by Chris Sharp
Finally, the attack ceased, and the tree settled with a thick rain of branches and needles. The apprentice’s jaw ached from clenching. He was pretty sure he’d cracked a tooth, and he could tell that the lull wouldn’t last for long. He rolled from the branch until he was dangling, and then dropped with a flutter and short glide. The feathered cloak plopped him back to his feet beside Harog’s spooked wolf, and Fixelcrick unhooked the little crossbow from his belt and loaded a bolt. “Someone’s comin’.”
Harog blew three quick bursts on his horn, and the spearmen converged around him. Neither goblins nor wolves made a sound as a small figure crested the rise at a quick lope. Fixelcrick pointed his crossbow, and the spears were readied to throw, but the little soot-covered figure kept on.
“Not until I say so,” said Harog, though Fixelcrick could already see the whites of the beady little eyes that approached. It was a goblin, though possibly the smallest goblin that Fixelcrick had ever seen. He was very fast, and seemingly oblivious to the twenty goblins and wolves directly in his path.
“Dingle?” Harog shouted.
The blackened runt came to a halt a few paces away and promptly greeted them with a barrage of sneezes.
That was when Fixelcrick noticed that Bone Master had stopped chanting. The old goblin lay on his back with two streams of blood trickling from his nose and a spill of foam from the side of his mouth. The master was alive, his lips still trying to form words that carried no sound, but his far-seeing eye had burst over his cheek in a gelatinous dribble. Fixelcrick started toward him, but Dingle stepped closer with a wild look, and the first apprentice held on to the crossbow instead.
“Dingle, what happened to Groole?” Harog demanded.
The tiny goblin was panting heavily and he seemed to vibrate with a constant twitch throughout his body. “D-d-dead. Th-th-they’re all dead.”
“Who killed them?” asked Harog, lowering his spear.
Dingle’s pinched face was covered in snot. He swallowed hard, and started to blink rapidly as his mouth got stuck in a rising hiss. “SSSSSLUD!” he shouted. “He ssspoke to me . . . He said his nnname was SLUD! The L-L-Lord of Death! K-k-king of the M-m-mountain! He’s coming for the K-K-Khan!”
The wind was starting to pick up again, and the little goblin was inexplicably smiling and nodding as he yelled. Fixelcrick got the impression that it would be best to loose the arrows and spears after all.
“Dingle, what are you talking about?” asked Harog as the little fellow began to bounce in place with his red-rimmed eyes bulging.
“B-B-Blood Claw Clan has returned!” he cried. “T-T-TROLL!”
NINE: Call to Arms
SLUD WAS FACEDOWN in a shallow puddle that smelled of old fish. He couldn’t see a thing. He knew that he was in a tight cave below the lake, but it was pitch black, and when he stood upright his head hit the rock ceiling. Instead, he hunched on the cold ground with the sound of water lapping at his feet and waited for the fire to subside or something to happen. There was no sound or sign of the weird water woman who’d pulled him here, but it seemed like she’d meant to help not harm. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed she might be a nixie. After the first frantic moment of thrashing against her surprisingly firm grip, he’d locked his breath as Aunt Agnes had taught him and gave into her.
He couldn’t swim, but he knew how to sink. Sometimes Agnes had held little Slud’s head in the water barrel as he thrashed and bucked against her rigid arm. Eventually he’d learned to channel the panic into something else. By the end, he could slip instantly into a trance state and survive on what little air was already inside him for more than half an hour. This time he hadn’t even needed it, but his breath was already starting to pull shallowly in the little upside down bowl of a cave.
The utter darkness and the sound of his exhales echoing about the little chamber reminded him of the time that Agnes had made him build a coffin and dig a big hole. She’d fed him mushroom tea and left him down there with nothing but the silence and hallucinations for a full day before digging him back up to see what he’d learned. “Don’t fuckin’ trust no one dat tells ya to get in da box,” he’d answered before his beating.
A hazy orange light gathered below to bring him back to his current predicament, illuminating the mouth of an underwater tunnel. It was the reflected light of the forest fire, and it brightened as the inferno reached full burn. His eyes needed only the faintest light to see, and he scanned his surroundings for the first time—no other way out, and no significant source of fresh air. But Slud did see the glitter of metal in the water at the base of the tunnel, and he leaned over for a better look just as the nixie swam into view carrying a fish. With a last graceful kick, she rose to the surface and poked her head up—no breath taken, no expression worn. She just stared as she had before without indication of her intentions.
“Oi, t’anks,” said Slud with a nod. She didn’t even blink, raising her arm to toss the still wriggling fish toward him. His claw snapped out and caught it, and the wriggling stopped. It was a good-looking sturgeon. “’Tanks again.”
She eyed him for a long moment, almost as if trying to decide something, and then she dove back down. Slud took a bite of the fish and watched as she swam to the bottom and grabbed hold of something big that had been resting there. It was at least as tall as she was, and twice as wide at the base, but she hauled it up with a swift flurry of kicks and slid it with a scrape onto the bank beside him. It was crusted over with years of lichen and mineral deposits, and long pondweeds had taken root in places, but there was what looked like a large, two-headed battle-ax beneath.
Slud bit the fish again with a rush of juicy innards in his mouth before taking the handle of the old weapon. It was icy to the touch, and his hand instinctively sprang away. He dropped the fish and tried again, this time hefting the significant weight of the ax head and bringing the flat of it down against the rocks with a sharp CLANG! The cold of it sank into his palms and fingers as bits of the crust cracked away to reveal the gleam of the silver, almost white, blade beneath.
The nixie dropped out of view again to leave him with the curious offering as he continued to break away the weathered covering. After a flurry of scrapes and bangs, Slud held the bitterly chilled ax before him—still very sharp and etched with lines of crude runes along both blades and spiraling down the hilt. Axes had never been his favorite killing tool, but it seemed the mountain intended to force the issue. It was undoubtedly the finest item he had ever held, and he felt more like himself with it in his grip. How a giant-sized weapon had come to rest at the bottom of this cave was hard to figure, but Agnes had always said—If life gives gifts, better to use ’em rather than squawk about reasons.
The nixie broke the surface again and dropped something else big on the lip of stone with a hard THUNK! It was a wooden chest framed with thick iron joints around a keyhole. It wasn’t as old as the ax, with none of the marks of age upon it, and she pushed it to the shore beside him before pulling herself from the water to sit with her legs still submerged on the far side. She eyed the ax and then Slud, ready to dive back to safety at the smallest provocation as Slud’s returned gaze wandered down her form. Her body was framed in the orange glow just enough for him to imagine all that was still hidden in shadow.
She motioned to the chest with her chin, and Slud noticed the heavy key she’d placed on the rocks before it. The ax went beside the fish and he plucked up the key. The lock turned with a hard scrape; the lid opened with an echoing creak and a rush of earthen scent that reminded him of his lost home in the Iron Wood.
The contents were unexpectedly dry. A set of clothes, finer than he was used to, but made with the same unmistakable cross-stitching that had accompanied every piece of clothing he’d ever worn, atop a heavy coat that looked to have been made from the pelt of a cave-bear. Thick leather boots that smelled like wild hog were folded beneath, and at the bottom he found a note written in familiar script:
Put these on, take ax, and
climb.
Slud wondered how much of his path ahead had been orchestrated by Aunt Agnes in advance, but as she had instructed, he didn’t bother wondering for long. He moved to close the chest, not wanting his new clothes to get wet on the way out if he could help it, but the nixie stood abruptly and approached with an outstretched hand. She reached toward his soiled shirt and started pulling it up with the same unreadable expression as always. Slud followed her lead and peeled it over his head before tossing it with a splat against the wall.
If he’d been standing, she’d only come up to his hip, though she didn’t seem to mind. Her hands were cold and a little slimy on his chest before moving down to the tie at his pants, but he didn’t mind either. The orange glow in the water started to recede again, but Slud wouldn’t need his eyes for what came next.
THE FAT GOBLIN that the Khan called Short-Fuse pulled the rope to hoist Dingle higher. The rope had been thrown over the rafter before the throne in the great hall, and Dingle dangled upside down by his ankles, swaying back and forth as the eyes of the wolves followed in tandem. Someone gave him a push, and he started to spin with the blood rushing to his head and a woozy churn in his gut. The realization that much of the audience had turned away or hurried out of the hall altogether did not bode well for his immediate future.
The tall goblin with dead eyes stepped forward and punched him in the chest with enough force to send him swinging in a wide arc before the Khan. A couple days ago, such a punch would have killed Dingle instantly, but now, even as his eyes watered and he struggled for breath, he could feel his bruised muscles and cracked bones start to tingle and warm agreeably.
“Lemme get this right,” said the Khan. “Ya sayin’ this . . . Slud, a troll, killed twenty of my best goblins an’ wolves, by hisself?”
“Y-y-yes, K-K-Khan,” said Dingle, with a string of spit clinging awkwardly to his lip as he spun. In the next rotation he noticed that Big Boss Harog and the hex doktor with the feathered coat stood nearby with their eyes locked at their feet. Half a turn later, he spotted the Herald on the first step, scribbling something in his ledger. Dingle’s mind and tongue went in separate directions. “Well, not all by himmmself,” he added before he was able to stop his mouth from moving. “A g-g-goblin called N-N-Neither-Nor killed some too.”
The Khan shot up in his seat, and even the expressionless goblin with the fists furrowed his brow. “What did ya say?” the Khan growled.
“G-G-Groole said his name was N-N-Neither-Nor . . . All c-c-covered with ssscars.”
The Herald snapped the ledger shut and went red-faced. Short-Fuse’s hold on the rope slackened a bit as Dingle dipped toward the bloodstained floor.
The Khan put down his pine-ale jug and stood. “What happened to Neither-Nor?”
Dingle’s voice went up an octave. “G-G-Groole killed him . . . B-But Slud took the body.”
The Khan started down the stairs. “So, Neither-Nor’s back, an’ he an’ this oversized goblin think they can fuck with Arok Golden Wolf, son of Grummok Green Hammer.”
He gave a nod to the tall goblin, and this time it was an uppercut into Dingle’s side that might have ruptured organs. Dingle flew until the rope went taut, jerking him back into a frenzied jiggle before the Khan. He coughed up blood, but the warming sensation immediately spread across his torso. His prayers that he might pass out went unanswered.
The Khan stepped closer, working his lower jaw. “Now, why did this Slud let ya go, runt?”
Dingle knew he was about to die, but he pictured the massive looming face of the troll above him, the dance of the forest fire reflected in the dark pits of eyes framed by two yellowed tusks. It gave him strength. “He t-t-told me to tell you a reckonin’s comin’ with the wind. He wwwanted you to know, the Blood Claw Clan has returned!”
Dingle hadn’t meant to shout that last part, stunned to hear the force and clarity of his own voice echoing back from the ceiling. A hushed silence fell over the hall. Even the Khan looked a little startled by the vehemence of his proclamation. Dingle shut his eyes as tightly as he could; he didn’t want to see what was about to happen. He’d served the Lord of Death well and was ready to meet his horrible end having delivered the message entrusted to him.
Then the nasal screech of the Herald interrupted from nearby. “How dare you raise your wretched voice to Mighty Arok Golden Wolf, Chief of the Rock Wolf Clan, King of the Mountain, and Khan of the Goblin Horde!”
Dingle kept his eyes clenched, waiting for the scrape of teeth on his throat and the foul humidity of the Khan’s mouth. Instead, he continued to hear the Herald’s furious proclamation.
“Miserable lying swine! The trolls were killed off decades ago, and Neither-Nor wouldn’t dare! You will die most grievously for your insolence, foul im—”
The Herald’s screech turned into a muffled scream. There was a crunch followed by a revolting gurgle. The screaming stopped. Dingle opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. A shocking fountain of blood spilled out of the Khan’s mouth as he held the Herald’s head within and worked his teeth through the neck. The wolves sprang away just before Dingle was bathed in the warm spray. The Khan grunted as he sawed at the neck bone with his jagged molars.
Dingle threw up into his nose when the Khan ripped the head off with a final crack. The King of the Mountain spit it out to tumble across the floor as the Herald’s twitching body flopped to the base of the stairs. Dingle averted his eyes, but the growing pool of red spread below him. The ledger had fallen unceremoniously in the middle of it, blood soaking through its precious pages.
The Khan was still standing before him, breathing like an enraged bull as the last few spurts pumped out of the ragged neck at his feet. No one else made a sound.
Dingle sneezed a splatter of his own sick into the air. He was sure he’d die in seconds, but the Khan turned back to the throne and climbed up to his bottle.
He gulped loudly until the jug upended and then tossed it to shatter on the bloody stones. The audience remained frozen as he slumped into his seat with a weary sigh and pointed to Harog. “You there, hairy scout.”
Harog looked like he might be sick as well. “My Khan?”
“Ya speak good, yer the new Herald . . . Hairy Herald I’ll call ya. Take yer ledger an’ fetch me another jug,” he commanded.
Harog didn’t know what to do, but doing nothing wasn’t an option. He hobbled into the pool of blood to retrieve the book and then scuffed off behind the throne to look for more ale, leaving a red streak behind his furry, dragging foot.
The Khan pointed at the feather-robed apprentice. Fixelcrick gulped and bowed.
“Bone Master still breathes?” the Khan asked.
The apprentice nodded. “Yes, but his brain’s broke.”
The Khan yawned and rubbed his jaw, wanting nothing more than to go back to his room and sleep. “This other hex doktor, the one at the fire, was betta than yer master?”
The apprentice nodded again. “She’d the strongest knack fer movin’ wind I’ve seen or heard of.”
“She?” the Khan asked.
This time the apprentice’s nod was more of a bow.
“So a witch, a giant, an’ Neither-Nor . . . Blood Claw Clan, eh?” He turned to meet Short-Fuse’s expectant gaze, and waved a dismissive hand toward Dingle. The dangling goblin fell headfirst to the wet stone with a yelp.
“I want me five thousand best Blades an’ Fangs ridin’ by end of day. Short-Fuse and Long-Pig, take them out yerself. Bring me heads of a witch, a giant, that fuckin’ scarred goblin, an’ anyone else who’s with them, or you’ll be danglin’ next.” The Khan spat toward the place where Dingle slumped. “But first, hang this one from a cage in Clan Center, an’ let the crows pick him clean.”
SLUD CLIMBED OUT of the blackened bowl of forest that surrounded the pond. The huge ax was strapped to his back between his new bearskin coat and the charred bag he’d left on the island while he’d gone below with the nixie. He glanced back down to the water, half hopin
g to see her unreadable gaze watching his progression, wondering if he’d made as much of an impression on her as she had on him. She was nowhere to be seen.
The valley smoldered, still and quiet save for the crackling of coals that had been trees. The wind had stopped, and the fire had moved on across the slope. Slud could see the towering flames from afar as they leapt from tree to tree along the ridge. He hoisted himself over the high cliff ledge and tossed Agnes’s burnt old sack to the earth, before removing the frigid ax from his shoulder and testing its swing. At first touch, the icy sting of it was almost too much to bear, but he breathed it in and the chill settled into his hands and moved deeper into his body. The cold pain made him feel alert and lethal.
He sent a horizontal chop into a nearby tree and was startled to see the blade pass all the way through the trunk and crack out the other side with an explosion of jagged splinters. Slud had to jump aside as the top came down with a loud crash. He chuckled and gave a nod in the general direction of his lost home before turning back to the bag.
Half the contents had marinated in lake water and the other half had baked to a crisp. He dumped it all out at his feet and sorted through it with a boot: the last few bites of soggy snake, the remnants of Agnes’s spiced meats, the now obsolete wood ax, his flint and steel, a couple jugs of Rock Wolf pine-ale, and the seared, pincushion body of Neither-Nor. An array of blades and arrows still stuck through him. The goblin’s head had clearly been above water; it was now browned and leathery below the red cap, which had been reduced to a crusty crumple. Slud removed the rune map scroll from where he’d buried it in the goblin’s pack, but the combination of water and fire had left it brittle and washed out beyond use. It came apart in his hands, and bits drifted over the ledge in the breeze. Damn.
Slud was tired of carrying the scrawny corpse, and he was going to stop now one way or another. He yanked out Groole’s curved sword first, then the arrow and spearhead, before tugging out the goblin’s own fighting blades, which Slud had buried in his chest for safekeeping. He tossed the pile of blades out of arm’s reach and stepped back with the battle-ax at the ready. Nothing happened.
