Death March

GRALLIK’S ARMADA

Twilight had claimed the sky by the time the Clare and the other five ships neared the mouth of the river. They didn’t sail too close to the shore as, even with high tide, the captains were uncertain of the depths. “Lower the longboats,” Gerrold ordered.

There were four on the Clare, and Grallik guessed each would hold twenty or so goblins, which meant several trips would be necessary for that ship alone. Linda’s Grady was the largest of the ships, with a full dozen longboats going over the sides.

Grallik had waited until the last possible moment before informing the Captain Gerrold about the true nature of the passengers he was about to pick up, giving the man a sapphire and promising him another when all the goblins were on board.

“I didn’t sign on for goblins,” Gerrold said irritably, rubbing his chin. “But I knew this would not be a normal run. Not with us coming here at night, and not after being paid so well. I suspect Captain Ghanger knew something odd was happening too.” He referred to the captain of the big merchantman, a sea elf who spent as much time over the side as on the deck. “And I know damn well R’chet had to be suspicious-not that he’d object, given what you’re paying.”

“I paid well,” Grallik echoed. “I bought these ships.”

Gerrold wasn’t the owner of the Clare, but earlier in the day he’d pointed Grallik to a wealthy merchant who owned her and three of the other ships he had engaged. The merchant was willing to part with the Clare for seven of the stones-a price Grallik considered outrageous, but in the end he handed them over. The rest of the ships commanded similar prices. Owning the ships would guarantee the sailors would have no choice but to accept the “cargo.” The Clare and the others could be sold later, though no doubt at a loss, at some port town near the forest where they were headed, though Grallik hoped Direfang might see the wisdom in keeping at least one.

The wizard kept the existing crews after changing fifteen more sapphires for steel pieces and distributing them evenly among the veteran seafarers. The pay was many times over what the sailors would have earned otherwise for a voyage to the Qualinesti Forest-or to anywhere else in the world for that matter. He hoped that steel would buy their loyalty, although he expected plenty of grumbling and complaints when the goblins materialized.

“Lower all of them,” Gerrold barked his commands. “Our … passengers … gentlemen, are goblins. No questions. No arguments.”

But there were arguments, of course, fast and heated ones, and the captain let them run their course for several minutes before silencing the sailors with a violent gesture. Grallik decided to accompany the longboats and climbed in the first one over the side.

“We’ve been compensated well to take the goblins on. The owner of our fair Clare,” he nodded toward Grallik, “has been more than generous. We certainly can stomach the foul beasties for a few weeks. No worse than hauling cattle, gentlemen. And he’s promised they’ll not be too much trouble.”

Oh, they’ll be some trouble, I suspect, Grallik thought as his longboat touched the water.

Bosun’s mate K’lars commanded that longboat. The half-ogre shielded his thick brow with his hand and peered toward the river’s mouth. The clouds were high and thin, so the moonlight revealed the army of goblins gathered on the shore. K’lars growled softly deep in his throat.

“Goblins,” he muttered. “Rats what walk on two legs, they are.”

“Why are we hauling ’em to the Qualinesti Forest?” one of the oarsmen asked. “What’s wrong with the woods over there?” He gestured to the trees west of the river.

“What’s wrong with the mountains?” asked another. “Or the Abyss, for that matter? And why’d you need so many ships for ’em?”

Grallik didn’t reply.

“By the gods!” K’lars shouted when he got closer and saw the spreading mass of goblins. “There must be thousands.”

“Yes,” Grallik said dryly. His shoulders sagged when he realized there were more goblins on the shore than when he’d left them in the morning. Somehow hundreds more had heard the “call” that Mudwort was sending out.

“Four thousand, I’d guess,” K’lars said. He shuddered and spit. “Four thousand, five maybe. Rats, all of them.”

Minutes later, the first wave of goblins climbed into the longboats, chattering and hissing, unnerving the sailors, and crowding in the center of the boats to keep away from the water. Not one had been on the water before, and several of them retched from seasickness before they even made it to the ships.

Staring around at the sailors and other goblins almost contemptuously, Mudwort was among those who climbed into the first boat, settling herself almost regally amid the others.

Yet there were screams and shouts when the first longboat reached the Wavechaser, captained by a minotaur named R’chet. It took an overly tall goblin called Thya to calm the panicked goblins down.

Horace remained on the shore with Direfang, who was trying to convince some of the goblins most reluctant to accept the strategy of the sea crossing, when the longboats returned for a second trip.

“Rather walk some more,” Skakee argued. “Walking is better. Can’t swim, Direfang. Walk to the Qualinesti Forest. Walk, walk, walk.”

“Can’t swim,” voice after voice echoed.

“You don’t have to swim,” Horace said, stepping close to Direfang and lending his support to the hobgoblin leader. The priest spoke slowly and clearly in the goblin tongue. “The ship does it for you.” He cupped his hands together, imitating the vessel, raising his voice so many could hear. “It will carry you across the water and-”

“What if it sinks?” Skakee asked. She shivered at the notion. “If it sinks, all the goblins will drown.”

Direfang spoke in Horace’s ear, and the priest began a spell. Horace had relied on variations of the spell whenever the goblins became unruly in Steel Town. There had been three other priests in the mining camp, and all of them used similar enchantments on the goblins and hobgoblins from time to time. The divine coercion had been particularly useful after the earthquakes struck, keeping some of the goblins from escaping; it worked best on those with simple minds, the priest told Direfang.

“No fear,” Horace intoned. “Have no fear of the longboats and the great ship. Have no fear of the water on which we will sail.” The words were repeated, the sound was rich and melodic, almost like a song, and the goblins nearest to the priest were listening intently. “The sea belongs to Zeboim, and she will keep us safe.”

Even Direfang found himself caught up in the priest’s incantation.

“Safe,” Skakee said. “Have no fear of the water. Zeboim.”

“Have no fear of the great ship,” Two-chins said. He swayed back and forth in time with the bobbing of the longboats. “Safe, safe, safe.”

Direfang shivered. The hobgoblin was thankful for the priest’s incantation in that instance. But it worried him that Horace retained the power to sway the simple minds of the goblins.

“Into the boats,” Direfang ordered.

“Safe in the boats,” Skakee echoed. She was quick to climb into the closest boat, settling herself next to a sailor who was clearly repulsed by her presence. Regardless, she plucked at his shirtsleeve and oohed over the colorful stripes in the material.

“Skull man, watch the sailors,” Direfang cautioned.

“Aye, Foreman. My spell can soothe the men too.”

Despite Horace’s enchantment, eighteen goblins refused to budge from the sand. They saw what was happening to the others; they refused to look the priest in the eye, and they plugged their ears with their fingers, managing to resist his persuasive words.

“Stay, then,” Direfang pronounced.

Most of the stubborn goblins were from the Fishgatherer clan, but a few were Flamegrass clansmen. One was a tall, sturdy young goblin whom Direfang hated to leave behind.

“Stay and hide,” Direfang warned them. “Stay and be hale,” he said finally, his anger softening.

He and the priest were the last to step into one of the crowded longboats.

“They will not fare well on their own,” Horace warned. He watched the eighteen back away until they disappeared into the shadows. “If they are not careful, ogres will catch them and sell them again.”

“But not to the Dark Knights in Steel Town.”

“No,” Horace admitted. “Iverton is shattered and buried in ash.”

Direfang looked to the Clare, then to the five other ships beyond it, eyes lingering on the Wavechaser with its largely minotaur crew. For all his bravado and despite the priest’s spell, which had bolstered his own confidence, the hobgoblin felt anxious and uncertain. It no longer seemed like such a good idea. “Walk, walk, walk,” Skakee’s words echoed in his mind. The longboat carrying Direfang and Horace and the last of the goblins veered over to the Clare.

Ahead, against the hull of the Clare, goblins were clambering out of another longboat and up a boarding net. The sailors yelled at them to wait, that the entire boat would be pulled up. But the goblins could not understand the men and tried to climb over each other in their haste and fear.

“No!” Direfang stood in his longboat, setting it to rocking as he pointed toward the boarding net. “Take care!” He shouted in the goblin tongue. “Slow and easy. Do not-”

Three goblins tumbled from the net, one falling back into the longboat and caught by her kinsmen. The other two were not so lucky and plopped into the sea. Spindly limbs flailed for purchase, touching the net and the side of the boat, before going under.

The sailors in Direfang’s boat rowed faster, shouting to the deck of the Clare that some of their passengers had fallen into the sea. Two more goblins tumbled over the sides of the longboat in their clumsy attempts to help their drowning fellows. The sailors shouted and pointed but made only feeble rescue efforts.

“Four lost all together,” Direfang pronounced minutes later when they had all assembled on the deck of the Clare. “Drowned and gone. Perhaps more were lost getting on the other ships. So dark, I cannot see, and so far, one ship from the other, I cannot hear.”

“They use mirrors and lanterns to signal each other, Foreman.” Horace pointed to a signal light on the Clare and to a responding signal from Linda’s Grady. “I can read some of it, most of it. Your ships are on course. All … at the moment … is well.”

“Some foolish goblins will drown,” Grallik said, standing behind Horace and Grallik. “You or I cannot be on each ship to keep all of them safe. We have done the best we can.”

“Dark Knights such as you,” glowered Direfang, “cannot begin to understand the profound sadness of the loss of goblins to the sea.”

Horace shook his head. “I understand your beliefs, Foreman. I know that goblins believe that after death their spirits return to their bodies as long as those bodies remain whole. It’s why you burn the dead and spread the ashes, so the spirits have nothing to come back to and must move on. I respect that belief.”

If Direfang was surprised that the human understood goblin custom, or paid respect to it, his stern face did not show it.

“You think the spirits will return to those bodies that have plunged to the bottom of the New Sea and will be trapped forever, don’t you?” The priest shook his head as he joined Direfang at the rail, staring out at the rising and falling waves. “The bodies will not remain intact, Foreman. Zeboim will take care of that.”

“Yes, the fish will eat the dead and scatter the bones,” Direfang said. But will they do it soon enough? he wondered to himself. Before the spirits return? And what does a damn Dark Knight know anyway? He pushed away from the rail, heading toward the capstan.

“As I said,” Horace repeated in a whisper as Grallik came up to stand beside him. “Zeboim will take care of everything.”

Hours later, Horace was still at the port rail. He had not been so happy in years. His elbows were propped at the rail, his eyes were closed, and there was a sublime expression on his face. His mouth moved, some prayer of thanks to Zeboim, Grallik guessed.

“The goblins are below now, all of them,” Grallik reported. “I understand they are happy to be out of sight of the water, but they are not happy to be in a ‘wooden cave,’ as some of them are calling the ship. I do not know how the goblins are faring on the other ships, but Captain Gerrold has told me that R’chet speaks the goblin tongue, as does the first mate on The Elizabeth. That will be some help, I would hope, in calming the creatures.”

The priest gave no indication he had even heard him.

“Save for Foreman Direfang, Horace. He is not below. He hovers behind the captain at the wheel. The foreman is nervous,” Grallik said. “I’ve never seen him like this. He fears the water as much as the goblins and hates being on this ship.”

“And does that make you nervous too?” Horace asked without opening his eyes.

Grallik shrugged. “He leads the goblins. The ship makes him vulnerable. And, yes, I guess that does make me nervous.”

Horace leaned out farther and sucked in a deep breath. He held it as long as possible then released it, whistling through his teeth. “How was your day in port, Gray Robe?”

“Glorious.” Grallik remembered the clothes and boots he’d purchased for the priest. The captain was keeping that private bundle in his cabin, out of sight of curious goblins. He was surprised Horace had not asked him about his own fine clothing-his bulging new backpack and boots and top-quality attire. “I hadn’t realized how badly I’d missed … civilization, Horace. I ate two cooked meals, spiced perfectly. You would have enjoyed them. And there were people … colorful, talkative people. A welcome change from the bickering and chattering of goblins.”

“I hadn’t realized how badly I’d missed the sea.” The priest finally opened his eyes and angled his face to look at Grallik. Then he fumbled with a small pouch at his waist and pulled out a pipe, tamping some tobacco into the bowl. Grallik stared at the priest. “A gift from Mudwort,” Horace explained. “I don’t want to know where the little goblin got it.”

“Mudwort.” Grallik’s thoughts never strayed far from the shaman. He had seen her come aboard the Clare, the lead ship, but had lost track of her during all the hubbub of boarding. He was meeting her price-helping to take the goblins to the Qualinesti Forest. He would look for her in the morning and seek her part of the bargain.

“I’ll not be joining you in the Qualinesti Forest, Gray Robe. I’ll not let you or the foreman persuade me.” Horace held the pipe out for Grallik to light.

With raised eyebrows the wizard touched his finger to the bowl, and the tobacco glowed.

“I’ve other plans,” the priest explained, contentedly puffing on the pipe and watching the wisp of smoke spiral up.

Grallik opened his mouth to ask about those plans but thought better of it. It was not the time to argue with Horace, or to remind the priest that he was a slave to the goblins and might have no real say in his ultimate destiny.

“I’m staying here,” Horace continued, unprompted. “On the water, where I belong. On this very ship perhaps. It is a fine ship, though a little overburdened at the moment.” He took a long puff. “It’s the sail configuration, I think, that makes it drag.”

The wizard turned and walked toward the stern, as the priest blathered on to himself about attach points for the top mast.

“I doubt you’ll be leaving our company, ‘skull man,’” Grallik muttered when Horace was out of earshot. “I’ve no intention of leaving Mudwort, and I don’t think it wise to be the only human among these goblins. So you will not be going anywhere, my friend.”

The Clare had two levels of cargo holds, and the goblins occupied the largest at the bottom. A share of the goods Grallik had purchased was on the higher level, and Direfang had appointed two hobgoblins to guard those goods from both the goblins and sailors.

Seven hundred fifty two goblins were packed into that hold, and there were even more packed into holds on some of the other ships, especially the big minotaur-manned vessel. Direfang had counted the number there a little while earlier when the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling were turned bright. At the moment only one lamp burned, that from the top of the stairs. The hobgoblin had logged the number of goblins in the book the dwarf had drawn her maps in.

“Seven hundred and fifty two,” Direfang mused. Where had all the many, many goblins come from? The mountains, east to the sea, from the far north; he’d vaguely listened to the clans talk about their former homes and the call that had summoned them. “So many. Too many.”

He listened to the wooden bones of the ship softly groan, thinking the sound vaguely comforting. His keen hearing picked up the sound of his hobgoblin guards striding overhead. He suspected they were poking through some of Grallik’s myriad purchases. They were loyal, though, and he knew they would not eat much.

He couldn’t see Mudwort, though he’d spotted her down there earlier, whispering to Graytoes. He’d wanted to put Mudwort in charge of the goblins on The Elizabeth or Linda’s Grady, but she’d preferred to stay close to Direfang. And Direfang did not trust Saro-Saro, Grallik, or Horace enough to have them on a ship other than his. So they were all there, friends and enemies, and some friends who might very well become enemies.

“Mudwort?” She would be sleeping where the shadows were the thickest or where she might find some nook that afforded her a little privacy. He’d look for her later, maybe wait until morning.

His ruminations were interrupted by Two-chins. The goblin suddenly stood, swayed unsteadily on his feet, held his stomach, then bent over and vomited, the bile splashing over the goblin and spattering his kinsmen nearby. After a bit of arguing and shuffling to find a clean place of floor, the hold grew quiet again.

Was this a mistake? Direfang wondered.

He was not wondering about leaving Steel Town; they were right to abandon that hellish life. So many, many dead-more than a thousand lost to the earthquakes, more lost in the mountains to the volcanoes. Some left with Hurbear; Direfang hoped they were safe somewhere. Dozens were dead to the tylor-his fault for ordering the charge. Hundreds fell to the malady the skull man called a plague.

Had it been a mistake to take them into the mountains?

Would things have turned out better if he’d led them north? There were volcanoes there too. But perhaps they did not all erupt as violently. The mountains didn’t stretch as far to the north; he remembered that from the Dark Knight maps. He knew men were more numerous there. But he hadn’t anticipated the tylor and the plague. If he’d taken them north, would more of them be alive?

“A mistake,” he whispered in the human tongue. “Too, too many dead.”

Direfang sat on a step that led down to the lower cargo hold, his feet touching the floor. He stared into the shadows where the goblins were huddled in clusters corresponding to their clans, most of them trying to sleep. He rubbed his thumbs over the pouch that Grallik had returned to him; the wizard had spent all but five gems. Direfang was pleased the wizard had done his job well, managing to purchase ships. It felt good to own something.

Graytoes sat near Direfang, cradling the dwarf baby and making cooing sounds to it.

“Goats above,” she said, beaming. “Saw the goats. Goat milk for this baby. For Umay. And for other younglings.”

Direfang nodded.

“Umay,” Graytoes repeated. She made a clicking noise with her teeth, and the baby gurgled happily.

“It is a good name,” Direfang said.

“For a very good baby.” Graytoes rocked the child and started singing an old goblin tune about war and death. She did not know any lullabies.

“A horrible mistake,” Direfang whispered.

Graytoes looked up in surprise, interrupting her singing. She didn’t understand many human words, but she knew mistake.

“What is a mistake?” she asked, pushing out her bottom lip. “Not Umay!”

“No, that was not a mistake.” Direfang gave her a rare smile. She’d not whimpered about Moon-eye since taking the baby from Reorx’s Cradle. At least that was one good thing that had happened on the journey. “Shh. Time to rest, Graytoes.”

She settled herself against a snoring hobgoblin, reclining against his stomach and holding the baby close. It cooed pleasantly.

Direfang’s head bobbed forward until his chin touched his chest. He had stayed up on the deck for a few hours, until his legs got sore from standing so long and he feared he would get sick in front of the sailors. He worried about the goblins on the other ships and was frustrated that he had no way to communicate with them. He didn’t want to show his frustration or his fears to the sailors on the Clare, so he had eventually gone down to the hold, wanting to check on his kinsmen. His stomach still roiled, and he was thankful he’d not eaten much that day. He could smell the vomit everywhere from goblins who’d gotten sick from the rocking of the ship.

He also smelled their familiar musky scent in the close air. They did not stink as much, most of them wading in the sea for hours at the priest’s direction in an effort to rid themselves of the plague germs. But he smelled the salt and the wood of the ship.

Their clothes were stiff from the saltwater, as was his ragged tunic. He pawed at his arms, brushing more salt away. His feet still ached, though he liked the feel of the smooth oak against his soles.

Coming that way, to the south, probably a mistake, he thought. The tylor, Reorx’s Cradle-the monster and the village that spread the plague. Those deaths were on his hands.

But the ship … that might not be a mistake, he reflected, trying to rally his spirits. It would be a chance to rest, to give his feet time to mend, an opportunity for the goblins to eat and not complain about walking on a mountain.

A shout from above roused him.

“Foreman! Trouble’s coming!” It was the priest, Horace, calling to Direfang from the top of the stairs. “You’d best hurry.”