by Ari Marmell
Fezeill snickered. “I’m afraid I can't turn myself into an oracle, Ebonwind. And most of this so-called squad couldn't predict the number after seven.”
He seemed oblivious to the various hostile stares that came his way—as well as to the sounds of the bugbear quietly muttering, “Five, six…”
“But you don't have to see the future,” Ebonwind told them. “After all, what is it more than anything else that determines the movements of an army?”
Katim hissed, a liquid sound even less healthy than her normal rasping breath. “The movements…of the enemy.”
The elf smiled, satisfied. “Precisely.”
Cræosh actually laughed aloud, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You want us to spy on Morthûl for you? Report the movement of our own armies? I was wrong; you're not stupid. You're downright insane!”
Ebonwind tapped one finger against his cheek. “Are you so certain that I couldn't make it worth your while?”
“Worth? Pixie, you could hand me the entire fucking world on a platter, served hot with a nice side of cabbage and dwarf stew, and it wouldn't even come close to being worth it!”
“And are you objecting out of loyalty, Cræosh? Or fear of what might befall you if you accept?”
“Ain't any difference.”
“I see.” Ebonwind shook his head. “And the rest of you?”
“For once, the orc…and I are in perfect…agreement.”
The rest of the squad nodded.
“Commendable, of course.” The elf grinned once more. “And also unnecessary. I’m not seeking any classified information, just a slight advance on what the entire world would learn in two or three days anyway. That would give my people sufficient leeway to institute certain operations of our own against the eilurren—the ‘normal’ elves—with little chance of discovery. Actually, considering that the elves are a major part of Dororam's forces, it would be to your advantage to help us out. It would almost be bringing the dakórren into the war on your side. You could be heroes.”
“And that's all?” Fezeill asked. “Just troop movements, nothing more?”
“That's all.”
“And who's to say you wouldn't just pass that information along to Dororam?”
Ebonwind actually managed to look insulted. “What do I look like to you? Why would I possibly want to do that?”
Cræosh, however, was frowning. “I dunno, pixie. It still sounds treasonous to me.”
“You aren't seeing the big picture, Cræosh! It's only treason if it brings harm to your nation. This…Why, this could be just the edge you need to ensure victory over Dororam's forces!”
That was a mistake. The orc's gaze went flinty, Katim hissed again, and even the kobold was growling softly.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Cræosh demanded. “You saying we can't handle a bunch of elves and humans on our own?”
“Not at all,” the elf countered, obviously struggling to salvage the situation. “You can simply consider it some extra insurance.” Then, before anyone could say anything further, he added, “And in any case, I would hardly expect you to undertake such a thing without suitable compensation.”
“What compensation?” Jhurpess asked.
Ebonwind appeared uncertain as to whether the bugbear was asking for details, or for the meaning of the word. He decided to assume the former. “Oh, quite a lot. My people are very wealthy. We could pay more for this than you would see over the rest of your years combined.
“But more importantly, you must be aware that the potential opportunities for you all back home, should you survive Demon Squad duty, are enormous. Surely it wouldn't hurt to have a friendly wizard owing you favors, hmm?”
Cræosh absently scratched at his palms. It was, indeed, a tempting offer. It probably wouldn't do any harm, not if all he was asking for was troop movements a couple of days in advance. And if this was actually a dakórren initiative, as opposed to some personal gambit by Ebonwind himself, they were surely asking the same of others. Why shouldn't they be the ones to benefit? Still…
“Oh, don't decide now,” the elf said, clearly sensing his reluctance. “The sun's long down. Why don't you all sleep on it, and we can discuss it some more in the morning? You're more than welcome to stay here, of course. It's much warmer than the tundra.” And with no further ado, Ebonwind rose and slipped outside, seemingly oblivious to the cold.
He wasn't, not entirely. Even through his cloak, even through his magics, Nurien Ebonwind shivered in the freezing wind. But if they thought he was, so much the better.
Not that he actually needed to wait for their decision. The orc was far too suspicious to take him up on his offer, the bugbear was too stupid, the gremlin too ignorant, and neither the doppelganger nor the troll would trust their fate to an “inferior.”
But one look at the kobold's face as he'd described their “compensation,” and he knew he'd hooked one. And one, really, was all he needed.
“I do not…care for this at all,” Katim said to the others as they gathered around the roaring fire. “We cannot…trust this elf, whether or not…he is dakórren.”
“I tend to agree,” Gimmol interjected. “Definitely not worth the risk. Do you have any idea what they say King Morthûl does to traitors?” He trembled slightly.
Cræosh nodded thoughtfully. “Fezeill?”
“I will admit that our host makes a most convincing argument. Nevertheless, I fear I have to side with the gremlin. It simply isn't worth it.”
“Gork?” the orc asked next.
“Oh. Same here. Not a chance.”
“Jhurpess?”
The bugbear scratched at his head. “Jhurpess not sure he understands what elf wants us to do.”
Cræosh decided that, once again, ignoring the monkey was the wisest policy. “Yeah, I’m with you. And there are too many unanswered questions. Did he bring us here on purpose? I’m not prepared to believe we just happened to stumble across a dakórren wizard's hut in the middle of fucking nowhere. And there's gotta be other sources, easier sources, of the information he says he wants. Nah, the whole thing smells wrong.
“So, we'll go ahead and sleep here—no sense in letting a warm shelter go to waste—and we'll leave in the morning.”
The troll cleared her throat; or at least, the others assumed that such was the intended purpose of the phlegmy sound that burbled from her gullet. “Are we willing to…trust that Ebonwind will not…harm us as we sleep?”
“Of course not!” Cræosh snapped. “I’m tired, I ain't dumb. We'll set a watch, same as usual.” He twisted toward the bugbear. “And we stay awake this time. You got that, Nature-boy?”
“Yes. Jhurpess remembers that from last night. Jhurpess not stupid.”
Cræosh opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it with an audible snap. Sometimes, it was so easy there wasn't really any point.
Gork, his snout quivering with anticipation, forced himself to wait just long enough to be certain that everyone else was fast asleep. It took every bit of self-control he had, the waiting did, but impatient as he was, one of the first tenets of kobold philosophy was that one never went behind someone's back in front of his face.
Kobold philosophy, it must be noted in passing, tends toward the convoluted.
Slowly, his footsteps landing on the creaky floorboards as silently as if they were sponge, Gork examined each of his companions in turn. As though his life depended on it—which, he realized nervously, it just might—he very gently prodded at them. Not enough to awaken even the lightest sleeper, only enough to confirm that they actually slumbered. Wiping his fingers roughly on his tunic—what, exactly, had Jhurpess gotten in his fur, anyway?—the kobold decided that the coast was as clear as it would ever be. Slipping through the open doorway, he made his way to their host. The elf sat casually by the front window, heedless of the cold, one hand again absently scratching the strange winged creature under the chin.
“I was wondering,” the dakórren said without lo
oking away from the frozen plains, “when you might decide to join me.”
Gork's snout wrinkled in surprise. “You knew I was coming?”
A not-quite-smile twisted the corners of Ebonwind's mouth. “Does it really surprise you so much that I should?”
“No. That is, it did, but I suppose it shouldn't have.”
“Come,” the elf said, rising smoothly to his feet. “Let's move a little ways away, shall we? Then we can talk.”
Amid the raucous orchestra of snoring and the multitude of twitching limbs, a single pair of eyes opened and watched intently as the smallest squad member sneaked his way outside. And they narrowed, not in surprise, but in the first stirrings of anger. The little bastard would be the death of them all! Best to wake the others now, confront him before…
No. No, that wouldn't be best, would it? A twisted grin appeared beneath those suspicious eyes. Cræosh and the others were too frightened of Morthûl to even consider Ebonwind's proposal, while Gork was too greedy to do anything else. But for the right person, at the right time, the options remained open. Gork's indiscretions were known, now. If it looked as though his little scheme might actually succeed, well, he'd be more than willing to share with a silent partner if it meant that partner stayed silent. And if not, if he appeared apt to bring the wrath of the Dark Lord down upon them…
The grin grew wider, teeth shifting within the jaw. If so, the Charnel King would surely be gracious toward the one who reported the traitor in their midst.
Feeling truly self-satisfied—and grateful, for the first time, that she'd been assigned to this bunch of incompetents—Katim watched in rapt fascination as the kobold and the elf walked into the frigid gloom, and wished only that she could hear exactly what they said.
As though it required the strength of a thousand gremlins, Gimmol struggled in vain to lift his eyelids. He didn't understand this at all! He hadn't been wounded, not unless something had happened as he slumbered. He wasn't in any pain—well, no more than the act of forcing himself awake every morning always caused. And yet, try as he might, he couldn't seem to open…
And then he screamed, an earsplitting banshee's call, as he suddenly realized the terrifying truth. His eyes were open; he just couldn't see! He was blind!
He screamed again, and again, and only then, as the last of them echoed away into oblivion, did he realize that his voice shouldn't be echoing at all. And his back…Why did his back hurt? It felt just like that night when he'd spent six hours in a gopher hole, trying to escape the notice of the troll war party. He…
“Hey!” It was Cræosh's voice, clearly unhappy, and it was followed by a sudden clang, one that shook the entire world. “Keep it the fuck down in there! I get real irritable before breakfast.”
In there? What in the blazes did that…?
He was inside the damned cauldron!
With a final shout that was half determination and half fear, Gimmol burst upward, flinging the iron lid halfway across the hut. Murder writ large across his face, he dragged himself over the lip of the huge pot—grateful indeed that no one had gotten around to lighting a fire—and dropped to his feet.
“Who the fuck did that?” he demanded, trying (without a great deal of success) to sound dangerous.
Cræosh began to chuckle. In a spreading wildfire of mirth, Fezeill, Gork, and even Jhurpess all joined in. Within moments, the entire squad was laughing hysterically, tears rolling down their cheeks.
All, that is, but two. Gimmol himself, of course, felt that the situation fell somewhat short of amusing; and Katim had also failed to join in the general merriment. His pride getting the better of his instinctive fear, the gremlin wandered over and seated himself beside the troll, who was currently sipping on a mug of what looked to be half-congealed blood. One whiff as he drew near, and Gimmol decided not to ask if it was, indeed, what it looked like.
What he said instead was, “I see that someone here has the good sense to take me seriously. When I get my hands on whoever did this…”
Katim nodded, mug held to her misshapen snout. “I think that would prove…most interesting indeed.”
Gimmol glanced her way, but she seemed disinclined to elaborate any further. “Well, in any case,” he continued, “thanks for not laughing at me.”
“There was…no reason to laugh at you.”
“Oh? You didn't think it was funny either, then?”
“I didn't say…that. There was no need…to laugh at you…” The huge trollish jaw gaped in a mirthful grin. “…because I already laughed…myself silly over it…last night when I…put you in there.”
Gimmol backed away, his face ashen, as the room around him exploded into new gales of hilarity. Then, his lip quivering, he bolted outside.
Slowly, over the course of breakfast, the laughter settled down. “You know,” Cræosh said thoughtfully, “maybe we oughta take it easy on the little puke. I mean, whatever else he may be, he's a teammate.”
“You're right,” Fezeill agreed, his voice thoughtful.
“Yeah,” Gork chimed in. “I mean, better him than me, but…”
Katim nodded.
“We're agreed then,” the orc announced. “We should stop picking on Gimmol.” And then a nasty smirk split his face. “But we're not going to, are we?”
“Nope.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Wouldn't…dream of it.”
“Good,” Cræosh declared. “Who wants more yeti?”
They had just about finished breakfast when Fezeill glanced around. “Does anyone know what happened to our host?”
“Dunno that it matters, really,” Cræosh answered. “I mean, we're planning to turn him down anyway.”
“Granted,” Fezeill said. “Still, I thought he'd wait to hear us tell him ourselves.”
“Maybe he didn't need to,” Gork suggested. “He is a wizard, after all.”
“No,” the orc told him, shaking his large head. “If he could have foreseen our reply, he wouldn't have had to ask in the first place. I…”
A small stomping sounded at the door. Even as they all looked, Gimmol sulked in and tossed a scrap of parchment down on the table. “I found this tacked to the doorframe,” he announced angrily. Fezeill was the fastest of those who grabbed for it.
My dear guests,
I apologize profusely for running out on you in this manner, but I fear something has come up that requires my immediate attention. You are welcome to break your fast upon whatever foodstuffs you might find within my home.
“Too late,” the kobold muttered.
I trust you have already come to a decision, one way or the other, but if not, you may look upon this as an extension of your deadline. Do not concern yourself with contacting me; when I have the opportunity, I shall find you. I will, of course, expect your final answer at that time.
Sincerely,
Nurien Ebonwind.
PS: The yetis are growing agitated about something. I'd advise that you not remain in the house for long after breakfast.
“Great,” Cræosh muttered once Fezeill had read the missive aloud. “Just what we need. At least if he'd been here, we could've gotten it over with. I'll tell you something, I’m not looking forward to telling him no. As a rule, I don't imagine wizards take rejection all that well.”
“What I am more…concerned about,” Katim told him, “is that last…bit.”
Fezeill nodded. “I agree completely. If the yetis are gallivanting about, would that not be a better reason to stay inside?”
“I'd have thought the same thing,” Gork said. “Maybe—”
“Hsst!” The troll stood motionless, one furry hand raised in a call for silence.
And then the rest of them heard it, too—a faint whistling in the air. As though the sun had reversed its course, the morning began to grow dark outside the hut.
“Oh, shit!” Cræosh was already breaking for the nearest exit. “Incoming!”
The entire squad scattered like frightened roach
es before the “-ing” had left the orc's mouth. Wooden shutters and cheap glass shattered as the hut's windows burst asunder with fleeing goblins. Katim had somehow compressed herself small enough to fit through the one, Gork had almost cleared the other before several hundred pounds of bugbear launched him the rest of the way through, and Cræosh had followed the “shortest distance is a straight line” theory and hurled himself through the nearest wall.
Just a few heartbeats after the Demon Squad had vacated the cottage, the entire structure was turned into splinters by the arrival of an uninvited boulder of the airborne variety. The ground shook as though the universe had sneezed, knocking Gimmol clear off his feet. Slivers of wood and shards of glass spun across the tundra. Cræosh, already bleeding from a dozen pinprick wounds, threw one arm over his face and dove into the snow. A series of thumps suggested that most of his squad had enough sense to do the same.
And then, as swiftly as it began, it was over. The crushed wood creaked as the boulder teetered a bit and then settled comfortably into the snow, apparently content with its new abode.
Cræosh rose, the sting of his various lacerations aching in the cold. The rest of the squad gathered around him, stained and speckled with the blood of similar injuries.
“I had no…idea,” Katim said, “that yetis grew large enough…to throw something like…this.”
“They don't,” Fezeill announced authoritatively. “It isn't possible.”
With a low growl, Cræosh reached toward Fezeill, palmed the back of his bugbear head in one ham-sized fist, and drove him facefirst into the boulder. With a sharp crack, the doppelganger—his nose bleeding a noxious yellow ichor—dropped into the snow.
“Feels possible enough to me,” Cræosh said. “Anyone feel different?”
