by Ari Marmell
During the hours of daylight they slumbered, nervous and fitful, none able to sleep for more than a few hours straight. Tempers grew frayed with every passing minute, as misery gained ever more ground and patience was forced into retreat.
Belrotha was clearly having the hardest time of it. She never strayed from Gimmol's side, constantly glancing at her friend—now walking beside her, since she was too small for him to perch comfortably on her shoulder for any length of time. So accustomed was she to looking down at her companions that she spent most of her time speaking to their shoes, rather than their faces; she'd proved unable or unwilling to make the transition to what Gork had rather irritably referred to as a “shorter way of thinking.” Gimmol spent every waking moment comforting and reassuring her, but it was anyone's guess how much good he was actually doing.
It was just after sunset of their sixth evening on the road when the traffic began to change. The last straggling soldiers and supply wagons of the armies had passed them by, and the byways were beginning to fill instead with farmers and merchants—sparse at first, but in rapidly growing numbers. The goblins breathed a sigh of relief, to be finally beyond the reach of that enormous army, for the changed demographics could only mean that Shauntille itself drew near.
And that revelation, in turn, drove home rather sharply the point that, given their snappish and unpleasant journey, they'd not taken the time to confront the most pressing issue facing them. Namely, how the hell were they to set so much as one foot inside the city without being swarmed over and torn limb from limb?
They clumped ever more tightly together as they marched, conversing quietly, proposing and then shooting down plan after notion after idea.
“Even if I was strong enough to disguise the whole lot of us for any length of time,” Gimmol was patiently explaining, “it's not an option. They'll probably detect that sort of thing, remember? Havarren already went through this.”
“But people don't usually notice the little things unless they're given cause for suspicion,” Gork argued. “Trust me, I know. They'll only detect the disguises if we give them a reason to look for them.”
The gremlin shook his head in frustration. “This is sorcery, Gork. It doesn't work like that.”
“Eh,” Gork said dismissively.
Gimmol sucked in his breath and held it for the count of ten. “Gork, my magics aren't all that powerful. Any wizard of halfway decent standing can actually see the magics I generate, including my illusions, with only the simplest of detection spells. And with the city on a wartime footing, I can promise you some of them have those spells constantly active. If I try to cloak us with an illusion, they'll find us as easily as you'd find a single burning torch in a dark cavern.”
“Eh.”
“Listen, you stupid—”
“I believe,” Katim growled from behind (and above), “that we're…getting somewhat off topic. Since…magic is not an option, let's…think of another, rather than…arguing why.”
“Sounds good to me,” Gimmol said, glaring sidelong at Gork.
“Eh.”
“Where the fuck is Nature-boy?” Cræosh interrupted suddenly.
The squad almost stumbled over themselves, so swiftly did they jerk to a halt. They had a decent amount of light yet; the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, dyeing the earth with a red-tinged aura, and the gleaming moon, just shy of full, had already begun its ascent. On both sides of the road, the land was barren of crops but overgrown with weeds and stubborn grasses, acre upon acre still fallow from the slowly diminishing winter. A few wildflowers sprouted here and there, reaching tentatively from those less pleasant weeds as though seeking escape. Obviously, with the armies on the move, insufficient laborers remained behind to work every field.
Cræosh stepped on one particularly lovely bunch of those wildflowers as the squad spread through the high grasses. If something had happened to Jhurpess, if he was laid out in that overgrowth, they might never find him. He was just about to call the goblins back together, suggest something a little more drastic than a simple sweep, when the missing bugbear's shaggy visage popped up from the weeds a few yards ahead. Cræosh very nearly took the simian head off its neck before he realized who it was—and even afterward, a part of him was seriously considering it.
“What the hopping three-legged fuck are you doing?!” Cræosh shouted, only just keeping his voice pitched low enough not to carry on the still air. “You don't sneak the hell off by yourself, and you sure as hell don't sneak up on me like that! Ancestors, are you trying to get yourself beheaded? ‘Cause if you are, all you had to do was ask!”
As the others gathered, Jhurpess slowly rose from his crouch, casually picking the worst of the leaves, burs, and twigs from his matted fur. “Cræosh finished ranting now?” he asked.
The orc scowled. “Let's just say I’m taking a breather long enough for you to explain.”
The bugbear shrugged. “Jhurpess was just walking along with squad, not doing much of anything.”
“Like usual,” Gork muttered.
“Then, Jhurpess noticed a strange smell. Smell like burning wood.”
“Probably a campfire,” Gimmol suggested.
“Jhurpess thought so too. But smell was coming from other direction, not from the road. Jhurpess knew that if whole squad went to look, whoever was there might see. So Jhurpess went alone to find out.”
Katim grinned at the look of consternation slouching its way across Cræosh's face. “Go ahead and say it…Cræosh. You know it's true, and…it's just going to eat you until…you spit it out.”
For a long, frozen moment, the orc scowled as fiercely as his face would permit, hating everyone and struggling to figure out whom he hated most. Then, with what sounded very much like a sigh, he turned back to the bugbear. “That was actually pretty decent thinking, Jhurpess. Good job.”
The bugbear beamed.
“Still should've fucking told someone you were going, though,” Cræosh reminded him.
“In any case,” Gimmol quickly interjected, “you obviously found something, didn't you?”
A nod. “Yes, Jhurpess find big human house.”
“Well twiddle-dee-shit,” Cræosh said sourly.
“A house?” Gork asked incredulously. “All this for a house?”
“Have you ever considered meditation?” Gimmol asked. “This temper can't be doing your heart any good….”
Ignoring him, the kobold reached up and snagged two fistfuls of bugbear fur. “All you found was a house!” he repeated, seeming unable to wrap his mind around the concept.
The bugbear cocked his head. “Why Gork upset? It not Jhurpess's fault that smoke was coming from house.”
“Well, no, but…but…” Gork trailed off, his expression helpless.
“Besides, Jhurpess did not just find a house. Jhurpess found a big house.”
Cræosh and Gork both opened their mouths to comment—or, in the kobold's case, perhaps to scream—when Katim spoke. “Jhurpess knows the difference…between a large house and any…other type of building.”
The bugbear nodded. “Jhurpess been in lots of cities lately. This was not castle, or barn, or anything. This was built like house, just big.”
The troll nodded. “Sloped roof?” The bugbear nodded. “Chimney?” Nod. “But bigger.” Vigorous nod.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Cræosh demanded.
“It's not a house, you…dolt. And nobody's going…to build a mansion way…out here. He's describing a…church.”
Cræosh pondered a moment. “Could be. Humans have some strange ideas of what churches are supposed to look like. I haven't seen one yet with a halfway decent spike pit. So what?”
“So if there was smoke…coming from the chimney, it…suggests that the church is…occupied.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, so the fuck what?”
The troll grinned widely, a thin tendril of spittle wobbling in the breeze. “I’m willing to wager that…we might jus
t find ourselves a…few nice, voluminous hooded…monks’ robes.”
Slowly, Cræosh too began to grin.
“Who calls?” As fast as his arthritic knees would permit, Brother Elton shuffled down the hall toward the front door. Whoever stood without hadn't bothered with the tarnished brass knocker, and the old monk had barely even heard the faint tapping at the wood. Uncharitably, he wished he hadn't—tomorrow they were patching the holes in the thatch, and his back ached from his efforts today at restoring the herb garden for the new season, and he really pined for his bed—but he dismissed such thoughts. If someone had come to the abbey so late, they must surely be in need. He called out again as he neared the door. “Why are you not at home abed?”
For a long moment, silence. And then, a peculiarly hoarse voice called from beyond. “Father? (cough) Can you help me, Father? (cough, cough) I’m lost, and (cough) sick.”
A child? “Abide just a moment!” he called out, fumbling at the locks. What was a child doing out here alone? He can't live nearby, or he'd know my proper title. This damn war; everything's in such chaos out there….
Brother Elton hauled the door open and got one brief glimpse of the “child”—a short, scaly, lizardy thing—before everything inside was in chaos as well.
The moon and stars, glowing merrily now that they no longer had the setting sun competing with them, were put abruptly to shame by a new rival from the earth far below. Glass shattered with a musical tinkling as wood, thatch, and tar ignited in a fearsome conflagration. In moments, the old mortar began to crack and flake from between the bricks; the stones to lean outward, ready to topple. The smoke loomed high and orange, illuminated from beneath, otherwise invisible against the night sky. By morning, this house of faith and comfort would be just another heap of loose rock and charred earth.
Some distance away, proceeding along the main road, a small train of monks trudged toward Brenald, capital of Shauntille. This late, the road was empty of other traffic—and just as well it was, since the monks didn't quite have their act together.
“Me not like robe,” Belrotha complained, her voice surly. “Me can't move right. Arms trapped. Me feel like a fish.”
“At least she's consistent,” Cræosh muttered to no one in particular. “She smells like one, too.”
“Ah, you're just pissy because you can't move either,” Gork taunted him.
The orc responded by stomping his foot on the rather prodigious train of cloth that followed the kobold through the dust—the robe was, after all, made for someone almost twice its current owner's height—and held it there until Gork reached the end and tumbled to his face with a sudden lurch.
“I hope,” Katim sighed, “that we can…make this a little more convincing…by the time we reach Brenald.”
Gimmol glanced at her. “Um, Katim?”
“What?”
“Your snout's showing.”
Katim cursed, trying unsuccessfully to tug the hood far enough forward to hide the offending visage. “Stupid humans. How do…they smell at all with…those tiny things, anyway?”
No one answered her, because Jhurpess chose that moment to fall headfirst beside the kobold, having once again tripped over the massive club that he insisted on keeping under his robe. It was, to put it mildly, something of a travesty in the annals of disguise. When the weapon wasn't tangling his legs, it was protruding obscenely from his collar or forming a huge hump across his back. Cræosh's and Belrotha's swords weren't proving much more cooperative, either.
“All right, that's it,” Cræosh announced. “We camp right here, and we don't move from this damn spot until we've hashed this shit out.”
There was, thankfully, no argument.
“Gork, Gimmol,” the orc continued, “cut those stupid things down to size.” A thought struck him. “Try to remove the extra lengths of cloth intact. I think we can use them.” The two small soldiers looked puzzled, but each drew a knife from somewhere or other and quickly complied.
“Okay, great. Um, anyone here know how to sew?”
Silence reigned, disturbed only by the constant—and, in Cræosh's opinion, rather maddening—chirp of background crickets. Finally, looking vaguely embarrassed, Gork raised his hand.
Cræosh blinked at him. “Really?”
Gork shrugged, his expression sheepish. “Kobolds live underground, remember? Lots of jagged rocks and sharp edges. Sewing's something of a universal skill.”
“Whatever.” Cræosh tossed him back the extra cloth. “Think you can make a large—and I mean large—sack out of that? Something Belrotha could carry? Something that might just fit a couple of swords and a really big fucking stick?”
Jhurpess looked wounded at the description of his favorite weapon, but held his tongue. Gork laid the various strips of cloth out lengthwise and then glanced critically at the weapons in question.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said dubiously, “but there's not a lot of room for error.”
“So don't fuck it up.”
“And it won't be comfortable or easy to carry.”
“That,” Cræosh said sagely, “is not my problem.” Belrotha glared at him.
“And it's going to look pretty weird,” Gork warned.
“Stick a holy symbol on the end of it,” Gimmol suggested, fingering one of several pendants they'd “borrowed” along with the robes. “Make it a ceremonial bundle or something.”
The orc nodded. “That should work. Now, about—”
The bugbear raised a hand. “Jhurpess's club is taken care of, but what about Jhurpess's bow?”
“Shit,” Cræosh responded thoughtfully.
But Gork shook his head. “An unstrung bow shouldn't take up that much room. I can probably squeeze it into the pack. As long as we don't need it without a couple minutes’ warning, we're gold.” He scowled. “Even the swords won't be accessible all that easily, you know. If we're attacked suddenly…”
Cræosh shrugged. “We've all got knives on us. Anything unexpected comes up, they'll have to do until someone can get the pack open.” He gave Gimmol a slap on the shoulder that sent the gremlin staggering. “If we're doing okay without your magic, that'll be your job,” he said.
“Oh. Glee.”
“Katim, short of some quick surgery, I don't have a clue what we're doing about that damn snorter of yours.”
The troll shook her head and uttered a gurgle that probably passed as a trollish sigh. Carefully, she removed a handful of bandaging from her pouch and began to wrap it around her head and snout. She also leaned into a steep huddle, giving herself a stooped, even hunchbacked appearance. Once her snout was fully wrapped, she craned her head down, tucking her nose beneath her collar. The resulting shape was crippled and deformed, but more or less human. Thanks to her steep hunch, the hood hung over most of her head, allowing only tiny glimpses within—and those revealed only a swatch of bandage.
“That can't be comfortable,” Gork said.
“You have no…idea,” Katim replied, her voice heavily muffled.
“Can you see anything besides your feet?” Cræosh asked.
“Barely. One of you gets the…honor of leading me. And the disguise…is gone to hell and back if I…have to fight anyone.” With a supple twist of her neck, she pulled her face up and out. She kept her snout bandaged, however, for quick concealment.
The remainder of the night passed in preparation. Gork stitched the excess cloth into a passable sack, which proved just a hair too small for the gathered weapons. So he unraveled it and started over, cursing loudly the entire time. Then, when the loop proved too small to sling over Belrotha's arm—even at its current, reduced size—the kobold actually screamed. Fortunately, with the aid of a short length of rope (suggested by Gimmol), he found a way to adjust that loop without having to disassemble the entire bag once again, and thus was a severe emotional breakdown, followed by murder in the night, narrowly avoided.
And then, finally, there were no excuses remaining. It was time to get back on
the road.
Every nerve in the squad was stretched to the breaking point as they sauntered calmly out onto the highway, wandering past and through an ever-growing flow of traffic. Katim was forced now to keep her head perpetually down. The discomfort, the fact that she had to rely on the others to guide her, or both made her even edgier than usual. The others had to keep their faces covered too, of course, but at least they weren't functionally blind.
“Have I mentioned,” Cræosh groused, “how much we could use Fezeill right now?”
Even through the bandages and the hood, he could feel Gork's glower.
For every pair of human eyes that lit upon them, the orc felt a surge of adrenaline flow through his arms and chest, felt his hand twitch of its own accord toward his hip and a sword that was no longer there. Each time, he was convinced that this weakling human would be the one to penetrate a disguise that felt ever more feeble, ever more futile, with every passing mile.
But each new traveler reacted just as the others had, either waving a friendly greeting or, more often, ignoring the “traveling monks” completely, far more concerned with the road ahead than with being cordial to those who shared it. The trek to the gates of Brenald was nerve-wracking and hideously uncomfortable, but it never did cross that fine line into dangerous.
And then they were there. Walls taller but less robust than those of Timas Khoreth blocked the bulk of the city from sight, allowing only narrow glimpses through the main gate—a main gate that was manned only by a pair of soldiers and which stood wide open, beckoning all travelers to enter. This was a city that could be fortified to withstand siege, but hadn't prepared itself to do so. Dororam must have figured that the presence of the Allied armies between here and the Brimstone Mountains rendered his own lands safe from a major counterattack.
The goblins of the Demon Squad were really looking forward to proving him wrong.
