Seven members of the Rockbridge clan-the only members of that clan to survive the earthquakes-were on the level above, inventorying the food and goods at Direfang’s request. It was a useless task, as there was no way to alter what had been purchased, and it was likely the clansmen would forget the numbers of the various whatnots they counted, thought Mudwort. Perhaps the exercise was merely intended to give those goblins something to do.
Despite goblins being washed over the rail, more continued to venture up on deck, too curious for their own good, Mudwort thought. A big wave would take care of the too-curious ones; she wished again it would take care of the dozen or so who were sick with spots.
She had not enjoyed her brief foray on the deck, which was why she preferred to wallow in the conditions down there. However, she had found some pleasure in calling down the lightning and ruining the pursuing pirate ship. She was angry at herself for letting the wizard take all the credit for her ingenious, destructive magic. At the time she’d not wanted anyone to know she’d discovered such a powerful, new enchantment. She liked to keep secrets. But then she thought she might have gained some more respect because of her heroism and perhaps a spot in a cabin above where conditions had to be better.
Boliver had been elusive; she’d inquired about him among the others several times in the past few hours. He wasn’t a member of the Rockbridge clan, so he was not conducting the useless inventory directly overhead. Neither was he down there. She hoped he hadn’t perished in the storm.
She hadn’t remembered seeing him get into one of the longboats at the mouth of the river, so he might have been one of the stubborn eighteen who remained on the shore. Boliver was stubborn; that was possible. Or he might have been tossed over the side during the storm. Her magical scrying told her he was not on one of the other ships either. A mystery-the disappearance of Boliver.
Mudwort’s stomach clenched tighter because she missed her friend. Boliver and Moon-eye had been the only goblins she really talked to. She’d spent quite a bit of time with Boliver since leaving Steel Town, mingling magic and learning more than a little from him. She enjoyed his company because he was a smart goblin and because joining their spells had been so effortless. He’d been a shaman for his clan in the Before Time, and she suspected he was more powerful than she.
She thought he’d been left behind on the shore, too frightened of the sea to get in a longboat. She could use her seeing spell to look for him in the pine woods to be certain. But she was weary right then, drained of some power. The attack on the pirate ship had left her in need of rest. And if Boliver was dead or gone, then she would find out soon enough.
She tried to relax rather than concentrate on her assorted complaints and the mystery of her absent friend. The wood of the crate felt good against the backs of her legs, the wood of the prow against her neck and shoulders. The ship rocked ceaselessly and creaked constantly, however, an unpleasant, worrisome sound. Yet the noise was enough to keep some of the snores and chittering of the goblins at bay.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Saarh was with Brab, the crooked-faced goblin, in the heart of the young forest. The clan was nearby, digging bowl shaped depressions in the earth between clumps of willowy birch and ash trees. It had rained earlier, shortly after dawn, but it was not a long or intense storm.
The rain made all the greens and browns brighter, fed the ever-thirsty trilliums so close to the ground, brought out rich and wonderful scents, and, above all, made the earth soft for digging. Saarh’s goblins were making homes; they would circle their depressions with stones and small logs, and later weave branches to cover them to keep out the worst of future rains. Saarh’s goblins had never constructed such dwellings before, but she’d seen things like that in her seeing spells, and she decided the clansmen would feel safer sleeping in the earth pockets.
Busy, the goblins did not need her for a while, so Saarh and her consort wandered west.
“Ril bore a youngling last night,” the crooked-faced goblin told her.
Saarh nodded, though she had been unaware of the news. “Yes, Brab, a fine youngling that will grow strong in these woods.” She’d been using her magic to search through the earth, trying to pinpoint the power she searched for. It lay in that direction; she felt the pull.
“Others will bear younglings in the next few months,” he continued. “The food is plentiful here, so no more younglings should die from shrunken bellies.”
“No, never again, that is to be hoped.” The clan had lost a few babies recently, when the food in the caves became scarce. Saarh could have led them to other chambers, where the great urkhan worms laired. Even a young worm would have fed the clan for days and days.
But there was no lure of power in the chambers.
When Saarh picked up her pace, the crooked-faced goblin struggled to keep up. Brab dragged his right leg; the foot of his right leg was turned outward and gave him an odd, halting gait. He fell behind after a while, and she did not slow to accommodate him, as she always had before in the caves. Still, he did not quit following her. He looked to the ground to find her footprints. Looking slowed him even further.
She stopped in the late afternoon, when her legs tired and her stomach growled in protest. Saarh thought about the clan she’d brought with her and wondered how their digging project was progressing. She’d been walking for a few hours, and she hoped they had not grown bored with the task. They always needed prodding and encouragement, she thought with a sigh. Leadership-that was what they needed. She sat on a large, flat rock and rubbed her thighs, turning her head this way and that and rolling her shoulders.
She heard a peculiar noise and sat still. She had nothing in her memory to compare it to-a good-sounding noise. It was accompanied by a soft splashing that meant water running nearby. Thirsty and ever-curious, Saarh slid off the rock and crept to the north. She was careful and stayed low, not wanting to find something as large as more bears on that trip. She didn’t fear bears and enjoyed their meat, but she did not want to waste time slaying more of them, even though she was hungry.
As it was, Saarh cursed herself for indulging in an investigation that had gone on too long and far. But the noise was very near, and she reminded herself that she was thirsty. Almost immediately she saw the stream and the thing in it making the noise. It looked like no bird she’d seen before, and its nasal squawking and clacking was not like typical birdsong. Its feathers were black under its chin and on its back. Its cheeks and back were a chestnut brown, mottled with tiny white feathers in places, particularly on its breast. The creature’s beak was flat and rounded and long, a yellowish shade, and its legs ended in feet that were scalloped like a bat’s wings. The creature was eating tadpoles and water insects and was happily unaware of the watching goblin.
“Weet,” she whispered, mimicking the sound it made. She smiled as it splashed in the water, throwing droplets up over its back and seeing them bead up all over. Fumbling on the ground at her feet, she picked up a rock. Raising it and taking careful aim, she threw the rock with as much strength as she could summon, striking the strange-looking bird on the side of its head and dropping it.
She scurried forward, sat in the stream, grabbed the dead creature up, and started plucking its feathers. Then she bit into its belly. The bird-creature tasted much better than bear, and she was certain it would be even better cooked. Selecting some of the better feathers, she put them in her pouch and pictured the thing when it had splashed in the water. She would describe it to the clan later, so they could add it to the list of creatures they desired to hunt.