Death March

SAARH

She wore eight necklaces that morning, all that she owned, along with her earrings and an armband that had been a recent gift from a consort. Around her waist was the skin of a cave snake that she’d caught and gutted in a ceremony some time ago. It was a special day, so it was important to look her best and wear everything she owned.

The longest necklace hung just below her waist. It consisted of carved wooden beads, most of them round, but a few were cut and shaped to look like bats. The beads of another necklace had been painted with dyes made from lichen; Saarh seemed to favor that one, and she worried at the beads with her slender fingers.

The most beautiful necklace was the shortest one, barely fitting around her head. Irregular-shaped beads the color of a full moon shimmered in the torchlight. The beads were smooth, and along their surfaces streaks of blue, pink, and green glistened. That necklace, and the others, marked her prestige in the clan.

Saarh was the clan leader. It had taken her well into middle age to earn the position, but her kinsmen followed her without question. She stood in front of them-several hundred goblins squeezed into the domed cavern and spread into the tunnels that led away from it. Most of them were red-skinned, like herself, but there were some brown-skinned goblins too, and a few tinged orange.

Several wore necklaces made of wood and stone and the teeth of small animals that lived underground. Some boasted feathers and bits of bone on leather cords, and other goblins displayed pieces of bone pierced through their ears and nostrils.

They whispered among themselves, their voices sounding like the wind that sometimes found its way through the upper tunnels and whistled sonorously. But they stopped their quiet chatter when Saarh raised her arms and demanded their attention.

“These caves are too small,” she began. “For some time the clan has known this. The food is too sparse. Hunger begins to rumble in the younglings’ bellies.” Saarh had a rough voice that often cracked and made it sound as though speaking were painful. “This day the clan leaves the underground so it can grow larger and thrive.”

“Saarh, Saarh, Saarh!” The chant swelled and reverberated off the dome, and the torches flickered as all the goblins joined in. The light played across the carvings and made everything seem to shift and waver.

When she again had their attention, she said, “This clan is large, safe in its size, fearless.”

“Saarh, Saarh, Saarh!”

“Strong and terrible this clan is.” Saarh’s eyes gleamed darkly, and some of the symbols on the wall behind her glowed. “This day, the clan claims the surface.”

“Saarh!”

She slipped between the tightly packed goblins, each one bowing as she passed. Taking a last look at the great dome, she glided down a wide tunnel, the goblins falling in behind her and continuing to echo her name.

Saarh ran her fingers along the wall as she went, picking up the pulse of the stone and coaxing its ancient energies to trickle into her mind. Behind her, goblins copied her gesture, though they could not understand nor use the power held in the earth.

The torchlight from the cavern didn’t reach there, so Saarh relied on her keen senses to guide her through the darkness. She found something comforting in the shadows and the dampness of the cave; she would miss both of those things. She knew she could retreat there if necessary, but she also knew she never would choose to do so. The challenges of the surface world would not be so great that she and her clan could not endure them.

Her journey lasted hours, so deep in the earth were the goblin caverns nestled and so winding were the tunnels. Her legs were tired by the time she reached a narrow slot that was little more than a crawlway. The goblins moved in single file there, scraping their shoulders on the stone, none complaining. Some of them had been that way before with her, when food had become so scarce they had to hunt above. But most had never seen the sky.

Finally she stepped out of the darkness, the air wrapping around her and making her shiver in its chill freshness. She stood on a high ledge atop one of the range’s tallest peaks, taking in the scenery below. The land was green and lush, almost hurtfully bright in the midday sun. Tall grass and small trees stretched as far to the west as she could see. The scents of the foliage drifted up and mingled with the more subtle odor of the stone.

The chatter behind her grew louder, and she climbed down so her kinsmen could emerge behind her. Saarh glanced up to make sure they were following close. The brown cliff that stretched above her was streaked with sunlight, the hollows in the rock gray with shadows and looking like pockmarks on an old goblin’s face. High and to the south was a formation that looked like a rearing cave bear, the top of it crimson and the center sparkling with some sort of crystal. She hoped to climb there later and investigate that place.

First she had her people to worry about. She continued to descend, the green of the young forest seeming to reach up and tug her down.

So many goblins, it took them a long while to filter out from the narrow tunnel. Most of them dallied on the ledges, both frightened and amazed by their new surroundings, all of them blinking furiously, their eyes were not used to so much glare. They would get accustomed to the light of the sun, Saarh knew. They would get accustomed to the forest too.

She picked up a hint of rain when she reached the bottom. Saarh had been outside in a storm before and so recognized the first delicate traces of water in the air. Far to the west, she spotted high, misty white clouds, and beneath them floated larger ones with swollen gray bellies. She hoped to push her clan deep into the young forest before the rains came, else they might flee back into the caves out of fear and a desire for safety.

From her new vantage point at the base of the mountain, Saarh could look up and take in much more of the heights. The range looked like the spine of some great beast, and it stretched north and south, rising up high in the middle section, where it was shot through with bands of almost-white stone set against red and brown strips and a line of rock that looked almost black.

Hematite, Mudwort knew. That’s what the brown and black layers were. She’d seen enough of the stone in the Dark Knight mines to recognize it. The mountain Saarh gazed upon was heavy in the center with the iron ore that stained the rock around it. Above it were bands of sandstone and limestone, and time and heavy rains would eventually winnow those away. But the hematite would stay until the Dark Knights or some other group of men found it and dug down and broke it out to make their swords and shields.

Mudwort watched Saarh and her goblin horde with fascination. The shaman was not leading quite as many goblins as Direfang, but Saarh’s force was nonetheless impressive … formidable.

Mudwort had been looking in on Saarh and her clan for what she guessed were several hours. The spell was taking its toll on her, but the goblins’ activities were far too interesting for her to break away. Mudwort had been trying to puzzle out just how long ago Saarh had lived. One clue was in the forest and the mountains.

In an earlier seeing spell, Mudwort’s senses had passed through that range before she’d come upon the Qualinesti Forest.

Saarh was in that very Qualinesti Forest, but the trees were very small, and there was so much grass and space between the trunks.

The forest was in its youth.

“Centuries ago,” Mudwort decided. That was when Saarh had lived and when she brought her clan to the woods. Mudwort was awestruck by her magical ability to visit the past, awed that she could draw from the earth-memory so easily. “And the goblin caves and the dome, they are in that big range of mountains, deep in the heart of the earth. A long, long time past.”

She smiled, pleased that she’d finally learned something vital about Saarh and her clan … about where the caves were and when those goblins had been alive. Her smile broadened. Just as Saarh had brought her clan to the woods, Mudwort would lead Direfang’s army there. She peered closer through her vision.

Saarh’s goblins spread out, investigating their new surroundings but keeping their natural curiosity under control, careful not to venture too far from their shaman.

Saarh stood shoulder to shoulder with an aging goblin with a crooked face. One of his cheeks was higher than the other, and his lower lip drooped as if the muscles in his jaw didn’t work properly. While his appearance might have suggested he was stupid, his eyes were filled with rare intelligence, and the four necklaces he wore suggested he was important to the clan.

He stared at the mountains then slowly shook his head. “Is this the right thing? For certain, Saarh?”

She nodded.

“Too long this clan has lived in the earth. Fathers and grandfathers and farther back than that.”

“Food is short now in the earth,” she added. Saarh’s voice still cracked, the words running coarsely together. “The clan is larger, and many females have swollen stomachs. They will deliver younglings soon. The need for food and space weighs heavy on me, on them. That is why the clan had to move.”

“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.”