Goblin Corps, The

by Ari Marmell

The acolyte shook his head. “When the Dark Lord came, so many centuries ago, he, um, removed most of the druidic sects. He felt they were a threat. In so doing, he also corrupted some of our holiest sites.

  “That, in fact, is why we—and others like us, from other sects—are here now, in Kirol Syrreth. We seek to undo the damage caused so long ago.”

  “Should we be telling them all this?” Josiah asked quietly. “They serve the Dark Lord!”

  “We have to work together on this, Josiah!” Alam retorted, then turned back to the squad. “As you are no doubt aware, war is coming.”

  “You know,” Cræosh said thoughtfully, “I've heard that.”

  “We will not side with either faction,” Alam said. “We have reason to abhor your Charnel King, certainly, but it is not our place to involve ourselves in such matters. We do not, however, have any wish to see the holy site we are working so hard to restore become a field of battle. And as you may have noticed, we are but a few days’ travel from the Brimstone Mountains.”

  Another nod.

  “We weren't sure what to do. The five of us are barely sufficient to fight off more than a small band of brigands, let alone legions of soldiers.”

  Five? The entire squad glanced uneasily about. They'd counted only three.

  “And so, we decided—foolishly, perhaps—to attempt the great spell of old. We would have the trees themselves fight for us, as we could not.”

  Cræosh snorted. “You fucked it up big-time, didn't you?”

  Alam nodded sadly. “I know not if we, in our ignorance, made a mistake, or if the Dark Lord's corruption twisted the intent of the spell. All I know is that what we got…was Gnarlroot.

  “At first, he was the only tree to come alive. He was even helpful at first, albeit arrogant, rude, difficult to talk to. But after only a few days, he suddenly refused to do as we wished. He vanished back into the Thewl, and we thought he had just returned to his rest.”

  The young druid swallowed audibly. “He hadn't. Over the following days, other trees began animating. We caught occasional glimpses of Gnarlroot moving among them, although he never again came back to the ring itself. It was Josiah who first saw what was happening.”

  The other young man nodded. “I was out tending to the gardens when—when they surged into the river. Trees have no faces, I know…. But I'd swear there was murder in their expressions. The first of them took a swipe at me as I ran. I still have the scar on my back to show for it.”

  “We tried to dispel the magic,” Alam broke back in. “We tried counterspells; we tried waiting them out; we even…” He blanched. “We even attempted a series of spells designed to slay all plant-life in sight. Nothing worked, and our situation was getting worse. It wasn't even just the trees anymore; Gnarlroot somehow started corrupting the animals as well.”

  Cræosh and Katim exchanged quick glances, remembering the two-headed serpent.

  “Two days ago,” Alam continued, “Emmet, the eldest of our order, went, we think, a little mad. He stole the Tree of Ever and fled into the caverns that hold the ancient altars, beneath this temple.”

  “What,” Gimmol asked from atop the ogre, “is the Tree of Ever?”

  “Our holiest symbol,” the acolyte responded, somewhat startled to hear Manspeak from the gremlin. “It's a sculpture of an oak, perhaps this tall.” He held his hands apart, one above the other. “It's made of petrified wood, you see. It's been a symbol of my order for uncountable generations. We use it to channel our magics. We could never have cast the tree animation spell without it. And without it, we have no chance of undoing that spell.”

  “Gnarlroot knows that,” Mina said. “He knows that if he can get the Tree away from us, we can't stop him.”

  “You weren't doing a whole lot of good trying to stop him with the tree,” Cræosh pointed out.

  “I agree,” Alam said. “And we think, in his own mind, that's why Emmet stole it. He believes he's protecting it from Gnarlroot. And perhaps he's right. I hardly think a walking tree could find its way down into the caverns. But it can't stay there! We believe we've found a way to reverse the spell. It's risky, and if it fails, we may lose our last defense against Gnarlroot. Nevertheless, we intend to try—but we need the Tree of Ever!”

  “Wouldn't it help if all four of the rest of you were involved in this?” Gimmol asked. “I only see three.”

  “Yes, we are but three now. The final member of our order, Renard, left two days ago with a message for the other druidic sects. That way, if we fail, there will be someone to take our place in stopping Gnarlroot.”

  The squad, as one, began shifting from foot to foot. One or two of them even cleared their throats. “And, umm, exactly how was Renard planning to get past the trees?” Cræosh asked.

  “He wore a charm that we hoped would repel the trees, and he traveled at the height of day. Gnarlroot and the others prefer the dark.” Alam frowned. “Why?”

  “We saw Renard in the forest,” Gimmol told him. “The trees were, uh, neither repelled nor nocturnal.”

  “You're on your own,” Cræosh confirmed. “No help from outside.”

  For a moment, the young druids all stood mute, fighting back tears.

  “No help from outside,” Alam finally repeated. “None, that is, but you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cræosh said, jamming a finger in his own ear and twisting. “I must have something trapped and dying in there. I thought I heard you say that you expected us to help you.”

  The acolyte didn't smile at all now. “That would be exactly what I said.”

  “Uh-huh. And exactly why are we gonna do that? Out of the goodness of our hearts? We have more than enough of our own shit to wade through without borrowing your ass to add to it. We are doing exactly one thing here, and that's leave.”

  “Really?” Mina asked, her tone suddenly condescending. “And what secret magics were you planning to use to get past the trees?”

  Cræosh scowled, but Alam only nodded. “I’m afraid she's quite right, my friend. Gnarlroot was more than happy to let you in: more victims, you see. But I rather doubt he'll let you back out again so easily.”

  “We can be persuasive,” the orc growled, but they could all see in his eyes that he knew they were right.

  “Not here,” the druid said. “I've no doubt that you're formidable indeed. But I want you to think about how hard it must be to chop down a tree when it's chopping back—with dozens if not hundreds of others waiting in queue. I don't think a force a hundred times the size of yours would have much of a chance.

  “But if I were to have the Tree of Ever back in my possession, we could attempt the counterspell we've been working on. If it worked, Gnarlroot and his servants would return to their normal quiescent state, and you could go merrily on your way.”

  The goblins were being expertly and efficiently backed into a corner here, and they damn well knew it. Katim finally hissed, “Why have you not…gone below, then, to…retrieve the relic yourselves?”

  “Or have you just been waiting for someone to conveniently show up and take all the risk?” Fezeill added.

  Alam's face tightened, his mouth twisting in rage. “Don't you ever accuse my people and me of cowardice! Ever! We came here, to the heart of your lands, to restore this ancient shrine! We plan to stay, even with your war—your war, not ours—raging at our door!”

  Cræosh quickly raised his hands. “Peace!” For now, anyway. “Fezeill didn't mean anything by that. He's an idiot. I've heard more intelligent conversation listening in on rutting warthogs.”

  The doppelganger opened his mouth to protest and then began hopping up and down and cursing as Gork punched him in the knee.

  “But even discounting that,” the orc continued, “it's a valid question.”

  “Yes, it is that,” Alam said, calm once more. “The truth is, this building is not completely safe from Gnarlroot's minions. The three of us have to remain on constant guard. Our magics may not be much compared to our ancestors�
�, but we're powerful enough working together. We must maintain the wards that keep the trees from tearing apart the building above. Were we to venture into the underground chambers, we might very well find this room filled with angry flora when we return, and we wouldn't be prepared to fight them off.”

  “So we get to go down there,” Gimmol groused, “and find the relic, and then all you have to do is cast your spell?”

  “I wouldn't say ‘all,’ exactly. But yes, that's the basic sequence of events.”

  “And what if your spell fails?” Cræosh asked. “You yourself said you didn't know if it was going to work. If it doesn't, we're still stuck here!”

  The druid shrugged. “True. But they're better odds than you'll find any other way.”

  Briefly, the squad moved away from the watching acolytes and huddled in the room's far corner. “This shits,” was the first thing out of Cræosh's mouth.

  “I agree,” Gork said. “I don't want to have anything to do with this.”

  Katim nodded, scowling. “And I despise…being forced to do…anything.”

  It was the orc's turn to nod. “Okay, so we're all agreed that we don't want to do this. So who's got the better idea?”

  After a long, drawn-out moment of silence so still he could practically hear the roaches mating, he sighed. “That's what I thought. Here's another good one for you. Anybody think it's coincidence that this is happening now?”

  “What—?” the bugbear began.

  “If you ask me what ‘coincidence’ means, Nature-boy, I’m gonna break your leg.”

  “Jhurpess want to know what Cræosh means,” Jhurpess pouted.

  “Oh. I mean, of all the places we might have found the relic of a forgotten god, Queen Anne sends us to the one where the trees’ bite is actually worse than their bark. What are the odds?”

  “You think she knew?” Gimmol asked.

  “I think she sensed a potential problem and saw the chance to kill two elves with one stone. Obviously, we're a lot more than the queen's errand runners.” The orc sighed. “So now we get to be the druids’ errand runners. Let's get this the hell over with.”

  Clearly unhappy, he trudged back over to the acolytes. “All right, where's the damn way down?”

  Alam nodded. “It's right over here. I—”

  “I'll show them,” Josiah interrupted. “I'll go with them.”

  Cræosh and Alam turned as one to face the younger druid. “What?” Alam clearly wasn't sure he'd understood correctly. “Josiah, we need you up here! We—”

  Josiah shook his head. “No, Alam. You and Mina can maintain the wards without me for a few hours. The one called Fezeill might be without tact, but he's not completely without sense.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Fezeill gushed.

  “We cannot ask them to go unguided, or to take this risk on our behalf while we stand up here and wait. One of us must go with them. My magics aren't as strong as yours or Mina's, so that makes me the logical choice.”

  “There's nothing logical about this at all!” Alam raged. “And I forbid you to go!”

  Josiah smiled sadly. “And how, exactly, did you plan to stop me, Alam?” The head acolyte opened his mouth to reply, but no sound emerged. Josiah nodded. “We need the Tree, Alam. This is the best way to get it back. It, and maybe Emmet too, if he's come to his senses. I have to do this.”

  The older druid stared at him for a heartbeat more and then stepped back. “Very well, Josiah. Do as you feel proper. Mina and I will be waiting for your return.” They clasped hands briefly, and then Alam moved away while the younger man approached the orc.

  “If you and your people will follow me?”

  “I don't know about this,” Cræosh said. “Appreciate the thought and all, but I don't have time to be babysitting some tagalong down there. Why don't you just point us to the door?”

  “Because the ancient druids kept a great deal of value in those caves, my friend, and they put powerful defenses in place to protect it. I may lack the power to bypass their magics, but I can warn you of them. Or would you rather face the magics of the ancient druids without that advantage?”

  “Welcome aboard,” Cræosh said.

  Beyond the leftmost of several doors along the chamber's far wall, another stone stair delved even deeper into the darkness. It was smaller than the other, drawing a frustrated grunt from Belrotha, but large enough for them to make do. Josiah lit several torches from the brands on the wall, handed them out, and started down. Still unhappy and still lacking any choice, the goblins followed.

  Something about this stair was different. It was colder, true, but that was probably just because of the greater depth. Somehow, though, it also felt more isolated, as though each step drew them farther from any semblance of the world they knew. Jhurpess, uncomfortable in confined spaces at the best of times, mewled and placed himself in the precise center of the stairway. His fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the haft of his club. Gork, who had been about to sneak up behind the bugbear and scream, just to see what sort of reaction he would get, remembered the bugbear smashing Gimmol to a pulp so long ago and decided to save the prank for a cheerier occasion.

  The steps finally stopped in a brief corridor—really more of a narrow room—that itself ended in an ancient wooden door. At least the ceiling was high enough for Belrotha to stand upright; let's hear it for ceremonial grandeur. “So what's behind the door?” Cræosh asked their native guide.

  “Well,” Josiah said slowly, “we know that there's a long cavern beyond, that eventually leads to the great altar itself. You'll see a couple more doors, one on each side of the passage. One leads to a ritual bathing chamber, the other to a series of changing rooms where priests donned their ceremonial garb once they'd been purified. There's probably not a whole lot of interest in either of them, but—”

  “But Emmet could be hiding anywhere,” Gork said.

  The druid nodded. “Precisely.”

  “All right,” Cræosh said. “Then let's get this door open and get on with it.”

  Josiah assured them, over and over, that however paranoid they were, the druids of old would never have warded the main entryway. It was used too often, there was too much risk of accidental harm. Nevertheless, Katim, Gork, and Gimmol had all gone over the door inch by inch before they were willing to let the others open it. And then, of course, when the young druid tried, he found that the portal was barred or barricaded from the opposite side. No amount of twisting the key or shoving at the door could make it budge so much as an inch.

  Cræosh put a hand on the human's shoulder and pulled him away. “This,” he told Josiah, “is why we carry a magic door-opener.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me. A magic door-opener. Belrotha?”

  “Yeah?” the ogre asked.

  “Open the door.”

  Josiah's shout of protest was completely buried by a resounding crash. Door, bar, brackets, lock, even part of the stone frame hurtled a few dozen yards, landed with a second crash, and skidded a few dozen feet more.

  Cræosh blinked the dust from his eyes. The ogre was cupping one fist in the other and spewing a veritable diatribe (which, for her meant more than six words strung together) in her native tongue.

  “Hey, you okay?” Gimmol asked, honest concern in his voice.

  “Me got splinter in knuckle!” Another moment or two and she'd calmed enough to examine the wound. Gingerly, she plucked a sliver of oak the length of a sewing needle from her skin. “Lucky,” she told the others. “It not go very deep.”

  Cræosh shook his head and proceeded into the corridor, dragging the benumbed acolyte behind him. It was the smell he noticed first: a strong scent, musky in a way, combining rot, mildew, and perhaps three or four hundred different types of mold and fungus. It had an edge, that aroma, stabbing at the upper nostrils. The sound of dripping water surrounded them, distorted enough by its own echo that they couldn't possibly pinpoint the source.

  The cave—for indeed
it was a cave, despite the ancient druids’ attempts at carving it into a more friendly shape—was wide enough that the circle of torchlight barely brushed the walls. As Josiah had anticipated, each wall boasted a smaller version of the door Belrotha had just obliterated.

  “All right,” Cræosh said, once the others had followed them in. “I want…” He stopped as a sudden thought stuck him. “Josiah, which door is which?”

  The druid blinked, staring off into the darkness where the formless wooden pulp that had once been a door had disappeared.

  “Josiah!” Cræosh smacked him—very, very lightly, as they didn't want to kill him, not yet—across the face. The acolyte staggered, then shook his head.

  “Oh! Umm, ceremonial baths on the left, cloakroom and changing rooms on the right.”

  “Okay.” Cræosh mulled that over. “Right. Belrotha, you and Gimmol check out the bath. Everyone else, pick a dressing room. I want this place scoured fast so we can move on.”

  The ogre and the gremlin finished quickly enough, having found nothing at all of interest in the bathing chamber. A natural pool, glistening with very cold mineral water, sat in the center of the room, fed by a small waterfall—a “watertrickle,” really—running down the far wall. A thin stone ledge ran around the pool about two feet down, and a ring of rotted wooden benches and stools circled it on dry stone. And that was it. They went to join the others.

  Said others, it appeared, might have had a bit more luck. Three of the tiny cubicles—which Josiah laughingly called changing rooms, but which were, as Cræosh put it, “Not even big enough to get hard in”—had proven as boring and useless on the inside as they had appeared without. But Katim and Gimmol, who were searching the northernmost room and the southernmost room, respectively, each found a loose cloak peg on the wall. Both pegs were designed to rotate a half turn to the left, and both of them triggered a portion of the wall to slide open. The squad piled through the northern exit, eager to see what secrets might be stashed away in the hidden chamber. What they found, however, was a walkway that did nothing more interesting than wind its way around to the southern of the two rooms.