Cold Counsel

by Chris Sharp

  Neither-Nor puffed himself up bigger. “No runnin’ here, troll. Fought and died with me clan. Was the best goblin with a blade there was, and I took five of ya big fuckers with me ’fore I fell. What’s yer excuse?”

  “Slud was just a baby, ol’ man. Him ’n’ his li’l auntie slipped away ’n’ been hidin’ out since—preparin’ fer dis day . . . Now, just Slud’s left, ’n’ de day’s come.” The troll stood with the map in one hand and the moon blade in the other. His deep, dark eyes suddenly became predatory.

  “Preparin’ fer what?” Neither-Nor hissed, trying to mask the jolt of fear that shot through him.

  “Revenge,” the troll answered with a humorless smile. “Slud’s come to break de mountain, ’n’ den de whole world after.” The troll stepped closer, and the overbearing reek of fox spray that wafted off him was enough to make the goblin shudder. He rounded the fire with a poke of the browned, roasting meat, and came to a halt above Neither-Nor. The shadow he cast held an oppressive weight as he tested the heft of the comparatively tiny curved blade in his hand. He dropped his piercing gaze to the helpless goblin once more.

  “Ya kill me hog-tied and I promise to come back and haunt ya ’til the end of yer miserable days, scum!” Neither-Nor shouted.

  “Kill ya? No, no, li’l man. Slud’s got big plans fer ya,” the troll said with a sharp smack of his lip against his tusk. “But Slud needs ya hungry ’n’ angry, ’n’ it’s just ’bout time to eat . . . No hard feelin’s, aye?” He raised the hooked blade above him as the goblin snarled and winced in anticipation of the blow, but Slud paused. “Oi, what’s yer name, frien’?”

  “Neither-Nor, ya big swine, and don’t soon forget it.”

  “Slud don’t forget.” The troll smiled. “See ya soon.” And he swung.

  SIX: Fox Hunt

  THE SKY ABOVE the Iron Wood had never fully shed its blanket of clouds in all the years that Slud had lived beneath it. He’d never seen stars the way they’d come out that night on the cliff that climbed toward the midway point on the mountain. More shining little dots than he could count in a lifetime dedicated to only that. But he had not spent the dark hours sitting idly and staring up as he would have liked, and he still hadn’t slept a wink.

  After he’d eaten the fox down to the bones, he’d spent some time smashing a boulder into fist-sized rocks with the butt-end of the increasingly handy ax. Now, two mounds of oblong projectiles were stacked at strategic points around the camp, and he’d tested the distance and aim of his throw from the rocky ledge down to the base of the climb with satisfactory results.

  With the feisty goblin otherwise occupied with a blade through his heart, Slud had reclaimed the ropes that bound him, and put them to use instead setting big game snares farther out in the woods. He went with designs of his own, best for the sort of stopping power that could take out a bear or a moose without concern for maintaining the condition of the pelt.

  Once that was done, he’d rolled Neither-Nor to his side, ripped off his coat, and gone to work down his lower back with the body map in one hand and the tiny toothpick of a knife he’d found hidden in his boot in the other. It was delicate work, and Slud was not always one for nuance and patience, but Aunt Agnes had drilled a respect for precision into him over the years, and he gave it his best shot. After a while of cutting and recutting, he stepped back to compare his bloody letters to those on the page. Aside from a flub or two on the goblin’s little ass cheeks, Slud was fairly impressed with his handiwork. De li’l fucker will need it, fer what Slud’s got planned.

  A thorough rubdown of the goblin with the second musk gland from the fox finished up the night’s work. The other tiny blue sac was now braided into Slud’s own beard hair, and as with anything unpleasant, he’d already grown used to the stink. After tamping out the fire and coating his skin and clothes with the black char from half-burned logs, he was ready for what came next.

  As the stars were slowly overtaken by the light of dawn, the sky went from deep purple to pink and then blue. Slud breathed it in, long and slow, wishing he could stay for a while to enjoy these alien fineries of life. But when the first wolf howl carried up the slope, he ran his thumb down the blade of the ax and found his feet again. Just to be sure, he took that moment to drop his pants and piss in a long curving arc over the edge of the cliff.

  THE WOLVES WERE frothing at the mouth, tongues hanging loose as they ran toward the cliff face. It was the first time since the hunt had begun that they’d caught a fresh whiff of their quarry, and after so long at the search, they weren’t willing to lose it again. The riders were far less eager. Two had already fallen asleep while mounted and awoken only after their faces had connected with unforgiving earth. None had expected the giant to clear so great a distance before they caught up with it again. After the protracted night, the vibrant light of the new day seemed cruel.

  Only Dingle remained alert and eager to forge ahead as his eyes climbed the steep rock face to the lip high above. He gave his wolf an appreciative scratch behind the ears and swung from its back to stand on his own two feet for the first time in many hours. For a moment, he felt like he might stumble to his knees, but he found his balance and managed to stay upright. For once, it was others, and not him, who groaned and fell to the ridicule of the pack.

  Groole stepped from the alpha wolf, managing to maintain his balance and composure. As his underlings flopped to the ground and gulped feverishly at wine sacks, Groole strode forward to come even with Dingle. He followed the little scout’s gaze up the cliff.

  “What do ya see, runt?” he asked.

  Dingle’s eyes lowered to a fresh spattering of moisture around the base, just as a couple wolves came sniffing. “He wwwas here, not long ago.” Dingle pointed straight up. “P-p-pissed from up there.”

  Groole furrowed his heavy brow, pierced with an array of various-sized loops, before turning back to face the group. “Flogga, Hat-Trick, an’ Skinny Karl—climb up an’ see what’s what.”

  The hoarse voices of the three lounging goblins in question immediately rose up in joint protest, but Groole had been expecting that. He drew a curved blade and gripped the handle tightly. “Shut yer traps an’ get climbing, lads, or all three o’ ya bleed out where ya sit!”

  They gradually stood, grumbling under their breaths the whole time. Groole’s second in command slung a long coil of rope over Skinny Karl’s shoulder; an iron spike and a hammer went to Hat-Trick.

  “Get to the top quick an’ secure the rope for the rest of us,” Groole commanded with an encouraging shove to Flogga’s back as he passed.

  Dingle felt both giddy and a little lost. The nervous energy kept him pacing at the base of the cliff, and he found that if he focused on random things like the spattering of the giant’s piss or the sky, the others would just leave him alone. What he really wanted to do was dig the little paper note out of his pocket and start recording his observations of the giant so far, but he didn’t have a pencil, and he doubted the furlough on bullying would withstand the furious writing of tiny letters.

  The trio of hapless goblins began the climb, and Dingle quickly saw why they had been selected for the task. They were three of the tallest goblins in the ranks, with long appendages and lean muscle as opposed to the bulky fighters who remained lounging below. Despite their fatigue and complaints, once they’d started up the cliff, they communicated well and made quick work of the ascent.

  “Notch, Hot-Shot, bows ready an’ stand watch,” Groole yelled as the two longbowmen nodded and fanned out.

  Dingle had to admit, this rough group of the Khan’s elite were a disciplined unit when it came to business. It was a far cry from what he was used to among the long-range scouts. He’d even started to feel an odd sense of camaraderie with a few of them, though he couldn’t fully shake the knowledge that they meant to kill him upon the slightest display of misinformation or failure. It had never occurred to him, until now, that they might actually be able to end the majestic giant that Dingle
so longed to see again. Despite his better instincts, he began to ponder possibilities for sabotage as they drew closer to their goal.

  Flogga was the first to throw a leg over the ledge and roll out of sight above. Skinny Karl and Hat-Trick followed soon after as those below quieted and watched with a keen eye. The silence stretched too long, and Groole started to shift and tense with a low hum in the back of his throat . . .

  Finally, Flogga poked his head back over and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Campfire! Still smolderin’! Bunch of big stones piled up! It’s gone now, but can’t be far!” He disappeared back behind the edge, and there was silence again, until the sound of the hammer pounding the spike into rock echoed about the woods.

  Skinny Karl appeared next, tossing the rope over the side to uncoil on its fall down to the earth. He pointed off to his right. “Even ground to de west! Smells bad! Wolves can get up and around!”

  Groole nodded. “Right, lads, five more o’ ya, on the rope quick! Black-Tooth?” A particularly ugly goblin with an array of rotten teeth locked in a perpetual grin stood. “Yer team goes up. Secure the site an’ wait for us to come ’round.” Black-Tooth nodded, and he and four others secured weapons, gripped the rope, and started climbing.

  Dingle eased back from the rock and cupped a hand over his eyes to block the growing light in the sky—he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a trickle of red had spilled over the edge above. The others didn’t notice, and a secret thrill went through his little body, like the feeling he got just before diving into a nice warm meat pie with no one around to take it from him. There were no sounds of scuffle, but no more sign of Flogga, Hat-Trick, and Skinny Karl either. With a muffled giggle, he stepped farther back and found a place where he could watch from behind the trunk of a tree.

  As Black-Tooth neared the top, with three of his four mates climbing the rope at various points below, the sound of a hard whack against stone echoed from above. The high end of the rope slipped over the edge, and Black-Tooth and the others went with it—screaming and flailing their way back down to a hard landing. The fifth goblin, still at the base, didn’t move in time as one of his fellows careened ass first into his openmouthed stare and snapped his neck with a loud pop.

  The giant stepped to the ledge with Flogga in one hand, dangling by the throat, and a big rock in the other. He was covered head to toe in black soot and looked like some sort of devil spewed up from the fire. The rock in his grip flew like a comet, connecting with the flank of one of the wolves with enough force to shatter a hip and some internal organs. The woods immediately filled with frantic yells, but Dingle couldn’t peel his wide-eyed gaze from the giant, standing over them like a magnificent beacon of death.

  Notch and Hot-Shot took aim and fired, but the giant casually swung Flogga to catch the arrows with his chest and thigh before he tossed the still-kicking goblin down into the scattering ranks. Dingle couldn’t help it; he started clapping and jumping with glee. Eight of the clan’s best and one of the wolves had been taken out in seconds. So masterful! So efficient!

  His fawning celebration was cut short as more rocks started flying, crushing another wolf’s skull and sending the others scrambling. The branch above Dingle shattered with a rain of rock debris and splinters on his head. He leapt back to his wolf’s shoulders and spurred it to a run, laughing as all the others screamed.

  AUNT AGNES HAD forced Slud to play a board game called Tafl for as long as he could remember. He’d always hated playing it—moving the stupid little figures around a checkered square and having to plan all his moves in advance. Planning had never come naturally to Slud, and he’d relied on Agnes to tell him what to do for the duration of his life thus far. Now, he was beginning to understand her almost fanatic devotion to that damned game. She’d drilled a sense of competition into every interaction, teaching him the only real game there ever was—survive or die.

  The first move of his contest with the Rock Wolf hunting party had gone as well as he could have hoped. Eight goblins and two wolves down. By his count at the river, there were thirteen more goblins, and seventeen or eighteen wolves, to go. With all those arrows, spears, and teeth, the numbers would be overwhelming, even for Slud. He tried to calculate how many more he needed to take out with his snares as he strode deeper into the woods toward his second position beside another stack of rocks.

  The yipping of wolves was moving faster up the slope than he’d figured. They’d found a long-unused deer trail that Slud hadn’t noticed the night before. With the loss of time, he’d have to improvise—another cornerstone of Agnes’s tutelage. On his last pass through the camp, he’d picked up the corpse of Neither-Nor, stuffed it in his sack, and slung it over his shoulder in case he didn’t get the chance to swing back through. Slud hoped the scarred goblin was as good with those knives as he’d boasted, or else the third play of his game would go all to shit.

  It wasn’t long before the first rider came into view, moving through the trees at a cautious lope. Whoever was in charge of the hunting party was no fool; the wolves had fanned out with plenty of space between them. It slipped past the first trip-line without noticing, and Slud picked up a rock to gauge its weight. Another rider came up a few strides behind, and the back foot of that wolf clipped the line as it advanced.

  The ironwood lever sprang free from its notch between two trees, and the log that was braced above swung down in a short arc. It slammed into the side of the wolf and shattered the goblin’s leg, sending them both flying. It had been designed for two or three riders in a tight cluster, but Slud popped up from behind a boulder and threw his rock to even the score. It clipped the lead goblin in the breast, and Slud could hear the crack of its chest plate from across the woods. The wolf beneath took off in the opposite direction.

  The goblin with the broken leg would never walk again, but he’d retained consciousness. Slud had been hoping to keep things quiet at first, but the pained wails echoed across the hilltop and the others approached with weapons drawn and eyes ready. The wolves hadn’t expected the pervasive stink of fox, and they snuffled around in confusion, unable to get their bearings. Slud had smeared the musk glands against most every tree in a wide swath before turning them into jewelry. For the wolves, this section of woods had been turned into one big, muddy stew without a compass point.

  Another snare was tripped, releasing a long greenwood branch covered in sharpened spikes to whip into the face of an unsuspecting goblin. He was done after a short gurgle, and Slud hurled another rock to bring down the startled wolf a second later. He reached for a third rock, but as he came up to find his next target, his gaze froze on the tiny goblin who had stared him down at the river. It was the same goblin who had escaped him the day before at the burning of Agnes’s house. He was wrapped in a scraggly wolf pelt with tufts of missing fur, and lacked the weapons and adornment of the others. He sat atop a smaller, tired wolf, and stared at Slud with freakish intensity.

  The runt pointed off to his side and pumped his little finger in a hurry, and Slud turned to see another goblin drawing down on him from behind a longbow. He spun away as the wind from the shot whipped past his cheek with a sharp bite at his earlobe. Slud released the rock too quickly in response, and it banged off a tree and ricocheted back. Another mounted bowman drew down beside his fellow, and this time, as Slud spun away, he felt the impact in the sack strapped across his back. He palmed two more rocks and took off as the barks of the wolves and shouts of the archers brought the rest of the hunting party at a sprint.

  The final snare went off behind him with a yip and a yell, but he didn’t look back to admire his handiwork—instead he fumbled in his pocket for the flint and steel that Agnes had packed. The goblins were coming fast, but he’d already poured out all of Agnes’s home-brewed fire oil across the forest. He couldn’t let that go to waste.

  DINGLE WAS BESIDE HIMSELF. The giant had looked right at him again, and Dingle had helped him get away from Notch and Hot-Shot, if only for a few more seconds. N
ow, the hulking beast was kneeling behind a tree directly ahead when he should have been running as fast as he could. The whole scene was chaotic and utterly perplexing, and Dingle wished he could record it all, entranced by every unpredictable move the giant made.

  Groole and the rest of the pack were coming up fast now, but with the screaming and dying, and the pervasive skunk-reek that filled the woods, none were willing to push as hard as they might to reach the blackened brute who waited for them. Another arrow flew, sticking in the tree near his head, but the giant didn’t budge, chipping away with a metallic echo and a little shower of sparks across the ground.

  Wolves and goblins streamed by the spot where Dingle sat, but Dingle didn’t budge either. A smile slowly bloomed across his face as he watched the spark catch flame amid a cluster of tinder and leaves. More arrows and spears took to the air, and another stuck in the sack across the giant’s back with a peculiar bloodstain spreading there. The giant took no notice as he blew on the little flame and stoked it higher.

  Groole bellowed a rallying cry as the pack swarmed. But the giant turned toward his attackers with a smile as he dropped the flame to the ground before him. The fires of hell sprang up in answer.

  Dingle shrieked with delight as a green-tinged inferno erupted in a line across the ridge. The alpha wolf skidded to an abrupt halt, and Groole somersaulted over its shoulders. His boots brushed the edge of the fire and came away alight as the giant broke into a deep, rumbling laugh.

  Dingle had never heard a laugh like it. It shook his bones and made him feel small, as if the mountain itself was laughing at him. It echoed about the woods while the leaves above curled and turned to ash and the trunks of trees began to blacken and pop from the roaring flame. The heat of it drove the Rock Wolves back. Groole ripped the boots from his singed feet and hopped away with a look of dread worn openly on his face.