Goblin Corps, The

by Ari Marmell

  Cræosh, somewhere in the back of his mind, was battling shock. They were here. Despite the apparent impossibilities inherent in a group of goblins infiltrating Shauntille's capital and making their way to one of the most well-known spots in the entire city, they were here. It had been almost easy.

  Glumly, the motion barely ruffling his hood, the orc shook his head.

  Great. Okay, we're here. Now what the fuck do we do?

  Slowly, methodically, Havarren climbed.

  The steps were sadistic, bordering on murderous. Each was a foot and a half above the previous, stretching the muscles of calves and thighs into so much taffy. The staircase was claustrophobically narrow, making it impossible for a climber to fully extend even one arm before smacking against the stone walls. And the steps themselves were only a few inches deep, forcing climbers to make the entire ascent on their toes—just in case the calf muscles weren't already battered enough. Few human beings, even among the hardiest of the breed, could have made it from floor to pinnacle of this particular tower.

  For Havarren, it was just one more annoyance.

  A familiarity born of years allowed him to navigate the stairway's abrupt turns and switchbacks with nary a sideways glance. Although disorienting in the extreme, the strange, sharp angles had not been intended as another obstacle. Rather, it was an architectural requirement, since the tower itself was less than ten feet in diameter. For it to pierce over a hundred feet of darkening sky, a needle protruding from the highest roof of the Iron Keep, was a physical impossibility.

  But then, who the hell would notice one more of those here?

  Step, step, step, step, curse, curse, step. It wasn't exhaustion so much as impatience that spawned the wizard's ire. He could, with a moment's thought, have teleported to Morthûl's side and been done. But no, the Charnel King himself walked the steps to his uppermost sanctum, rather than allow his magics to carry him, and none of his underlings would do otherwise.

  “I'm here, my lord,”the mage announced as he pushed through the trapdoor at the top, his tone perhaps more tart than was entirely wise. “What did you wish…to…”He blinked, finally caught off guard.

  In fact, those underlings were normally forbidden to enter at all, but Havarren had been summoned. And so, reluctantly abandoning his meal—damn, but he hated letting an innocent soul go to waste!—he climbed.

  The great minaret offered, as it always had, a splendid view of the isle of Dendrakis: a vista of frozen mountain peaks in one direction, a rocky and largely barren plain in the other, both vanishing eventually into the waters of the Sea of Tears.

  But today, superimposed upon that scenery, an ephemeral image no more substantive than a fever dream, was a chamber of comforts far larger than a dozen towers this size could have supported. Gorgeous tapestries and ancient works of art hung grandly in empty space, mounted on insubstantial walls. Bookcases leaned cordially over a velvet-cushioned array of sofas and chairs, scattered haphazardly across the nonexistent floor. Havarren thought he could even smell the musty fragrance of ancient pages.

  Morthûl sat upon one of the largest sofas, this one trimmed in red and gold. He held a large tome in his rotting hands, although it was impossible to tell if he was truly reading or just staring off into the distance over its pages.

  “Ah, Havarren,” the wavering image said, turning his head to observe his lieutenant. “There you are.” His voice was distant, muffled, somehow small.

  “My lord?” the mage said, puzzled. “What…? That is, where…?”

  “Why don't you join me, Havarren?” The Charnel King waved a bony hand.

  Havarren felt the faintest of pressures, as though a bubble of something soft and pliable pressed, then burst, against his flesh. The huge “chamber”—though still lacking in walls, floor, and ceiling—was suddenly solid. It was now the tower-top that wavered, phantasmagorically, when he peered down at it.

  The vistas beyond had changed as well, and even the jaded Havarren couldn't smother a gasp. No longer did he peer out over uneventful Dendrakis; now he saw before him, in minute detail, the entirety of Kirol Syrreth. From the Sea of Tears to Ymmech Thewl, the Northern Steppes to the Brimstone Mountains and beyond, every part of Morthûl's kingdom revealed itself before him, the ultimate map.

  “Welcome,” Morthûl said simply.

  “How?” Havarren asked, his voice strangled.

  “What, the view? A simple twisting of light and—”

  “No!” The mage seemed angry at the not-quite-room in which he stood. “All of this! How could you have kept this hidden from me? I should have felt something, sensed that something was here! It's not possible! It—”

  Havarren's jaw snapped shut with a clack as the Charnel King raised his single eyebrow. “Still, after all these years, Havarren?” He sounded disappointed. “Still you underestimate me, because I had the misfortune of coming from human stock. I have powers you've never seen. You know this, and yet you're surprised every time. Hiding this from you was hardly the easiest thing I've ever done, but it wasn't all that difficult.” He frowned, then, and damn if it didn't resemble true sorrow. “I don't come here often. It was our little sanctum, until she took to spending most of her time at Castle Eldritch….”

  Havarren, cradling his injured pride, slumped into the nearest chair. With his arms flopped limply over the sides, he looked less like one of the world's greatest wizards than just another tired, middle-aged man with very poor fashion sense.

  “Why have you summoned me here?” he asked, his voice weary. “Was it just to gloat?”

  “Gloat, Havarren? I find precious little to gloat about. Look.” The Charnel King pointed over the sprawling expanse of Kirol Syrreth. For an instant, their view wavered, and then lurched. The earth raced along beneath them, growing as they descended. When the shifting images finally steadied, the two watchers were several hundred feet above the watchtowers guarding the Serpent's Pass.

  “Fort Rohth,” Havarren identified. “And Fort Jhikinian. What of them?”

  “Look,” his lord commanded again.

  Havarren looked—and saw, now, a bustling carpet of activity coating the pass and the surrounding lands. As though responding to his own urges, the view shifted once more, moving ever nearer, so the mage could see clearly.

  “Dororam…”

  “Indeed. His soldiers reached the border some hours ago. The war has begun in earnest.”

  Havarren nodded slowly. “All right, I can see why you might wish me informed. But it's not as though we haven't been expecting it. We—”

  “Look.”

  The blond wizard stifled an exasperated sigh as he obediently looked back at the magnified vista. He hadn't the vaguest notion what Morthûl expected him to see, but if his lord wanted him to watch, he'd watch.

  His bored gaze landed on a particularly vicious battalion, a unit consisting of equal parts human and orc. They tore through one of Dororam's columns from the left flank; humans, elves, even horses fell before their bloody onslaught. The Allied soldiers in the vicinity began to fall back.

  Havarren was preparing to comment on their soldiers' efficiency—obviously there was something here he was supposed to note—when the air behind the advancing unit shimmered, something seeping up from the earth like a morning mist. It parted down the center, a heavy curtain of haze, revealing an entire legion of Dororam's knights. They fell upon the Charnel King's soldiers from the rear, crushing them under a steel tsunami bristling with spears and blades.

  Havarren turned from the disturbing sight, even as the Dark Lord allowed the image to retract back to its nationwide view.

  “DuMark?” he asked quietly.

  Morthûl nodded, the movement sending a pair of roaches tumbling from his empty socket to land with a series of clicks upon the invisible floor. “It seems, Havarren, that you are not the only one with an unfortunate penchant for underestimation. I was convinced—absolutely convinced—that the half-breed would hold back, saving his strength to counter
any moves you or I might make. The notion that he would involve himself in the day-to-day business of the war itself…” The Charnel King chuckled, a sound without humor.

  “We told him ourselves, you know,” he continued. “When we risked sending the Demon Squad to deal with Sabryen, rather than finishing him more swiftly and certainly ourselves, he must have realized we were saving our strength for greater things. And he realized he could afford to expend some of his magics early, for we would be reluctant to counter him.”

  “But then…has he left Dororam defenseless?” Havarren asked incredulously. “Teleporting so many troops must take so much out of him….”

  “He has left the other wizards in charge of the king's protection.” Morthûl closed the book he'd held this whole time. “A foolish, posturing bunch of old men and women, but putting their minds to cooperation, they can accomplish some noteworthy results. Still, the lot of them together aren't worth duMark.”

  Havarren pressed a finger to his chin, staring off into space. “I wonder if our half-elven friend might not be getting a tad less protective of his favorite puppet.”

  “From what I've learned,” Morthûl said, “the puppet's been tugging back on his strings of late. I doubt duMark would be thrilled if something unfortunate were to happen to Dororam, but I agree that he seems less concerned with the man's safety.

  “Unfortunately, that actually makes our position more precarious. With duMark tossing soldiers around the map like darts on a board, I find our time growing short far sooner than I'd anticipated.”

  “Not even duMark can teleport an army a thousand miles!” Havarren protested.

  “No. But he can hasten their advance. We should have had months before Dororam's forces could try for Dendrakis itself. Now, we may have only weeks.”

  “Then let us deal with Dororam,” the mage demanded. “If he's less well-defended than we expected, let's take advantage!”

  “To what end?” the Charnel King asked. “To settle a personal grudge? I have greater concerns at the moment. Cut off the head of the army? Dororam is a capable leader, but there are others among his compatriots equally as capable. He would become a martyr, a banner to be trotted out before the army as an impetus to fight ‘the unnatural evil of the Iron Keep and its half-dead master.”’ That last was spoken in near-perfect imitation of Ananias duMark.

  “The armies?” Havarren asked halfheartedly.

  “Would never have been able to hold Dororam off indefinitely, even under optimal circumstances,” came the matter-of-fact reply. “We've had that discussion already, as I recall. With this new stratagem—”

  “You and I could counter it,” the gaunt man pointed out.

  “Perhaps. But my energies must remain devoted elsewhere—now more than ever, with this acceleration of Dororam's timetable. And you, well, perhaps you could take duMark. Perhaps not. But to take him and Dororam's other wizards at once, without my assistance? Suicide, even for you.”

  Havarren nodded in reluctant acknowledgment. “Then we depend entirely on your Demon Squad,” he said, clearly not happy at that prospect. “If they get back in time—”

  “I think it unlikely, with the armies moving so quickly how. But truth is, it never mattered if they got back in time.”

  Havarren stared incredulously at the creature before him. “What? I—”

  “Even you are not meant to understand all my plans. I know full well what I'm doing. For now, you must content yourself with that.”

  “But—”

  “Kindly close the trapdoor on your way out, Havarren. Consider what you've seen, and if you come up with any means of slowing them down, even slightly, let me know. Until then, leave me be. I have work to do.” Another sudden pop, and the mage found himself once more standing on the tower, Morthûl's opulent chamber barely visible around him. Cursing, Havarren returned to the twisted stairs and took only a sliver of petulant pleasure in not merely closing, but slamming the trapdoor behind him.

  Absently, Morthûl reached up and lifted the tarnished argent crown from his brow. He held it before his face without really seeing it, then turned it over and over in his hands. Long he sat, motionless save for the dancing of dead fingers across the silver, staring at nothing—or, just perhaps, at a view beyond even the magics of the mystic chamber. Perhaps a large stone edifice, an ancient temple in the center of a bustling city…

  Finally, having seen all he wished to see, or perhaps merely rousing himself from deep reverie, the master of the Iron Keep laid the crown carefully on the table beside him, out of the way, and resumed his work.

  Okay, that chant was really starting to get on Cræosh's nerves.

  It had begun when they first passed through the temple's doors, squirming and flickering through his ear canals like the tongue of a drunken, lecherous toad, and it hadn't ceased since. Low and sonorous, it hung somewhere between a hymn and a dirge. The orc couldn't see the singers, nor did the echoes reverberating in the cavernous chapel allow him to pinpoint them by sound. A fortunate occurrence, that, for their anonymity was the only thing that kept the orc from bending them over and wearing them as gauntlets. Each time the chant wound to an end, the singers paused just long enough for Cræosh to hope that maybe this time it was over. And they'd start it all up again.

  “So beautiful,” Gork whispered.

  “What?” Cræosh whirled, the hem of his robe twirling around his ankles. “Beautiful?! That noise?”

  “No,” Gork breathed, his face vaguely slack. “Every time the chant comes to an end, I picture myself smashing them in the face with something heavy. It seems to help.”

  Cræosh tried it. It did help, but only a little.

  Hoping to distract himself from the maddening acoustic deluge, he resumed his abortive inspection of their surroundings. His initial assessment of the building as “functional” remained intact, but the interior was at least a little more opulent.

  They stood at the rear of an enormous chapel, filled primarily with long pews. Thick stone columns, ringed with carvings that presumably depicted important events and figures from human mythology, supported an arched ceiling about three times Belrotha's (normal) height. Stained-glass windows leaked puddles of shifting, multicolored light across the floor, and the air was equally polluted with what Cræosh could only assume the humans considered to be incense.

  At the far end of the chamber, a raised dais held a simple stone altar flanked by fonts. One held water, the other some sort of wine or nectar that was providing heaven on earth to a thick cloud of fruit flies. On the wall beyond hung a shape, about the size of a small wagon wheel, that couldn't quite decide if it was a stylized sun or a compass rose. The orc couldn't tell right off if it was actually made of gold or simply gilded, but either way…

  Without even looking, he snagged Gork by the collar just as the kobold was stepping forward. Gork's feet flew out from under him and he hung limply from his heavy robe.

  “No,” Cræosh said simply.

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “Cræosh—”

  “No.”

  The kobold sighed. “You're a bastard, Cræosh.”

  “Yes.” He returned the kobold to the floor with a faint thump and then firmly guided the little creature to turn around and look at something else.

  It was but a few moments later that someone, finally, arrived to greet them.

  He was an older man—forty to fifty, if Cræosh was any judge—but in good health. His slow pace was that of the contemplative, not the infirm. His robe was not terribly dissimilar from their own, except it was an eggshell hue rather than brown; it looked pure white compared to the iron gray of his hair.

  “Can I help you, Brothers?” the man asked, his voice deep and yet somehow gentle, soothing. “You appear lost.”

  “We seek Father Thomas,” Gork said, advancing a step.

  The older man nodded. “I am Thomas.”

  Excellent! It was why they'd chosen the temple as a starting point�
�they knew Thomas would be easier to locate than the others—but finding him first thing was a stroke of fortune.

  “My name is Brother Gerald,” the kobold told him. “My brethren and I have traveled many leagues to be here with you.”

  “Did you now?” Thomas asked, his voice neutral.

  Gork hesitated. This one wouldn't be so easily fooled as the gate guards, not if their conversation touched more than briefly on theology. But this wasn't exactly a functional place for murder: too many parishioners scattered throughout the pews, flipping through holy books or chatting with each other; too many members of that unseen choir. No choice but to bull through.

  “We did, Father. We're a…” Thomas wouldn't be so quick to buy the “deformed monks” story, but neither would he be so quick to panic. “We're a leprous community—no longer contagious, I assure you. We keep to ourselves, mostly, but with all that's going on, we've come from the south, in order that we might enter into this very temple and contribute our own prayers for the victory and safe return of our armies.” Gork swallowed, shivering slightly, repressing the urge to look behind him. It's part of the disguise; even if he somehow hears, he'll know it's part of the disguise…. “And to petition the gods to lend our good soldiers strength and glory in crushing the forces of the hell-spawned abomination who dwells in the Iron Keep.”

  Cræosh erupted into a violent coughing fit.

  “Are you well, Brother?” Thomas asked, real concern in his voice.

  “Fine,” Cræosh croaked. “Just a bit of road dust, aggravating the—uh, my weakened lungs.”

  “And where are my manners?” the old priest said suddenly. “You have, as you say, traveled far, and I'm quite certain that you could use some time to recover from your journey. If you'll follow me, we have extra sleeping cells for visitors. They possess little in the way of comforts, I fear, but then I imagine that you're accustomed to even less. You are welcome to them for as long as you wish.”

  “You are too kind, Father,” Gork said courteously, trying to repress a snicker. All they had to do now was get him into one of those cells and…“We are indeed weary. And I'm certain that whatever accommodations you provide will be eminently acceptable, in our eyes and the eyes of the gods as well.”