Goblin Corps, The

by Ari Marmell

  Much of Gimmol's flaming burst had spattered from the unnatural bark, and quite a few of the nearest bookshelves were crackling merrily away. It was now an even bet as to whether the writhing tendrils could pulp the life out of the goblins before the thickening smoke suffocated the lot of them.

  Frowning now, Gimmol sent a second bolt of fire into the murderous bole, and then a third. Each time the beast howled, each time it cringed, pained and clearly terrified, but the gremlin just didn't have the power to put the thing down. Sweat gushed from his pores, and not merely due to the rising heat; much more of this, and he'd be too exhausted to continue….

  “All right, the fire's not cutting it!” Gork shouted. “What else you got?”

  “Lots,” Gimmol retorted, flinching as another nearby bookcase went up. “But nothing that'll work even as well as the fire!”

  “Nothing,” Gork muttered, passing his kah-rahahk from hand to hand, desperately seeking some way to help. He saw the troll's muzzle whip around toward him, her hypersensitive ears perking up at his mutter. And somehow, without a word exchanged, he understood.

  “Can you handle something…that large?”

  “If you can get him there, I'll find a way.”

  With a quick nod and a shouted “Jhurpess!” Gork vanished into the billowing smoke and flickering shadow, the puzzled bugbear trailing behind with many a glance back at his beleaguered allies.

  “Cræosh!” Katim roared. “Fezeill!” Even as she ducked a tendril, she pointed her axe toward three others that were thrashing across the table, reaching for the sorcerous gremlin. The orc scowled, but moved to intercept, the faux-bugbear at his side.

  Safe behind a wall of armor and muscle, if only for an instant, Gimmol himself flashed a glance Katim's way. She pointed again, first toward Gnarlroot, then to the far end of the library. When the gremlin blinked in confusion, she sighed and charged, tucking into a roll beneath another swipe, and came up on the tree's far side.

  Smoke curled around the chain as Katim spun her chirrusk, once, twice, and then slammed it into the burning bookcase. When she hauled it free, flaming wood and rapidly disintegrating books clung to the prongs. It wasn't much of a flame, but as she swung, Gnarlroot—perhaps disoriented by the gremlin's attacks—retreated a few steps toward the entryway. Again she pointed, and this time Gimmol understood.

  A prolonged blast of flame followed—not so hot nor so forceful as the others, for Gimmol was struggling to conserve his remaining strength—but sufficient. Gnarlroot's nerve broke, if only briefly. Battered by eldritch fire, surrounded by ever-spreading quantities of more mundane but equally hot flame, the wooden creature decided to take the fight elsewhere. On scuttling limbs, it retreated from the inferno, into the abbreviated hall beyond the library. And there it stood, just beyond the door, free of the blaze.

  And, for that matter, blocking their own exit.

  “Great idea, Dog-face,” Cræosh growled, his throat raw with smoke.

  Katim hunched her shoulders, crouched to make breathing easier, and waved at the gremlin. Face set in a determined scowl, Gimmol advanced and hurled yet another flaming bolt (the last he could manage, in point of fact, without taking some time to rest up and recover). Gnarlroot flinched, the carpet in the hallway ignited, and the tree retreated farther, onto the stone catwalk beyond.

  The catwalk, where nothing remotely flammable stood, where the creature could ward the door at its leisure and keep the goblins from escaping the choking smoke. As though making up for the lack of head to throw back, the uppermost limbs stiffened as Gnarlroot laughed.

  “You fools!” No trace of Josiah remained in that hideous, grating voice. It was the sound of splintering wood, granted a vocabulary of rage and hate. “You've doomed yourselves! I do not tire. I do not weaken. I am relentless, inexorable! To you and all your pitiful kind, I am death! There is nothing I cannot do! Nothing!”

  “Oh, yeah?” With an impossible nonchalance, Gork sauntered from the shadows a few yards along the ledge. He planted his hands on his hips and smiled. “Can you fly?”

  From where he'd hung one-handed behind the open door, hidden by the passageway that shouldn't exist, Jhurpess flipped over the doorframe and launched himself screaming at Gnarlroot. In his other hand he held his great club…

  A club wrapped in burning rags.

  With thundering blows, Jhurpess drove the creature back, ever back. He bounded from foot to hand to foot, avoiding and sometimes even clinging to thrashing branches, never where Gnarlroot expected him to be. Gork would never admit it to another living soul, but in that moment, he was seriously impressed with the idiotic furball.

  Still it wasn't enough. Gnarlroot teetered on the very edge of the seemingly infinite drop, leaning back from the flaming club, but would not fall. Branches scrabbled tight at the lip of the stone, and the terrible timber was already overcoming its instinctive fear, beginning to recognize that the flames on the bugbear's club were insufficient to do it much harm.

  And then, howling at the tops of smoke-choked lungs, Cræosh, Katim, and Fezeill charged from the hall, carrying a blazing length of the great table between them, a makeshift battering ram. Wood splintered against wood, burning embers fountained across the assembled squad, and Gnarlroot, with a final desperate scrabble of branches, was gone.

  From the gaping dark rose a horrible scream, failing even to echo in the great abyss, giving voice to the last fears of a life lived over the span of centuries. It was the death cry of a tree, and it carried within the pain and suffering and loss of epochs. Slowly, slowly it grew faint, ever fainter, and was gone.

  The squad collapsed to the stone, careful to avoid the precarious edges, hacking up smoke and wincing as every movement pulled burned skin uncomfortably taut. Jhurpess shook the rags from his club and let them flutter after the tree into the gloom below.

  “Think he's dead?” Gork asked breathlessly after a few moments of panting.

  “I could toss you over and you could go see,” Cræosh offered. And then, to everyone's shock, “But that was pretty good work, Shorty. Hell, all of you. Nice job.”

  “Don't get used to it; I'd just as soon not have to do it again.”

  Again to everyone's shock, the orc chuckled at that.

  But Gimmol was paying the repartee scant heed. He sat and gazed at the mystical hallway, from which smoke still poured. Uncountable books, any or all of which might have contained priceless knowledge, secrets to be found nowhere else in Kirol Syrreth or even the entire world—all gone.

  Only two items of any import had survived the conflagration. One was the Tree of Ever, which the gremlin had scooped up on his way out, while the others were carrying a burning length of table. It wasn't even warm, let alone burnt, by the fires that had raged nearby.

  The other was the tome that had grabbed his attention when they'd first entered, the one he'd been examining when Gnarlroot revealed its true nature. That book sat safely, now, in Gimmol's pouch, where he'd shoved it at the first sign of trouble. And he couldn't help but wonder if he'd just been remarkably fortunate, to spot the codex among all the others, or if he'd been somehow meant to find it.

  He'd need to do some reading before he revealed his suspicions to the group; this wasn't the sort of thing about which he could afford to be mistaken. But if he was right, if the hints he'd seen in his brief flip through the book were right, they were potentially in greater danger now than they'd ever been since the day they assembled in that Timas Khoreth courtyard.

  And so, for long minutes, while the others rested and recovered from their recent ordeal, the gremlin read.

  Belrotha was quite happy to see them, and Gimmol in particular, as they emerged from the lake cavern. They gave her a brief accounting of what had happened. Very brief, actually, since she proved completely incapable of grasping the concept that Josiah had been Gnarlroot, and she just looked at the gremlin strangely when they tried to tell her of his newly revealed powers. She expressed her regret that “Me couldn't be t
here to break nasty tree,” and lifted Gimmol back to his normal post on her shoulders. That, in turn, made it easy for him to resume his study of the book, which had been interrupted by the end of the squad's “break.”

  Had anyone been paying any real attention to him, they'd have seen his expression grow more and more clouded as they climbed the stairs back up to the druids’ main chamber.

  Mina and Alam, the only remaining druids of Ymmech Thewl, glanced up sharply from where they knelt beside the fire pit. The head acolyte rose, a huge grin spreading across his face, as the squad appeared in the doorway.

  “I don't know how you did it,” he said, even going so far as to clasp Cræosh on the shoulders, “but the trees have all gone back to normal! Mina and I were just giving our thanks when you came in.”

  “Back to normal,” Gimmol said thoughtfully. “Gnarlroot must have been the focal point of the spell. Without him, the whole thing collapsed.”

  “Yeah,” Cræosh snapped, somewhat less than ecstatic despite their hard-won victory. “Swell.”

  It finally penetrated through the acolyte's haze of joy and celebration that something was wrong. He removed his hands from the orc's shoulders and stepped back. “Something troubles you, my friend? What could…? Where's Josiah?” he asked, his thoughts finally focusing in on the moment.

  “Funny you should…ask,” Katim said sourly.

  Cræosh nodded, and then gave the druid a shove that sent him staggering halfway across the chamber. “You sent the damn tree with us, boy!”

  “Wh-what?” Alam was clearly confused.

  “Are you deaf?” Cræosh shouted, one hand resting on his sword. “You want me to clean out your fucking ears for you? I said, you sent the damn tree with us!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you ever stop…to wonder,” Katim asked acidly, “why you never…saw Gnarlroot after he animated…the other trees?”

  “Well, yes,” Mina said, stepping up to stand by—and if necessary, defend—her fellow druid. “But we assumed he was simply hanging back and directing them from afar.”

  “He was Josiah!” Fezeill shouted, having clearly lost patience with the humans, his allies, and the world in general. “Your friend was long dead by the time we showed up! He volunteered to help us so he could find Emmet—and that,” he added, pointing at the Tree of Ever that Cræosh grasped in one beefy fist, “and then take it and kill us all!”

  “You're lying,” Alam snapped, his own fists clenching. “You're lying!”

  Gork sighed theatrically. “You want proof? Why don't you go downstairs—don't worry, we took care of the nasty things for you, it's perfectly safe—and sift through some ashes? There might just be enough of Josiah's skin left for you to tell what happened.”

  “And how would we know,” Mina asked coldly, “that you didn't kill him?”

  The kobold shook his head. “You think we wouldn't come up with a more believable story if we were lying to you?”

  The young woman opened her mouth to retort, but Alam put a hand on her shoulder. “No. No, maybe they're right, Mina. After all we've seen, is this really any less believable?”

  “But Alam, Josiah of all people? I can't accept that.”

  “He had been quieter of late. Maybe…” The acolyte sighed softly. “Whatever the case,” he said then, turning back to Cræosh once more, “Gnarlroot is dead. The trees have returned to their rightful place in the forest. And you have, indeed, returned to us the Tree of Ever. I am sorry that this tragic episode has cost us so many of our brethren. But either way, I thank you.

  “I feel, however, that you should leave. Immediately. Mina and I have preparations to make for the coming conflict.”

  Slowly, Katim's head rose and she peered at the head acolyte intently. “I've been wondering about…something,” she said. “You said that your…sect viewed the ‘World-Mother’…as female. Each druid sect is…separate and distinct from…the others? Is that…correct?”

  “It's a bit simplistic,” Alam said, puzzlement in his voice, “but essentially correct. Why?”

  “Each of you worships…nature, or your nature…gods, in different ways.”

  “Yes,” Alam said again. “But I’m still not getting your—”

  “How will you and…Mina survive,” she asked, ignoring the druid's confusion, “now that you…are alone?”

  “The same we always have,” Alam said, growing irritated at the stream of irrelevant queries. “Through hard work and faith.”

  “I hope you…succeed,” Katim said with a meaningful—almost sly—glance at Cræosh. “After all, it…would be a true shame for your sect…to disappear. There would be…none left to pay homage to…your gods.”

  Cræosh grinned widely in sudden understanding, and nodded. Katim snarled and swung her chirrusk; Gork drew his kah-rahahk and lunged.

  And that simply, the Circle of Ymmech Thewl was once again an extinct sect.

  Jhurpess fell to his knees and began taking large, bloody mouthfuls of the nearest body, ignoring the occasional thrashing and feeble cries that suggested that Gork's strike might not have been instantly fatal. That fact didn't seem to concern the bugbear much; it always stopped once one got to the good parts. Cræosh opened his mouth to speak and snapped it shut at the sudden stream of vile curses coming, oddly enough, from the gremlin!

  “What's the problem, Gimmol?” he asked. “Belrotha smack your head on the ceiling?” But while his voice was as gruff as ever, most of the others noticed the distinct lack of any pejorative; apparently, he was still processing the gremlin's newly revealed powers.

  “We,” Gimmol said, finally looking up from the large tome he held open before him, “are very, very fucked.”

  The rest of the squad—except Jhurpess, who was chewing too noisily to have heard a word of it—gathered round, staring up at the gremlin who sat upon the ogre's shoulder.

  “What is it?” Fezeill asked.

  Even in the face of looming crisis, Gimmol couldn't resist. “It's a book, Fezeill. If you practice really hard, you might even learn what to do with them.”

  Cræosh and Gork snickered out loud, and Katim stepped on the doppelganger's foot as he was about to retort. “Gimmol?” she rasped. “The problem?”

  “This,” he said, wiggling the book slightly, “is an ancient tome. I spotted it in the library because it was sticking out from the others. I think Emmet must have been perusing it at some point, maybe studying up on the different factions in the coming war. It's a treatise on necromantic magics.”

  Several pairs of eyes blinked in unison. He sighed theatrically. “Necromantic. Dealing with or having to do with death and dead things.”

  Heads nodded in understanding. “Necromantic magics are extremely rare,” he continued. “Most races abhor it, and many wizards destroy such books and spells on sight. Here in Kirol Syrreth, King Morthûl has banned any wizards but his own personal agents from owning such a thing.”

  “Okay, so I can see how that might be valuable to you,” Gork interrupted, “but why are you wasting our time with it?”

  “I've come across a description of an ancient spell,” the gremlin said, flipping back a few pages. “This section right here lists the various ingredients and components required for the casting of the ritual. ‘The bones of a deceased wizard, a flower sprung from the grave of a man interred alive, a petrified heart, a relic of a forgotten god…’ Stop me when this starts to sound familiar, people.”

  Katim's nostrils flared. “So Queen Anne is…casting a spell. This is…not a great surprise, Gimmol. We…suspected as much.”

  “Yeah,” the gremlin breathed. “But it's her choice of spells that terrifies me.

  “This spell is called the Rite of Twilight Ascension. It suspends the wizard between life and death. Permanently.”

  He nearly screamed in frustration at the incomprehension on their faces. “Don't you see?” he shrieked, his voice echoing maniacally in the corners of the lofty chamber. “We'
ve seen the results of this spell! We serve the results of this spell!”

  Understanding finally dawned. “You mean…” Cræosh began haltingly.

  “Yes,” the gremlin told them all. “This is the spell that made the Charnel King what he is.

  “And Queen Anne wants to be just like him.”

  The dawning sun peeked over the sharp crags of the Brimstone Mountains, spreading its growing light over the kingdom of Kirol Syrreth. Over the mountains, over the doppelganger city of Grault, over the forest of Ymmech Thewl and its newly inanimate trees, the day crept. And then, reluctantly, it alighted upon the festering sore that was Darsus.

  It was an ugly city, was Darsus. In the days of King Sabryen, it had been home to one of his army's largest keeps: a hulking monstrosity apparently built on the theory that there would be no need to fight if the foe was too terrified of the fortress to risk a siege. Jagged, toothy battlements sawed at the clouds, towers extended in directions that could serve no purpose but to demonstrate the insanity of the architects. The name of the place was long since lost, and much of the fortress itself had followed. What remained was a gaunt, skeletal thing, less a keep than a stone tree grown from the depths of hell. It was useless to have around, and yet none of the citizens of Darsus would ever contemplate tearing it down. There was too much weight behind it, too much history, too many ghosts of times long past.

  But it wasn't that ugliness that made Darsus such an eyesore on the plains of Kirol Syrreth. Darsus was a human city, and could never compare to the twisted and alien towers of Grault, the sheer military-minded efficiency of the orcs, or the looming spires of the Iron Keep itself. No, it was that the city itself had begun to resemble that cadaverous keep, or the equally cadaverous king who ruled them now. Once a thriving center of commerce, travel, and trade, Darsus had fallen not to cataclysm and not to war, but to time. Merchants and traders drifted elsewhere, routes shifted to pass through Timas Khoreth or other cities, and Darsus withered.

  Some few of its citizens acknowledged reality and departed, seeking new lives elsewhere. But many couldn't bring themselves to leave, to believe that the good times had truly passed. Wait it out, they said. Wait it out, and things will be as they were.