Goblin Corps, The

  “Why?”

  The brown-haired wizard leaned back in his chair. “Because you were perfect. I could keep an eye on the dakórren—it was pretty obvious you'd use the war as cover to strike against us—and gather intelligence on Morthûl's armies, all at once. I'd really hoped to learn his plans for his Demon Squad, too,” he admitted, “but you saw how well that went. Honestly, I think even they didn't know. Otherwise, the kobold would have said something about it.”

  “You…” Ebonwind took several deep breaths, struggling past the pain—both physical and, as his familiar fluttered its wings, emotional—and gathered the tattered remains of his faculties. “I’m surprised,” he said weakly, “that you haven't set out to save Tirfeylan.”

  He had, at the least, the pleasure of seeing the smug satisfaction fall from duMark's face. “Because I know the bony bastard too well,” the mage admitted sadly. “If he was willing to tell me about Tirfeylan, it's only because he knew I could do nothing about it. He probably triggered the spell long before you opened the tube, regardless of what his message claimed. He thought you were me, Ebonwind. He knew I had family there, and this was his punishment.” The half-elf sighed. “Perhaps I can do nothing to save Tirfeylan, but I'll not subject myself to the pain of seeing the results.”

  “And what of me?” Ebonwind asked quietly.

  “You? You, my friend, are dead. I don't know if any of your people are within the range of Morthûl's spell or not, but you'll ensure that at least one dakórren joins Tirfeylan in death. That, and I can't have you interfering in this war, or launching more attacks on the eilurren, can I?”

  “Someone else will take my place,” Ebonwind spat.

  “Perhaps. And I'll do this to them, too.” DuMark raised a hand and pumped a second levinbolt across the chamber. Ebonwind's head turned instantly to ash, though it was some moments before his legs ceased twitching.

  It was all so aggravating! He'd put so much effort into this, ever since he'd learned through his eldritch spies and divinations that Morthûl was assembling a wartime Demon Squad. Uncovering the dakórren's efforts; appropriating the obnoxious, tiny creature; using the wizard's lingering link with “his” familiar to subtly influence Ebonwind's actions—from intercepting the initial teleport to focusing on the Demon Squad when other sources of information might've been easier or more forthcoming—it was absolutely grueling. It had distracted duMark from his other efforts. And all for what? The intelligence he'd gained had been useful, but none of it vital, none of it regarding the squad's own purpose, none of it anything he couldn't have acquired more easily through other methods.

  “You're fortunate,” duMark said bitterly, standing from the chair and nudging the corpse distastefully with his left foot. “You deserved a death as horrible as what was done to Tirfeylan. Give thanks from hell that I was feeling merciful. Or…”

  Again, a tiny breeze flitted across the sealed chamber, making the ashes of the dakórren dance. DuMark began to fade away.

  “…at the very least, feeling rushed,” he amended. And then he was gone.

  The tiny creature tumbled, spreading its wings and gliding to a halt only inches above the floor. It felt duMark vanish, not just physically but mentally, felt the link binding them dissolve. It glanced about the chamber, spotting no avenue of escape.

  And then its gaze fell on its former master.

  “Ookt irpva!” It settled beside the smoldering corpse and began to chew.

  Cræosh was absolutely livid. Bad enough that the rail-thin bastard had woken them in the middle of the fucking night, but now he had the gall to hand them this load of merry dancing horseshit!

  “But we've actually got a fucking plan!” he protested. Again. “We were gonna start out tomorrow! We can do this!”

  Havarren, sitting casually on Cræosh's sleeping pallet with his ankles propped up on Gork's backpack, shrugged. “And I commend you for your creativity, but your assignment has changed. You are not to attack Dororam's forces.”

  Cræosh growled as he introduced his fist to a nearby tree.

  “It makes sense, Cræosh,” Gimmol said carefully, keeping a weather eye on the orc's movements. (He wanted a good head start if he had to run.) “If Ebonwind was the spy—or had a spy in his own people—there's a good chance that they know we're here. I mean, he found us easily enough, right? Who's to say how long he was listening before he revealed himself?”

  “I didn't say it didn't make fucking sense!” Cræosh snapped at him. “I just said I don't like it!”

  Katim, who had been staring moodily off into the distance ever since being told that she would not, after all, have the opportunity to add a large handful of mages to her stable, aimed her snout at Havarren. “This was all quite…deliberate, wasn't it?”

  “Why Katim, whatever do you mean?” He wasn't even bothering to hide his smirk.

  That, at least, got Cræosh's attention. “Yeah, troll,” he said, “what do you mean?”

  “They never intended us to…complete this mission, that's…what I mean. This entire…damn exercise was a…lure.”

  Gork's own irises, gleaming evilly beneath the faint light of the moon, also locked on the mage. “You wanted to be sure that Ebonwind was the one,” he said slowly. “So you gave us something to do that would draw his attention.”

  Havarren's smile widened. Cræosh put his fist back through the tree, ignoring the sizable smears of blood he was leaving across the bark.

  “It had to sound feasible,” Havarren explained blandly. “An assignment that was too obviously fake wouldn't have fooled anyone. There is some good news, though.”

  “Fuck you,” Cræosh said.

  “You haven't wasted your time out here. You've gotten a solid idea of Dororam's troop movements, so it'll be that much easier to avoid them. And since you're several days out of Kirol Syrreth, you're already that much closer to your real objective.”

  “And assuming you aren't lying through your fucking teeth again,” Cræosh grumbled, “where would this ‘real objective’ happen to be?”

  “Why, you're going to Shauntille.”

  To that, even Cræosh had no comment.

  “The truth is,” Havarren told them, after allowing them a few moments to settle down, “this is not a war we can win.” He quickly held up a hand to forestall any protests. “Not through standard tactics, that is. Dororam's army is simply too big for us to confront head-on.”

  “So?” Gork asked, his tone suspicious. “You and King Morthûl together should be powerful enough to just, I don't know…” He waved his fingers about randomly. Then, glancing over at Belrotha, he shrugged. “Wigglety-poof. No more army.”

  “It's not that simple, kobold. It's possible to destroy an army this size with magic, but it would take a sizable portion of Kirol Syrreth along with it. You're right, though, that we could make a substantial difference—if not for one particular irritant.”

  “DuMark,” Katim rasped.

  Havarren bobbed his head once. “DuMark. Dororam has other wizards, certainly, but either myself or our Dark Lord could deal handily with them, leaving the other free to concentrate on more mundane foes. But duMark…” The mage scowled, and it was quite clear that he didn't care for the taste of the words to come. “DuMark is quite possibly my equal, and not too substantially weaker than even Morthûl. This impudent half-elven mongrel requires that one of us grant him our full attention; combined with Dororam's other pets, it means that neither of us can focus on the armies themselves.”

  “So why us not kill wizards as planned?” Belrotha asked, having managed (with Gimmol's occasional whispered explanations) to follow the discussion. “Then you not need to worry about them.”

  “Because only a few of the Allied Kingdoms’ wizards are actually in Dororam's entourage. You could make a difference, but not enough of one. Not here. Thus, we need you to go to Shauntille.”

  “More cities!” Jhurpess whined unhappily. As had become the norm, he was quite soundly ignored.


  “And what,” Cræosh asked carefully, “would you have us do in Shauntille?” His muscles stood out from his arms and shoulders, etched against his skin, and the others slowly backed away at the realization that he was actually prepared to attack Havarren if he didn't care for the answer. “You don't fucking expect us to take on duMark, do you?”

  “What would you do if I did, orc?” the gaunt human asked languidly. “Kill me? It might be an interesting attempt.

  “But there is,” he continued, “no need for such suicidal gestures. I've no intention of sending you to your deaths. Not in so futile an effort, anyway. You're good, but you've as much chance of defeating duMark as you have of lifting the Iron Keep from its foundations and sailing it across the Sea of Tears. Besides, duMark isn't in Shauntille.”

  “But there are…others,” Katim said.

  “Precisely.”

  “Others?” Gimmol asked. “Others you want dead, you mean.”

  “Scarcely surprising, is it? You weren't assembled for your social skills.”

  “Queen Lameya?” Gork guessed. “That'd do some nasty things to Dororam's state of mind.”

  But Havarren shook his head. “Dororam is quite upset enough at the moment. And we're not sending you into Castle Bellatine. Ever since the demise of Princess Amalia, it's far too well guarded, even for a group as creative as you've proven to be.

  “But duMark has friends, or at least allies—national heroes all. It was they who assisted him in his prior efforts against King Morthûl; they who made this war necessary in the first place. They are the key to demoralizing not merely the populace, but duMark himself, and they, not the royal family, are your targets.” He handed over a small scroll case sealed with wax. Cræosh, after a moment's hesitation and a quick flashback to the message for Ebonwind, accepted it. “It's taken us months to find them. DuMark warded them against all manner of scrying and mystical detection. But our mundane spies have finally located them.

  “Which reminds me…” Havarren waved a hand, and a cloud of glistening dust wafted through the air. It sprinkled down across the startled goblins, making them glitter like fool's gold for an instant. Noses wrinkled against a vaguely peppery stench, and then it faded.

  “What…?” Cræosh began.

  “A similar ward, for you,” the wizard explained. “In case Ebonwind—or some other sorcerer, for that matter—gets it in his mind to try to find you again, or spy on you from afar.”

  Cræosh couldn't help but notice Gork's head come up a bit, as though he was surprised at what he'd heard—or had finally figured out something that'd been bothering him.

  “Given the sorts of folk duMark is apt to hang out with,” Gork interjected sardonically (deliberately changing the subject, perhaps?), “I’m starting to see why you didn't just send your typical cutthroats to deal with this.”

  “It might have proven insufficient,” Havarren agreed. “There are four names discussed therein,” he said, pointing at the scroll. “And you'll need to destroy that once you've read it, by the way. The first three, you are to kill, by whatever means necessary. The bodies are to be left public, displayed in the most grotesque, atrocious ways you can devise. We want to engender the greatest possible reaction.”

  “And the fourth?” Gork asked.

  “The most important. Lidia Lirimas. A rather feisty woman, and a closer companion to duMark than are the others.”

  “A female?” Cræosh asked, ignoring twin glares from Belrotha and Katim.

  “Easily the most dangerous of the four, orc, your prejudices notwithstanding. Even more so because we want this one alive.”

  Everything went silent, down to the shifting and grinding of the troll's teeth in her jaw.

  “Alive?” It was actually Gimmol who found his tongue first. “You want us to carry duMark's favorite and most dangerous friend to you? From Shauntille? Alive? Havarren, it's over a month from Shauntille to Dendrakis, even without trying to control a captive or avoid an army on the way. And no, before you ask, I can't maintain my acceleration spell that long.”

  “Not alone, you can't.” Havarren snapped his fingers, then opened his palm to reveal a plain copper ring. “This contains a portion of my own magics. Channel your spell through this, as you did your charm of opening through the skull talisman—a clever use of magic, gremlin, I must admit—and you should be able to make the journey in about a week.”

  “Great!” Cræosh said. “Hell, we can get there in a day or two with that, do what we have to do, and—”

  “No. A spell of this power is child's play to detect. Activate it now, and duMark will be waiting for you in Shauntille with open arms. You use it on your way out, not before.”

  Cræosh glowered at him.

  “Is all this particularly wise?” Gimmol asked, his tone uncertain. “Do you really want duMark any angrier than he already is?”

  “Even wizards make mistakes, when they're angry enough. But more importantly, it keeps him occupied. He'll have to return home, figure out what happened. Even with his magics, a proper investigation should take him several days. By then, you should have delivered your captive to us. She becomes a bargaining chip, or at the very least, another obstacle to slow duMark down. Even if he's willing to sacrifice her, he can't allow himself to appear so cold-blooded.” Havarren smiled. “Wouldn't do to sully the reputation, would it?

  “And it takes four powerful enemies off the field. At the moment, they're not riding with the armies, but they'd involve themselves in the war sooner or later. Preventing that, and depriving duMark of their assistance, is worth the effort by itself.”

  “Just to make damn sure I've got this in a row,” Cræosh said, “let's review. We're going to infiltrate Shauntille. We're going to take on, and kill, and publicly display the bodies of three of the greatest champions they have to offer. Then we're going to capture a fourth, and bring her back here alive. Does that just about sum it up?”

  “Fairly succinctly, yes.”

  Cræosh laughed. It was an ugly, guttural sound, the voice of ridicule rather than humor.

  “You find something amusing, orc?”

  “Yeah. I can't believe Fezeill's still fucking haunting us.”

  Katim nodded. “He's right. I appreciate you trusting…us with such a mission, but wouldn't…human or doppelganger agents prove…more appropriate?”

  “It would. In fact, we've already tried. An assassination team already made one attempt. One of the targets—Kuren Bekay, we believe—slaughtered the lot of them. And we simply haven't a second appropriate team available. Not many of our doppelganger or human operatives are good enough to take on these targets, and those who might are engaged in other, equally important operations. To put it bluntly, you're the only ones available who might be remotely good enough to pull this off.

  “More to the point, these are King Morthûl's orders. You're welcome to march to Dendrakis to ask for explanations, if you want. I wonder what he'll turn you into?”

  “Say!” Gork's face brightened. “Wouldn't that work? Couldn't you make us look human?”

  “Disgusting,” Katim muttered.

  Gimmol, however, was shaking his head. “Illusions aren't that hard to detect, if you're looking for them. And if the wizards in Shauntille are on a war footing…”

  “Your little friend is correct,” Havarren confirmed. “I could actually transform you into humans.” He smiled at the faint shudders running through his audience. “But it would defeat the purpose. Trying to fight, or sneak, or whatever it is you do with new muscles, newly shaped limbs…We'd lose the very skills we chose you for. Maybe if you had a few months to train…” He shrugged. “Well, you've got a long journey ahead of you. Plenty of time to come up with something. If it was easy, we wouldn't need a Demon Squad to handle it.”

  All eyes in the squad swiveled toward Belrotha. The mage sighed.

  “Yes, that is something of an issue, isn't it? Belrotha, you won't like this, but I’m afraid that, in your case, there's tr
uly no choice. I assure you that it's quite temporary.”

  The ogre blanched. “What…?” she began.

  Havarren chanted something, then reached out and tapped the recoiling ogre on the hip. For an instant, nothing happened.

  An instant later, and Katim was the tallest member of the squad.

  For her own part, Belrotha was staring wildly at the scenery around her, a thin sheen of sweat on her face. Finally she turned, desperately, to Gimmol. “How wizard make world grow?” she asked anxiously.

  Cræosh, who was standing on tiptoe just for the novel experience of looking down at the ogre's head, decided he probably wasn't helping matters and stopped.

  “…a delicate balance to keep her shrunken without weakening her,” Havarren was saying. “When you cast your hasting spell through the ring, the energies should be enough to overwhelm the spell and return her to her normal size. If not, however, it ought to reverse itself in about a month.

  “And now, I have my own preparations to make, and you have a long walk ahead of you. I suggest you get some sleep.”

  “Do you think?” Cræosh asked him. “I figured we'd sit up until dawn playing tiddlywinks. I don't suppose you might bring us a set? I left mine in my other pants.”

  Strangely enough, Havarren ignored him. A casual wave, and he was gone.

  “I've got to learn to do that,” the gremlin muttered.

  One by one, the others wandered back to their blankets and dropped off, leaving Gimmol to stand watch—and to try to calm the profusely sweating ogre.

  Day upon day, mile upon mile upon mile, creeping along the coast of a flesh-and-steel sea set to crash upon the borders of Kirol Syrreth. They stayed well away from the main roads, did most of their traveling in the dark; nevertheless, the threat of discovery nipped constantly at their heels. Four or five times they'd been forced to shelter in a copse or a gully to avoid the army's scouts, and once they'd had no choice but to kill a lone outrider who stumbled upon them—actually over them, having literally tripped on Gork—in the dark. They buried the body, smoothed over the shallow grave as best they could, and pushed on throughout the night so as to be gone before he could be missed.