The hobgoblin leader suddenly felt a weakness in his legs. Did the illness strike that quickly? Or was the ship making him dizzy again? He felt as if he were floating, lifted by his pounding heart and the swells the Clare climbed. A few hundred goblins watched him, not a one speaking, all of them staring at him and Saro-Saro.
Rustymane edged closer. Rustymane could lead, Direfang thought, staring at his old friend. He’d been a good foreman, though not for more than a handful of months before the earthquakes struck. Rustymane had reddish, wiry hair and only a few scars on his face and arms. His hands were large, the fingers stubby. His wide eyes held a hint of kindness, tears now threatening at the edges.
Direfang turned his head to stare angrily at Saro-Saro. The old goblin was propped up on his pillow, Uren at his shoulder, both of them coughing and sweating and shivering in the meager light that reached that far end of the ship. The others in bad condition surrounding them also shivered, the closest ones glaring at Direfang. He continued to clench and unclench his fists, wanting to lash out at the clansmen and hurt them as they had hurt and betrayed him. But he could do nothing worse to them that what they already suffered.
“The knives. Set the knives down.” Direfang spoke fiercely, snarling for emphasis. “The knives. Be fast.”
They did lay down their knives, to the hobgoblin’s surprise. He stalked forward, using his feet to kick the knives behind him and well away from Saro-Saro’s band of diseased loyalists. He heard scrabbling and knew other goblins were snatching up the weapons behind him.
No one spoke for long minutes then, though he could hear his own breathing, fast in his anger and exertion, and he could hear the forced breathing of Saro-Saro and Uren also. He heard the groaning of the wooden ship and hurried footsteps from overhead. Someone heavy was coming down the steps.
“Skull man, take care,” Direfang cautioned.
None of the goblins spoke as Horace threaded his way through them.
“Foreman Direfang …”
Rustymane had moved up alongside the priest and was relating the tale of Saro-Saro’s attack.
Horace looked different that day. He was dressed in a pale green tunic that draped to mid-thigh, with dark blue leggings that were tucked in the tops of a pair of shiny, brown boots. A black vest with faint green and blue embroidered leaves at the shoulders fit a little too tightly. The clothes had been purchased by Grallik, the hobgoblin knew. Direfang thought it fortunate that he’d not yet changed into the clothes Grallik said had been purchased for him. The clothes would be contaminated if he had the sickness.
The priest looked as though he’d swallowed something bitter after listening to Rustymane. He squinted, not seeing as well as the goblins could in the relative darkness of the hold.
“I’d thought the sickness past,” he said with genuine regret. “I thought we’d left it on the shore of the New Sea. The salt cleansing the last trace. With Zeboim’s blessings …”
“The sea. Zeboim. Did nothing for Saro-Saro,” Direfang finished.
Horace changed his expression, trying to look optimistic. “Foreman, you’ve weathered being near the ill before, under the black willow along the river where so many goblins died. You will weather this. You are healthy and you have willpower and-”
Direfang gestured toward Saro-Saro and Uren and their followers. “What of these goblins? Can Saro-Saro’s clansmen be healed?”
“I thought …” Horace shifted so he could better see around Direfang. “I thought I should start by helping you.”
Direfang shook his head, beckoning Horace forward. He ordered the healthy goblins back, sending some up to the galley and more of the stout-hearted up on deck. “Do not get in the sailors’ way,” he cautioned. When the shuffling was finished, about three hundred and fifty remained below, and they kept as much distance as possible from Direfang and Horace and the coughing, spasming ill. Yet because there was more room in the hold, the air was not so thick anymore.
“Help those first,” Direfang told the priest. “But only if there is a chance the clansmen can be healed. Only if, skull man.”
Horace, nodding grimly, tended to Uren first. Saro-Saro lay quietly, shivering, staring hatefully at Direfang. “You should have called for me earlier,” the priest said to those in Saro-Saro’s clan who were afflicted. He spoke bluntly, irritably, in the goblin tongue. “This has progressed beyond the power of my magic. I do not think I can do anything for you. Why, in the name of all the Sea Mother counts holy, did you not call for me before now?”
Uren coughed into his hands, blood dripping onto his fingers. He wiped the blood on his shirt, which was already smeared with blood and vomit. “Thought this maybe was sickness from the water, skull man. The up and down, side to side. The wind and whoosh and-”
“No, not seasickness. Clearly,” Horace answered. He coughed too but not from the plague. The stench from the waste and the disease made simple breathing difficult for the priest.
“Some got well before,” Uren said hopefully. “Back by the river. Some got sick, then got well. Some of those are down here.” He gestured with a bloody hand toward a group of Saro-Saro’s clansmen who stood well back from the sick. “Watched them get well.”
“A few,” Horace admitted. “But not many. Don’t know why. The plague killed nearly everyone else it touched.” The priest seemed weary and defeated. “I will try to ease some of your suffering.” He looked solemnly at Saro-Saro, and the old goblin nodded in understanding. “But I cannot heal you. The illness has taken too firm a hold. I can bless you, pray to Zeboim that your spirits-”
“Stop!” Direfang barked when he heard Horace’s words. “Your healing will not help Saro-Saro and those others?”
Horace shook his head. “Sorry. No. More skilled healers than I could perhaps do something. But I will try to take away some of the pain and-”
“Will the illness spread? To the ones who are healthy?”
Horace shrugged, but his glum look told Direfang that it was likely.
“Perhaps this hold can be cleansed. To help?”
“Well, yes, I’ve spells that can-”
“Then forget the healing. Do this cleansing. Worry about the healthy, forget the dying.”
Direfang clomped past the priest and grabbed up Uren and another goblin who was close to him. Tucking the two under one arm, he grabbed two more with the other. They squirmed against him, kicking and biting and drawing more blood. But the illness had taken some of their strength. Direfang headed toward the stairs.
“Stay away. Stay back from the sick,” Direfang called over his shoulder to the healthy ones. “Use your knives to keep the sick back there. Understand?” He didn’t wait to hear the replies.
Two-chins had been hovering on the stairs, trying to take everything in. He followed Direfang up the stairs, trailed by Two-chins’ mate. More goblins started up, but Rustymane cried out.
“Wait!” he shouted, stomping to the stairs and pushing goblins away. “Wait until Direfang comes back. Wait and keep the sick from leaving. Direfang means to protect all of the clans. Direfang will-”
“What will Direfang do with Uren and …?” Graytoes had squeezed between two hobgoblins. She looked up at Rustymane, holding Umay close, the baby sleeping despite the ruckus. “What will Direfang do?”
Rustymane growled softly, silencing her and the other restless goblins.
Meanwhile Direfang had wrestled the four plague-ridden goblins up to the deck. He gulped in the fresh, salt-tinged air, gathering his strength. He ignored the shouts of the goblins gathered around the main mast. K’lars was at the capstan, huddled over some device. The half-ogre stopped what he was doing and headed over to Direfang.
“What are you doing?” K’lars nearly had caught up before Direfang spun around to confront him.
“Stay back. See the sickness?” Direfang gestured with his head to Uren, held tight though squirming under his armpit. “Stay back and stay well.” Then Direfang reached the port rail and one by one hurled the goblins over the side. “The sickness ends here.”