Saro-Saro shook his head. He coughed once and made a gasping, raspy sound that caused some of his ill clansmen to shrink back against the hull. “No, Direfang.” The goblin coughed again, deeper and racking, his body writhing from the spasm.
Direfang held his breath and looked at the once-proud clan leader. He heard whispers behind him; two Woodcutter clan members were speculating that Saro-Saro likely would not live out the day. The hobgoblin cut a cross look over his shoulder, silencing the two.
The coughing subsided and Saro-Saro tried to speak again. His voice cracked, and the words sounded like leaves blowing across a dry riverbed.
Direfang saw that one of the black knobs on the old goblin’s neck had ruptured and was oozing an ugly green pus. He breathed only slightly, not wanting to inhale any of the sickness. The stench was so awful that he clenched his teeth and fought to keep from retching.
A goblin named Uren knelt at Saro-Saro’s shoulder. Uren had often worked under Direfang at the Dark Knight mine and had distinguished himself by rarely complaining and sometimes helping older goblins heft their ore sacks. Uren did not yet have knobs on his neck, but he sweated heavily, and he shivered so hard, his teeth chattered. There were a few black spots on his cheek.
The old goblin broke into another coughing spasm, and Direfang closed his eyes at the terrible sight. He heard other goblins coughing, though not as loud or hurtful sounding, heard a baby cry-the sound so rare down there that he knew it must be Graytoes’ Umay. He heard shuffling near him, felt something brush up against his back, and as he turned, he felt fingers dig into his legs.
Direfang’s eyes flew open, and he tried to scoot back as two goblins behind him, their clawed hands on his shoulders, forced him to his knees. Somehow Saro-Saro had managed to rally and was struggling to sit up with the help of Uren. The old goblin was the one who had dug his claws into Direfang’s legs, poking through the thin material of his leggings and finding flesh beneath. Saro-Saro pulled himself close the hobgoblin even as Direfang tried to shove away.
Saro-Saro scratched Direfang’s chest and spit in his face. At last Direfang threw off the goblins behind him and lurched to his feet then fell forward when the ship tossed. Saro-Saro continued to claw and spit at Direfang, reaching for him futilely. Uren and two other ill members of Saro-Saro’s clan piled on top of the hobgoblin.
“Die too, Direfang,” Saro-Saro rasped. “Join me in death.” A thick line of blood dripped over his lip. “Should have died on the mountain, you. Were supposed to die there.”
“Should have died, Direfang, so Saro-Saro could lead this army,” Uren hissed. “If Saro-Saro cannot lead, Direfang will not either!”
Direfang kicked out, knocking Saro-Saro away. The clan leader landed heavily on his back and started coughing wildly again, with the sick ones around him forgetting Direfang and huddling close to Saro-Saro. But the goblins behind the hobgoblin leader surged forward. Direfang spun to face them before realizing they were coming to his aid, indeed were going to brave the sickness to help him.
“Stay back!” He shouted at them all, glaring. “Farther back!” He waved a fist at the goblins, who backed away slowly and pressed together toward the center of the hold. “It is not safe here.”
Saro-Saro continued to cough frantically behind him, Uren joining in.
Two-chins was farther back in the hold, and he climbed on the shoulders of another goblin so he could better see what was going on.
“Get the skull man,” Direfang called, spotting Two-chins. “Be fast.” Once more the goblins tried to edge closer, partly out of curiosity and partly because some of them wished to help. “Stay back.” Softer, he said, “Stay away from the sickness and stay well.”
“Stay well, stay well.” The advice was passed back through the throng.
“Will Direfang die too?” Rustymane, a hobgoblin who also had worked as a foreman in the mine, spoke for the others, fearfully.
“Everything dies,” another hobgoblin answered stoically.
“But will Direfang die of the sickness?” Rustymane persisted.
“Maybe,” Direfang growled. “Maybe me, you, all of us.”
“Saro-Saro must account for this!” Rustymane insisted.
“Saro-Saro is dying,” Skakee chimed in. “Like Direfang will die now, I think. Saro-Saro’s blood and sickness is mixed in Direfang’s wounds. It will be an empty, sad forest without Direfang.”
The goblins quieted. Some of them stared in disbelief that Saro-Saro would do such a thing to Direfang, purposely spreading the foul illness. Others looked grief-stricken and angry. A few trembled in fear and tried to squeeze their way to the front of the hold, wanting to get as far away from the sick and dying ones as possible.
“Please, Two-chins,” Direfang pleaded. “Get the skull man. Be fast.”
Two-chins climbed off his kinsman’s shoulders, eyes on Direfang as he backed toward the stairs.
“Be fast!” echoed Graytoes. “Be very fast!”
DEATH ON THE NEW SEA
Direfang’s growls kept the dozen ill clansmen an arm’s distance away. He could barely stand upright in that section of the hold; the top of his head brushed the low ceiling. The ropy muscles in his arms bunched, and he clenched and unclenched his hands in a silent fury that raised his temperature and quickened his heart.
He wanted to shout oaths at Saro-Saro and his foul clansmen, telling them they were all fools. He’d led them from Steel Town and into the mountains, at one point giving everyone the option of going their own way, perhaps in clans, perhaps scattering. He practically begged them to leave him alone; that was his deepest desire. Some goblins did leave then, Hurbear’s clan. Direfang wished he would have followed Hurbear.
Direfang wasn’t sure how that had all happened. Whose idea was it that he should lead the goblins to a new homeland? A foreman in the Dark Knight mines, they’d been following his orders for a few years, yes. But there had been other sturdy foremen, such as Rustymane, who stared at him at that moment with a vacant expression.
Was it because it was he who had urged them to rebel and flee the mining camp? They’d followed him then, so they kept on following. Then more and more and more kept arriving, thousands. That was Mudwort’s doing. He trusted Mudwort, but she shouldn’t have told so many others to come and follow him.
Mudwort said the goblins felt they owed their lives to him.
So he felt responsible, even for Saro-Saro and his vile bunch.
Direfang’s legs stung where the old goblin’s claws had ripped the flesh. His shoulders ached where Uren and a few others had bitten and scratched him. He felt Saro-Saro’s bloody spittle drying on his face and wondered if the illness that was claiming the old goblin was even then wending its way into his body. Half of the offending goblins had knives they’d taken from Steel Town or the ogre village they’d raided; why hadn’t they just killed him swiftly with their knives?
Because Saro-Saro didn’t want Direfang to die fast, the hobgoblin knew. The clan leader wanted Direfang to catch the illness and suffer as he was suffering. Well, suffering was nothing new to Direfang, he thought bitterly. His life had been nothing but suffering, the thick scars and his mangled ear a testament to that.
The main reason for the ignominious attack was because Saro-Saro had wanted to be the leader. His illness would prevent that.
Direfang gave a low moan, startling the others who were closest by, sending them back a few steps. If Saro-Saro had expressed such a desire when they’d first left Steel Town, the hobgoblin leader reflected ruefully, Direfang would have eagerly relented.
“Who will lead now, Saro-Saro? If not you or me?” Direfang’s words were plaintive and couldn’t be heard by many goblins in the hold.
“It doesn’t matter,” the dying, old goblin hissed. “Does not matter,” Saro-Saro repeated. “Just that it will not be Direfang.”