“Direfang chose bad, this route,” said the first goblin who crested the top and started down the other side. He struggled with a big flowerpot filled with potatoes and radishes. “Direfang should have picked an easier way, Spikehollow. Bad way, this.”
The goblins might not miss Direfang so much after all, Spikehollow mused, hearing the flowerpot-carrying one’s complaint. He pointed down the opposite trail toward the forest and Leftear appeared at the top, not far behind the flower-pot goblin. Leftear paused and looked curiously at Spikehollow, still pointing.
“Not coming, Spikehollow?” Leftear asked. “Not leading the way down?”
Spikehollow shook his head and explained he was staying on the top so he could help all of the goblins up to the top and steer them in the right direction. His words came out jumbled and quick, so he repeated them.
“Spikehollow is smart and kind,” Leftear said as he started down the other side.
Goblin after goblin passed Spikehollow, some of them chatting as they went by, some cursing at the loss of possessions they’d abandoned. Graytoes struggled up the trail, holding her baby, which had started to cry, and panting under the weight of the dwarf child, added to the satchel on her back. “Umay,” was all she said to Spikehollow as she passed. She sang softly to Umay, and that seemed to ease her own burden. She kept going, not even stopping briefly to admire the view.
Pippa followed Graytoes, but she paused at the top, stared at Spikehollow, and felt his forehead. She was careful not to pronounce him “sick” with so many other goblins around, but the concern in her eyes was not lost on him.
Bugteeth had to be pulled up the final few feet to the top. Like Spikehollow, he was shivering, but he seemed even sicker. When he coughed, pink frothy bubbles formed at the sides of his mouth. Raised ugly patches had appeared on his arms, and the goblins supporting him avoided touching the ugly pieces of skin. Spikehollow noticed that a few other goblins were coughing too. If the Dark Knight priest tended to Bugteeth and the other sick goblins, Spikehollow would ask for help from the priest too-secretly if he could. He remained resolute in not wanting to appear weak, but more than anything he wanted to feel better.
As more and more goblins came up one side and started down the other, Spikehollow grew sicker and dizzier. The goblins became a blur of colors, with their red, yellow, orange, and brown skins, the drab to garish clothes they’d pilfered, and their odd assortments of belongings and animals. He managed to find a place to the side of the trail where he could sit, where no one would bump into him and possibly knock him down the mountain. He felt better sitting; the world wasn’t spinning so much, and he didn’t cough so frequently. He closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them when he heard the frightened bleat of a goat.
The Dark Knights were passing by him, the one called Kenosh leading three goats. The pudgy priest was in the front of the trio. He didn’t look as winded as Spikehollow had expected; all the walking and climbing had built up the human’s stamina. Close behind the three came several members of the Flamegrass clan.
Direfang had obviously lingered somewhere on the trail, probably helping goblins and hobgoblins up in difficult spots. He didn’t reach the top until well more than half the goblins had topped the rise and started the climb down. Spikehollow thought the hobgoblin looked drained; he was clearly favoring his leg.
It will not be so hard to do this thing, Spikehollow thought. One good shove and Direfang would have a long fall.
“Should wait up here,” he told Direfang. “Until all the goblins are over. Wait and make sure that none are left behind.”
The hobgoblin frowned but nodded, saying nothing. Spikehollow could tell Direfang was tired and distracted by the view; his quivering nostrils were taking in the scents of the forest.
Beyond the small pine forest, the land leveled out and was covered with tall grass and summer wildflowers. A small herd of deer grazed, and a white-tailed hawk circled above them. Spikehollow could hear birds singing, but he couldn’t see any other than the lone hawk. The lead goblins descending were swallowed up by the trees and the land and could barely be glimpsed.
“Probably nested in the pines, the singing birds,” Spikehollow said. His voice cracked and he used the quilt to wipe his face again then his arms. The tunic he’d acquired many long days before from an ogre village they’d raided was thoroughly soaked with his perspiration. He plucked it away from his skin and tried to shake it a little to dry it.
“Spikehollow is sick.” Direfang did not phrase the statement as a question.
“Yes.” He did not see a problem confiding his weakness in someone who would soon be dead. Spikehollow was looking over the top of the crag, pretending to enjoy the scenery, and he thought he had found just the spot where Direfang should stand. Now to lure him over here, he thought. “Bugteeth is sick too, and a few others.”
“Spikehollow should see the skull man.” Direfang crossed his arms as if making a grand pronouncement.
Many other goblins had passed and finally the last of them were making their way over the top, several of them wheezing and grumbling, only a few of them stopping to glance at the magnificent view.
“At the bottom, I will.” Spikehollow closed his eyes again. “After the skull man sees to Bugteeth and others. At the bottom of this mountain. I am still strong. Can wait.” He didn’t see Direfang nod with approval.
“A malady swept through the slave pens some years ago,” Direfang said. “Many goblins died to a strange sickness.”
Spikehollow did not appreciate that dismal reminder of a bad episode he had blocked out of his memory. He let out a sigh and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. They were matted, the lashes stuck together. He brushed at the sweat on his face again. “Just a little sick, Direfang,” he said as he stood. He took a step toward the promontory and bent his knees to keep from falling. The rock was just the right size for Direfang to stand on.
“Beautiful place here,” he said, gesturing.
“The skull man will deal with this malady,” Direfang said, again sounding as though he were making a grand pronouncement. Spikehollow winced at the self-important hobgoblin, the loudness of his words. “The skull man will help Spikehollow and Bugteeth.”
“Look at this,” said a pleased-sounding Spikehollow, pointing down at nothing in particular. Indeed, he was pleased. Things were working out well. He and Direfang had lingered long enough. All the goblins were gone. There would be no witnesses. And no one would doubt his story. “Direfang, come look at this.”
He heard the crunch of rocks as the hobgoblin approached. Direfang was ever a curious sort.
“See something interesting, Spikehollow?”
Spikehollow nodded and gestured more firmly. “Yes, Direfang, very interesting. There is a-” The rest of his words were lost as suddenly the sickness came at him from all sides-his leg, his stomach, his head-a rush of pain and dizziness. Spikehollow dropped to his knees then pitched forward, his treasure bag falling over the side of the mountain. With dull eyes, he watched it bounce down the rocks out of sight. He felt himself slipping, slipping, and felt strong fingers circle his wrist and, miraculously, pull him up and off his feet.
“Spikehollow is not just a little sick,” Direfang corrected. He lifted the goblin, cradling him close to his chest, wrapping the quilt around him. Spikehollow had the image of Graytoes and the dwarf baby in his mind; for the moment he was as helpless as that child.