Grallik and Horace sat together on a piece of slate on the riverbank, backs to the water and staring at the dead black willow. Bodies were piled like cordwood against its trunk. Kenosh’s was among them.
“The last of my talon,” Grallik said dully. His face and arms were purple with bruises from the pummeling the goblins had given him the previous night. His leg carried an ugly welt where a goblin kicked him because he’d let the goats run away.
Horace had fared worse. The Ergothian favored his left side and held his chin in his hands. His bruises were conspicuous, even on his dark face, his eyelids were swollen. A gash ran from his right ear to his throat, and it was only just crusting.
“Kenosh was a loyal knight,” Horace said finally.
“I will miss him. The best of my talon, he was.”
The priest let out a sigh. “Perhaps we will join him soon enough, Gray Robe. The plague spreads, and I can do nothing to even slow it down.”
Grallik rubbed at the corner of his lip, where an ugly scab was forming. “It was the dwarf village, wasn’t it? That’s where the plague came from.”
“Aye, the spoils from the Cradle were tainted.”
The wizard hung his head. “I … I am sorry I brought you into this mess, Horace. I was thinking of myself and-”
“No.” Horace cocked his head to study the wizard. “The Sea Mother brought me into this situation, Gray Robe. And if we survive this predicament, it will be because she wills it.”
“Wizard!” Direfang shouted from nearby. “Be fast!”
“The Foreman calls,” the wizard said with a deep sigh. “So much for this respite.” Grallik carefully stood and tested his legs. “Coming, Foreman!” He called forth a familiar spell as he moved, pointing a slender finger at the black willow and closing his eyes when a gout of flame shot down to catch the top of the tree. “Burning the dead, as you requested, Foreman Direfang.”
Before the sun chased the blush from the sky, the tree and all the bodies beneath it had turned to ash.
HALF OF THE ARMY
Horace was becoming increasingly familiar with the goblin tongue, though he continued to stumble over some of the words.
“My healing skills are considerable,” the priest told the gathering in occasionally halting speech. “But I cannot stop the ravages of this plague. The dwarf village was thick with the disease, and you carried it away with you. You wear it on the clothes you took, the blankets, the shoes, you eat it in the food you stole from the homes. We should have realized something was amiss when the population of the Cradle seemed so small.”
He paused. “And now your numbers are dwindling as well.”
There were reeds along that stretch of river, dry with the summer, and when the wind gusted, they clattered like finger bones shaken in a pot. Horace listened to the rustling reeds for a moment and dropped his gaze to a patch of ground, black from blood that dying goblins had coughed up.
“I don’t know why some of us have been spared,” he continued, stepping forward to stand next to Direfang. “We should separate from those already sick. To help stop the spread.” For the most part, that had already been done; there was a dividing line, a crack in the ground that ran perpendicular to the river and stretched toward a copse of birch trees. “I will continue to minister to the sick ones, at the very least to ease their passing. And when the plague has run its course, we can move on.”
Saro-Saro was not among the sick. He strode up to Direfang, chest thrust out importantly; Pippa followed at his side. He glowered at the priest and tipped his chin up.
“This clan will not stay here and risk the sickness. We will not listen to the skull man.” He waved imperiously to indicate all the yellow-skinned goblins behind him. “This clan will not die, nor will the Flamegrass goblins. This clan-all the clans-will leave today.”
“Saro-Saro should lead!” Pippa cried. It was the first time any goblin had so openly questioned Direfang’s authority. “Direfang must step aside! It is time for Saro-Saro!”
A swell of protest rose from those loyal to Direfang, but chants of “Saro-Saro” rose in volume as well.
“Lead, then!” Direfang spit, jabbing a finger at Saro-Saro and nearly toppling the old goblin over with his vehemence. “Take the damnable task. And take whoever will follow. Die on the march along the river.” The hobgoblin’s face was slick with anger.
“Not whoever will follow,” Saro-Saro shot back. “All!”
Horace nervously backed away from the arguing goblins, finding Grallik sitting on the slab of slate on the riverbank. The priest sat next to the wizard, closing his eyes and concentrating on the rustling of the dry reeds, so difficult to hear over the chatter.
“It is good, Gray Robe, that you do not speak their language. The words are ugly and troublesome today,” Horace whispered.
Grallik nodded, pricking his ears, trying to pick out the few words he could understand.
Pippa had pushed her way up close to Direfang and stood there, next to Saro-Saro, glaring at the hobgoblin leader.
“It is good that Direfang does not want to lead,” Pippa declared smugly. “Good that Direfang is stepping aside without a fight. Direfang lives that way. The weak way. Direfang does not have to die so that strong Saro-Saro can lead.”
The hobgoblin’s supporters also pressed forward, sticking their angry faces close to members of Saro-Saro’s clan and the Flamegrass clan. Direfang felt detached from the argument, wishing that Saro-Saro would just leave and take all the goblins with him. He thought of Mudwort and searched the gathering for the shaman, finally seeing her and Boliver well to the north, hands thrust into the earth and paying no attention to the disturbance.
Pippa had climbed on the shoulders of a Flamegrass goblin and was raising her fist in the air. “Saro-Saro leads!”
“Leads where?” shouted a red-skinned goblin called Skakee. She was young, born in the slave pens, and she’d worked all her shifts under Direfang. “Saro-Saro leads the clans to the Abyss?”
“Leads where?” more goblins shouted; some of them had never liked the insolent Pippa, others were simply curious to know where Saro-Saro was going to take them if he was becoming the leader.
“South!” Saro-Saro proclaimed decisively. The throng quieted down to hear him. Even his opponents stopped to listen. “Away from here and the sickness. Together the clans will build a nation.”
“With Saro-Saro as its king!” Pippa cried.
Horace shook his head and whispered to Grallik. “Gray Robe, if they leave now, they will spread this plague to cities to the south. Nor can they march very far with so many of them sick.”
The wizard shook his head ruefully. “Look at them. Really look at them. I don’t have to understand their language to understand what’s going on. It’s some kind of clan rivalry. The yellow ones seem to prefer that old goblin as their leader.”
“He’s called Saro-Saro,” Horace supplied.
“But there are not so many in the clans that support him. Most of the goblins and hobgoblins stand with the foreman, and I think they will wait for the illness to pass. Some are too tired and sick to go. Most will stay and not spread this damnable disease.”
The priest was staring at Pippa. She herself had just started coughing and raised her fist to cover her mouth. Black spots showed under her arm. The goblin she stood upon coughed also.
“Soon there will be fewer on both sides, Gray Robe,” Horace said, agreeing with Grallik. “Another clan of goblins joined this mob this morning. But soon nothing will matter for many of them.”
The debate continued to rage, Direfang standing in the midst of the clans, arms crossed indifferently over his chest with his gaze locked most of the time on Mudwort and Boliver. The hobgoblin answered a few questions from time to time. But for the most part, he remained quiet and neutral, just listening to others.