Death March

DEATH ON THE NEW SEA

Direfang’s growls kept the dozen ill clansmen an arm’s distance away. He could barely stand upright in that section of the hold; the top of his head brushed the low ceiling. The ropy muscles in his arms bunched, and he clenched and unclenched his hands in a silent fury that raised his temperature and quickened his heart.

He wanted to shout oaths at Saro-Saro and his foul clansmen, telling them they were all fools. He’d led them from Steel Town and into the mountains, at one point giving everyone the option of going their own way, perhaps in clans, perhaps scattering. He practically begged them to leave him alone; that was his deepest desire. Some goblins did leave then, Hurbear’s clan. Direfang wished he would have followed Hurbear.

Direfang wasn’t sure how that had all happened. Whose idea was it that he should lead the goblins to a new homeland? A foreman in the Dark Knight mines, they’d been following his orders for a few years, yes. But there had been other sturdy foremen, such as Rustymane, who stared at him at that moment with a vacant expression.

Was it because it was he who had urged them to rebel and flee the mining camp? They’d followed him then, so they kept on following. Then more and more and more kept arriving, thousands. That was Mudwort’s doing. He trusted Mudwort, but she shouldn’t have told so many others to come and follow him.

Mudwort said the goblins felt they owed their lives to him.

So he felt responsible, even for Saro-Saro and his vile bunch.

Direfang’s legs stung where the old goblin’s claws had ripped the flesh. His shoulders ached where Uren and a few others had bitten and scratched him. He felt Saro-Saro’s bloody spittle drying on his face and wondered if the illness that was claiming the old goblin was even then wending its way into his body. Half of the offending goblins had knives they’d taken from Steel Town or the ogre village they’d raided; why hadn’t they just killed him swiftly with their knives?

Because Saro-Saro didn’t want Direfang to die fast, the hobgoblin knew. The clan leader wanted Direfang to catch the illness and suffer as he was suffering. Well, suffering was nothing new to Direfang, he thought bitterly. His life had been nothing but suffering, the thick scars and his mangled ear a testament to that.

The main reason for the ignominious attack was because Saro-Saro had wanted to be the leader. His illness would prevent that.

Direfang gave a low moan, startling the others who were closest by, sending them back a few steps. If Saro-Saro had expressed such a desire when they’d first left Steel Town, the hobgoblin leader reflected ruefully, Direfang would have eagerly relented.

“Who will lead now, Saro-Saro? If not you or me?” Direfang’s words were plaintive and couldn’t be heard by many goblins in the hold.

“It doesn’t matter,” the dying, old goblin hissed. “Does not matter,” Saro-Saro repeated. “Just that it will not be Direfang.”

The hobgoblin leader suddenly felt a weakness in his legs. Did the illness strike that quickly? Or was the ship making him dizzy again? He felt as if he were floating, lifted by his pounding heart and the swells the Clare climbed. A few hundred goblins watched him, not a one speaking, all of them staring at him and Saro-Saro.

Rustymane edged closer. Rustymane could lead, Direfang thought, staring at his old friend. He’d been a good foreman, though not for more than a handful of months before the earthquakes struck. Rustymane had reddish, wiry hair and only a few scars on his face and arms. His hands were large, the fingers stubby. His wide eyes held a hint of kindness, tears now threatening at the edges.

Direfang turned his head to stare angrily at Saro-Saro. The old goblin was propped up on his pillow, Uren at his shoulder, both of them coughing and sweating and shivering in the meager light that reached that far end of the ship. The others in bad condition surrounding them also shivered, the closest ones glaring at Direfang. He continued to clench and unclench his fists, wanting to lash out at the clansmen and hurt them as they had hurt and betrayed him. But he could do nothing worse to them that what they already suffered.

“The knives. Set the knives down.” Direfang spoke fiercely, snarling for emphasis. “The knives. Be fast.”

They did lay down their knives, to the hobgoblin’s surprise. He stalked forward, using his feet to kick the knives behind him and well away from Saro-Saro’s band of diseased loyalists. He heard scrabbling and knew other goblins were snatching up the weapons behind him.

No one spoke for long minutes then, though he could hear his own breathing, fast in his anger and exertion, and he could hear the forced breathing of Saro-Saro and Uren also. He heard the groaning of the wooden ship and hurried footsteps from overhead. Someone heavy was coming down the steps.

“Skull man, take care,” Direfang cautioned.

None of the goblins spoke as Horace threaded his way through them.

“Foreman Direfang …”

Rustymane had moved up alongside the priest and was relating the tale of Saro-Saro’s attack.

Horace looked different that day. He was dressed in a pale green tunic that draped to mid-thigh, with dark blue leggings that were tucked in the tops of a pair of shiny, brown boots. A black vest with faint green and blue embroidered leaves at the shoulders fit a little too tightly. The clothes had been purchased by Grallik, the hobgoblin knew. Direfang thought it fortunate that he’d not yet changed into the clothes Grallik said had been purchased for him. The clothes would be contaminated if he had the sickness.

The priest looked as though he’d swallowed something bitter after listening to Rustymane. He squinted, not seeing as well as the goblins could in the relative darkness of the hold.

“I’d thought the sickness past,” he said with genuine regret. “I thought we’d left it on the shore of the New Sea. The salt cleansing the last trace. With Zeboim’s blessings …”

“The sea. Zeboim. Did nothing for Saro-Saro,” Direfang finished.

Horace changed his expression, trying to look optimistic. “Foreman, you’ve weathered being near the ill before, under the black willow along the river where so many goblins died. You will weather this. You are healthy and you have willpower and-”

Direfang gestured toward Saro-Saro and Uren and their followers. “What of these goblins? Can Saro-Saro’s clansmen be healed?”

“I thought …” Horace shifted so he could better see around Direfang. “I thought I should start by helping you.”

Direfang shook his head, beckoning Horace forward. He ordered the healthy goblins back, sending some up to the galley and more of the stout-hearted up on deck. “Do not get in the sailors’ way,” he cautioned. When the shuffling was finished, about three hundred and fifty remained below, and they kept as much distance as possible from Direfang and Horace and the coughing, spasming ill. Yet because there was more room in the hold, the air was not so thick anymore.

“Help those first,” Direfang told the priest. “But only if there is a chance the clansmen can be healed. Only if, skull man.”

Horace, nodding grimly, tended to Uren first. Saro-Saro lay quietly, shivering, staring hatefully at Direfang. “You should have called for me earlier,” the priest said to those in Saro-Saro’s clan who were afflicted. He spoke bluntly, irritably, in the goblin tongue. “This has progressed beyond the power of my magic. I do not think I can do anything for you. Why, in the name of all the Sea Mother counts holy, did you not call for me before now?”

Uren coughed into his hands, blood dripping onto his fingers. He wiped the blood on his shirt, which was already smeared with blood and vomit. “Thought this maybe was sickness from the water, skull man. The up and down, side to side. The wind and whoosh and-”

“No, not seasickness. Clearly,” Horace answered. He coughed too but not from the plague. The stench from the waste and the disease made simple breathing difficult for the priest.

“Some got well before,” Uren said hopefully. “Back by the river. Some got sick, then got well. Some of those are down here.” He gestured with a bloody hand toward a group of Saro-Saro’s clansmen who stood well back from the sick. “Watched them get well.”

“A few,” Horace admitted. “But not many. Don’t know why. The plague killed nearly everyone else it touched.” The priest seemed weary and defeated. “I will try to ease some of your suffering.” He looked solemnly at Saro-Saro, and the old goblin nodded in understanding. “But I cannot heal you. The illness has taken too firm a hold. I can bless you, pray to Zeboim that your spirits-”

“Stop!” Direfang barked when he heard Horace’s words. “Your healing will not help Saro-Saro and those others?”

Horace shook his head. “Sorry. No. More skilled healers than I could perhaps do something. But I will try to take away some of the pain and-”

“Will the illness spread? To the ones who are healthy?”

Horace shrugged, but his glum look told Direfang that it was likely.

“Perhaps this hold can be cleansed. To help?”

“Well, yes, I’ve spells that can-”

“Then forget the healing. Do this cleansing. Worry about the healthy, forget the dying.”

Direfang clomped past the priest and grabbed up Uren and another goblin who was close to him. Tucking the two under one arm, he grabbed two more with the other. They squirmed against him, kicking and biting and drawing more blood. But the illness had taken some of their strength. Direfang headed toward the stairs.

“Stay away. Stay back from the sick,” Direfang called over his shoulder to the healthy ones. “Use your knives to keep the sick back there. Understand?” He didn’t wait to hear the replies.

Two-chins had been hovering on the stairs, trying to take everything in. He followed Direfang up the stairs, trailed by Two-chins’ mate. More goblins started up, but Rustymane cried out.

“Wait!” he shouted, stomping to the stairs and pushing goblins away. “Wait until Direfang comes back. Wait and keep the sick from leaving. Direfang means to protect all of the clans. Direfang will-”

“What will Direfang do with Uren and …?” Graytoes had squeezed between two hobgoblins. She looked up at Rustymane, holding Umay close, the baby sleeping despite the ruckus. “What will Direfang do?”

Rustymane growled softly, silencing her and the other restless goblins.

Meanwhile Direfang had wrestled the four plague-ridden goblins up to the deck. He gulped in the fresh, salt-tinged air, gathering his strength. He ignored the shouts of the goblins gathered around the main mast. K’lars was at the capstan, huddled over some device. The half-ogre stopped what he was doing and headed over to Direfang.

“What are you doing?” K’lars nearly had caught up before Direfang spun around to confront him.

“Stay back. See the sickness?” Direfang gestured with his head to Uren, held tight though squirming under his armpit. “Stay back and stay well.” Then Direfang reached the port rail and one by one hurled the goblins over the side. “The sickness ends here.”

The hobgoblin returned belowdecks, making two more trips, Horace following him on the last one, his wide eyes disbelieving. The goblins protested and screamed as Direfang pitched them over the rail, all save the last-Saro-Saro, who had grown too weak to resist or say anything. Direfang held the old clan leader like Graytoes cradled Umay. He took no pleasure in what he had to do.

“Die free, Saro-Saro,” Direfang said bitterly. He coughed, and he saw Saro-Saro’s eyes sparkle with the hope that the illness had quickly taken hold of the hobgoblin. “Die fast, old one.” Then he dropped Saro-Saro over the rail, the goblin striking the side of the ship before hitting the water and immediately going under the swirling waves. None of the goblins had known how to swim, so the strongest of them bobbed only once or twice before drowning quickly.

Horace gripped the rail and stared at the spot where Saro-Saro had been. “I–I-I don’t understand, Foreman Direfang. To kill them like this …”

“The illness, this plague, had already killed those goblins and enough others,” Direfang said vehemently. He motioned to the goblins edging away from the mast. “Stay back and stay well.”

Two-chins’ mate spoke a little of the human tongue, and she tried to explain to K’lars about the plague and the goblins who were sick in the hold and who were now lying at the bottom of the New Sea, she hoped being devoured by the fishes.

The half-ogre’s eyes widened. He stared angrily at Direfang and took a step toward the hobgoblin leader. “No one told me or Captain Gerrold about any plague. No amount of coin would have gotten you this ship or the other ships, I’m certain, if we had known-”

Horace cut him off, interposing himself between the half-ogre and Direfang. The half-ogre thrust a hand against the priest’s shoulder, but Horace stood firm and spoke forcefully.

“We thought the plague had passed, I promise you,” Horace said. “We’d not have come on this ship if we thought there was a threat to you. Zeboim is your goddess; you follow her, same as I do. I swear on the silvery hair of the Sea Mother that no harm was meant and that my best efforts will go toward ensuring that no harm shall result to you-”

“No!” Two-chins flailed his arms in the air then pointed to the rail.

Direfang was climbing over.

“Rustymane,” Direfang rasped. “Rustymane can lead now. The skull man can cleanse the hold.” The hobgoblin coughed and wiped at the line of bloody drool spilling over his bottom lip. “The mistakes end here. My responsibility ends. The illness ends here.”

He dropped over the rail.