Goblin Corps, The

by Ari Marmell

  Shreckt waived his riding crop under the ogre's nose. “Why don't you ask her?”

  Belrotha looked about ready to panic. “Me not know. Me just got here, remember?”

  “On the queen's orders,” Shreckt reminded her. “And that's why I’m here, too.

  “Survival training's over, you pukes. You've been assigned to Her Majesty directly. Until she or Morthûl says different, your asses belong to Queen Anne.”

  The winds howled off the Sea of Tears, screaming across the walls of the massive citadel. Enormous slabs of black stone offered the structure its support, protecting those within from the elements. Across every inch of exterior stone, however, lay a latticework of black iron, filigreed into thousands, perhaps millions, of abstract designs and eldritch runes. Sometimes rain pounded upon the echoing metal; sometimes the lightning flashed, drawn from the clouds to the tips of the iron towers like a kobold to a merchant's purse. But always, always the winds shrieked as they wove through those tiny, uncountable hollows.

  That, however, was the outside. Within the halls of the Iron Keep, silence reigned. Oh, there was movement aplenty, activity enough to put an anthill to shame, but it swirled and scurried in a constant, impossible hush. Seneschals—some living, some dead, and some to whom the question simply didn't apply—dashed to and fro as rapidly as the dignity of their office would permit. Messages were delivered, papers passed along to others, orders given, but no superfluous words, no casual conversations, were ever exchanged.

  At every entrance and every major intersection stood guards, equally silent. The living were hardened, experienced soldiers, drawn from every race of Kirol Syrreth. The dead, who patrolled the halls in shambling formation, empty sockets gazing from iron helms, included not only goblins and humans, but elves and dwarves and halflings as well. In this reanimated, unfeeling mockery of life, former allies and enemies alike burned with fealty to King Morthûl where once minds and souls had thrived.

  Vigo Havarren, who had traversed these halls a thousand times and more, ignored the guards as he blew past them, fascinated more by the architecture than the animate dead. From the lowermost stories, which were fairly mundane in scope and design, he passed into far more alien levels above. Here, many of the floors and walls were shaped of the same night-black iron as the keep's exterior, twisted into those same arcane designs. Some chambers were constructed only of filigree, allowing casual passersby to peer through the gaps in the iron to see what lay beyond; others, such as Morthûl's own chambers, were backed with walls of darkest stone.

  Not even Havarren, for all his own mystical acumen, had ever discerned any master pattern to the runes in the iron, though he was certain there must be one. He recognized some individual glyphs, symbols of protection, sigils of power. Others he knew not: bent and twisted icons that coiled back upon themselves in impossible angles, refusing to obey the dictates of geometry, let alone any magic Havarren understood. Trying to comprehend the sheer amount of power that must flow through the Iron Keep with every second of the day made even the normally fearless wizard, chief servant of the Charnel King of Kirol Syrreth, shudder.

  Squaring his shoulders, Havarren passed the final pair of skeletal guards and raised his hand to knock on the mahogany door. He wasn't even slightly nonplussed when the portal swung open before his fist had fallen. Accepting the unspoken invitation, he stepped across the threshold of King Morthûl's inner sanctum.

  If the throne room of the Iron Keep, with its reflective floors and towering marble chair, was designed to impress, even intimidate, then this, the Charnel King's private audience chamber, must be intended to disturb. The shapes in the iron filigree wound over and around each other, sufficient to cause dizziness in anyone foolish enough to try following their twisting course. Worse, at various points along the wall roughly fifteen feet apart from one another, the iron bent outward, forming vaguely man-shaped cages. The inhabitants of those cages, had there been any, would be forced to stand; sitting, or even leaning against the bars, was made impossible by protruding barbs and the awkward angles of the cages themselves.

  But there were no inhabitants. The cages, lacking any means of ingress, were purely decorative.

  Or so Havarren chose to believe.

  The floor was neither iron nor stone, but an unrelenting black, nightfall given substance. Occasional flickers of movement within, as though the floor were glass atop a malevolent sea, were yet another phenomenon that the wizard, despite his familiarity with the keep, had never been able to explain.

  In the chamber's center sat the decayed master of the Iron Keep himself, not upon some great marble throne or a dais of bone, but in a simple, red velvet-lined chair. He leaned over a large desk, equally as mundane as the chair, perusing one of a hundred musty tomes that he kept in a library Havarren had never been permitted to explore.

  For long moments, Morthûl continued reading, seemingly oblivious. He finally raised a bony hand and beckoned just as Havarren opened his mouth to announce himself. The sorcerer's approach startled a few dozen roaches and beetles, sending them scurrying across the upholstery and back into the folds of either the Charnel King's clothes or his flesh, depending on personal preference. Morthûl gestured a second time, leathery flesh creaking, and the book vanished from the desk.

  “You requested an audience?”

  “I did, Your Majesty. I felt you should know…That is, it seems that the Demon Squad you assembled—”

  Although accustomed to the mercurial moods of his Dark Lord, Havarren was taken aback at the abrupt change. Morthûl was on his feet, his right hand seizing the wizard's tunic. The skeletal fingertips punched clean through the fabric, and several layers of skin for that matter. Save for a single wince, the gaunt mage knew better than to protest.

  “What happened to my squad?” The pestilential breath crawled over Havarren's face as though it, too, carried the Charnel King's vermin.

  My squad? Havarren filed the choice of words away for future examination. “Nothing's happened to them, precisely, Your Majesty. They're fine.”

  Morthûl released his aide, oblivious to the blood—or rather, the not-quite-blood—coating his fingertips. “So what are you telling me?” he asked more calmly.

  “They appear to have been reassigned.”

  “To whom? And on whose authority?”

  This is where it gets interesting. “Queen Anne, Your Majesty. To both questions.”

  One eyebrow—Morthûl's only eyebrow, in point of fact—rose. “Anne?” The Dark Lord shook his head, dislodging another handful of insects. “Why?”

  “I couldn't begin to guess, Sire. This only happened two days ago. They've not even reached Castle Eldritch.”

  “I see.” For another span, the dead king pondered. “Very well, Havarren. Do nothing for now. My wife is, ah, whimsical at times, but she knows better than to harm our cause. The squad must learn to deal with the unexpected, so let us see what she would have them do.”

  “Very good.” The mage spun on his heel.

  “Havarren.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Do keep a close eye on them.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  She studied the meandering path of dirt and gravel that was Tiehmon's Way, lost in her own thoughts. Her ears and her hide twitched at the touch of cold winds, unpleasant reminders of the Steppes. Grimacing, she focused on the local scents of grass and mulch, soil and the dusty tang of the trail.

  Tiehmon's Way, one of the many earthen highways that were the flowing arteries of Kirol Syrreth, had been her world for days now, and would remain so for days more. It perfectly marked the line of demarcation between the lush plains to the south and the frost-bitten scrub and dead foliage of the tundra-kissed lands to the north. It was also the main route between Timas Khoreth, where the squad had slept away their first warm night together, and the city of Sularaam, home to the rather ostentatiously titled Castle Eldritch.

  Private residence, when she wasn't staying wi
th her husband, of Queen Anne, the Charnel King's bride.

  A small cadre of humans, garbed in the traditional black of Morthûl's army, appeared over a gentle slope in the road and cautiously marched past. Fingers nervously grazed against pommels, tightened on bowshafts, and wary squints brushed across her face. This, then, was the caliber of warrior the Iron Keep would send against the marshaled armies of the Allied Kingdoms? These frightened fools? It was enough to make a troll despair.

  “Hey! Hound! You sniff anything out yet?”

  On the other hand, cowardly humans were far from the greatest burden she had to bear.

  “Of course she didn't!” Shreckt barked as the band caught up with her. “There's nothing to see on Tiehmon's. Which is what I told her when she asked to scout ahead!”

  Katim refused to turn around. She'd gone “scouting” for no other reason than to escape the constant prattle, and now was wishing she'd gone even farther ahead.

  Such as, perhaps, all the way to Castle Eldritch. If not beyond. Before she decided to off the orc here and now, and possibly the cub-sized sergeant right along with him.

  The troll was rapidly losing what little respect she'd held for their “superior” officer. Even after he'd given them a full day to recuperate in Timas Khoreth—more than they actually needed, after Queen Anne's mysterious but reinvigorating visit—he'd scarcely even bothered to debrief them, asking instead for “the short version” of their experiences in the Steppes. He'd sounded only vaguely concerned about the odd worm creatures, despite their best efforts to emphasize how nasty the things were, and though he'd assured them that he would report their presence to General Falchion, he forbade them from wasting any more time worrying about it.

  “Your assignment to Her Majesty,” he'd told them, “supersedes everything else. Shut up and deal with it.”

  Since then they'd trudged along the dreary road, grasslands to the left, dead scrub to the right, and nothing but the occasional passing patrol to break the monotony.

  “Training,” Shreckt had explained impatiently on the second day, when Gork asked why there were so many soldiers on the road. The imp sat cross-legged in the air, his riding crop hooked to Belrotha's backpack so the ogre could tow him along like a pennant. “Most of those ass-licking mama's boys have never seen combat in a really hostile environment, so they're getting the training you thought you were getting.”

  The kobold had shaken his head. “But so many of them? Isn't that depleting our forces elsewhere?”

  The imp had muttered something about it being “taken care of” and wouldn't talk any more on the subject, shouting at Gork to drop and give him eighty when the kobold persisted.

  Katim, who'd been paying close attention to Gork during the kobold's shifts on watch, waiting in vain for Ebonwind to appear, knew it was more than curiosity that drove his questions.

  Nor had Shreckt bothered explaining why he didn't simply teleport the lot of them to Sularaam. He'd given the order to march, so they marched. And—

  “You didn't answer my question.” Cræosh appeared beside her, shaking her out of her reverie. “Find anything worth mentioning?”

  “I think that…Shreckt answered the question…quite adequately. This road offers…little worth reporting.”

  “Yeah, but I didn't ask him, did I?”

  Katim was saved the effort of a response by the now-familiar (and now-despised) “All right, fall in!”

  They did.

  “Good!” The imp gave them all a quick once-over. “Gork!”

  The kobold jumped. “Sir, yes sir, yes sir!”

  Shreckt blinked. “One's enough, soldier.”

  “If you say so, sir!”

  The imp's index fingers twitched. “Move ahead! Find us a camping spot!”

  “Wha…Me, sir?”

  “Did I st-st-stutter, soldier?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Then m-m-move!”

  Gork moved.

  Shreckt shook his head, then rotated it at an impossible, owlish angle, toward Katim. “The others'll be doing the scouting for a while, since I already know you know how to do it. Get ‘em used to it now, when there's no real danger if they screw the pooch.”

  “Of course,” Katim agreed, struggling not to gnash her teeth. There went her excuses for getting away from the damn orc and for keeping watch over the kobold, in one fell swoop.

  Trolls believed in no higher power—no gods, no spirits, no Ancestors—but she couldn't help but wonder, as Gork vanished over the nearest rise, if she hadn't offended something.

  It didn't take Gork long, since finding a good spot for a campsite in an open field isn't an entirely challenging prospect. He selected the area around a large tree some few hundred yards off the road. The grass was dying as winter solidified its hold on Kirol Syrreth—thank the Stars it hadn't started snowing on the plains yet!—but remained thick enough to sleep on comfortably. Yes, this place would be perfect; he—

  “Hello, Gork.”

  “Ibriudra! Birri irugu!”

  The kobold jumped, even though he instantly recognized the voice and the gibberish both.

  “Ebonwind. Where…? Oh, of course.” He retreated a few steps so he could look up into the tree without straining his neck.

  Sure enough, there the dark elf was, sitting comfortably in the branches. His gray cloak hung down in folds, flapping gently in the wind, and his peculiar familiar stood perched on a spindly bough.

  “You building a nest up there?” Gork asked.

  “I was under the impression,” the dakórren said mildly, “that we had an appointment.”

  Gork snorted. “There's not much to tell you so far. Why don't you flutter off before the rest of the squad starts to wonder what's keeping me, and come back when I've got something worthwhile?”

  “But Gork, I've seen the troop movements along Tiehmon's Way. Would you have me believe they're sightseeing?”

  “Damn near. It's a training exercise, Ebonwind. It's not big enough to interest Dororam, which means it's not big enough to interest the elves, which means it's not big enough for them to react to, which means you can't react to them reacting.”

  “Tell me, Gork, do you always speak at such oblique angles?”

  The kobold shrugged. “Call it a bad case of non-Euclidean grammar. Now go away so I can report back without being hanged, burned, beheaded, and castrated for treason.”

  “I must say, I’m disappointed, Gork. I do hope you'll have something more interesting for me the next time I make the effort of visiting you.” With that he was gone, a single leaf, slowly falling from the tree, the only sign of his passing.

  “Oh, sure,” Gork muttered to himself as he headed back toward the highway. “Like it's my fault King Morthûl and General Falchion haven't ordered the army to gather around a campfire and sing songs. Dragonshit…”

  “What the fuck took you so long?” Cræosh raged as he approached. “Shit, I could've found us a nice steamy spring in the tundra by now! What the fuck's out there to worry about? The grass too sharp for you?”

  “You really wanna know, Cræosh? I had to relieve myself. That enough detail for you, or did you want shape, color, and texture?”

  The orc actually backed down. “Well, I was just wondering, is all. It took you forever.…”

  Gimmol snorted from behind them. “That's probably because he forgot how to do it. Are you going to be okay next time, Gork, or should I give you written instructions?”

  “You pestilent, mewling little—”

  “Fall in!” Shreckt, standing ramrod straight at about ten feet in the air, snarled down at the sullen squad. “All right, you assholes, that's just about enough! Do it on your own damn time! Gork!”

  “Sir, yes sir, yes—”

  “Shove a squirrel in it! I’m not in the mood. Did you find us a campsite?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Then why aren't we there yet?”

  With a backward glare at Gimmol, the kobold led them through t
he gently waving grasses.

  If he noticed Katim's stare at all, he failed to recognize the gleam of suspicion within.

  An invisible audience watched as the motley assemblage spread out a variety of sleeping rolls and blankets, many chewing on dried meats better left unidentified. Silently, somehow striding atop the blades of grass rather than bending them, the unseen spy approached—only to freeze, still some distance away, as the troll's nostrils flared.

  No nearer, then, not now.

  The watcher's attentions skipped over the kobold, wrapped and snoring in a burlap sack he'd made into a sleeping bag. This one he already knew.

  The doppelganger, the ogre, and the bugbear were less than nothing; the one was too unobservant to notice if anything went amiss, the others too stupid to act on it.

  The orc was a bit more alert, and suspicious by his very nature, but so long as they were careful, he'd not prove a threat.

  The gremlin…Something about the gremlin rang false. He was a joke, plain and simple. He wasn't stealthy, he wasn't quick, and there was some question as to whether he knew which end of a sword was the dangerous one. All the worst human and elven stereotypes of the goblin races, rolled up into one strawberry-colored package.

  But there had to be more to him! This gremlin had been assigned to a Demon Squad! Best of the best, and all that rot, even allowing for the usual exaggerations of propaganda. Something about this gremlin made him squad material, and that unknown, if nothing else, made him a possible threat.

  Potentially, the imp was the biggest danger. His spells, his abilities, his diabolical nature all gave him a decent chance of penetrating any subterfuge he encountered. But he was also the squad's training officer, which hopefully meant he'd not be accompanying them on any future missions.

  And then, there was the troll.

  An invisible fist clenched tight. The damned hyena-faced, fur-coated bitch could ruin everything! If any one of the misbegotten assemblage were likely to detect him at exactly the wrong time, puzzle out what he was really doing, it was apt to be her.

  She was already suspicious, of that he was certain.