her back, but she would manage. It would be more difficult for Direfang with his twisted leg and for Saro-Saro because he was old. At least the goats would be fine, which concerned Graytoes because she wanted plenty of milk for the baby.

“Sugi?” Graytoes said, trying out another name.

“Big tree?” Pippa scratched her head. “That’s not a good name for a baby, even for a dwarf one.”

“Sugi also means blessed.” Graytoes had learned that from Hurbear. It was a word that had not been uttered very often in Steel Town as there had been no blessings there.

Pippa shrugged. “It also means a big tree. But there will be plenty of big trees in the elves’ old forest. So Sugi would work.”

Graytoes wrinkled her nose, thinking. “This baby needed an important name.”

Deva meant … special. The baby was that.

Or Sheel … meaning quiet … the baby was indeed quiet.

“Pippa-Pippa,” Pippa suggested helpfully.

Graytoes scowled as she started her climb. It narrowed to the point they had to go single file, which suited her fine. Pippa stayed behind her. Good. Graytoes didn’t need help naming her baby.

Her baby.

A Dark Knight priest had magically ripped one from her belly after the first quake in Steel Town. The priest had been tending the wounded, and Graytoes had indeed been injured in the mines when a support beam had fallen across her legs. The priest deemed that her real trouble was the child inside her; it was turned incorrectly, he’d said. He had solved the problem by killing it. Then she’d lost Moon-eye, her mate, too.

“Umay,” she decided when she reached the halfway point in the climb. Graytoes held the child close, both arms wrapped around the young one. If she stumbled, her arms might protect Umay. She couldn’t bear to lose anything else in her short life.

“Umay?” Pippa had caught up to her, close. “Hope? You would name the baby that?”

Graytoes nodded. Umay indeed meant hope in goblin-speak. It was another one of those words that hadn’t been used very often in the slave pens. But that’s what the baby had given her: hope.

“Umay,” Graytoes repeated. “It is a very good name.”

Pippa muttered something Graytoes could not hear then added, louder, “Pippa-Pippa would have been better.”

Spikehollow wondered when he would find an opportunity to push Direfang off the mountain. He felt a little conflicted about Saro-Saro’s plan, as Direfang was not a bad hobgoblin and had never done anything so very wrong in his eyes. Direfang had helped the goblins all escape from Steel Town, led a rebellion against the Dark Knights … yes, but he also had brought them to that hellish stretch of steep mountains that seemed to go on forever.

The goblin couldn’t hold the quilt around him as he climbed. He needed at least one hand free to grasp rocks for support. The fingers of his other hand were wrapped around the cord of a canvas sack he’d taken from one of the younger clansmen. Inside were a few potatoes, some shiny, colorful vegetables that were bulbous and hot-tasting, squares that he’d heard the wizard call dwarven hardtack, and a fist-sized rock carved in the shape of an anvil-a miniature to the one that stood east of the expansive garden in Reorx’s Cradle. Spikehollow didn’t intend to worship Reorx with the thing; he thought it might make a good tool for pounding.

Right then, however, it was his head that was pounding. Spikehollow admitted to himself that he was still feeling sick. He realized he should have sought out the help of the Dark Knight priest, who seemed able to work healing wonders. But he didn’t want to look weak in front of the other clansmen, and looking for help from a hated human could indeed be construed as weakness. He had to look strong and act decisively, especially if he intended to take over Saro-Saro’s clan when that old goblin died. Saro-Saro would surely die soon. Spikehollow was the obvious leader for the clan then, which he intended to rename the Hollow clan.

The trail disappeared two-thirds of the way up, and the goblin had to wedge his fingers into small crevices and use his hands and feet to pull himself up a sheer rock wall. He nearly dropped his bag of treasures. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait long for Saro-Saro’s demise. The old goblin might not have the strength to follow the arduous climb. Spikehollow’s muscles bunched as he levered himself up onto a ledge. His arms and legs ached more than ever, and again he barely managed to hang on to his canvas bag. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths and coughed. Then he looked over the side and motioned the goblins to follow.

He spotted Direfang, quite a ways behind, down the trail. The hobgoblin was still favoring his leg. Spikehollow would have to wait for Direfang at the top, find a way to engage him in some conversation, perhaps waylay him when he was still recovering from the climb. Spikehollow couldn’t risk the wrong goblins seeing him push Direfang, so he would have to be very careful. But the high ridge might provide the right opportunity; there might be no better one.

The goblin continued his ascent, pausing to pick up the hem of his quilt and wipe off his face. Though he felt chilled on the mountain-no doubt because the air was colder high up-he was also sweating unaccountably. It was because of the exertion, he told himself. That was why. But a shiver passed through him, and he had another coughing spasm. He would have to rest after killing Direfang. But everyone would want to rest. He knew everyone would stop to grieve, and so he could sleep a little and get better.

He slowed down, though the trail was a little easier to navigate toward the top. He had started to ache all over- not just his head or his legs, but his stomach and sides too. Had he eaten something from the dwarf village that had made him so sick? That had happened once before in Steel Town, when the Dark Knights had given some of the hardest-working slaves scraps of meat. Tasty scraps, but they hadn’t sat well in their stomachs, and the slaves had vomited and curled up into feverish balls and were unable to work the following day. Spikehollow hoped there was nothing wrong with the food in his treasure bag. He would be hungry later. He wasn’t hungry at that moment. Odd, but he hadn’t wanted anything to eat since shortly after leaving Reorx’s Cradle.

He’d earlier heard a hobgoblin say that the women dwarves had cursed them for the destruction, wailed for the goblins to go to the Abyss. But Spikehollow didn’t believe in curses or the Abyss.

It was probably some bad bit of food he had eaten.

When Spikehollow reached the top, he steadied himself. He was at a place where there was nothing to grab on to, and he felt a little dizzy, so high up, so weary, and so sick-feeling. He redoubled his grip on his treasure bag and stared down at the pines far below. He couldn’t see the river; it probably ran too close to the base of the mountain and was hidden from his view. But he knew the water was there. Boliver and Mudwort talked about seeing it, and he swore he could hear it rushing along. The colors were intense up there so high, such a change from the drab browns and grays of the mountain. The pines were a vibrant green, the color of the blanket he’d given Saro-Saro, the sky bright blue against thin, wispy clouds. The air was blissfully free of the smell of goblins, though that would change soon, as hundreds were climbing behind him.

Spikehollow would have liked to savor the scenery. But he was feeling worse and worse, and the matter of Direfang weighed heavily on him as well. He heard a clatter behind him and whirled in time to see a stool bouncing down the side of the mountain; the goblin carrying it had lost his grip. Other things were dropping too, sacks and chickens, and a small table-some deliberately, some accidentally. A few minutes later, a piglet squealed shrilly.

“Direfang chose bad, this route,” said the first goblin who crested the top and started down the other side. He struggled with a big flowerpot filled with potatoes and radishes. “Direfang should have picked an easier way, Spikehollow. Bad way, this.”

The goblins might not miss Direfang so much after all, Spikehollow mused, hearing the flowerpot-carrying one’s complaint. He pointed down the opposite trail toward the forest and Leftear appeared at the top, not far behind the flower-pot goblin. Leftear paused and looked curiously at Spikehollow, still pointing.

“Not coming, Spikehollow?” Leftear asked. “Not leading the way down?”

Spikehollow shook his head and explained he was staying on the top so he could help all of the goblins up to the top and steer them in the right direction. His words came out jumbled and quick, so he repeated them.

“Spikehollow is smart and kind,” Leftear said as he started down the other side.

Goblin after goblin passed Spikehollow, some of them chatting as they went by, some cursing at the loss of possessions they’d abandoned. Graytoes struggled up the trail, holding her baby, which had started to cry, and panting under the weight of the dwarf child, added to the satchel on her back. “Umay,” was all she said to Spikehollow as she passed. She sang softly to Umay, and that seemed to ease her own burden. She kept going, not even stopping briefly to admire the view.

Pippa followed Graytoes, but she paused at the top, stared at Spikehollow, and felt his forehead. She was careful not to pronounce him “sick” with so many other goblins around, but the concern in her eyes was not lost on him.

Bugteeth had to be pulled up the final few feet to the top. Like Spikehollow, he was shivering, but he seemed even sicker. When he coughed, pink frothy bubbles formed at the sides of his mouth. Raised ugly patches had appeared on his arms, and the goblins supporting him avoided touching the ugly pieces of skin. Spikehollow noticed that a few other goblins were coughing too. If the Dark Knight priest tended to Bugteeth and the other sick goblins, Spikehollow would ask for help from the priest too-secretly if he could. He remained resolute in not wanting to appear weak, but more than anything he wanted to feel better.

As more and more goblins came up one side and started down the other, Spikehollow grew sicker and dizzier. The goblins became a blur of colors, with their red, yellow, orange, and brown skins, the drab to garish clothes they’d pilfered, and their odd assortments of belongings and animals. He managed to find a place to the side of the trail where he could sit, where no one would bump into him and possibly knock him down the mountain. He felt better sitting; the world wasn’t spinning so much, and he didn’t cough so frequently. He closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them when he heard the frightened bleat of a goat.

The Dark Knights were passing by him, the one called Kenosh leading three goats. The pudgy priest was in the front of the trio. He didn’t look as winded as Spikehollow had expected; all the walking and climbing had built up the human’s stamina. Close behind the three came several members of the Flamegrass clan.

Direfang had obviously lingered somewhere on the trail, probably helping goblins and hobgoblins up in difficult spots. He didn’t reach the top until well more than half the goblins had topped the rise and started the climb down. Spikehollow thought the hobgoblin looked drained; he was clearly favoring his leg.

It will not be so hard to do this thing, Spikehollow thought. One good shove and Direfang would have a long fall.

“Should wait up here,” he told Direfang. “Until all the goblins are over. Wait and make sure that none are left behind.”

The hobgoblin frowned but nodded, saying nothing. Spikehollow could tell Direfang was tired and distracted by the view; his quivering nostrils were taking in the scents of the forest.

Beyond the small pine forest, the land leveled out and was covered with tall grass and summer wildflowers. A small herd of deer grazed, and a white-tailed hawk circled above them. Spikehollow could hear birds singing, but he couldn’t see any other than the lone hawk. The lead goblins descending were swallowed up by the trees and the land and could barely be glimpsed.

“Probably nested in the pines, the singing birds,” Spikehollow said. His voice cracked and he used the quilt to wipe his face again then his arms. The tunic he’d acquired many long days before from an ogre village they’d raided was thoroughly soaked with his perspiration. He plucked it away from his skin and tried to shake it a little to dry it.

“Spikehollow is sick.” Direfang did not phrase the statement as a question.

“Yes.” He did not see a problem confiding his weakness in someone who would soon be dead. Spikehollow was looking over the top of the crag, pretending to enjoy the scenery, and he thought he had found just the spot where Direfang should stand. Now to lure him over here, he thought. “Bugteeth is sick too, and a few others.”

“Spikehollow should see the skull man.” Direfang crossed his arms as if making a grand pronouncement.

Many other goblins had passed and finally the last of them were making their way over the top, several of them wheezing and grumbling, only a few of them stopping to glance at the magnificent view.

“At the bottom, I will.” Spikehollow closed his eyes again. “After the skull man sees to Bugteeth and others. At the bottom of this mountain. I am still strong. Can wait.” He didn’t see Direfang nod with approval.

“A malady swept through the slave pens some years ago,” Direfang said. “Many goblins died to a strange sickness.”

Spikehollow did not appreciate that dismal reminder of a bad episode he had blocked out of his memory. He let out a sigh and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. They were matted, the lashes stuck together. He brushed at the sweat on his face again. “Just a little sick, Direfang,” he said as he stood. He took a step toward the promontory and bent his knees to keep from falling. The rock was just the right size for Direfang to stand on.

“Beautiful place here,” he said, gesturing.

“The skull man will deal with this malady,” Direfang said, again sounding as though he were making a grand pronouncement. Spikehollow winced at the self-important hobgoblin, the loudness of his words. “The skull man will help Spikehollow and Bugteeth.”

“Look at this,” said a pleased-sounding Spikehollow, pointing down at nothing in particular. Indeed, he was pleased. Things were working out well. He and Direfang had lingered long enough. All the goblins were gone. There would be no witnesses. And no one would doubt his story. “Direfang, come look at this.”

He heard the crunch of rocks as the hobgoblin approached. Direfang was ever a curious sort.

“See something interesting, Spikehollow?”

Spikehollow nodded and gestured more firmly. “Yes, Direfang, very interesting. There is a-” The rest of his words were lost as suddenly the sickness came at him from all sides-his leg, his stomach, his head-a rush of pain and dizziness. Spikehollow dropped to his knees then pitched forward, his treasure bag falling over the side of the mountain. With dull eyes, he watched it bounce down the rocks out of sight. He felt himself slipping, slipping, and felt strong fingers circle his wrist and, miraculously, pull him up and off his feet.

“Spikehollow is not just a little sick,” Direfang corrected. He lifted the goblin, cradling him close to his chest, wrapping the quilt around him. Spikehollow had the image of Graytoes and the dwarf baby in his mind; for the moment he was as helpless as that child.

Grunting with his new burden, Direfang carefully picked his way down the trail.