by Ari Marmell
The familiar constellations were all there, exactly as every bugbear cub learned them. The Ogre, the Mother, the Wolf, the Deer, the Beetle, the Greater and Lesser Corpses, the Rotting Tree with a Thousand Beehives—all shone down upon Jhurpess, illuminating the night and giving the snow a ghostly luminescence.
But something was wrong. The bugbear glanced about, but saw nothing amiss. Sniffing, he aimed his nose into the wind, trying to detect something, anything. There was nothing save the icy wind, biting into his nostrils.
The scenery! That's what was bothering him! The moon and stars painted faint shadows across the canopy of white…
And those shadows were moving.
Jhurpess shrieked as it lunged from the blank expanse of snow. Huge, fur-coated arms reached with claw-fingered hands; an equally huge maw, more apelike than Jhurpess's own, gaped to sever the bugbear's head with a single, hideous chomp. So closely did the beast's coloration match the surrounding snows that it had stood invisible mere paces from Jhurpess's cleverly chosen vantage.
Every one of the bugbear's limbs thrashed and twisted as the creature slammed into him, and the bow—though useless, now, for its intended purpose—proved sufficient to deflect the blow that would have shattered Jhurpess's skull.
It was, at best, a temporary reprieve. Jhurpess found himself pressed into the snow beneath a bulk three times his own. Although he was, for the moment, safe from the ravaging claws and clashing teeth, the weight alone was enough to steadily drive the breath from his lungs. If it rose, it would maul him; if it stayed, he would suffocate. A mind far sharper than his own would've proved hard-pressed to find an escape.
But the creature rose! Air rushed into the bugbear's chest, sweet as baby's blood despite its deathly chill. A low-pitched growl in its throat, the monster lifted a meaty paw, ready to tenderize its dinner for good and all.
And Jhurpess's voice rose with it in a screech as shrill as his battered lungs could beget. For a single instant, the startled creature hesitated.
One single instant makes an astounding difference.
“Hey! Snowball!”
Jhurpess grinned at the sound of that voice.
“That's my bugbear,” Cræosh continued as he neared. “You can't play with it.”
The beast roared, a thunderous bellow that ceased as abruptly as it began when Cræosh brought his wicked blade up under the creature's chin.
The blow would have cleaved a human entirely in two, shredded the brain of an ogre, even cracked the bony carapace of a rock spider. But although the blood flew far and the beast reeled in agony, the hide beneath the fur prevented the sword from killing.
Ancestors! The orc retreated a step. He'd heard tales of the great yetis of the Northern Steppes, heard that nothing here save the ice dragons or the arctic eels were more fearsome, but he'd never have believed that anything could withstand such punishment! For a moment, the mighty Cræosh allowed himself to fear.
But only a moment.
Okay, so it had survived one of his mightiest blows. So what? It bled, and that meant it could die. By the time the others had appeared at his side, the last stirrings of doubt had faded. Cræosh was, once more, an orc.
A keening war cry rose to the uncaring heavens, and it took the startled Cræosh a moment to realize that it had come from the gremlin! “For King Morthûl! For the Demon Squad!” Gimmol shouted, eyes gleaming with fervor and anticipation—and then, glistening blade a shining beacon above his head, he charged madly in the wrong direction.
“Gremlins,” Fezeill observed as the stunned party watched him go, “do not have particularly good night vision.”
And then the yeti, blood already freezing solid around its gaping wound, was upon them with another earthshaking roar.
Cræosh parried madly, his blade barely fast enough to intercept those terrible claws on their course toward his own precious flesh. Fezeill, cursing in frustration, had clearly discovered that bugbear hands were not built to handle his thin-hilted sword, and was reduced to flailing awkwardly at whatever parts of the beast came within reach. Katim slowly circled the melee, a wickedly barbed battleaxe in one hand, chirrusk loudly spinning from the other. And Gork…
Where the hell was Gork? It only then occurred to Cræosh that he hadn't seen the little shit since the bugbear's wail had popped his slumber like a spit bubble. If he'd run out on them, Cræosh was determined to make damn sure the cowardly kobold regretted it.
The yeti lunged, jaws snapping shut just inches from Cræosh's face. He could actually hear the crack of small icicles of saliva shattering between the pitted fangs. He spun his blade up and out, determined to take advantage of such a tempting target, but the yeti jerked its head just out of range. Cræosh tried to follow up, but was forced instead to parry yet another attempt by the yeti to drag his stomach out through his navel.
Damn it all! All he needed was one opening, one break in the yeti's relentless assault, to slip his blade past those claws….
And the Ancestors heard his plea. Gork erupted from the snow behind the raging beast, kah-rahahk clenched tightly in his left fist, and hamstrung it.
The tendons were too strong, and the flesh too tough, for Gork's attack to cripple the yeti—but it was more than enough to distract. Howling in pain and fury, the creature lashed down and back at the source of this new pain.
A second burst of snow and Jhurpess was there, war club held high. Howling and gibbering, he brought it down upon the yeti's shoulder, and the beast's screams grew even louder.
The constant whistle of the chirrusk changed pitch, and Cræosh winced as the wicked hook flashed past him, uncomfortably close. Katim twisted sharply, yanking on the chain, sinking the barbs deep into the yeti's flank. A quick gout of blood spurted—drenching Gork, who actually smiled at the sudden warmth—and then the troll hauled back on the weapon, dragging the staggering yeti toward her.
She dropped the chain to the snow and wrapped both fur-coated hands around the shaft of her axe. She stepped in and swung, even as Cræosh, sword held in a similar grip, did likewise. A metallic clang pealed across the arctic night as the two mighty weapons met in the middle of the yeti's throat. The great corpse toppled; the head took a moment longer, leaving a gory trail as it slid along the length of Cræosh's sword.
Katim nodded in the orc's direction as she bent to retrieve her chirrusk. Cræosh, puzzled, returned the gesture. It was probably just a sign of respect between warriors—at least, that's what it would have meant coming from another orc. But with trolls, who the hell knew?
Most of the squad was already tearing into the corpse, dividing and arguing over the best cuts of meat. Cræosh, however, moved some distance away from the roiling bedlam; there was something he had to do first, something he should have done the instant they'd arrived in the Steppes. Carefully, he dropped to his knees in the snow.
“Mighty Ancestors, long may your names be sung, we kneel on earth built upon your bones, supported by your deeds, to beseech your aid in the coming ordeal.
“Father, grant me your courage to face the foe. Mother, grant me your strength to strike him down. Ancestors, we pray only to be found worthy in your sight.
“Honor is victory. Victory is life. In your names alone, we strive. “
Slowly, reverently, he rose, his spirits already lifted by the traditional prayer. Only then did he notice Katim, a few steps away, staring at him.
“What?” he asked belligerently.
“Foolishness,” she rasped.
“Oh, yeah?” Cræosh's hand clenched on the haft of his blade. “You think the Ancestors are something to scoff at?”
“To attribute…your skill in battle…to others, that…is foolish. None but the living…may assist us in this…world. Still, you are…worthy.” And with that enigmatic comment—and a revolting, equally enigmatic grin to go with it—Katim returned to the yeti.
“What,” Cræosh asked the air around him, “was that about?”
He didn't expect the air to ans
wer, of course, but it did. “You don't know much about trolls, do you?”
The orc scowled as Fezeill, still cloaked in the skin of a bugbear, appeared from the darkness. “Is everyone spying on me tonight?” he asked dangerously.
“Spying? Not at all, Cræosh. I was just keeping an eye on the most useful members of the squad. How would we have fared against that thing without you and Katim, hmm?”
Cræosh chose to let it pass. “What don't I know about trolls, then?”
“Ah, that. I've spent some time studying them, you see.”
“Yeah, I'll bet. What's imitation the sincerest form of, again?”
But Fezeill shook his head. “Actually, we can't do trolls. I’m not certain why; something about the physiology, I think.
“Anyway, that's exactly why we make a habit of studying them. Anyone else, we can just walk among them unseen. But with the trolls…”
The orc nodded. “Know thy, umm, ally. So?”
“So the trolls do not worship their Ancestors, as your people do. Nor do they worship the Stars like the kobolds, or nebulous gods like the humans. They find such beliefs…Well, you heard it yourself.”
“So what do they believe? And what did she mean by ‘worthy’?”
Fezeill grinned—a tight, nasty expression that looked even worse on his current simian visage. “It means watch your back. Trolls believe that everyone they kill in this life serves them in the next. As will their victim's own servants, and theirs, and so on.
“That, my large friend, is why you can never fully trust a troll. They won't fight for anyone they don't respect, but the ultimate sign that a troll respects you is, inevitably, a heartfelt attempt to kill you, so that you may serve her after her own death. Something of a lose-lose proposition, wouldn't you say?”
Cræosh's mouth worked soundlessly. Finally, “I wish I could believe that you were fucking with me, Fezeill.” He pondered for a moment. “How long do I have before she tries something?”
The faux bugbear shrugged. “Difficult to say. In your case, probably quite a while. Even trolls aren't so fanatical in their beliefs that they're liable to challenge King Morthûl's authority. She's been assigned to the squad, and for the time being, you're important to that squad. In fact, she'd probably risk her life protecting you, since she doesn't want anyone else claiming you first.”
“Swell.”
“But as soon as she decides you're no longer of immediate value…”
“I could try to take her now,” Cræosh said. “Catch her before she's ready.”
“She's a troll, Cræosh. She's always ready. Besides, you're safe for the time being. Why not wait and see if the tundra, or one of our future assignments, might not just do the deed for you?”
“I dunno, shapeshifter. I hate leaving a potential enemy at my back.” Another moment, though, and the orc shook his head. “You're right, though. We need her, for now. Thanks for the tip, Fezeill. I owe you one.”
Which, Cræosh mused as he strode over to join the others, was probably the whole reason you told me.
He found the subject of their discussion beside the yeti corpse, trying to lift the massive thing so she could get to the parts beneath. Impressive as her strength was, though, she didn't quite seem up to the task of lifting the gargantuan body.
“Allow me,” he said, sliding up beside her. Couldn't hurt to appear useful, a small voice whispered in the back of his head. Brutally, Cræosh squashed it and put his hands on the thing's shoulders. “On three.”
Between them, they had little difficulty in dragging the yeti to its feet, and once there, Katim was able to hold it upright under her own power. Cræosh moved around to the side and began stripping the flesh from a massive thigh with a hunting knife he kept in his pack. If they were to survive these four days, they needed all the meat they could—
“Hang on! I've got it!”
The missing gremlin came hurtling back out of the gloom, sword held point-first above his head, and leapt. He loosed another war cry as he hurtled through the air, and then slammed with a loud thunk into the dead yeti's chest. “I got it! I got it!”
Katim blinked once at the tip of the gremlin's sword that now protruded from the yeti's back. She reached down, picked up a small hunk of flesh she'd already sliced from the creature, and used it to slam the blade back through the corpse. A brief squeal came from the other side of the yeti as the gremlin fell, back first, into the snow.
“Did I get it?” Gimmol called out, lying where he had fallen. “Is it dead?”
“Oh, yes. It…is dead.” Katim answered. “See?” And with that, she let the ponderous carcass topple forward. A second, much louder squeal was quickly drowned out by the earthshaking impact.
Cræosh looked up at her from where he'd been kneeling. “Was that strictly necessary?”
“No,” Katim admitted.
He nodded. “Shitload of fun, though, huh?”
She smiled. “Yes.” Then, “Why is he…even here?”
“You mean assigned to a Demon Squad? The best of the best?” The orc shrugged. “Maybe King Morthûl or General Falchion made a mistake.”
“Ah. I look forward to…seeing what happens when you…tell them that.”
They continued carving, scarcely even acknowledging the battered gremlin as he tunneled from the snow a few feet away.
“That hurt!” he whined at them.
“Doesn't it, though?” Gork asked as he sauntered past, a steaming hunk of liver in his fist. “There's a way to make it hurt less.”
“Oh?” Gimmol asked pathetically.
“Yeah. Get out of the way.” And then, chewing noisily, the kobold returned to his makeshift shelter. After another half hour or so of slicing and storing, the others did the same. Fezeill remained on watch, staring intently at the once-more empty tundra around them.
Whether it was sheer luck, the Stars, the Ancestors, or something else entirely, nothing further disturbed their sleep for the remainder of the night. Nor did much of note occur during the following day, either. The squad marched, and chewed upon various portions of half-frozen yeti, and marched some more, and squabbled among themselves, and marched again. The mountains had drawn notably closer as the afternoon slowly aged toward evening, but that was the only sign that the group had moved more than a few yards from their previous campground.
That all changed about an hour before sunset. Cræosh had just become thoroughly convinced that they were the only living things anywhere on this Ancestors-forsaken field of ice (the intermittent yeti notwithstanding) when Katim reappeared atop the next dune. The resounding crunch of her boots sinking deep into the snow as she approached was a tolling bell of ill omen to the orc's ears. If the troll was returning, rather than hunkering down and waiting, it meant she had found something worth reporting—and Cræosh was too cynical to even contemplate the possibility that it might be benign.
“What is it?” he asked before she'd even come to a complete stop. “What've you found?”
“A hut.”
“A what now?”
The troll shrugged. “It seemed…rather strange to me…too. But see…for yourself.”
The squad followed, retracing Katim's deep footprints, and sure enough, there it stood. It was a small structure of wooden planks, the sort that would have appeared fully at home in the center of any village—but it was here, plunked blithely down in the frozen wastelands of the Steppes. A cheery glow radiated through its windows, and a drunken serpent of smoke coiled from the brick chimney. There was even what might well have been a wind chime hanging before the door.
“This,” Cræosh said, “is not making a whole hell of a lot of sense.”
The others, perhaps awed at the orc's powers of observation, remained mute.
“So what now?” Gimmol asked from behind.
“We could go knock at the door, I suppose,” Gork replied. “I’m sure whoever's there would love to see us. Probably has six extra places set for tea.”
“Sneak i
n,” was the doppelganger's suggestion. “Kill whoever's in there and take what we need.”
“I’m leaning toward going straight through the door, myself,” Cræosh told them. “That oughta catch anybody inside off guard.”
“Have any of you…astounding idiots considered the…possibility that this might…be some sort of trap?”
Silence reigned as the members of the squad looked abashedly at one another, each silently accusing the others of not having thought of it first. Finally, however, a disgusted look settled over Cræosh's features.
“Trap for whom, exactly? How many people even know that we're way the fuck out here? And of those, how many give enough of a shit to want us dead?”
“Actually,” Gork said helpfully, “it doesn't have to be a trap for us specifically. Maybe someone—”
But the orc, offering a single disdainful grunt, whirled away and stormed down the rise, bearing straight for the mysterious cabin. Jhurpess, Gimmol—and, after a moment of obvious reluctance—Gork all fell in behind, leaving only the doppelganger and the troll atop the dune.
“Where,” Fezeill asked his bestial companion, “does one draw the line between bravery and stupidity?”
Katim smiled, revealing her shifting teeth. “Perhaps…one should draw it at the idea…of standing alone with a troll…after the comments you made…to the orc last night.”
The false bugbear paled beneath his fur. “You heard that?”
“Trolls have…very good ears.”
“Oh.” A pause. “You know, the others might need us. I think we really should catch up before they wander in there.”
“I thought you…might.”
As they approached, a chorus of splintering wood suggested that Cræosh had not deigned to wait for their arrival. Fezeill drew near enough to the hut to see Gork disappear through the now-vacant door frame. With an exasperated sigh, the shapeshifter put on a burst of speed.
