Goblin Corps, The

  “This isn't going to work,” Cræosh groused.

  Gork grimaced up at him. “You're such a pessimist. I told you before, people don't look hard unless you give them reason to.”

  “And a night of murders and fires isn't reason to?”

  “Oh, give it a rest. It'll be fine.”

  “Yeah, we'll have plenty of time to rest when they throw us all in—”

  Katim's fist slammed down between them, emphasized by the crack of bone. Had the guardsman not already had bigger problems, such as being dead, that leg would never have been the same again.

  “Let's just go!” she spat through grinding fangs. “Unless…you want to prove yourself right by…getting caught?”

  And since no one really had a better option, they went. Trusting one last time to their increasingly worn disguises, they shuffled down the hill and onto the main streets. Cræosh and Belrotha pulled the wheelbarrow awkwardly behind them. Gork led the procession, a lit torch in one hand, a tiny bell he'd picked up from Ancestors-knew-where in the other. Every minute or so he'd chime it softly, announcing their presence without disturbing the majority of citizens who had already taken to their beds.

  “Are you sure you know where the fuck you're going?” Cræosh hissed.

  Gork sighed. “For the hundredth time, yes! I saw a cemetery off this way when I was following the guard.”

  “This isn't gonna work,” the orc muttered again.

  “Why are you so damn paranoid about this?”

  “Because our last plan went off perfectly! Now we've got twice the bad luck waiting for us!”

  Gork shook his head, rang his bell, and kept walking.

  Late as it was, a city the size of Brenald was certain to have something of a nightlife. Here and there on the otherwise vacant streets, small groups paused in the midst of their own nocturnal wanderings to watch the passing procession. As before, Cræosh was certain that one of them would sound an alarm at any moment, that the entire watch would come crashing down on the squad's head like…like a head-crashing thing. (Cræosh was tired, and more than a little jittery, and can perhaps be excused for lacking the mental wherewithal to formulate an appropriate metaphor.) But though their expressions were often puzzled, every citizen stepped aside, bowing or tipping a hat, when the streetlights revealed to them the sad contents of the wheelbarrow. Some recognized bits of armor and saluted the fallen soldiers; others were, perhaps, merely offering respect to the recent dead on the way to their eternal sleep.

  And so, ever more apprehensively, they continued. The wheels of the pushcart clattered over every nook in the road, announcing their presence far more loudly than the kobold's tiny bell. The bodies, just starting to ripen, poked at their nostrils with tiny daggers of scent. Limbs flopped about, smacking Cræosh or Belrotha in the arm, doing even more damage to already frazzled nerves. By the time the cemetery gates hove into view, most of them would have happily traded places with those bodies in exchange for a few hours' relaxation.

  “See?” Gork chided, perhaps a bit louder than he needed to. “What did I tell you? There it is.”

  And even better, like so many graveyards, it bordered the outermost wall of the city. They should finally be able to get the hell out of this wretched place unimpeded, since any potential witnesses were already premurdered.

  They'd passed beyond the more traditional tombstones, woven their way between most of the aboveground mausoleums of the rich and powerful—trying not to notice how much some of the gothic statuettes atop them resembled the late and unlamented Shreckt—when their hopes of an easy escape were firmly planted in a grave of their own.

  “Hey!”

  As one, the entire squad craned their necks upward, though not so high that their hoods might fall off.

  “Yes?” Gork asked politely.

  A lone sentry peered at them from atop the outer wall, crossbow cradled low but steady in his hands. “What are you doing in the graveyard after dark?”

  Cræosh began to curse in a very unecclesiastical manner. Gork stepped back and “accidentally” trod on the orc's foot. “We are strangers to your city, good sir!” he called up. “We just wished to do our part to help.”

  “Help? Help with…” They could hear a faint creaking as his hand tightened around the stock of his weapon. “Are those dead guards in that wheelbarrow?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gork said, making no attempt to sidestep the issue. “They were found, brutally murdered, in an alleyway this afternoon. I am afraid, what with the tragedy that has recently befallen your heroes, that these brave souls would have been forgotten amid the chaos. Though my brethren and I do not know Brenald that well, we recognized that these good men should not be left to the mercy of the elements. Thus, with the blessings of the church, we took it upon ourselves to transport them here, to their final rest, while the city deals with more weighty matters.”

  Even before the kobold finished, the watchman's face clearly signaled his utter lack of credulity. Cræosh, who was furiously wishing that this sword and the other weapons were somewhere more accessible than wrapped in Belrotha's satchel, allowed one hand to drop casually into the wheelbarrow. The soldiers' swords wouldn't prove all that accurate at a distance—javelins they most assuredly were not—but he had nothing else to hand….

  “So how come,” the guard challenged, “I haven't heard a damn thing about this?”

  “My good man,” Gork said, his tone tightening, “I certainly wouldn't know. Perhaps, out here at this lonely post, the word simply hasn't reached—”

  The crossbow rose, the heavy bolt now aimed squarely into the darkness of the kobold's hood. Cræosh was sure that he could actually hear Gork start to sweat.

  “I just went on duty a half hour ago, friend,” the guard said coldly. “I should have heard about this. I think we're going to have to get to the bottom of this before anyone proceeds any further.”

  “But sir—”

  “Shut up! I—”

  Throwing caution to the winds—after all, it wasn't his face sitting in the path of the bolt—Cræosh yanked the narrow sword from beneath the corpse of its owner, hauling back for a desperate throw.

  Someone beat him to it. Jhurpess took to the air, bouncing first from the edge of the wheelbarrow with a dull clang, then from the roof of the nearest mausoleum, and then he was near enough the top of the wall for his lanky arms to haul him over. The crossbow thrummed, but the startled guard had started back; the bolt hurtled over Gork's head, rather than through it. The human drew a single, croaking gasp before Jhurpess reached out with two broad hands and snapped his neck.

  The bugbear caught the body as it fell, then dropped into a crouch, lowering the guard carefully to the pathway atop the wall. His robe bunched and twisted as he swept for any further foes.

  None yet, no, but soon. Quiet the altercation had been, but not silent.

  “Could you have cut that just a bit closer?” Gork ranted up at him, his voice hovering just below an actual shout. “I have enough holes in my face already, dammit! I don't need any new ones!”

  “It was perfectly safe, Shorty,” Cræosh answered on Jhurpess's behalf.

  “Safe? How the fuck was it safe? The man had a crossbow aimed up my nose!”

  “Yeah, but I was fairly sure he was gonna miss me” Cræosh said sardonically.

  “What?”

  “Jhurpess sure, too,” from above.

  “Why you lumbering behemoths, I—!”

  “Alec? Alec, you over there?”

  The entire squad froze, Gork's mouth hanging open in mid-diatribe. They had maybe a minute before the rest of the patrol came into view, not enough time for them all to clear the wall—certainly not while lugging a captive.

  “Jhurpess!” Katim scurried forward, tossing the bugbear one of their coils of rope. “Leave it hanging on…the outside of the wall! Dump the…body next to it and get…back down here! Belrotha! Get the prisoner…out of the wheelbarrow! Gork!” She pointed one taloned digit. “Get tha
t…door open! Your way, not…mine.”

  Gork followed her finger and nodded, perhaps in sudden understanding. Cræosh, who did not understand, could only count heartbeats as the squad rushed to do the troll's bidding, and pray to the Ancestors that she knew what she was doing.

  The citizens of Brenald were up in arms, the commander of the city watch was forced to resign (and to go into hiding, lest he find himself lynched), but they never did catch the blackguards responsible for the horrors of that night. The guards had handily spotted the dangling rope, and the corpse lying just outside the wall. Instantly they'd mobilized, scouring the roads, the woods, everywhere for the fleeing fugitives. They seized every wagon, searched every farmhouse, beat every bush, even climbed every tree, within hours of the wall. Nothing.

  They found the wheelbarrow of corpses, of course (though it contained only four; the other two guards were never found, and presumed lost somewhere in the city's back alleys). Between that, and the tales told by various soldiers and citizens, the authorities recognized that the assassins had moved through town disguised as monks and had used the bodies as cover to make their way to the cemetery and escape. The watch conducted a search of Brenald itself, in case the murderers had accomplices, but since they'd obviously escaped the walls already—the rope and the body were evidence enough of that—it was a cursory effort.

  The city's reeve, left in charge in the absence of King Dororam, called for five days of mourning: one for each of the great heroes, and another for the guards who had fallen. Black tunics, black dresses, and black banners transformed the streets of Brenald into a net of darkness. Dirges sounded from street musicians, and tavern owners offered everyone a free drink in honor of the lost (and then, of course, raised the prices on every subsequent drink, turning a healthy profit). Priests read lengthy sermons, but never at the central temple. It was closed for the days of mourning, in honor of Father Thomas.

  But finally, on the sixth day, life slowly edged back toward the routine. People dressed normally once again, businesses kept normal hours, and the extra sentries on the walls returned to their normal duties.

  And only then did the Demon Squad—who had passed those six hellish days in the cramped, crowded, and rapidly suffocating confines of the graveyard's largest mausoleum, surviving on the flesh of those two missing corpses—emerge from hiding. None of them were speaking, for that was the only way they'd kept from killing each other, and they reeked of decomposing flesh, body odor, spilled blood, urine and feces (they'd used the coffin as a chamber pot), and the vomit of their prisoner, whom they'd had to force feed. They crept out in the middle of the night, sent Gork to scout and make sure there were no guards on the wall nearby, and then scurried over another rope and ran as though the ghosts of the men they'd eaten were nipping at their heels.

  The following days, though exhausting and not precisely pleasant, proved both uneventful and far more comfortable than being cooped up in that damn crypt. They kept their distance from the main roads; though there were no soldiers to be seen, the entire army having gotten much farther ahead, the highways remained crowded with farmers, merchants, and other wanderers. Cræosh cursed every extra moment their circuitous routes and constant hiding cost them—especially now that, without Gimmol, they had to make the return journey in normal time—but it was better than being torn apart by a mob of angry humans.

  Lidia made only a few abortive attempts to escape. Her struggles with her bonds were apparently enough to convince her that they hadn't left her any slack, and a vicious snarl from the troll made it clear that the goblins didn't appreciate her efforts. Twice per day, they loosened her bonds enough for her to choke down a few gulps of water and morsels of food, as well as to relieve herself. Under full guard, of course. Cræosh and the others couldn't give a halfling's ass about human notions of privacy or propriety, but neither were they interested in lugging a captive covered in her own wastes.

  Cræosh saw her eyes flicker from Katim to Belrotha a time or two, and wondered if she was going to appeal to them in the name of gender unity and sisterhood. Yeah, good luck with that.

  The squad forced themselves to maintain a punishing pace, sleeping only a few hours at a stretch, pushing onward even as calves ached, sides split, lungs burned. Day after day after day, until vision went bleary and tempers frayed even shorter than normal—but eventually, with agonizing sluggishness, the Brimstone Mountains began to peek over the horizon ahead.

  And still they spotted no sign of even the straggling tail end of Dororam's armies. The orc started to fret, and he actually grew more alert, his fatigue digested by the worry now roiling through his gut.

  “We need to start being careful,” Cræosh said that afternoon. “We've no fucking clue how the war's going so far, but it looks as though Dororam's already gotten farther than he should have. If we don't run into his men between here and the mountains, you can fucking bet that we'll meet them in the passes. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Eyes open,” Gork said. “Got it. Anything else we should know, or did you want the rest to be a surprise?”

  “Gork?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut your fucking hole.”

  The kobold looked innocently around at the others. “Touchy today, isn't he?”

  Very deliberately, Belrotha placed one enormous fist over Gork's face. It was a move she'd seen Cræosh pull more than once. Normally, her hand would've enveloped his skull entirely, but since she hadn't resumed her normal size, it was just the proper width for a good, solid grip.

  Of course, it was still a long stronger than the orc's.

  “Me not remember,” she said, and Cræosh wouldn't have laid odds on whether she was exaggerating for Gork's benefit, or honestly confused. “Do me lift? Or just squeeze?”

  “Mmph! Mpfrm rmf!”

  “Actually,” Katim observed laconically, “I believe that you've…done quite enough.”

  Belrotha nodded and released her grasp.

  “Air!” Gork croaked.

  “Are we through now?” Cræosh asked the gasping kobold.

  Gork nodded, panting.

  “Good. Then let's move.” He glanced over at the bundle slung over the ogre's shoulder. “Somebody tighten those ropes.”

  Another few days, equally miserable and, if anything, even more arduous, finally brought them to the Brimstone Mountains themselves. And there, it became apparent that something was, indeed, very wrong.

  Moving carefully, the squad picked their way through mounds of corpses in various states of dismemberment and decay. Humans lay beside orcs, elves beside trolls, each and every one of them the victim of violent death. The Charnel King's troglodytes, ancestral guardians of the mountain passes, were scattered among them, lying where they'd fallen defending their homes. Flies buzzed in swarms thick enough to darken the sun; buzzards circled above in quantities large enough to be considered swarms themselves. The stench made their eyes water and their stomachs heave—this from creatures who had, short weeks before, subsisted on a pair of rotting bodies without hesitation. Katim spun and lunged toward the startled ogre, barely ripping the gag from the captive's mouth in time to prevent her from choking on her own vomit.

  Of course, the carnage, although perhaps somewhat more prodigious than they might have anticipated, was only to be expected. What proved far more worrisome was not the presence of the dead within the passes, but the absence of the living. Even had the Allied armies somehow taken the passes swiftly and easily, an unimaginable feat at best, they most assuredly wouldn't have left them unguarded! The Serpent's Pass, as well as the smaller byways, were vital for messengers and supply trains, easy targets for counterattack. The only way anyone could possibly justify such a peculiar decision, according to Cræosh's understanding of basic strategies…

  Was if Kirol Syrreth had already fallen.

  “Impossible!” Katim protested when the orc hesitantly explained his assessment. “There's no way the armies…could have crossed even a fraction…of Kirol
Syrreth. They must be…months from the Sea of Tears!”

  “I know that!” Cræosh snapped back at her. “I know how fucking slowly armies move, and how this whole fucking war is supposed to work! I'm just telling you what I see!”

  “Watch your tone…orc,” the troll rumbled, scarcely more than a whisper. “At this stage in our…mission, one sword, more or…less, will not matter. And one more…corpse on the field wouldn't even…be noticed.”

  Steel sang against leather as Cræosh's sword leapt from its scabbard, severing the last feeble strands of his patience. “Now, is it?” he asked, his own voice turned to gravel. “Fine, then. Whenever you're ready.”

  He never found out if Katim would have backed down or followed through, for Belrotha reached out, lifted a random corpse off the bloodied field—an orc, as it happened, one whose ribs had been caved in by a mace—and used it as a bludgeon to knock the orc and the troll both from their feet. Slowly, gasping for breath and wishing his head would stop ringing, Cræosh dragged himself back up. He was heartened, at least, to see that Katim was moving as hesitantly as he.

  “It not now!” Belrotha raved, her hands literally waving over her head, the stench of her breath blotting out the surrounding miasma of decay. “Cræosh and Katim want to kill each other, them do it later! Us have other things to do now!”

  “Now, look Belrotha—” Cræosh began.

  “You shut up!” the ogre yelled, shoving her face so close to Cræosh's own that her broken nose actually slapped against his. The orc recoiled violently. “That better!” She spun and jabbed a finger at the troll. “You not say anything either!” She stepped back, lowering her fists to her hips. “Until us know what happening, you not fight with each other! You not talk to each other unless me there to listen! You not listen to me—you try to fight again—me kill you!”

  “I think she's serious,” Gork muttered to the stunned combatants.

  “You shut up too!” Belrotha screamed.

  “What? But I didn't do anything!”