Goblin Corps, The

  “Well, now that you ask,” Gimmol said from atop Belrotha's backpack, where he was launching a sporadic stream of crossbow bolts at the dead things, “no.”

  At which point, Jhurpess unleashed his familiar howl.

  They thought, at first, that he might have been struck. But when they looked—those, at least, not so hard-pressed that they couldn't afford even to look around—the other goblins found themselves equally startled as the cowering bugbear.

  “Ancestors,” Cræosh whispered breathlessly. “What now?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Gork said from the lee of the ogre, “and there were these ghosts….”

  They rose from the water in an unbroken stream, a spout of glowing phantoms. Their moans grew deafening, disorienting, smothering the clash of battle and the ambient sounds of Jureb Nahl. Briefly they flowed toward Katim, as though intending to resume their orbit around the bones of Trelaine, and then they froze. Spectral heads rotated, surveying new surroundings for the first time in centuries. The shambling carcasses halted at the same time, some with arms raised in midswing. It appeared, for a span of heartbeats, as though the corpses…smiled.

  One by one, the ghosts winked out. And each time, one of the bodies—finally and truly dead, finally at rest—sank from sight in the waters of Jureb Nahl. In but a few short moments, none but Morthûl's soldiers remained.

  “What?” Jhurpess asked.

  Belrotha nodded. “What him said.”

  Warily, Cræosh sidled over toward Katim. “Would you—either of you,” he clarified, glancing at the half-hidden kobold, “care to explain what in the name of my middle testicle just happened?”

  “Those ghosts,” Katim began slowly, “seemed…to be drawn to Trelaine's…bones. They must have belonged…to these bodies out here.” She actually shuddered with rage; to bind a soul to this world, to keep it from serving in the next, was unthinkable profanity! “Apparently, the souls…were trapped to bind the…physical bodies to this place. Bringing them…together seems to have freed…them.”

  “I suspected it might,” Gork said. “That's why I suggested bringing them up here.”

  Katim glanced heavenward. She was starting to believe that there might just be some sort of higher power after all; Gork had to be somebody's idea of a practical joke!

  “Okay, that makes sense,” Cræosh said, his tone making it quite clear that it did no such thing. “If there's nothing else, let's get out of this fucking cesspool and back on dry land before something else goes wrong.”

  It was, though they'd never know it, fortuitous that they left when they did. Even at that moment, a combined force of nagas and troglodytes were dashing at top speed through the swamp, determined to intercept the interlopers before they left the tower. Gork, in his strange little way, had actually put a halt to endless years of warfare. As the nagas and their titanic alligator had launched their attack upon the newer inhabitants of Jureb Nahl, they and the troglodytes had exchanged a bevy of taunts and insults. Over the course of those insults, as each side listened to what the others were saying, the two sides had come to realize that they'd both been used—and in the naga's case, overtly deceived—by the conniving kobold and his allies. Furious, they'd agreed to put aside their own conflict, at least long enough to return to the nagas’ territory and teach the mammals a lesson!

  The squad was long gone by the time they got there, of course, but it seemed kind of silly to resume hostilities at that point. If the troglodytes and the nagas could work together on this, surely they could learn to share the vast expanse of Jureb Nahl? Perhaps even cooperate, for the betterment of both races?

  The very next morning, someone hurled a racial epithet, the war resumed as fiercely as ever, and—to the best of anyone's knowledge—still rages to this day.

  It's too soon, Your Majesty! Gods, you've already lost one squad in one of these asinine ventures. Are you looking to lose a second?”

  Dororam, King of Shauntille, was largely unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. And there had been a point, not terribly long ago, when he had appreciated Ananias duMark for just that reason: the wizard was clearly unimpressed, and certainly unintimidated, by rank. Dororam had always known that he could be assured of getting the man's honest and accurate opinions, unsullied by any sycophantic need to impress.

  He couldn't say for sure whether he'd just grown tired of duMark's arrogance, or if the sorcerer's attitude really had grown more barbed and condescending of late. The practical upshot, in either case, was that Dororam was less inclined to be appreciative of duMark's attitude, and more likely to find it obnoxious.

  “Ananias,” Dororam began entreating for the fourth time, forcing his fists to slowly unclench, “we've been over this.” And over it, and over it, and over it… “This source of yours does us no good if we fail to act on the information he provides. I will certainly admit, in hindsight, that Lieutenant Kaleth's mission may have been less than judicious—”

  DuMark loosed a single bark of laughter. Dororam scowled. “I fail to see anything humorous in the loss of so many good men.”

  The half-elf sneered. “Had they been good men, Dororam, they'd not have been lost, would they?”

  “Whatever the case,” the king continued quickly, determined to keep a rein on his temper even if it killed him, “we miscalculated the risks. I acknowledge that, but I won't make that mistake again.”

  “Aren't you, though? You sent Kaleth and his men with orders only to measure the enemy's forces along the Brimstone Mountains, and look what happened.” Actually, neither of them knew precisely what happened; when Lieutenant Branden had stumbled back into the capital, alone and broken, they'd been able to coax only a few details from him. But it was more than enough to tell them the mission had ended in disaster. “Now you suggest sending a second, larger unit—this time with explicit orders to engage the enemy—and you want me to believe you're not making the same mistake? Well, perhaps you're not, at that. This one's even more foolish.”

  “I would thank you,” Dororam practically hissed, “to show me a little respect in my own palace!”

  “Earn it, Dororam, and I'll show it.”

  Again, King Dororam managed—though it cost him no small amount of effort—to bite back a caustic retort. Instead, after several calming breaths, “You brought me word that the Iron Keep is now expanding its forces along the Brimstone Mountains. You told me that a great many additional watch posts and guard towers are to be placed at strategic locations along the border.”

  “True enough,” duMark acknowledged, still scowling. “So?”

  “So we cannot afford to let these watches stand. The bulk of our forces have to utilize the Serpent's Pass, and they'll be spotted days in advance. We've no way to prevent that. I must send a few units through the smaller passes, in secret. If we've no forces to harry Morthûl's defenders, he could keep our armies bottled up in the Serpent's Pass for weeks!”

  “Elementary tactics, Dororam. I know all this.”

  “Then why do you object every time I come up with a plan to eliminate the sentries on some of the smaller passes?”

  “Because it would compromise my source, as I've already explained.” If your foolishness hasn't already done so. DuMark didn't utter the last bit aloud, but Dororam could see it written clearly in his expression. “If you'd just wait, perhaps until the spring thaw, that would be fine. As it is, launching any such attack, so soon after this information came to me, would be far too suspicious a coincidence. My source could learn he's been compromised, and we'd learn nothing more from him. Plus, if you strike too soon, Morthûl has time to reestablish those watch posts, and you'll have accomplished nothing.”

  Dororam threw up his hands. It was an argument they'd already had, and yet he couldn't stop himself from pursuing it as doggedly as an actor in a play. “I disagree, duMark. We'd be making a mistake by waiting. If we give the new deployments time to dig in, grow accustomed to their new terrain, they'll be that much harder to root out. Hit the
m now—and I mean hard, enough to wipe out the posts entirely—and we sow chaos in the ranks. It would take Morthûl time to draw off enough soldiers from other positions to reestablish those units.”

  “But he has time! Spring is still many weeks away, Dororam! You might clear the passes, true, but you could never hold them that long!”

  “I can't,” the king admitted, a sudden smile on his face. Time to go off script. “But Thane Granitemane and his dwarves certainly can.”

  The sorcerer actually blinked once in surprise. Score one for the foolish human, Dororam gloated. “The dwarves are involved in this operation?” duMark asked.

  “Absolutely. Granitemane cannot spare enough of his people to clear the passes, but he can contribute enough to hold them.

  “So it comes to this. My soldiers clear the passes now, while the Iron Keep's new units are being deployed. Once that's done, we fall back, allowing a platoon of Granitemane's dwarves to set up shop in the nearby caves. They remain there for the next few weeks, randomly eliminating any additional units Morthûl sends—all over the area, not just in the passes we intend to use. This makes it effectively impossible for the Charnel King to reinforce the Brimstone Mountains. And thus, it leaves the passes open for our secondary forces once our main armies hit the Serpent's.”

  “Whereas,” duMark concluded, a grudging admiration in his voice, “if you wait until just before your armies march to take the guard posts, you run the risk of being unable to dislodge them.”

  Dororam smiled, a faint echo of the true camaraderie the two had once shared. “You see, Ananias? I’m not quite such a senile old man yet, am I?”

  “No, Dororam, perhaps not quite as senile as all that. You could have told me of the dwarves’ involvement earlier.”

  “I was working out the details with Granitemane.” And I want you to remember who's actually in charge here. “I am also not completely oblivious to your own concerns, Ananias. Is this really liable to cause so many problems with your spy in Kirol Syrreth?”

  “I hope not,” the half-elf sighed, resting his chin thoughtfully on one hand. “If he does prove reluctant, I suppose I'll simply have to provide some additional motivation.”

  “I find myself,” Gork said sourly as Cræosh abruptly loomed behind him, “starting to lose any real sense of motivation for this whole thing.”

  The orc snickered. “Ah, don't sweat it, Shorty. Hell, it's just a big, thick, ugly, black, twisted, nasty, evil forest. What could you possibly have to worry about?”

  Gork's scowl suggested very clearly where the orc could shove his encouragement. And possibly the aforementioned trees.

  The mismatched pair waited but a few short moments before the rest of the squad appeared. Her eyebrows raised marginally as she, too, surveyed the woodlands, Katim said, “There's still several…hours of daylight remaining. Are we planning to…continue on?”

  Cræosh glanced sideways at her. “What do you think?” he asked, his tone just a bit snappish.

  For another moment, the troll peered at the expanse of trees. “I'd suggest camping here,” she said finally. “Rupert told…us that the forest would require…most of a day to traverse. I'd as…soon camp out here where I can…see a foe approaching, and enter…the trees at dawn.”

  The orc nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Thus, just in case you hadn't noticed the telltale clue that your feet aren't moving, we've stopped.”

  The troll grimaced. “Your wit, Cræosh, never…ceases to fail to astound me.”

  “I think,” the orc said sullenly, after a moment of puzzling that through, “that we ought to make camp.”

  “I couldn't agree…more. Not with you…anyway.”

  Gork walked away, having neither sufficient interest nor sufficient patience to hear out the latest spat. Sooner or later, those two were going to kill each other; until then, he was sick of listening as they slowly worked their way up to it.

  It had been constant in the weeks since Jureb Nahl. All the way back to Castle Eldritch, all during their rest and recuperation, all throughout the subsequent errands they'd run for Queen Anne—during which they had fetched her an array of peculiar leaves, the stone heart of a man who had been petrified by a basilisk, and finally a cobweb spun by a spider that had fed on flies who had themselves supped on the decaying corpse of a virgin faerie—the troll and the orc had bickered like an old, psychotic married couple. Gork was sick of them, sick of Queen Anne's peculiar needs, sick of the rest of the squad…

  Sick of Nurien Ebonwind, who'd appeared to him three times during those weeks, pressing him for more on the Charnel King's armies. (At least the constant antagonism between Cræosh and Katim had distracted the troll enough for him to have these meetings.) Gork, who'd spent most of this time racing this way and that across Kirol Syrreth like a chicken whose head was about to be cut off, had snippily repeated the various rumors he'd heard.

  “Look,” the kobold had finally challenged the dakórren as he was about to depart their latest clandestine rendezvous, “it's not that I don't want the reward you promised me, but I've got to ask…You could get this same information from any soldier plucked from some craphole tavern. Probably better. Why do you keep coming to me?”

  Ebonwind had smiled, his familiar had said something that might have been “Oopo vlimp,” and they were gone.

  Gork, not being an idiot, knew that meant one of two things, if not both. One, he was just one of Ebonwind's sources. Two, Ebonwind was, despite his protestations to the contrary, curious about a lot more than troop movements. Gork knew, or might know, or would know something that he couldn't get elsewhere.

  I need out of this deal. Or I need to ask for more money.

  And for that matter, how does he keep teleporting to me wherever I am, when even Queen Anne couldn't send us somewhere she'd never seen?

  He'd been pondering his problems during another few days of precious downtime at Castle Eldritch when, without warning, Queen Anne had joined them one morning for breakfast.

  “It's rather funny,” she had said, her gaze ever so slightly unfocused, “that you ran across that druid circle in Jureb Nahl. As it turns out, you're going someplace similar.”

  Cræosh had grinned. “If you're asking us to bring back one of those damn stones, we're gonna need a few more ogres.”

  “Not at all, dear Cræosh. What I need, actually, is a religious relic.”

  “Well, that ought to be easy enough…” he'd begun.

  “Symbolism, my dear, remember? Symbolism is everything in magic. Not just any religious icon will do, no, not at all. This must be the relic of a forgotten god.”

  For a moment, the entire table had been silent. Slowly, Gimmol had raised a hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Umm, Your Majesty? If you know of this god, he wouldn't exactly be forgotten, would he?”

  The queen had sighed. “I meant, in this context, a god no longer worshipped, my little ones. ‘Forgotten’ just has so much nicer a ring to it, wouldn't you agree?”

  “Great,” Cræosh had said. “We're about to go charging off on some deadly assignment, and she's worried about theatrics.”

  “Symbolism,” she had repeated once more. “Not theatrics.”

  “Whatever.”

  “This land,” the queen had said, moving on, “was populated by a rather surprising variety of druidic religions before my husband set things right.” The squad members had exchanged uncertain glances at that pronouncement, but felt it wiser not to question the queen's assessment of her husband's achievements. “Now, as best I've been able to determine, quite a few of these cults were wiped out completely. In most cases, that doesn't help us; druids are notorious for using plants as holy icons—holly, oak, berries, that sort of silliness—and that doesn't leave us much to retrieve, does it? But my understanding is that the Circle of Ymmech Thewl might have kept what we now require.”

  Katim's ears had twitched in recognition. “Ymmech Thewl? As in…the forest of Thewl?”

 
Queen Anne had nodded. “The same.”

  “The forest of Ymmech…Thewl?”

  “No matter how you choose to enunciate it, yes.”

  Jhurpess had shrunk in his seat, clinging to the arms as though drowning in the chair. “Jhurpess not want to go to Thewl,” he'd announced, fingers absently breaking small chunks off the edge of the table. “Thewl bad place. Jhurpess like to eat things, not get eaten by things.” His brow wrinkled in puzzlement as a thought struck him. “What ‘Ymmech Thewl’ mean?” he'd asked.

  Cræosh's fingers had reached, seemingly of their own accord, for the nearest sharp utensil. “Has anyone else noticed,” he'd asked, “that we're being very deliberately sent into the darkest, most mysterious, and all around fucked-up nastiest places this kingdom has to offer? If you wanted us dead, Your Majesty, there are a lot more efficient ways to pull it off.”

  Queen Anne had laughed—a light, almost spiritual sound. “Why, I've nothing but the highest hopes for your survival and your success, dear one! I send you where the items I need are to be found. If they were not in such dangerous, unpleasant locations, they'd have been retrieved long ago, yes?”

  Which, after a few more hours of studying what little was known of Ymmech Thewl's druids, and another gut-wrenching teleport to get them as near as the queen could manage, had led them here, to the forest's edge. And to another spat.

  But they did, indeed, make camp on the outskirts, whittling away the remaining hours of the day: first by watching the verbal sparring, and then, when that got boring, Gimmol, Gork, and Jhurpess broke into a rousing game of Climb the Ogre. The contest grew rather more challenging when Belrotha grew tired of the sport long before the others did. They finally stopped when Gork found himself lying on his back a hundred yards away, having missed impaling a tree trunk by a matter of inches.

  Ah, well. It was getting dark anyway.

  Nothing untoward happened that night (except that Gork spent most of his watch actually watching Katim pretending not to watch him, but that doesn't really count as “happening”). The same held true of their first few hours within the forest of Thewl itself. The place was foreboding enough, swaddled in a blanket of shadows, full of branches that reached like claws from bent and twisted boles, as though eager to grab an unwary goblin and shred him into fleshy confetti. But no danger actually manifested, nothing so much as a rabid squirrel or an irate rabbit….