“Seven hundred and fifty two,” Direfang mused. Where had all the many, many goblins come from? The mountains, east to the sea, from the far north; he’d vaguely listened to the clans talk about their former homes and the call that had summoned them. “So many. Too many.”
He listened to the wooden bones of the ship softly groan, thinking the sound vaguely comforting. His keen hearing picked up the sound of his hobgoblin guards striding overhead. He suspected they were poking through some of Grallik’s myriad purchases. They were loyal, though, and he knew they would not eat much.
He couldn’t see Mudwort, though he’d spotted her down there earlier, whispering to Graytoes. He’d wanted to put Mudwort in charge of the goblins on The Elizabeth or Linda’s Grady, but she’d preferred to stay close to Direfang. And Direfang did not trust Saro-Saro, Grallik, or Horace enough to have them on a ship other than his. So they were all there, friends and enemies, and some friends who might very well become enemies.
“Mudwort?” She would be sleeping where the shadows were the thickest or where she might find some nook that afforded her a little privacy. He’d look for her later, maybe wait until morning.
His ruminations were interrupted by Two-chins. The goblin suddenly stood, swayed unsteadily on his feet, held his stomach, then bent over and vomited, the bile splashing over the goblin and spattering his kinsmen nearby. After a bit of arguing and shuffling to find a clean place of floor, the hold grew quiet again.
Was this a mistake? Direfang wondered.
He was not wondering about leaving Steel Town; they were right to abandon that hellish life. So many, many dead-more than a thousand lost to the earthquakes, more lost in the mountains to the volcanoes. Some left with Hurbear; Direfang hoped they were safe somewhere. Dozens were dead to the tylor-his fault for ordering the charge. Hundreds fell to the malady the skull man called a plague.
Had it been a mistake to take them into the mountains?
Would things have turned out better if he’d led them north? There were volcanoes there too. But perhaps they did not all erupt as violently. The mountains didn’t stretch as far to the north; he remembered that from the Dark Knight maps. He knew men were more numerous there. But he hadn’t anticipated the tylor and the plague. If he’d taken them north, would more of them be alive?
“A mistake,” he whispered in the human tongue. “Too, too many dead.”
Direfang sat on a step that led down to the lower cargo hold, his feet touching the floor. He stared into the shadows where the goblins were huddled in clusters corresponding to their clans, most of them trying to sleep. He rubbed his thumbs over the pouch that Grallik had returned to him; the wizard had spent all but five gems. Direfang was pleased the wizard had done his job well, managing to purchase ships. It felt good to own something.
Graytoes sat near Direfang, cradling the dwarf baby and making cooing sounds to it.
“Goats above,” she said, beaming. “Saw the goats. Goat milk for this baby. For Umay. And for other younglings.”
Direfang nodded.
“Umay,” Graytoes repeated. She made a clicking noise with her teeth, and the baby gurgled happily.
“It is a good name,” Direfang said.
“For a very good baby.” Graytoes rocked the child and started singing an old goblin tune about war and death. She did not know any lullabies.
“A horrible mistake,” Direfang whispered.
Graytoes looked up in surprise, interrupting her singing. She didn’t understand many human words, but she knew mistake.
“What is a mistake?” she asked, pushing out her bottom lip. “Not Umay!”
“No, that was not a mistake.” Direfang gave her a rare smile. She’d not whimpered about Moon-eye since taking the baby from Reorx’s Cradle. At least that was one good thing that had happened on the journey. “Shh. Time to rest, Graytoes.”
She settled herself against a snoring hobgoblin, reclining against his stomach and holding the baby close. It cooed pleasantly.
Direfang’s head bobbed forward until his chin touched his chest. He had stayed up on the deck for a few hours, until his legs got sore from standing so long and he feared he would get sick in front of the sailors. He worried about the goblins on the other ships and was frustrated that he had no way to communicate with them. He didn’t want to show his frustration or his fears to the sailors on the Clare, so he had eventually gone down to the hold, wanting to check on his kinsmen. His stomach still roiled, and he was thankful he’d not eaten much that day. He could smell the vomit everywhere from goblins who’d gotten sick from the rocking of the ship.
He also smelled their familiar musky scent in the close air. They did not stink as much, most of them wading in the sea for hours at the priest’s direction in an effort to rid themselves of the plague germs. But he smelled the salt and the wood of the ship.
Their clothes were stiff from the saltwater, as was his ragged tunic. He pawed at his arms, brushing more salt away. His feet still ached, though he liked the feel of the smooth oak against his soles.
Coming that way, to the south, probably a mistake, he thought. The tylor, Reorx’s Cradle-the monster and the village that spread the plague. Those deaths were on his hands.
But the ship … that might not be a mistake, he reflected, trying to rally his spirits. It would be a chance to rest, to give his feet time to mend, an opportunity for the goblins to eat and not complain about walking on a mountain.
A shout from above roused him.
“Foreman! Trouble’s coming!” It was the priest, Horace, calling to Direfang from the top of the stairs. “You’d best hurry.”
ROUGH WATERS
Direfang hadn’t meant to, but he had fallen asleep in the hold. The sky was lightening as he climbed up on deck. Above him the sails snapped, startling him, and the ship rose on a wave. He couldn’t keep his balance and dropped to his knees; a pair of sailors working the lines nearby laughed at his clumsiness.
“The beastie has no sea legs,” a gangly human chortled. “They’re all puking below. I heard a lot of them giving up their dinner last night.”
“Two weeks and we’ll be clear o’ them,” his companion said. “Then we’ll scrub the hold three or four times to make sure we get all the fleas. Bet The Balifor Breeze is faring worse. They got most of the hobs.”
Direfang stood, bracing himself when the ship rode up on another wave. He sneered at the two men, who were oblivious to the fact that he understood their tongue. They continued to deride the goblin passengers as Horace hurried back from the wheel and took Direfang’s arm.
“Foreman, you need to see the captain.” Horace tugged him toward the wheel. “There’s trouble, I say!”
The ship rose again, the bow coming down just as a wave washed over it, the spray washing over Direfang and Horace and making the deck slippery. The hobgoblin tugged his arm free and lengthened his stride, coming up to Captain Gerrold just as a sailor in the crow’s nest barked down “Still following us, she is! Following all o’ us!”
The captain turned at Direfang’s approach. His eyes were hard, and the lines on his tanned face reminded the hobgoblin of tree bark.
“What trouble?” Direfang steadied himself as the bow rose again.
The captain raised an eyebrow and twisted the wheel to port. “You speak Common?”
“If that’s what you call your language, yes.”
“The storm is one trouble,” the captain replied. “It’s coming up quick. A sharp freshening, feel it? The wind shifted on us, and we’re tacking through it, but it’s going to be rough sailing for a while. You’ll need to explain that to your … fellows. I pray my counterparts will be able to handle the others.”