Death March

THE SPEAR OF CHISLEV

Mudwort was oblivious to the commotion on deck. She’d heard goblins tromping past the galley door and caught a glimpse of Direfang. She’d noted the surge of goblins piling into the galley and crowding on the benches, waiting for food.

The wizard sat across from her; he’d moved from his table to hers when Two-chins came in to get the priest.

“More room!” Mudwort told a goblin who tried to sit next to her. She stretched and reached out her arm, indicating the goblin should give her that much extra space. “Farther away,” she repeated to the hobgoblin who started to settle in next to Grallik. She added a withering glance and thrummed her fingers against the table. The goblin and hobgoblin complied.

The plate in front of her had been licked clean. For nearly two days, she’d been caught up in her latest seeing spell, and it had left her famished and tired. Sated, her eyelids drooped and she yawned.

“Talk about Chislev,” she said to Grallik, her head bobbing forward. She forced herself to stay awake. “Talk clear, wizard, and talk slow.” Mudwort’s command of the human’s language was limited.

“You should be talking to Horace,” the wizard said. “Horace is a follower of Zeboim, but there’s a part of him that respects all the gods. He’s a scholar of the divine, Mudwort, and he-”

She stuffed her fist in her mouth as she yawned again, shook her head vehemently, and fixed him with a narrowed gaze. “Did not ask the skull man. Will not ask the skull man.” She slammed her fist against the table, making her empty plate jump. The others around them edged away. “Tell me about Chislev. It is important.”

Grallik’s eyes widened. He’d been watching her, and he’d heard her repeat “Chislev” once during one of her far-seeing enchantments.

“She-”

“Chislev is female?”

Grallik nodded.

“There is power in females,” Mudwort said. “But not in gods. Goblins do not-”

“Believe in them, I know.” Grallik rubbed at a smudge on the table and looked up as a sailor came around with a kettle, ladling out more helpings of a meat and potato stew onto plates. The air filled with slurping and belching sounds, appreciative chatter, and plates clanking against the table to hurry the sailor.

“Chislev. Talk some more, wizard.” Mudwort yawned wide. “More about this female god.”

“She is called the Beast and also Kisla, the Mother of Sea Creatures, which is why you should ask Horace about her. Some call her the Wild One as she represents nature.”

“And power?”

“Aye, the wild goddess represents that too.”

Mudwort nodded, beginning to understand Saarh’s interest in Chislev’s spear. Saarh seemed very in touch with nature and eager to accumulate arcane power.

Grallik pursed his lips, searching his memory for what he had heard about Chislev. “Worshipers associate colors with her-”

“Yellow,” Mudwort supplied, remembering the colors on the spear in her vision of Saarh. “Brown too. Mostly green.”

“You know much,” Grallik said, “for one who does not believe in Chislev.”

Mudwort glared at him. “More, wizard.”

Grallik nodded to the sailor, who ladled more of the stew on his plate. “Another helping, yes, a small one.” The wizard stirred a spoon in the stew and noticed that not a single goblin had asked for or been given a spoon. He smiled about that.

“Chislev’s symbol is a feather, of her colors. Her weapon, the short spear.” He didn’t notice Mudwort’s eyes widen, or see her mouth, “My spear.”

He ate a spoonful of the stew. “Most of her worshipers are farmers and hunters, druids too, some bands of elves, and I believe the centaurs of the plains. It is said that the seasons march on her whim, that summer comes when she is passionate, winter when she wraps herself in melancholy. When she is angry, she shows it in violent storms.”

One of the sailors carrying the stew pots stopped at Grallik’s shoulder. “You speak of Chislev,” he said, frowning. “I favor Zeboim, who despises the Mother of Sea Creatures. It was Zeboim’s will that we got through that last blow with nary a problem.” He moved on.

Grallik took a few more spoonfuls of the stew and continued his explanation. “Chislev doesn’t have priests in the same sense as Krynn’s other gods. Hers are the druids, and they protect the forests. As that sailor said, she is known to dislike Zeboim. Their ill will was fostered in the All-Saint’s War when Zeboim defeated her. I know little else, Mudwort. As I told you, Horace could-”

Mudwort had been fighting off sleep for too long. Her head plopped onto her empty plate, and she started to snore.

Grallik shrugged and kept eating.

“Rude things, ain’t they?” said another sailor passing by with slices of bread. “K’lars calls them rats what walk on two legs.”

“Be careful,” Grallik hissed. “A few of those rats can understand every word you say.” He fell to finishing his plate of stew, the clatter of plates and pitchers and the goblin chatter rising all around him.

Direfang struck the cold sea and dropped like a heavy stone. After a moment, however, the water buoyed him up again, just as he’d seen happen with the goblins he’d thrown over. His reflexes caused him to gasp and gulp in the sweet air-his last breaths, probably.

In truth, he didn’t want to die. But more than that, he didn’t want to suffer the way Saro-Saro and the other stricken goblins had languished, didn’t want his already-ugly body to become covered with the large, black, oozing knobs. He didn’t want to cough up great gobs of blood. A quick death was better. And it was better that the plague end with him than spread to his comrades.

The saltwater stung the slashes on his arms and legs, and it made his tattered clothes heavy and worked to pull him down again. Direfang was at the same time terrified of dying and furious at Saro-Saro for bringing about such a sorry end to his miserable life. He raged at the circumstances that had caused all of it, yet it had been his decision to swarm into Reorx’s Cradle and take away the foul sickness. He’d survived so much-the years of tortuous labor at the mining camp, the beatings, the night they poured salt in his wounds and cut off his left ear, the earthquakes, the lava, the fight with the tylor-all to be murdered by some foul disease.

He slipped under gradually. He felt a buzzing in his ears, then a quick thrumming, which he guessed was his heart beating. He briefly kicked with his legs, feeling himself rise again then drew his legs together, deciding to resist the instinct to survive.

The plague ends here, he thought.

Direfang opened his eyes, astonished that he could see under water. The world down there was a green-gray with a few slender, shadowy shapes passing through it: fish. It was colder than he had expected, but he welcomed that-the air in the ship’s hold had been cloying and hot. He swallowed the water, thinking it really had no taste to it. He felt heavy, full of water, and very cold.

Then the world turned black just as he felt himself pulled upward again.

“Got him!” K’lars shouted, his booming voice carrying across the chop. “Heavy, this big rat is!” The half-ogre treaded water several dozen feet behind the Clare.

A longboat was being lowered with four sailors in it. The Clare had dropped its sails when Direfang started heaving sick goblins overboard. K’lars had followed Direfang into the sea a heartbeat after the hobgoblin leader had jumped to what he believed was a certain death. But the ship did not stop immediately and was drifting ahead, so the longboat was needed to go back and retrieve the pair.

“Hurry it, will you?” K’lars called. “I said he’s heavy!” The sailor had grabbed Direfang under one armpit and was lifting his head above the water as best he could. The two were of similar build and size, both nearly seven feet tall. But the hobgoblin was dead weight, and twice the half-ogre lost his grip and fumbled with his burden, briefly sinking, before the longboat arrived.

“You pull ’im up. He’s an anchor, that’s for sure.” K’lars waited until they had Direfang in the center of the boat; then he dragged himself in. The hobgoblin leader’s eyes were shut, and he lay still as stone. “The cook better make something special for me for dinner after I risked my own sorry hide to save this big rat.”

Once on the ship, they turned Direfang on his side, and K’lars struck him in the center of his back. The hobgoblin coughed once, his eyes opening, the water rushing out of his mouth. He coughed again, blinked, and struggled to rise. K’lars helped him up.

“Raise the sails!” Captain Gerrold set his fists against his hips and watched as Horace inspected the wet, dazed hobgoblin. “Get back you, all of you.”

But the goblins who’d been gathered amidships didn’t understand the commands in Common and clustered around Direfang.

“Get them below,” Gerrold said, looking daggers at Direfang. “All of them. I don’t want a single one getting tangled in my lines or tripping my sailors. Don’t want another one jumping over the side either … or being tossed over like garbage.”

Direfang looked around slowly, still half in a daze. The eyes of the goblins shifted away as most of them drifted off, following the captain’s orders. The hobgoblin leader met the angry stare of Gerrold.

“The illness is in here.” He stabbed his thumb at his chest. “And it spreads like a fire over a mound of dead. The illness will move to here and here and here”-he pointed to the men who were wet and apparently had helped him into the longboat-“and there; sooner or later the illness will spread to them.” He gestured to K’lars, giving him a nod. “Don’t doom this ship. And look to the other ships. If there is more plague with the goblins-”

Gerrold stormed forward and grabbed Direfang’s tunic at the breastbone. “Doom? The plague was brought on the Clare, and you throwing yourself overboard won’t get rid of it. The damnable thing is in deep in the hold and probably seeping into the very wood of the ship.” Spittle flew from the captain’s lips, his face twisting with anger. “I didn’t order your rescue for any noble reason, hob. I need you to control these goblins. They seem to follow you. We’ll be arriving at your damnable forest soon enough. But first we’re going to the lady’s island, Schallsea Island, like I’d planned. Not just for new line and sails now. I mean to rid my ship and my men of this insidious disease. Everything and everyone must be made whole or die.”

He released his grip on the hobgoblin, pivoted on his leather heels, and returned to the wheel.

“Takes something to get the captain mad,” K’lars said in a low voice. “Did you hear him call the Clare his ship? I think he just bought it from you, Direfang. Paid you in full when he had us haul your sorry hide out of the sea and changed his course for the lady’s island. Bought it with the lady’s healing hands, the captain did.”

Direfang gaped dully at the sailor, shivering, whether from the illness or his ordeal, he couldn’t say.

K’lars beckoned to Horace. “I think maybe you better get this big rat into the hold with all of the other rats, eh? Best right now if the captain doesn’t see much of them. Captain Gerrold’s got a mad streak on that’ll take this ship to the Blood Sea and back.”

Horace gestured to Direfang, and the hobgoblin slowly followed him toward the stairs.

“Schallsea Island?” Horace asked.

“Aye, the lady’s place,” K’lars returned.

Direfang followed Horace below.

“Predominantly human,” Horace was explaining to Direfang, some minutes later. The hobgoblin sat on the stairs that led into the lower bay. Horace stood facing him. “Schallsea Island is near Abanasinia, separated by the straits. A big island, two hundred or more miles long, but less than half that at its widest point.”

The hobgoblin coughed and shivered. He and Horace were as alone as possible, even the most curious of the goblins not wanting to get too close to him-maybe because they were afraid they might catch the illness, maybe because he had disgraced them with his behavior. Word had already spread that Direfang had tossed Saro-Saro and some of his clansmen over the side to their deaths.

Horace’s eyes misted. “I visited there in my youth, Schallsea, with my uncle and my oldest brother. A beautiful place with many streams that sparkle like diamonds in the warmest months. Most of the island is inaccessible because of its dangerous cliffs. But there are a handful of harbors, and I’m certain he’s taking this ship to the largest. That would be the Port of Schallsea, where my uncle once took his ship. A good thing it’s summertime, Foreman. In winter the harbors have been known to freeze solid.”

Horace seemed lost in the memory, and his head bobbed in time with the gentle rising and falling of the Clare.

“The lady’s island, K’lars called it.” Direfang coughed again and cursed to feel blood welling at the edge of his lip.

“Aye, the island is said to have been born during the Cataclysm. When the New Sea rose and lands all around this part of the world dropped, one stretch didn’t, and they called it Schallsea. After the Chaos War, a famous Hero of the Lance came to it: Goldmoon.”

Direfang nodded. He was familiar with some of the old tales.

“That’s why these sailors call it the lady’s island, Foreman. This lady, Goldmoon, established the Citadel of Light, which was destroyed not too many years ago. Last I heard, it was being rebuilt, though.”

“Why take this ship there?” Direfang’s shoulders were slumped, and he wrapped his arms around his chest, trying futilely to warm himself.

“Because Goldmoon attracted many healers to her citadel. There are people there far more skilled in the divine arts than I. If anyone can cure this plague, it would be the priests on that island. Captain Gerrold is smart to head there. I must go and tell Grallik.”

“Fine,” Direfang muttered. He groaned softly, his chin dropping, and slid forward, his chin striking the floor.