Death March

THE WOODEN RELIC

Mudwort’s stomach clenched. She sat in the hold on a tall crate at the prow, as alone as possible in the crowded wooden cave. The motion was worse there with the ship rising and falling. It was not so pronounced at the opposite end, where most of the goblins huddled, including Saro-Saro, who was wrapped in his green blanket, his head on a pillow he found somewhere, trying to sleep.

She didn’t like the close air and longed terribly for a fresh breeze that would carry away some of the mustiness of her kinsmen. The smell from all the bodies crammed together was strong and clung bitterly to her tongue. No amount of spitting would get rid of it. She breathed shallowly and cupped her hands over her mouth to keep out the foulest of the aroma. Added to everything was the smell of waste and vomit, which hung heavy in the room as some of the goblins were perpetually sick from the motion of the ship. And a dozen seemed to be still sick from the illness that had taken so many by the river.

“S’dards, not to have washed with the skull man in the sea,” she muttered. “S’dard Direfang, not to wash the sick ones over the side now.” The hobgoblin had to know that some of Saro-Saro’s and Cattail’s clans were ill with spots, she thought. Though she hadn’t seen the hobgoblin down in the hold since the beginning of the trip. Maybe he was oblivious that the illness lingered. “S’dard Direfang.”

How could her fellow goblins not be bothered by the nasty smells in the stale, close air? They seemed more worried about the sea. Perhaps it was because their senses of smell were not as keen as hers. Perhaps it was because so many of them slept and were oblivious.

Not all of the goblins were down in the hold breathing all of that fetid atmosphere. Some were in the galley; the cook had demanded they eat in shifts. The goblins did not argue about which clan should go first; they were subdued from the storm and the loss of their kinsmen to the storm. And they were grateful for something cooked that was certain to be tasty.

Seven members of the Rockbridge clan-the only members of that clan to survive the earthquakes-were on the level above, inventorying the food and goods at Direfang’s request. It was a useless task, as there was no way to alter what had been purchased, and it was likely the clansmen would forget the numbers of the various whatnots they counted, thought Mudwort. Perhaps the exercise was merely intended to give those goblins something to do.

Despite goblins being washed over the rail, more continued to venture up on deck, too curious for their own good, Mudwort thought. A big wave would take care of the too-curious ones; she wished again it would take care of the dozen or so who were sick with spots.

She had not enjoyed her brief foray on the deck, which was why she preferred to wallow in the conditions down there. However, she had found some pleasure in calling down the lightning and ruining the pursuing pirate ship. She was angry at herself for letting the wizard take all the credit for her ingenious, destructive magic. At the time she’d not wanted anyone to know she’d discovered such a powerful, new enchantment. She liked to keep secrets. But then she thought she might have gained some more respect because of her heroism and perhaps a spot in a cabin above where conditions had to be better.

Boliver had been elusive; she’d inquired about him among the others several times in the past few hours. He wasn’t a member of the Rockbridge clan, so he was not conducting the useless inventory directly overhead. Neither was he down there. She hoped he hadn’t perished in the storm.

She hadn’t remembered seeing him get into one of the longboats at the mouth of the river, so he might have been one of the stubborn eighteen who remained on the shore. Boliver was stubborn; that was possible. Or he might have been tossed over the side during the storm. Her magical scrying told her he was not on one of the other ships either. A mystery-the disappearance of Boliver.

Mudwort’s stomach clenched tighter because she missed her friend. Boliver and Moon-eye had been the only goblins she really talked to. She’d spent quite a bit of time with Boliver since leaving Steel Town, mingling magic and learning more than a little from him. She enjoyed his company because he was a smart goblin and because joining their spells had been so effortless. He’d been a shaman for his clan in the Before Time, and she suspected he was more powerful than she.

She thought he’d been left behind on the shore, too frightened of the sea to get in a longboat. She could use her seeing spell to look for him in the pine woods to be certain. But she was weary right then, drained of some power. The attack on the pirate ship had left her in need of rest. And if Boliver was dead or gone, then she would find out soon enough.

She tried to relax rather than concentrate on her assorted complaints and the mystery of her absent friend. The wood of the crate felt good against the backs of her legs, the wood of the prow against her neck and shoulders. The ship rocked ceaselessly and creaked constantly, however, an unpleasant, worrisome sound. Yet the noise was enough to keep some of the snores and chittering of the goblins at bay.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Saarh was with Brab, the crooked-faced goblin, in the heart of the young forest. The clan was nearby, digging bowl shaped depressions in the earth between clumps of willowy birch and ash trees. It had rained earlier, shortly after dawn, but it was not a long or intense storm.

The rain made all the greens and browns brighter, fed the ever-thirsty trilliums so close to the ground, brought out rich and wonderful scents, and, above all, made the earth soft for digging. Saarh’s goblins were making homes; they would circle their depressions with stones and small logs, and later weave branches to cover them to keep out the worst of future rains. Saarh’s goblins had never constructed such dwellings before, but she’d seen things like that in her seeing spells, and she decided the clansmen would feel safer sleeping in the earth pockets.

Busy, the goblins did not need her for a while, so Saarh and her consort wandered west.

“Ril bore a youngling last night,” the crooked-faced goblin told her.

Saarh nodded, though she had been unaware of the news. “Yes, Brab, a fine youngling that will grow strong in these woods.” She’d been using her magic to search through the earth, trying to pinpoint the power she searched for. It lay in that direction; she felt the pull.

“Others will bear younglings in the next few months,” he continued. “The food is plentiful here, so no more younglings should die from shrunken bellies.”

“No, never again, that is to be hoped.” The clan had lost a few babies recently, when the food in the caves became scarce. Saarh could have led them to other chambers, where the great urkhan worms laired. Even a young worm would have fed the clan for days and days.

But there was no lure of power in the chambers.

When Saarh picked up her pace, the crooked-faced goblin struggled to keep up. Brab dragged his right leg; the foot of his right leg was turned outward and gave him an odd, halting gait. He fell behind after a while, and she did not slow to accommodate him, as she always had before in the caves. Still, he did not quit following her. He looked to the ground to find her footprints. Looking slowed him even further.

She stopped in the late afternoon, when her legs tired and her stomach growled in protest. Saarh thought about the clan she’d brought with her and wondered how their digging project was progressing. She’d been walking for a few hours, and she hoped they had not grown bored with the task. They always needed prodding and encouragement, she thought with a sigh. Leadership-that was what they needed. She sat on a large, flat rock and rubbed her thighs, turning her head this way and that and rolling her shoulders.

She heard a peculiar noise and sat still. She had nothing in her memory to compare it to-a good-sounding noise. It was accompanied by a soft splashing that meant water running nearby. Thirsty and ever-curious, Saarh slid off the rock and crept to the north. She was careful and stayed low, not wanting to find something as large as more bears on that trip. She didn’t fear bears and enjoyed their meat, but she did not want to waste time slaying more of them, even though she was hungry.

As it was, Saarh cursed herself for indulging in an investigation that had gone on too long and far. But the noise was very near, and she reminded herself that she was thirsty. Almost immediately she saw the stream and the thing in it making the noise. It looked like no bird she’d seen before, and its nasal squawking and clacking was not like typical birdsong. Its feathers were black under its chin and on its back. Its cheeks and back were a chestnut brown, mottled with tiny white feathers in places, particularly on its breast. The creature’s beak was flat and rounded and long, a yellowish shade, and its legs ended in feet that were scalloped like a bat’s wings. The creature was eating tadpoles and water insects and was happily unaware of the watching goblin.

“Weet,” she whispered, mimicking the sound it made. She smiled as it splashed in the water, throwing droplets up over its back and seeing them bead up all over. Fumbling on the ground at her feet, she picked up a rock. Raising it and taking careful aim, she threw the rock with as much strength as she could summon, striking the strange-looking bird on the side of its head and dropping it.

She scurried forward, sat in the stream, grabbed the dead creature up, and started plucking its feathers. Then she bit into its belly. The bird-creature tasted much better than bear, and she was certain it would be even better cooked. Selecting some of the better feathers, she put them in her pouch and pictured the thing when it had splashed in the water. She would describe it to the clan later, so they could add it to the list of creatures they desired to hunt.

There might be a nest nearby filled with sweet eggs. But she’d already spent too much time away from her quest and would not look. Saarh left the half-eaten carcass and hurried farther west, always following the intermittent pulse of the interesting thing.

After another few hours, she realized she had strayed too far and that she would not make it back to her clan by evening. It was nearing sunset, and she had let herself be tugged for miles. Hungry again, she wished she would have brought the rest of the bird-creature with her. Too, she regretted not taking more of the feathers.

What if she didn’t reach the something that day? Or the next? She couldn’t keep returning to the clan and retracing her steps west if it was so far away. No, she shook her head. She would not return to the clan until she found the something. The pull on her had become too strong.

Saarh slept little that night, by a bush with bright purple berries that tasted delicious. If she came back that way, she would take some of the berries and leaves with her to show the clan so they could look for similar bushes. There were owls in the trees above her, and they had hooted loudly and often, waking her several times. Deer had passed nearby, nibbling on leaves and rustling ferns. She knew that deer were good-tasting too, and easier to kill than bears, but the berries were enough for the moment.

It was midmorning when she stopped again for a brief rest and to eat different berries that she’d found growing beneath a young willow. They were clusters of tiny red globes that tasted very sweet. She ate too many of them, cleaning almost all of them off the bush, and paid for it with a sour stomach that forced her to curl into a ball and moan for a while. If it hadn’t been for her sickening, the crooked-faced goblin would not have caught up.

Brab was tired, having walked relentlessly through the night, and just as hungry because he’d not stopped to eat. He slumped beside her and ran his fingers along her side, offering comfort for her ailing stomach. While she slept briefly, he finished the berries on the bush and nestled himself next to her, draping an arm across her side so she would wake him if she moved.

By sunset that day, Saarh found the source of the arcane power. She’d walked slower that time, grateful for Brab’s company and the opportunity to tell someone about the tasty bird-creature with the odd beak. She showed him the feathers as they neared the clearing; then when they fluttered from her fingers, she gasped and dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, stretching out her hands toward an old oak-the largest tree she’d come across in that young forest. The tree was older than anything that surrounded it, older than Saarh, perhaps as old as the damp ground beneath her knees.

“This is it? The tree?” The crooked-faced goblin stared at the oak with a mix of wonder and disgust. It was the ugliest tree he’d seen in the woods. The trunk was not straight, it leaned to the north, and its lowest branches were dead. The bark was thick and corky, and its leaves were oval shaped with bristly edges. The acorns were big, and the cups that held them looked spiky and itchy.

“All this walking and walking and not eating enough was to find this ugly tree?” Brab sat next to her, cross-legged and holding his chin in his palms. Disappointment was writ plain on his crooked face. “Too much walking for such a big, ugly tree, if you ask me. The clan will not come here, not after digging so many burrows and establishing a home in the clearing back there. The clan would find this an ugly, dying thing too. The clan would be angry.”

He didn’t say anything for a time and rested his legs and feet while she remained kneeling and facing the tree. Finally she raised her hands toward the tree, and after she held that pose for several minutes, she made a slashing gesture with her fingers.

The crooked-faced goblin realized Saarh had been casting a spell.

Her magical gesture split the oak’s trunk as easily as a sharp knife could split the belly of a piglet. The cracking sound startled both of them. But the greater surprise came when the tree shriveled to a woody pulp, the leaves vanished, and standing there where the trunk had been just a moment before, was a spear.

“Someone hid this,” Saarh said. “Made the tree grow around it. But it was not so well hidden that it could not be found.”

The crooked-faced goblin said nothing, his throat tight and dry.

Saarh stood and slowly approached the spear, a reverence in her bearing. She bowed to the spear then stretched a hand out, fingers tingling from the energy the thing exuded.

The wooden spear hovered a hand-breadth above the ground. It was green, as if it had been fashioned from a too-young tree whose bark had been stripped. Slivers of gold, silver, and platinum were inlaid along the shaft, forming designs that matched some of those the goblins had carved in the dome ceiling under the mountain. Tiny gems that sparkled in the last rays of the sun were sprinkled among the precious metal runes. They were diamonds mostly; Saarh was familiar with those gemstones that could be found in the warrens in the Kharolis. But there were also emeralds as bright and dark green as sugar maple leaves coated by rainwater. And there were a few yellow-hued stones that looked like shards of sunlight caught on the surface of a stream.

The tip was metal, not one of the precious kinds that formed the runes on the shaft, but something stronger and sharper than anything Saarh had ever known. It gleamed dully, and when she bent close to the ground to look at the tip, she observed her own reflection. Above the spear tip was a silver band that held small rings. Feathers dangled from the rings, dark yellow ones shot through with rich browns and vibrant greens.

“Chislev’s symbol, these feathers,” Saarh said in awe. “Chislev’s spear, this.”

Behind her, the crooked-faced goblin gasped. “The weapon of a god?”

“The only weapon this god wielded,” she softly returned. She stood upright again and pushed her hand forward, through an unseen force that held the spear poised above the earth. The shaman slowly wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the shaft. The power in the weapon flowed into her.

Mudwort had not been able to sleep, so she’d looked in on the shaman of long-ago. She’d used one of the uncut blue stones to help in the seeing spell as there were no rocks or earth beneath her to channel the magic through. Mudwort needed to send her magic through stone if she wanted to sustain a spell for more than a few minutes.

So that journey into the past had taken more than a few minutes. Indeed, Mudwort had been caught up in the enchantment for the better part of two days. Her throat and mouth were dry from lack of water, and her stomach ached because she had not eaten in a while. That no one had disturbed her during those two days surprised her. But then, she’d been sprawled against the crate, where the rocking sea was felt stronger than elsewhere. And she was still a loner and a member of none of the other clans.

She needed food, so she slipped off the crate, standing still for a few moments as her legs protested moving after being locked for so many hours in a rigid position. She nearly toppled into another crate, as she was dizzy from the ship and her hunger, and the stink in the air was palpable. Disgusting.

She climbed the stairs and headed to the galley. Something was cooking, meat and vegetables; the smell of potatoes set her mouth to watering. She didn’t care what the cook had thrown in the pot-she would eat her fill, and she would sleep and dream about Chislev’s spear.

What had once tugged the goblin who lived in the long-ago time tugged Mudwort.