Horace pointed to Direfang, speaking almost admiringly. “The foreman dreams, I think, of being away from all of this.”
Grallik studied a tear in the leather along one tip of his boot. “I never envisioned this disaster when we left Steel Town,” he said softly. “I, too, had dreams. I thought I would learn goblin magic, and it would benefit us all. Just yesterday I thought I had convinced Foreman Direfang that I knew a faster route to the Qualinesti Forest. I still believed we could escape all these problems.”
Horace raised an eyebrow. “Your home, yes, the forest?”
“The home of my youth. By the sea,” Grallik admitted. “I was going to find a way to get us all there, safely.”
Horace stood. “The sea.” He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Zeboim’s element. Yes, I see now. There would be hope and promise in that path. I must talk to the foreman.” He pushed his way through the squabbling goblins to reach Direfang.
A fire burned steadily for the next several days as goblin corpses were burned, remains scattered, and ceremonies held to honor the dead. So many had sickened in the meantime that the talk of leaving and of Saro-Saro leading was almost forgotten.
Pippa, Saro-Saro’s main cheerleader, was one of those who died fastest.
“Pippa is remembered,” Saro-Saro declared at the naming ceremony. “Pippa was loyal and smiled and chattered loudly often. Pippa loved Spikehollow.”
“Pippa is remembered,” Skakee repeated. “Pippa will be reborn healthy and far from this sad place.”
Direfang had seen too many dead bodies burned. He did not directly participate in the ceremony that included Pippa, though even he hovered at the edge of the crowd and listened respectfully.
“Bignose is remembered. An old one, Bignose was born in the Before Time. Good that Bignose died free.”
“Zeek is remembered. Zeek bragged and scratched in the dirt. Remember bragging Zeek.”
“Urknor feared storms and the volcanoes. Urknor ate worms and grubs and rarely shared. Urknor is remembered.”
“Bosti is remembered. Bosti lied often, and Bosti stole. But Bosti fought well and killed two Dark Knights in Steel Town. Bosti the Brave Liar is remembered.”
The names of the some of the dead were unknown, particularly those from clans that had recently joined with the goblins from the rebellion, and the dead ones from new clans were honored with speeches about the march through the mountains and about how good it was to die outside of Steel Town and so far from the hated iron mine.
“Kenosh is remembered too.” Horace murmured those words aloud, but he stood well away from the goblins, praying to Zeboim at the riverbank. He prayed for Kenosh, but he also prayed for the souls of the dead goblins; mostly he prayed for himself and Grallik, whose fates would be grim if left to the whim of Saro-Saro.
Roughly half of the goblin force had died to the plague in less than a week, and not quite one thousand remained. Some of the survivors had caught the disease and recovered, but Horace took no credit for that. It was a mystery why some few recovered, while most died. Some still carried hints of the disease, in their coughs and black spots, but their symptoms had not worsened.
And so Direfang finally had declared it was time to move on.
“Follow Saro-Saro,” he said after that last naming ceremony, raising his voice so all heard him clearly. “Saro-Saro can be the leader now.” The hobgoblin then struck off to the south without another word, Mudwort and Boliver loping behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, Grallik and Horace headed out too, the latter praying fervently to Zeboim that Saro-Saro’s clan members would not claim them and keep them from following Direfang.
To the humans’ surprise, nearly all the goblins fell in line behind them, still arguing about who should lead and where they should go. Less than one hundred lagged behind, clustered around Saro-Saro and proclaiming their steadfastness to the yellow-skinned goblin.
Yet as the main force of goblins continued to move farther away, more and more of Saro-Saro’s clan peeled off and hurried to join the larger body. In the end even the old goblin and the handful of his most loyal supporters grudgingly joined the mass movement. They wore angry, contemptuous expressions.
“Direfang must die,” one of Saro-Saro’s clansmen muttered. “That is only solution to Direfang.”
“Yes,” the old goblin agreed. “Yes, indeed.”
Direfang had not expected all the goblins to follow him, but looking over his shoulder, he accepted the inevitable and slowed his pace to accommodate their shorter legs. He thought about his hundreds of dead kinsmen as he walked, the smell of their burned bodies still thick in his nostrils. And he realized that although he had only half of the army that he’d had before, the burden of leadership, the task of bringing all those goblins to a safe homeland, that job, that responsibility was still heavy.
Another dozen died to the illness before they reached the mouth of the river and stood on the shore of the New Sea-where, to their astonishment, another eighteen clans of goblins were waiting for them.
“The call was answered!” called Thya, an overly tall goblin who rushed forward to meet Direfang. “The shaman’s call was heard and answered. We’ve been waiting for you here. Waiting to join the march to a homeland. Together, goblins will be safe and free.”
Direfang shuddered to see the many goblins who rushed forward to meet their new comrades. His following was replaced almost as swiftly as it was depleted, it seemed. The sickness would take some, but not all, of them. Many more would join and continue with the goblins following Direfang. The hobgoblin shook his head. So many goblins following him, following him. Following him where?
A FEAST OF GEMS
It was early morning; the sun wasn’t yet up, and the sky was a pale gray contrast to the dark waters of the inland sea. Many of the goblins busied themselves socializing with the new clans while filling the bottles they’d taken from the glass tree with river water. Others were staring mutely at the sea. No one had ever seen so much water.
“This is a young sea,” Horace explained, his face beaded with sweat. He still hadn’t recovered his strength; his healing was still in demand. “At least as far as the entire history of the world is concerned, it is young. It was born when the Kingpriest of Istar demanded too many things of the gods. Angered by his insolence, they raised some land masses and sank others. Ansalon’s most beautiful plains were among the places the gods drowned with the Sirrion Ocean. The people named the divinely created water the New Sea.”
Horace took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. “The dragons have played a part in the formation of this sea too. A section of the eastern part of the New Sea became a swamp, thanks to the great black dragon they called Sable. They say Sable is dead now, and so the swamp slowly is retreating. The New Sea will grow larger again. It is a few thousand feet deep in some places, difficult to navigate in others, particularly where it brushes the great swamp with its tribes of bakali and other lizard-folk.”
Horace waded out into the water, Grallik nearby the hobgoblin following both of them closely, listening skeptically.
Direfang scowled. “Keep all those words in the human tongue, skull man. Some clans might not cross this New Sea after learning how deep it is … and how dangerous.” He looked to the goblins near the shore. “Some will not even come into the shallows to try to lose the plague. And look how many foolish goblins there are now.”
“Easily three thousand, I’d wager.” The priest’s expression grew troubled as he noticed Saro-Saro and a few dozen of his clansmen clustered well back from the shore. But he turned back to stare at the sea. His expression turned serene; he bowed his head and traced a symbol in the air. “I feel the Sea Mother’s presence,” he said. “Zeboim’s breath gently stirs the waves.”