by Chris Sharp
“The Pack cannot fight an army. We defend our territory—attack fast and retreat before the enemy can regroup. Keep moving or die.”
“Chasing your tail like a common dog,” she hissed. “You sully the noble blood of your fathers.”
Luther’s ears swiveled forward, and he stood taller. “We are only nineteen hunters left; fewer than that wait for us back in the den. Last spring, only four small pups were born. Some of them will not last the winter.”
“Your seed is weak,” she said with a dark chuckle. “I can make you a potion to give you powerful sons, if you wish.”
The dormant growl that had been lingering in his gut climbed out, and the fur on his mane bristled. “Do not taunt me, witch.”
At once, Agnes rose up from her hunch to twice her previous height. Long, black, curving claws emerged from her sleeves, and the pine staff fell away at her side. “Hic-thnah drӓcht thu ghul,” she said.
It felt like the lash of a whip across Luther’s mind, and the other wolves immediately fell prostrate and whimpering. Luther snarled through the pain and held his ground—noticing that only the omega female also remained standing and defiant. The troll-hag gave her a look and chuckled again, flexing her claws before turning back to Luther.
“I do not ask, Wolf King . . . Perhaps I make you eat your friends until your stomach bursts, yes? Shall we test how much it takes to fill that ravenous hunger you carry?” But the pain in Luther’s mind receded, and the pitiful whimpering of his fellows ceased. When she spoke again, the words were softer, though the threat behind them had not diminished. “Forces move against the clan soon, and you will move with them one way or another.”
Luther shook off her lingering presence in his mind with a snarl. “You mean your pet troll? Doesn’t even know you live, yet he follows your bidding.”
The hag smiled with something resembling pride. “He was sent to me by the mountain itself. It is not my bidding he follows.”
“He’s been sent to his death,” Luther countered.
Agnes shrugged. “That is up to him, I merely point the direction and help to clear the way.” She turned back to the omega female who continued her vigilant stance. “Make this one your bitch, Wolf King, and a pup will follow to deserve that blood you carry.” She raised her arms at her sides, and the bitter wind gusted again. “When the snow’s piled high, and the fire’s cleaved their number in two—you will strike or I will return to take back the gift I’ve given you.”
With that, the wind took hold of her, lifting her from the slope to disappear into the snow-filled sky.
TWELVE: Drink Before the War
A SYMPHONY of high-pitched chirps rose and fell behind Fixelcrick in a steady wave. The male crickets made the sound by rubbing their wings together. Most of the time it was just a mad cacophony of competitive noise, but every so often the various calls aligned to form a sort of undulating music. It happened rarely, but when it did it was usually followed with a breakthrough in Fixelcrick’s studies.
It had started snowing on his return from the hanging cages, but the perpetually large fire in the hearth kept the room hot. He’d always been better at manipulating fire than air. The warmth made the male crickets horny and loud as they claimed little territories throughout the pen and tried to attract mates. Almost a thousand of them covered the moss-, stick-, and stone-clad terrain he’d built. Even more remained beneath, in the dense maze of dens they’d dug in the hard-packed earth. Some had long since leapt over the thatch wall, making homes amid the books and bed sheets. Fixelcrick had learned to live with them, but the other two apprentices assigned to the space had fled for other housing. Now that he was the de facto chief of the hex doktors, he wouldn’t have to worry about roommates again.
He assessed his prized possession; the feathered coat hung on a gold hook in front of him. Outer left wing could use a fuller reach. He peeled his eyes from his life’s work and dropped the dead grackle into the gold basin on the table. He used golden tweezers to pluck the longest feather he could find, and he leaned over the thatch wall to snatch a couple of noisy bull crickets midchirp. Fixelcrick rubbed the shiny back of the first against the spine of the feather—up and down its length repeatedly before he tossed the bug in his mouth with a crunch. The cricket oil kept the feathers shiny and free of parasites, and to stay pure he’d been on a strict diet of nothing but crickets and water for months. The second cricket he brushed against the black vanes of the feather until it took on a bluish sheen in the firelight. He examined his work, turning it this way and that. Satisfied, he tossed that cricket back to the pen to sing and breed another day.
He was fastidious about every addition he made to the coat; his masterwork was almost complete. The gold needle and thread waited on the table beside the basin, but as always he needed a little blood for the quill end of the feather before he stitched it in place. Usually he pricked a finger with a needle for that purpose, but on a hunch he went back to his satchel and took out the little cork-stopped vial he’d used to collect a sample of the doomed goblin scout’s blood. He held the glass tube before the fire and gave it a shake; it looked like regular blood.
Bone Master twitched on the bed in the corner as the old goblin’s endless muttering took on a more fervent tone. The withered old fellow’s remaining eye stared through the ceiling like it wasn’t there. Before that morning, the master had shown the greatest knack for the arts that Fixelcrick had ever known, but the witch who had done this to him wielded the wind like the warlocks of legend. She had to be the same witch that the little goblin, Dingle, had seen at the burned house—the same one who had concocted the potion that Dingle had tasted.
Fixelcrick had watched as the cut he’d made across Dingle’s chest had resealed in minutes. He’d never seen anything like it before. He removed the stopper from the vial and dipped the sharp point of the feather in to dye the tip red. The gold thread slid through the needle with practiced precision, and Fixelcrick pierced the quill just above the blood line and dragged the thread through. He moved to the coat with a bowed head as he tied an intricate knot, and knelt beside the draped layers with a low note vibrating in his diaphragm.
His nimble hands brought the feather to its place along the outer row and began to stitch it into the patchwork lining. He worked quickly, binding it with thread and intent to the feathers in the row beside it. With the last knot he leaned over and kissed the new addition, just as he had all the others before it.
Usually, he’d put the coat on to activate it and assess his work, but this time the feathers began to ruffle and twitch of their own accord. A jagged-toothed grin cracked across his face as the long flaps of the coat flared like a couple of wings readying for takeoff. He couldn’t wait. He grabbed it from the hanger and slid his arms through the draped sleeves, immediately feeling the energy swell around him. The coat was alive; it wanted to fly. Fixelcrick didn’t need to call the spirits of the air to master the wind. With his far-seeing eye, he peered out the small window they used for sunlight rituals and picked out the little caged goblin high up in the shadows of the Clan tree.
Of course, that was when one of the Khan’s idiot lackeys banged on the door with something metallic and heavy. Fixelcrick had little patience for clan duties on a normal day; interruption now was inexcusable. His grin turned to a sneer as he marched to the wooden door and flung it open. “Fuck you want?”
The runner averted his eyes to avoid the piercing stare of the far-seer, and the spindly goblin spoke with emotionless clarity. “Arokkhan says Chief Doktor’s gotta report to Short-Fuse at the front.” He turned and ran away before Fixelcrick could respond.
Fixelcrick snarled at his back, wishing a pox on him and his family, before slamming the door and latching it again. He glanced over to Bone Master, still muttering and trembling, and then to the vial of blood waiting in the gold basin beside the grackle. In a flurry of activity he dove into his desk, tearing through drawers of paper, charms, jars, and bobbles. In the third drawer he foun
d the little wooden box he was looking for.
He hurried to the basin and opened the box to reveal a delicate syringe of gold and glass within. There wasn’t much of Dingle’s blood left, but the syringe sucked up what remained. The Master’s voice rose up in an indecipherable string. “Hic-thnah shuk-tuk decrahn hӗcht,” he blurted, just before the fire flared oddly and the crickets went silent.
Fixelcrick froze. He didn’t know the words, but he could tell they held the Knack. The air itself seemed charged with potential as he eyed the old goblin, waiting for something more. But the prone figure remained prone, and the fire receded as the muttering returned to hushed whispers. The crickets began to chirp again, but no longer did their individual songs rise and fall in unison.
The master’s words had sounded like those whispered from afar by the witch in the wind. Everything led back to her. Fixelcrick could inject Bone Master; maybe he could revive him so that he would have to answer the Khan’s demands and leave the first apprentice to his important work. Instead, he jabbed the needle into the heart of the dead grackle and pushed the plunger.
Nothing happened for a long moment . . . then a wing twitched. The bird’s beak opened, and its drooping neck ticked upright. Fixelcrick’s big eye widened further as the grackle began to screech and flutter frantically. Its yellow eyes darted about the room in terror. The grackle knocked the basin over and fell to the floor, its wings and legs flailing as it skittered across the dirt. Fixelcrick danced away with a shriek of his own, and grabbed a bucket from beside the fire. The handle was hot enough to burn his fingers, but he held on anyway as he brought it up and smashed it down on the screaming bird again and again. Finally, with the third dull thud, the reanimated beast stopped moving, and he dropped the makeshift weapon at his side with a hard swallow.
He stared at the twice-dead thing, waiting for it to move again. When it didn’t, his eyes moved across the floor to the syringe lying in the dirt beneath the table. He needed more of Dingle’s blood. Fuck me master. I’ll show the Khan what a real warlock can do!
SLUD BRUSHED SNOW from his bearskin coat and peered out from between the sagging limbs of a towering white pine. The flakes were coming down wet and heavy, and the long-reaching branches were bent all the way to the ground, providing some protection from the wind and the eyes of the enemy.
Neither-Nor couldn’t sit still, busying himself with cutting away some of the smaller branches and shoring up the tight perimeter. He tried to block out the fact that thousands of his sworn enemies were marching by only a few hundred paces away.
Slud watched as the last of the riders ambled out of the clan compound followed by a ragtag collection of goblins banging on drums without the faintest notion of rhythm. The tall gate began to swing shut again behind them, and Slud was half tempted to break cover, slide down the last little drop to the lower ridge, and make a run for it. Instead, Neither-Nor whacked him across the back with a severed branch, and he turned around to eye the ornery little bastard.
“So sorry, ya majesty,” the goblin muttered. “Don’t wish to interrupt yer important stare down of that army ya wanna pick a fight with.” He jammed the branch into the snow to block a hole in the cover. “No doubt they’re quakin’ in their saddles just feelin’ those hard eyes upon ’em.”
Slud chuckled on his way to the trunk and flopped down to the cold earth beside it. “Quit fidgetin’ ’n’ take a seat, goblin. Rock Wolf ain’t gonna see us here, ’n’ de cold ain’t gonna back off cause ya stuck a few twigs in de way.”
“Good thing ya found us a spot where we can’t have a fire then, ain’t it, ya big genius?” the goblin countered. “Half the fuckin’ forest’s burnin’, but we’re sittin’ damp-assed in the cold a stone’s throw from a few thousand killers.”
Slud didn’t bother with a response, instead digging through his sack to retrieve the two jugs of pine ale he’d taken from Groole’s dead crew. He tossed one to the goblin and bit the cork off the other. He spat it away and took the first stinging swig of the spicy brew. He actually missed the foul taste and unpredictable effects of Agnes’s mushroom additives, but the harsh booze sent the warming sensation through him that he was looking for.
Neither-Nor frowned before biting the cork from the other jug and taking a seat against the tree beside Slud. “So this is the big plan, eh? Walk up to the front door and get drunk. Fuckin’ brilliant.” The goblin shut his mouth with a few hard gulps and a soft shiver.
Slud still wanted to hit something with his new ax, but he was starting to appreciate Neither-Nor’s unflaggingly negative demeanor. He’d never actually spent this much time with anyone besides Agnes before. The huge double-bladed head was ringing expectantly on the ground at his side, but he took another gulp of the harsh brew and wiped the drip with the back of his cold hand. The ax would have to wait just a little while longer.
The ale had rancid clumps of fermented pine needles in it and burned going down. Slud had always preferred the sweat and scorch of a good fire, but with a little booze the cold didn’t bother him much either. Agnes had made him spend a few nights naked and alone in the Iron Wood every winter since he was five. Each time, she’d dose him with another of her potions first, modifying the concoction as he’d grown accustomed to the torture. The last few years she’d started getting creative before sending him into the cold, just to add a challenge. Once she’d cut him across his back with a jagged knife, and another time she’d starved him for a week leading up to the test. Last winter she’d blown a powder made from dried flowers into his eyes before kicking him down the snowy steps. He couldn’t see anything for a full day and night as a freak blizzard pounded their little valley, as if called down by Agnes herself.
“So, ya was at de battle ’tween de Moon Blades ’n’ Blood Claws, eh?” Slud asked.
The scarred goblin gave him a hateful glance between gulps. “Yeah, I was there . . . Trolls like to raise up for an overhead smash with yer stupid, two-handed weapons. I slide in low and open up yer bellies with me moon blade ’fore ya can swing. Spilled five sets o’ steamin’ guts at me feet ’fore yer big fuckin’ king cut me in two.” He raised the jug in a toast. “Last thing I remember ’fore a Moon Blade doktor found me and put me two halves back together.”
The drums and howls sounded muffled and distant beyond the branches and snow. “Big troll dat killed ya—he got nine claws on ’im?” Slud asked.
“How the fuck’d I know? Wasn’t countin’ the nasty fucker’s fingers.” Neither-Nor spat, and a clump of snow fell from a branch beside him.
“He cut ya down wit’ a big-ass sword look like it’s on fire?”
Neither-Nor lowered the jug and fingered the hilt of his curved knife with his far hand. “Yeah. That’s right . . . What d’ya know about it?”
Slud chuckled, deep and mean. “Was Slud’s pop killed ya dat time.”
Neither-Nor grabbed the blade and brought it up fast, but Slud just took another swig and looked down at him. “Bad angle, ’n’ Slud’s neck’s tough . . . Betta be sure ya get t’rough it wit’ de first swing, frien’.”
Neither-Nor dropped the blade and snarled. “We ain’t fuckin’ friends. I showed ya where the Rock Wolf lives like ya asked, now lemme go. Time to put yer infernal breed back in me nightmares where ya belong.”
“Nah, drink up, goblin. Slud likes yer company, ’n’ we ain’t done just yet.” Slud took a drink himself. “Ya got lucky wit’ dat stab in de back from de big goblin yesterday. See, Slud left a spot empty o’ yer letters just over ya spine, here.” He leaned away from the tree and jabbed a thumb into the small of his own back above the belt to show where. “Fret not, Slud’s got yur map hid away safe if ya do just one more li’l t’ing to help him on his way.”
The blood drained from Neither-Nor’s face. He looked like he might scream. “Gimme the map, ya fuckin’ lyin’ swine!” He stood, still not reaching up to Slud’s chest even though the troll was seated. His hand groped at his back, feeling for the scars of the runes cut
there, searching for the hole. “I only came with ya cause ya said ya did me whole!”
“Quiet, li’l fella.” Slud brought a finger to his tusked maw and motioned toward the hidden army that continued to march beyond the branch wall. “Dem bad wolves got good hearin’.”
“I swear to whatever gods might listen, I’m gonna see ya dead before this is through, troll!” Neither-Nor whisper-shouted.
“Might be,” Slud answered. “But when Slud was watchin’ de march, ain’t no Khan walked out of dem doors wit’ dat army.”
“So fuckin’ what?” Neither-Nor sat back down in a huff and chugged his ale.
“So, dat leaves de Khan sittin’ in his big hall wit’ all his blades out stuck in de snow, pissin’ at fires ’n’ lookin’ fer us,” Slud said with a wicked smile creeping across his face.
“Yeah, so?”
“So, dis ax’ll chop t’rough dat wall in seconds. Slud’ll cut down de Khan ’fore his big fuckin’ clan even knows what ’appened.”
“That’s it, eh? All figured out, easy as pie,” Neither-Nor said. “Then ya don’t need me fer nothin’.”
“Oh, dere’s plenty o’ guards still mannin’ dose towers ’n’ watchin’ dat hall. No doubt, dey got horns ’n’ bells fer callin’ home de troops right quick. Slud saw ya ’gainst dat huntin’ party. Ya kill good, goblin. Yer fast ’n’ quiet, ’n’ dat’s what Slud needs to grease de way. Yer blades, ’n’ dis ax, we’ll take dat t’rone ’fore anyone’s de wiser.” Slud raised his jug in the direction of the clan, and tilted back the swill with a gulp. He felt nice and warm. “Ya do dat, ’n’ de map’s yers. Hell, Slud’ll finish ya up proper hisself. Take wha’ever ya want when it’s t’rough, or ya can stay on, be head goblin just like ya used to.”
Neither-Nor had a glassy look as he chugged the last few gulps of his own jug. He tossed the empty bottle in the snow, a little disappointed that it didn’t break. “Yer fuckin’ mad as a foamin’ weasel, ain’t ya?”
