Death March

RUFFEM’S FLIGHT

The hobgoblin’s hide was crusted with blood, and flies swarmed him. He didn’t bother batting them away anymore; he was too tired, and what little strength he still had, he needed for running.

Two other hobgoblins trailed him. He didn’t know their names; he was a loner and knew the names of only a handful or so of his kinsmen.

“Slow, Ruffem,” one called. “Slow, please.”

Ruffem slowed several minutes later but only because the muscles in his legs refused to take him farther. They clenched and he dropped to his knees; a moment more and he fell forward, turning his head just in time so his face would not slam into the earth.

He registered the sound of his heart pounding, nearly in time with the slapping of the other hobgoblins’ feet as they finally closed the distance and dropped down beside him.

“Free, Ruffem,” one of them wheezed.

Ruffem couldn’t tell which one was talking as he’d closed his eyes and tried to shut out the sound of his pounding heart and everything else. He’d never run so fast in all his young life, and he feared if his heart did not slow down, it would burst out of his chest.

He felt a hand on his back, jostling him gently.

“Ruffem?” Ruffem growled softly, a warning to be left alone.

But the jostling continued.

“Free, Ruffem,” the one continued.

“But maybe not for long,” the other hissed.

That got Ruffem’s attention. He sucked in a breath, inhaling dirt too, which stuck to his teeth. He coughed and pushed himself up.

The other two hobgoblins were indeed from his clan; Ruffem recognized them once he looked at them, though he still couldn’t put names to them. One had pockmarks on his face and neck from some malady of youth; the other had a head that seemed too large for its body. Both had mud-brown hides and wore boiled leather breastplates, marking them as clan warriors. It was the one with the pockmarks who had said they might not be free for long. Pockmark helped Ruffem to his feet.

“Too many minotaurs,” Pockmark said. “Wise to run, Ruffem. Would that everyone had run.”

“Others ran,” Ruffem managed to gasp. Some part of him thought his cowardice was justified because he’d spotted some of his kinsmen fleeing. “Others ran first.”

The hobgoblin with the overlarge head snarled. “Foul creatures from the pits, minotaurs. Man-bulls that should burn in the abyss.”

Ruffem nodded in agreement.

The pockmarked hobgoblin brushed at Ruffem’s chest to get the dirt and sticks off. “Hagam warned the clan about the minotaurs. Hagam days past said slavers were coming and that a shaman promised freedom to the south. Should have listened to Hagam.”

“Hagam ran days past,” Ruffem said.

The pockmarked hobgoblin prodded Ruffem’s chest and stomach and picked at the blood. “This blood …”

“Belongs to a minotaur,” Ruffem finished.

They got on either side of him and propped him up as they continued south, trying for a steady pace.

“A dead minotaur,” Ruffem added as he shook them off and regained his footing. He grinned widely so they could see the blood on his teeth and gums. He made a snapping gesture, indicating he’d bitten the minotaur. The minotaur had held Ruffem in a bear hug, waiting for another minotaur to bring a rope to tie him. Ruffem had stretched up and clamped his teeth on the minotaur’s neck, releasing a rush of blood. “A very dead minotaur.”

“Should have listened to Hagam, though,” Pockmark repeated. “None would be caught to be sold as slaves. All would be free.”

“South,” Ruffem said, pointing. His legs burned, but his muscles still worked, good and strong. “Run now.”

Ruffem took off at an easy lope, the others following.