Goblin Corps, The

  “Once he knew to look…for them, it wouldn't have been that…hard.”

  “Coincidence,” he said again.

  “Four times?”

  Gork looked away.

  “And what of the battle…we've just waged?”

  “Dororam's men were just looking for some of our soldiers to ambush,” Gork protested, but it sounded lame even in his own ears.

  “They were here specifically…for Falchion. Humans aren't so foolhardy…or fanatical that they'd throw their…lives away to destroy some random…force.”

  Gork opened his mouth to protest again, and then sighed as he saw the gold and riches promised by Ebonwind fading away. “Why? The dakórren have no reason to betray us! They hate the elves more than we do! Why would he have told Dororam anything?”

  “Perhaps your friend is not…what he seems.”

  “What do we do?”

  “That, little kobold, is the part…I’m still deciding. Pray to your stars…that I come up with something other…than turning you in.”

  One of the surviving soldiers interrupted them then—Gork could have almost kissed him—and announced that the general wanted to see the entire Demon Squad back at the supply wagon.

  Where one of King Morthûl's messenger wraiths was waiting for them.

  At the intersection of Kirol Syrreth's major highways loomed Fort Mahadriss, a bloated spider in a web of roads. Built of a drab and dirty stone, ringed by smaller keeps—one for each road—Mahadriss made no nod at all toward aesthetics. This was a bastion built for war, and it wore that fact as a badge of honor.

  It had also, thanks to the collapse of a certain Castle Eldritch, just moved up from the third-most important installation in Kirol Syrreth to the second, behind only the Iron Keep itself. There was no way for the structure to actually appear smug about this, but it managed to anyway.

  The Demon Squad was allowed entry only after proving their identities at no fewer than three separate checkpoints, and once they were in, Cræosh gave some serious thought to heading back outside to wait. The fortress halls were packed wall-to-wall with chaos that could only marginally be called “controlled.” Soldiers, messengers, and servants by the hundreds shoved through dense pockets of other soldiers, messengers, and servants, each absolutely convinced that his own assignment was of far higher priority than anyone else's, and must absolutely be completed right now, and why couldn't everyone just “Get the hell out of my way before I start breaking faces!”? Bodies collided in the corridors, pressed close in unwitting parody of intimacy; equipment tumbled down stairs, chased by whoever had dropped it; and fistfights broke out at the drop of a hat. (Literally, in one instance, as a careless soldier knocked a page's cap from his head, for which the page jabbed him in the groin with a wooden scroll case.)

  And yet, despite or perhaps because of that boiling anarchy, everything that needed to happen, happened: equipment stored, weapons checked, reinforcements assigned to this post or that. Despite how it looked to the uninitiated—or some of the initiated—Cræosh recognized, with some measure of respect, that the garrisons of Fort Mahadriss would be fully prepped well before Dororam's forces neared the Brimstone Mountains.

  But he still didn't want to be standing around in the middle of it.

  “Hey! Yeah, you!” It carried even over the crowded hall, a gruff tone clearly accustomed to making itself heard.

  Carving a path through the throng with open palm and jabbing elbow, oblivious to the sullen glares he earned in exchange, was an orc. He was perhaps three inches shorter than Cræosh but a tad wider at the shoulders, with a touch of filthy gray to both his swamp-green skin and his mud-brown hair. He wore a blackened steel breastplate embossed with the silver crown of Morthûl, and an enormous warhammer at his belt. The beaked end of the weapon stuck out, drawing lines of blood on those who drew too near in the packed hall, but they proved unwilling to complain.

  “What?” Cræosh barked back—and then, finally noticing the stripes of rank embossed on the armor's right breast, correcting himself to “What, sir?”

  “Better. You Cræosh?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “So this would be your Demon Squad then.” The orc frowned at the others (and up at Belrotha). “Sorry-looking bunch, but I suppose you'll do. I’m General Rhannik.”

  Cræosh's spine went straight as an arrow, and the others snapped to attention as well—well, those of them who did that sort of thing, anyway. Widely considered to be among the top contenders to replace Falchion should anything happen to the steel-cocooned commander, Rhannik's was a name well known throughout the rank-and-file.

  “What are we doing here, sir?” Cræosh asked. Then, “The wraith told us to come, but he didn't say why.” He pretended not to notice Katim and Gork both staring at him in mild shock. Yes, I do know how to be polite. Try not to faint, you fuckers.

  “…away from this bloody crowd,” Rhannik was saying as Cræosh turned his attention back to the officer, “before we talk about this. Move!” he bellowed into the mob. Soldiers and workers fell over each other clearing a path, and the general led the squad to a small, unobtrusive door. “Through here.”

  The contents of the room were few: a single round table, perhaps a dozen chairs—and Vigo Havarren, casually leaning back with his feet up on the table, sipping on a glass of what appeared to be brandy.

  “Hello again,” Morthûl's lieutenant said blandly. “I so greatly missed the sparkling conversation from our last meeting that I simply had to come and chat with you again.”

  “Sarcastic bastard, aren't you?” Cræosh asked as he selected a chair, as far from Havarren as the table would allow, and sat.

  “Hardly a bastard. My parents would have to have been unwed.”

  “So?”

  “So what makes you think I have parents?”

  Cræosh chose not to dignify that with a response and settled for glaring and grinding his teeth as General Rhannik and the rest of the squad took their seats. Belrotha shoved several chairs out of her way and planted herself cross-legged on the floor.

  The orc couldn't help but notice, even with most of his attention devoted to imagining the murder of the aggravating wizard, that the furniture had clearly been borrowed from the mess hall: the table, though recently cleaned, bore the stains of grease and beer. The room itself had been swept only moments before, as evidenced by a few heaps of dust in the corners, and smelled faintly stale. Clearly, the chamber didn't see a whole lot of use.

  Cræosh felt a serpentine twisting in his gut. This briefing hadn't been planned in advance; they'd just grabbed the most convenient furnishing and the nearest empty room that could fit the entire squad. For Havarren and Rhannik to be present at what could only be an emergency meeting foretold extreme unpleasantness ahead.

  “General?” Havarren said with a languid wave. “Would you be so kind?”

  “Of course.” Rhannik leaned over the table, his large hands flat against the wood. “Some days back, possibly as long as two weeks or more, King Sabryen's worms emerged, in force, from the Demias Gap.”

  None of the squad spoke, but a veritable web of meaningful glances wove itself between them. They'd never heard the things associated with the former king of Kirol Syrreth, but none of them had any doubt as to which worms were being discussed.

  “At this point,” Rhannik continued, “we've only lost Darsus. But we have utterly lost it. As near as we can tell, the entire population has been, ah, consumed.

  “For the time being, they seem content to wait, most likely gathering their forces. None of our agents have returned from Darsus itself, but a few have gotten close. They report a slow but constant flow of worms, centipedes, and other critters coming over the lip of the gap. King Morthûl and General Falchion both feel that it's only a matter of time before they strike at other targets.”

  “As I’m sure even you cretins can imagine,” Havarren interjected, “this couldn't have come at a worse time. We have less than a month before Dororam m
arches. We cannot possibly recall enough soldiers from the border to deal with this, not and return them to their posts in time. Further, His Majesty and I both need to conserve our powers for the war, until and unless we have no other option. Thus we find ourselves forced to turn to a third alternative.” He wiggled his fingers at the goblins in sarcastic greeting. “Hello, third alternative.”

  “Listen, Blondie,” Cræosh said, “I’m flattered beyond fucking measure that you think that highly of us, but there's no way we can take on an army of those things. Hell, we almost got our asses kicked the last time, and there were a lot fewer of ‘em.”

  “Don't be stupid,” Havarren snapped. Then he smiled. “As well tell the sea not to be wet, I suppose. Still, try to think for a moment. We don't want you to attack the worms.”

  “No?” Cræosh asked suspiciously. “Then what?”

  “It's rather obvious…actually,” Katim said from across the table. “They want us to kill King…Sabryen.”

  Havarren nodded as the others gawked at the troll. “Perhaps you're not all as stupid as all that,” he admitted.

  “What is he?” Gork asked. “I mean, if it's the same Sabryen who used to rule here, he's obviously not any more human than King Morthûl, is he?”

  “You'd be surprised what's possible. But no, he's not human, not anymore.” Havarren sighed. “Far be it from me to question our lord,” he said, his tone bland, “but I’m afraid that this is one instance where he erred. Badly. Rather than slaying his foe outright, Morthûl cursed him.

  “I don't know the exact wording of the curse, but I know that it was meant to play on Sabryen's greatest terrors.” He smiled. “Sabryen was terribly disgusted by Morthûl's—shall we say, pets? He had a real horror of insects. Our Charnel King felt it poetic to curse Sabryen to an eternity in a similar state.”

  “He turned him into a bug?” Gimmol asked.

  “Worm,” Havarren corrected. “And I wouldn't say ‘turned into,’ precisely. Say instead the king was granted certain wormy attributes. He was supposed to wander off into a distant corner of the land and go slowly mad.” The wizard shook his head. “I’m afraid His Majesty and I both rather badly underestimated the man's will. He went mad, yes, but not exactly as we'd intended.

  “And he's obviously found a way to spread his curse. Hence, his invertebrate minions.”

  Cræosh, who'd been staring thoughtfully at the table, looked up. “Is this a coincidence, then?” he asked. “Or was this assault timed deliberately?”

  “As in, does Sabryen know we're about to go to war?”

  The orc nodded.

  Havarren shrugged. “We don't know for certain, but…” He chewed his cheek, apparently considering how much to reveal. “It's no secret that we've been mobilizing, but we don't know how much rational thought Sabryen retains. King Morthûl believes that our enemies might even have inspired him to act now. Whatever the case, we must assume that he knows exactly what he's doing.”

  “Okay,” Katim said, her nostrils flaring. “This is all well and…good, but it doesn't give us any…insight into how to go about killing…him.”

  “Ah,” Havarren said with a smile. “That's where things get interesting.”

  “I really, really hate that word,” Gork muttered.

  The gaunt wizard snapped his fingers. The door creaked open, admitting a stooped, white-haired old man. He shuffled to the table, a wooden box clasped tight in palsied hands. Havarren took it without comment, and the old servant departed as swiftly as age would permit.

  It was pretty mundane, that box: walnut brown, unmarred by any ornamentation, held shut with a simple catch. Havarren, however, caressed it reverently as he laid it on the table.

  “The initial challenge, obviously, is reaching Sabryen in the first place. Our dear Lord Worm isn't the type to lead his troops from the fore. To get to him, you'll have to maneuver through a rather sizable force of his crawling soldiers.”

  “Define ‘sizable,’” Cræosh demanded.

  “Quite possibly all of them.”

  The orc started to rise. “If you think I’m gonna fucking sit here and—”

  “Cræosh!” Rhannik snapped. “Sit down before I put you down!”

  He sat. Katim leaned over toward Gork. “If I'd known it was that…easy,” she whispered, “I'd have tried it a long…time ago.”

  “You!” the general barked across the table. “Shut up!”

  Katim's ears laid back and her snout wrinkled, but she held her tongue.

  “Perhaps I overstate the case,” Havarren continued calmly. “It won't be all of Sabryen's forces, because a large population of his creatures are currently occupying Darsus. You'll just have to get through the remaining thousands of them in Krohketh.”

  Cræosh and the squad exchanged puzzled looks. Krohketh was yet another of Kirol Syrreth's ancient cities that had fallen at the height of its prominence. (There were, several of the squad couldn't help but note, a rather substantial number of those in the kingdom's history. It was one of the reasons so many of the goblin races tended toward the nomadic, or at least smaller communities.)

  Krohketh's demise, however, had been rather more dramatic than the slow decay of Darsus or the gradual flooding of Jureb Nahl. Centuries ago, the city's citizens had awakened one morning to what originally felt like a mild earthquake. By that evening, the city was gone, and the Demias Gap—having grown by close to forty percent in a matter of hours—gaped hungrily where Krohketh once stood.

  Cræosh, who had decided that nothing would ever surprise him again after the events of the past few months, said, “You think part of Krohketh survived down there?”

  Havarren nodded. “Our studies suggest that large portions of the terrain actually sank as the gorge widened, rather than plummeting over the precipice. It's quite possible that a surprisingly large portion of the city remains partly intact.”

  “So you want us to infiltrate a ruined city filled with these worms, find their king, kill him, and get back out?”

  “Well,” the mage said with a slow smile, “if you find it all too much, I suppose getting back out could be made optional.”

  “Fuck you, Havarren.”

  This time, General Rhannik didn't bother to chastise him.

  “There are two factors that might just enable you to succeed, orc—and return alive,” Havarren said, his grin fading. “First is this.” With a contemptuous gesture, he sent the wooden box sliding across the table.

  Haltingly, Cræosh flipped open the catch and removed one of over a dozen ceramic vials, about three inches tall and as thick around as a small apple. “So what're these about?”

  “His Majesty had me concoct these specially. It doesn't do us much good if our Demon Squad gets eaten and subsumed by the enemy, does it? Should you find any of those damn creatures burrowing into your flesh, you drink one of those. It should kill the, ah, intruders. Digging them out is up to you, but at least they won't keep burrowing.”

  “Wonderful,” Cræosh muttered, eyeing the vial in his hand as though it were about to bite his fingers off. “And the other factor?”

  “Not even you can be expected to deal with thousands of these things,” General Rhannik said. “So that's why I’m here.”

  Fezeill snorted. “No disrespect intended, General…”

  “He never intends any disrespect,” Gork whispered to Katim. “It just comes naturally.” The troll chuckled.

  “…but you haven't fought these things. When they take one of their humanoid forms, Sabryen's worms are nigh unstoppable. It takes an obscene amount of damage to kill them, they can hurl their worms for yards, and some even seem capable of casting spells. If you lead a brigade down there with us, all you'll be doing is feeding them. And while I have no inherent objection to watching a large number of the lower races consumed by worms, I'd prefer the dead didn't, in turn, rise up and come after me.”

  “Lower races?” the kobold asked sarcastically. “Gosh, Fezeill, does that mean we're not friends
anymore?”

  “I’m well aware of the situation, doppelganger,” the general told him. “And I've no intention of wasting good men on your worthless carcass. No, I've cooked up something else entirely.”

  Havarren rose before any of them could ask for clarification. “Go get some sleep,” he ordered abruptly. “You report to the gap tomorrow morning. Don't forget your drinks.” And just like that, he was gone.

  “Normally,” Katim announced to the squad around her, “I don't have…much use for orcs.” She paused as another of Rhannik's catapults launched its payload of flaming pitch and naphtha into the Demias Gap. “But I think I could get to…like the general.”

  The entire squad, along with Havarren, stood perhaps twenty yards from the edge, directly opposite the town of Darsus. They'd arrived to discover a legion of Rhannik's soldiers in the final stages of reassembling a sizable number of engines—mostly light catapults, but even a few trebuchets. The wizard and the general had consulted for a few moments, tweaking the weapons’ trajectories until they lined up perfectly with Havarren's best estimates of Krohketh's location, and then Rhannik had begun a bombardment that was now entering its third hour.

  The idea, as Katim understood it, was for there to be little left to oppose the squad when they finally descended.

  “Of course,” Havarren pointed out, “this will only take care of the vermin that are actually exposed to the flame. It's entirely possible that many will survive inside ruined buildings or in a lower level of the gorge. But this should, if nothing else, make your task simpler.” He appeared even more distant than usual this morning, often staring into space and ignoring those around him completely. He hadn't even bothered to insult them, much. Clearly, he had issues other than King Sabryen's worms on his mind.

  Katim stepped forward, placing herself directly before the wizard. “We know who the spy…is,” she told him.

  Instantly she had his full attention—not to mention the rest of her squad's. “What?” Havarren asked, his facade of bored contempt cracking. “What did you say?”

  “Rumor around Mahadriss was that…you've been searching for a…spy. His name is Nurien Ebonwind. He is…one of the dakórren.”