Goblin Corps, The

  It was not the hobgoblin speaking. A new voice, then—a stranger. But the kobold just couldn't find the strength in him to sit up and see who the newcomer might be.

  “Well, you'll have to do. Too late to find a replacement. I’m going to assume you've got your uses, though I’m buggered if I can see ‘em from here. Better prove me right, though. Else…”

  Gork weakly twisted to one side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the speaker in his peripheral vision, and encountered, instead, the charred corpse of the hobgoblin who had attacked him.

  The proper response, Gork decided, was to throw up again. Which he did. Twice, just to be sure he'd covered all salient points.

  “Great. All right, let's get that head dealt with. You've got a meeting to attend.”

  Gork felt a sudden pressure on the back of his skull, followed by yet another burst of pain. With no small amount of gratitude, he allowed himself, once more, to pass out.

  It was perhaps two hours after the troll's arrival when Cræosh's well of patience ran dry. With a grunt of irritation, the orc slammed a fist into the wall behind him, knocking a loose chunk of brick to the ground. “That,” he told his startled companions, “is it! I’m sick of this shit! If I wanted to stand around with my dick in my hands, it sure as hell wouldn't be with you all watching.” Once more gathering his traveling pack, he pivoted toward the nearest street.

  “Are you sure that's a good idea?” Gimmol called nervously, nursing the large bruise spreading across his jaw. “I mean, they're going to expect us all to be here, and if you've gone, they might…”

  The gremlin's voice suffocated and died beneath the sheer malevolence of Cræosh's glare, though his jaw kept moving for some seconds afterward. With a nod of approval, the orc took two steps toward the road, only to come within a hairsbreadth of colliding with a brown-haired, dull-featured human.

  “Watch it, you idiot!” the orc shouted, one fist raised to smash the obstruction from his path.

  “Idiot?” the human asked with just the faintest accent. “Me? I’m not the one walking away from his assignment, am I?”

  Cræosh snarled—but only a little, since the man did have a point. “Are you supposed to be our leader, then?”

  “Perhaps I should be. But no. I’m a simple soldier, although maybe not as simple as some. I—”

  “All right, you maggots, fall in! That means line your asses up! Now!”

  Cræosh was irritated, impatient, and rapidly coming to despise the very notion of the Demon Squad. On the other hand, his mother had raised him a sensible orc—one who knew that you never argue with a disembodied voice. They never wind up attached to anything pleasant.

  The troll already stood in the courtyard, the human having stepped up beside her, albeit not too close. Still grumbling, Cræosh moved to join them. Maybe now, they'd find out…

  An enormous crashing sounded behind them, followed immediately by the bugbear's shrieking voice. “Red gremlin won't hurt Jhurpess now! Red gremlin won't hurt Jhurpess!”

  Every face, even the troll's, went slack in shock. Jhurpess stood over the prone and bleeding body of the gremlin, Gimmol Phicereune, slamming his enormous cudgel again and again onto the prostrate form.

  “What the fuck?” Cræosh whispered to the courtyard at large. The human shook his head slowly, and the troll continued to gawk.

  “Stop!” The voice thundered between the buildings, somehow intensifying rather than fading each time it echoed. As though lifted by an unseen hand, the giant club—Jhurpess dangling from the narrow end—rose a dozen feet into the air. For a moment it hung, the bugbear swinging gently in the breeze, and then it dropped like a—well, like a giant club. Bruised only slightly but shaken to the core, Jhurpess rose, casting a suspicious glance at both the gremlin and the club, and brushed himself off. Sullenly, his weapon dragging behind him, he moved to join the others in line.

  “What in the name of the Ancestors was that?!” Cræosh demanded as the bugbear came up beside him. They've assigned me a fuckin’ lunatic! I didn't know bugbears had lunatics!

  Jhurpess stared at the orc as though he were the crazy one. “Cræosh not know?” he asked.

  “Know what?! I swear, I’m gonna start breaking people if—”

  “Bright!” the bugbear whispered fearfully. “Poison!”

  It was the troll who picked up on it first. “Nature,” she growled.

  Cræosh pondered that. “Huh?” he finally rebutted.

  “Bugbears live…in forests. Hunt there. Bright…fur or coloration…”

  Cræosh finally understood. “…is often a sign of poison,” he concluded for her. He turned back to the bugbear. “You,” he told the hairy creature, “are really fucking weird.”

  “Shut up!” the voice demanded.

  The orc grinned slightly. “I was wondering when he'd get around to that,” he whispered to the troll. She just shook her head.

  Slowly, as though trapped in quicksand, the gremlin began to drag himself forward. Blood caked his head and the side of his face, and edges of broken collarbone protruded through torn flesh. Still, the agonized creature did his best to obey the orders shouted down at them by…whatever.

  He's determined, Cræosh noted silently, his opinion of the gremlin rising a tiny notch. Gotta give the little shit that much.

  The garish red armor grew slowly brighter, as though the sun itself were staring at it, and Cræosh realized that the gremlin had actually begun to glow. Faint at first, barely leaking through mouth and nose, and then brighter, until the little creature was practically incandescent. As the astonished onlookers squinted, bruises faded, gashes pulled themselves shut, and the collarbone shifted back into something resembling its proper state with a sequence of horrible pops. The glow faded, leaving the gremlin to stand before them under his own power—far, perhaps, from the picture of health, but no longer in any immediate danger. His eyes wide, though not quite as large as the bugbear's, Gimmol took his place at the leftmost end of the line.

  “Get in there!” the spectral voice shouted. Cræosh thought, at first, that the unseen commander must be talking to the gremlin, even though Gimmol had already done just that.

  The air rippled. Like a fish leaping from a tranquil pond, a figure appeared before them. Smaller even than the gremlin, and covered in his own collection of fading wounds, he stood for a moment and brushed himself off, as though the teleportation had somehow soiled him. Then, glancing about with far more curiosity than fear, the kobold sauntered over and took up a stance beside the troll. Cræosh noticed with some amusement that the kobold was the only one who had not chosen his place in line based on height, something the others appeared to have done instinctively.

  And finally, in a burst of sulfurous smoke, the mysterious officer made his own appearance.

  It was all Cræosh could do to swallow his laughter. Dark gray skin covered a gargoyle's face and form. Two membranous wings sprouted from the creature's back, and rock-hard talons tipped its digits. Narrow cracks in the stony façade peered from above a draconic muzzle, and a barbed tail scratched idly at the empty air.

  It also stood maybe twenty inches tall—although, because it was currently standing in midair, it remained at eye level with the orc.

  “My name is Shreckt,” the imp shouted. “And it is my unfortunate duty to turn the sorry lot of you into something vaguely resembling soldiers!”

  The tiny demon began to pace, his feet clacking audibly on the nothingness on which he stood. “As of right now,” he continued, “I wouldn't use any one of you to wipe my ass! But by the time I’m through, you're all gonna be worth something! You'll be soldiers, or you'll be fertilizer, and I’m fine with either!

  “Now,” he said, halting and turning to face the group, “before we go any further, let me get this out of the way. Invariably, some dumb fucker decides that, since I’m short, he doesn't have to listen to me. And that, you looming shits, ain't gonna cut it. So, any of you think you can take me? Now's the time to try.” br />
  Cræosh rolled his eyes, despite his complete lack of surprise, when Jhurpess stepped forward.

  “Jhurpess can fight little thing,” he announced, hefting his club. “Jhurpess will—”

  Jhurpess, however, did nothing but scream as a bolt of lightning burst from the imp's tiny hand, crackling and sizzling its way down the courtyard, and slammed the bugbear halfway through the nearest wall.

  “Anyone else?” Shreckt asked when the roaring, the thunder, and the sounds of falling masonry finally ceased.

  Not surprisingly, there were no takers.

  “Good.” The imp gestured at Gork. “Help the monkey up.”

  “What?” Gork squeaked. “Me? But he—”

  Shreckt raised a hand; the kobold immediately hurried over to the bugbear.

  Jhurpess's fur smoldered, and even Gork's hand on his arm seemed to cause an inordinate amount of pain. Nevertheless, the bugbear struggled to his feet—using Gork primarily as a crutch, nearly shoving the kobold's head down into his own rib cage in the process.

  “All right, then,” the imp continued once the mismatched pair had limped back into line. “Here's the situation. I tell you to do something, and you do it. That, and that alone, is your life until I say otherwise. You will not speak unless I tell you to. You will not fight unless I tell you to. You will not think—well, that's probably not much of an issue. You will not eat, sleep, shit unless I tell you to. Any questions?

  “Good. Names!”

  “Gork!” the kobold piped up immediately.

  “Jhurpess,” came weakly, a moment later.

  “Gimmol Phicereune,” the gremlin announced next, “and it's a distinct pleasure—”

  Cræosh reached past the human and smacked the gremlin on the back of the head. Gimmol shut up; possibly because he got the hint, possibly because it was all he could do to stay conscious.

  “Omb Fezeill,” the human said.

  “Cræosh.”

  And finally, “T’chakatimlamitilnog, of the…House of Ru.”

  Even the imp looked taken aback. “Say that again?”

  “T’chakatimlamitilnog,” the troll repeated, snout furrowing in bewilderment.

  “Right,” Shreckt said after a moment. “‘Troll’ it is.” His demonic visage swiveled toward Fezeill. “True forms during inspection, soldier.”

  For the first time, an actual expression crossed the human's face. “Is that really necessary?”

  The imp's flinty face actually developed crags as his features scrunched up. “Is that really necessary what?!”

  “Sir!” the man corrected. “Is that really necessary sir?”

  “Yes!” the imp shrieked.

  Slowly, the “human's” body began to warp. The squad watched intently—some in fascination, some in disgust, and one in outright hatred—as his true form appeared before them. Loathsome white flesh, vaguely akin to a maggot's, bulged from between segments of a dark gray chitin. The creature's eyes, protruding hideously from the sides of its head, only added to the insectoid image. Multifaceted, they stared, unblinking; Cræosh found himself confronted by a hundred tiny orcs contained in those alien orbs. A faint lump with gaping nostrils was the closest thing the creature had to a nose, and the mouth was full of jagged ridges made of something akin to bone. Its fingers were clearly built for grasping, for tiny barbs edged the digits from palm to tip.

  It was, even for those used to supping with gremlins and fighting with trolls, more than a little repugnant.

  “Doppelganger,” Gork grumbled under his breath.

  “Better,” Shreckt said. “I expect you to look this way every time I call assembly.” There was silence, then, except for the tap-tap-tap of the imp pacing across thin air.

  “Gork!”

  The kobold, still studying the doppelganger, just about came out of his skin. “What?!” And then, before the imp could draw breath to reprimand, he corrected, “What, sir?”

  “You've had some, ah, problems with the local authorities.”

  “Yes, sir! You were there, sir!”

  “Indeed.” Shreckt scowled. “For better or worse—worse, I expect—you idiots are my charge for the time being. And that means nobody fucks with you except me.”

  The imp actually rubbed his hands together. “Now, I've got a few activities in mind for the soldiers who arrested you. But we need to set an example, Gork. Did you get a good look at the man who accused you in the first place?”

  The kobold hesitated a moment. Then, “I wish I had, sir. But I’m afraid not.”

  Shreckt's face fell. “No?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not even a glimpse?”

  Gork shook his head.

  “Drat. All right, then, that's it for now. You're billeted in that piece-of-shit building to your left. Between the roaches and the bird droppings, it oughta feel homey enough. Each and every one of you, equipped and ready to move, better be lined up in this courtyard at dawn tomorrow. You,” he added, glaring at the bugbear, “get your ass to the infirmary. I'll be buggered if I’m healing any more of you myself today, and I expect you in top form in the morning.” With that, and another puff of smoke, he was gone.

  Slowly the group dispersed, milling about in various directions. A puzzled and vaguely suspicious expression on his once-more-human face, the doppelganger appeared at Gork's side.

  “Why?”

  “Why didn't I turn you in?” the kobold clarified.

  Fezeill nodded.

  “Real simple,” Gork told him, his little muzzle twisted into an evil grin. “I don't want you in trouble with Shreckt.”

  “You aren't upset about what happened?”

  “I didn't say that.” Gork's grin grew wider, revealing jagged, yellowed canines. “You see, I want to deal with you myself.”

  The kobold delighted in the feel of Fezeill's gaze boring into his back as he casually wandered away in search of a bunk that wasn't too disgusting.

  As ordered, they were all lined up like good little soldiers when the dawning sun finally broke over the horizon. (Although it must be noted that Gork, panting just a bit, had arrived with seconds to spare, and Jhurpess had simply bedded down in the courtyard once he'd returned from his side-trip to the infirmary). And, good to his word, Shreckt appeared but moments later. He carried a riding crop, cut down to his size, that he slapped against his leg as he marched back and forth across that same stretch of nothing.

  “Good,” he said with a grin. “You can follow orders. Not a bad start.”

  The imp took a moment to examine them each in turn. “You're here,” he began, “as part of this squad, because you're supposedly among the best your races have to offer. Trained and experienced soldiers, or killers, or—whatever. So it would be redundant to try to train you further in any conventional capacity.”

  Cræosh didn't know about the others, but he was starting to get a twitchy feeling in the pit of his gut. Never, in all his years of war, had he heard of any “unconventional training” that didn't involve extreme discomfort.

  “The Serpent's Pass,” the imp persisted, “is the only route through the Brimstone Mountains large enough for an army. But Dororam might utilize the other passes to try to squeeze smaller groups of his people around behind our main defenses. Likeliest places for that are the northeast mountains, in the Steppes. So step one is to make sure that you ‘elite’ can function as well there as you can down here.”

  Cræosh winced. He hated the cold.

  “Your first exercise, then, is straightforward enough. Survive four days in the tundra. Then we'll talk further.”

  The troll raised a clawed hand.

  “What?”

  “Four days…will barely get us…into the Steppes. Even from…here, it is…quite a long walk.”

  “True.” Shreckt grinned malevolently. “That's why you aren't walking.”

  Cræosh had enough time for a single mental Shit! before they were surrounded by an abrupt puff of sulfurous smoke—and Shreckt, cacklin
g maniacally, stood alone in the courtyard.

  “Something,” Lidia murmured softly, “is bothering you.”

  “Is it?” duMark asked, spinning as his restless tread once again carried him to the limits of the small bedchamber. “What could possibly have given you that impression?”

  The young ranger's lips quirked. “You're pacing like a caged orc, that's what. If I'd known you had this kind of stamina, I'd—”

  The half-elf halted, one hand raised. “Do not even think of finishing that sentence.”

  The long-legged redhead matched her gaze with his, and he could see the wheels turning behind those eyes. It was she, however, who finally gave.

  “Sorry, Ananias. I guess I’m still a bit sensitive about it all.”

  In the months following the assault on the Iron Keep, Father Thomas—longtime companion of Ananias duMark and chirurgeon of the finest order—had worked his hands raw repairing the damage General Falchion had inflicted. But while Lidia was no longer in pain, and she could breathe easily and smell clearly once more, there was little even the old man's skills could do for her appearance. He'd straightened the cartilage as best he could, but she still looked like what she was: someone who had been punched in the face by a warrior wearing a steel gauntlet. The shape of her skull was disturbingly off, her nose uneven, the flesh around it permanently discolored. The loss of her former beauty had done nothing to diminish her fervor to fight for good, for freedom, and all the rest of it, but her companions were proving far less adaptable than she herself.

  She could ignore it easily enough when it came from the others. From Ananias, after all they'd once been, it was a stab to the gut every time he looked at her—or, more accurately, refused to look at her.

  Not that she'd ever show it.

  Putting her own humiliation behind her, the ranger rose lithely to her feet and stepped in front of the pacing wizard, blocking the path he'd already beaten into the carpet.

  “Had you actually stuck with one direction,” she told him in response to his irritated expression, “instead of turning around each time you reached a wall, you'd be at the Brimstone Mountains by now.”