Cold Counsel

by Chris Sharp

  Slud thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “Yeah, may very well be.”

  THIRTEEN: Elements of Surprise

  SHORT-FUSE HATED wolves. When he and Long-Pig had first come to the mountain looking for employment with the ruling clan of the horde, they hadn’t taken into account the origins of the clan name. Rock wolves, to his thinking, were filthy, mean-spirited dogs undeserving of the food and space wasted on them, let alone a place of reverence—blazoned on every banner and seated at the foot of the Khan’s throne. For the fat goblin and his tall, mute friend, riding on the bony, stinking backs of these wretched beasts was akin to torture.

  Morning’s light had finally come. Short-Fuse had spent the night freezing, wet, and miserable. His ass felt like it had been hit repeatedly with a club. The wolf beneath him struggled with every step, sinking up to the top of its legs in the heavy snow. Short-Fuse’s boots left a trail on both sides, and his toes had gone numb. Some of the goblins around him spoke to their mounts by name, but the toad-faced goblin didn’t care if his wolf was a he or a she—only an it. He jammed the heel of his boot into its side again, daring it to snarl or look back. “Get a fuckin’ move on, mutt.”

  After hours of such abuse, his boot had ripped away all the fur in that spot, leaving a surprisingly pale patch of bald skin. His latest heel-strike had drawn blood, but not enough for his liking. Short-Fuse fingered the handle of one of his hatchets and imagined swinging it into the wolf’s skull: the dull thunk of the blade through bone, and that first spurt of blood. Then the way its legs would give out as his weight drove its snout down into the snow. The thought of all that white powder soaking red sent a twinge to his balls. Aside from a little torture and a couple beatings, he hadn’t gotten to dole out any really good violence for a couple days. It made him antsy.

  He wanted to see this “troll” for himself. Prob’ly jus’ a big goblin in need of a bad death. He’d see how big it was once he’d hurled a couple hatchets into its chest. And if Neither-Nor had really returned, Short-Fuse would relish watching Long-Pig eat the scarred goblin’s flesh.

  He’d seen his cold-minded compatriot down an entire corpse over the course of a day. Once, a few years back, when they’d worked for the Yellow Fang Clan, the two of them had murdered a real shitsack of a goblin merchant with powerful friends, and Long-Pig had disposed of that body even faster. Afterward, the silent killer had ground the merchant’s bones into dust and added it to his gruel the next morning. Even the legendary Neither-Nor wouldn’t come back from that.

  Short-Fuse blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on the wolf’s fur as he scanned the woods ahead. They’d been told to expect the full attack of an entire clan, but so far there’d been nothing else moving on the mountain except the wind and cold. He wasn’t even sure where they were going, just moving forward until someone attacked—more like a big herd of idiot sheep than a pack of wolves.

  The goblins at the edges of the loose formation had been jumping at shadows all night. They all knew the story of how the elves had tried to erase the Blood Claw name from history twenty years past. The old tales of vicious giants and the terrifying magick of the troll-hags came back now, hovering uneasily in their thoughts as the trees creaked and the wind howled around them. With all their wealth and long unchallenged power, the Rock Wolf Clan had gotten soft and lazy. Only a few of the wide-ranging hunting packs had seen any real combat in years. Short-Fuse doubted there was a goblin among the thousands of warriors behind him who could take him in a fight—except Long-Pig, of course.

  Some of them were big enough and certainly looked the part, with their shiny weapons and tough costumes, but when it came down to it, they’d all rather be drinking by a good fire than spilling guts in the cold. Short-Fuse agreed with the drinking and cold parts, but he’d never be able to give up gut-spilling. Violence was the only thing that had ever truly made sense to him.

  How the hell had someone put him and Long-Pig in charge of an army? They despised armies. Rules and marching had never been their thing. Usually, if someone tried to tell them what to do, they’d kill them before the day was done. But this time around, he and Long-Pig had put up with the Khan’s degenerating behavior for almost a year. No one else had ever willingly provided such time and space to really experiment with killing. The Khan had an inspired flair for doling out pain, and he liked it slow and messy, which worked just fine for them. Now they lived in the warmth and comfort of the Big Boss’s great hall, killing by day and drinking to oblivion every night. It was the best their lives had ever been and they didn’t want to lose it, but this army shit was beginning to test their patience.

  Short-Fuse had seen the Khan’s fickle whim turn on his closest advisors and trusted friends more than once. If this cold march was a test, Short-Fuse was pretty sure that he was failing. He’d gotten too used to the indoor life, more than happy to forgo the hardships of the elements. Long-Pig never complained, but Short-Fuse had already stopped the advance three times that night to piss, stretch, and try to pick a fight. The fat goblin looked over his shoulder at the few thousand would-be killers riding behind him, then back to his only friend. They’d given Long-Pig the biggest wolf the breeders could find, but it still looked absurd beneath his gangly form. The goblin’s dark, dead eyes looked over at Short-Fuse’s scowl, and he gave a tiny nod. That was the most emotion Short-Fuse had seen from him in weeks.

  Long-Pig set his dead eyes ahead once more, and stopped his wolf abruptly with a hard tug on its neck fur. He jerked his square chin, and Short-Fuse followed to see the advance scout slogging his way back through the snow toward them. The heat from the forest fire turned the snow into dense mist that clawed through the woods at the scout’s back. It almost looked like it was reaching out to swallow him up as his wolf fought to outpace its grip. The blaze made the mist glow orange behind him. Somehow, the fire had been unfazed by the foot of snow that had fallen that night.

  Short-Fuse put his hand up to stop the advance again, and immediately stumbled off his mount with a groan. His thighs burned, and it felt like there was a rock lodged in the small of his back. Many others also dismounted with a wave of grumbles—half of which might very well have been directed at him. Most of them knew not to test his reputation, but hopefully someone would say something this time.

  The scout’s wolf struggled up an incline to the front of the march. Goblins down the line pointed toward Short-Fuse, and the scout changed directions. His wolf’s heavy panting sent bursts of steam into the air as he approached. “What’d ya see?” Short-Fuse asked.

  The scout shivered and his eyes were wide, but he still dipped his head in a bow before he spoke. “There’s things in the fire, moving from tree to tree. I dint get too close.”

  Short-Fuse gave Long-Pig a glance and got nothing back. “What ya mean, things?”

  “They’re fast, an’ black, don’t touch the ground neither; just jumpin’.” He made a leaping motion with his hand between two trees.

  Short-Fuse considered killing the scout, but he couldn’t see how to explain it. Instead, he turned to the goblin on his other side. This one was broad-shouldered and had clearly seen some combat. He had a battered war hammer strapped to his back and a large iron ring through his nose. The army seemed to do whatever he said, but he never seemed to have much to say. Short-Fuse was pretty sure he was the clan War Boss, but he hadn’t bothered getting his name yet. “You, where’s the hex doktor?”

  The War Boss shrugged. “Told someone to send someone to get ’im hours ago.”

  “Yeah?”

  The War Boss shrugged again. “Usually Harog deals wit’ all dat.”

  “Where the fuck’s Harog?” Short-Fuse asked.

  The War Boss furrowed his heavy brow, notched with a thick line of scar. “Heard Khan made ’im Herald now.”

  Short-Fuse felt his face getting red. He was keenly aware of the weight and feel of the two hatchets holstered at his sides. “Well, what ya normally do wit’ a fire, and things jumpin’
in trees?”

  War Boss was trying not to shrug, but then he shrugged anyway. “Don’t know ’bout dat. Don’t sound right.”

  Short-Fuse was quickly becoming apoplectic. After marching through a blizzard all night to get here, no one actually had a clue what to do once they’d arrived. He looked to Long-Pig for something, anything, but his friend kept his gaze locked on the orange fog.

  The fat goblin turned back to the stupid expression that waited on the face of the War Boss. “Then get down there and look yerself.”

  The War Boss looked for a moment like he was going to say something. Short-Fuse rolled his feet, trying to regain feeling; his fingers tapped the handle of one of the hatchets. The War Boss thought better of it, and turned to the goblin beside him. “Send a pack o’ twenty down. Groole’s group.”

  The other goblin shook his head. “Groole’s group’s dead, rememba?”

  “Right . . . Filch’s crew den?” the War Boss suggested.

  The far goblin turned around on his wolf to shout. “Gemme Filch’s pack up front, now!”

  More shouting traveled through the ranks, and slowly the group parted to allow a ragtag collection of twenty mounted goblins to the front. Filch had his long brown hair tied up in a ridiculous topknot, and the tiny mosquito bites of his eyes were so far apart on his face that he looked like some kind of moron. “Yeah?” he said to the War Boss as the goblins around him grumbled and wiped their runny noses.

  “Scout says somethin’s in de trees.” The War Boss shrugged. “Get down to de fire an’ see what’s what. Give ’em spears an’ arrows, an’ a horn blow when it’s done.” He pointed lazily toward the orange glow.

  Short-Fuse didn’t like the look of this Filch, and Filch didn’t look too happy with the War Boss. Filch frowned as he turned back to the nineteen expectant goblins around him and unhooked a spear from the side of his wolf. “Bows an’ spears, lads. Go slow an’ look to the trees.”

  Short-Fuse yawned as the twenty exhausted wolves carried the cut-rate goblins into the mist. He snatched his last wine-sack from the back of his wolf and took a few hard gulps. As the advance pack was absorbed by the gloom, he half hoped he’d never have to see them again. It was too cold and uncomfortable to even feel the effects of the wine anymore, but he was already eyeing some of the surrounding goblins’ sacks for the return journey. Privilege of bein’ in charge.

  The breeze shifted, carrying the stink of wood smoke and brimstone. He wrinkled his nose. His wolf started to growl. A wave of palpable unease spread through the ranks, but Short-Fuse didn’t give it a moment’s thought—until Long-Pig drew his big curving scimitar. “What’s the problem, Pig? Somethin’ in them trees?” he whispered.

  The answer came with muffled yells and the sound of bowstrings releasing ahead, quickly followed by the screams of goblins and the high-pitched yelps of wolves. The orange glow flared brighter in a few indistinct spots, and the screaming stopped. One growing flare emerged from the mist amid a pitiful string of whimpers. It was a wolf engulfed in flames, trying to outpace the agony that silenced it a few frantic strides later. It slumped to the snow, but somehow the flames kept burning around the charring, hairless corpse.

  Another hazy tree went up in the mist, its black, clawing lines instantly cloaked in fire as if the wood was soaked in oil; then another, and the one beside that, coming closer. Short-Fuse dropped the wine-sack and gripped the handles of his hatchets as the goblins around him also unsheathed blades and drew bows. Long-Pig calmly dismounted from his wolf and took the scimitar in both hands.

  Short-Fuse followed Pig’s gaze to the large black creature that vaulted through the mist to the next tree before it burst into flames like the others. The thing looked like some sort of giant lizard, with creases in its obsidian hide that glowed like cinders. Its tongue burned white-hot as it licked the air, and a fresh spiral of smoke swallowed it again. Short-Fuse took a couple steps back, bumping into the snout of the wolf behind him.

  “Ge’ ready to fire, boys!” the War Boss shouted.

  But then another of the burning things shot from the mist and landed in the instantly boiling snow farther down the line. Even from five paces out, the closest riders began to smoke and shriek. Bows and spears flew haphazardly before the War Boss got a chance to yell, “Fire!” With a darting step, the lizard charged, and the riders that stood before it were engulfed in flame.

  Panic spread throughout the ranks, and Short-Fuse picked up the pace as he backed away through the ebbing throng of fighters without a moment’s concern for tactics or morale. Long-Pig was moving back with him, seeing the same futility in standing his ground when there were other goblins to burn.

  The tree just ahead of the line went up like a flaming geyser, and more goblin voices rose in terrified wails. This was no attacking clan; this was devil’s work. Short-Fuse turned to run but stumbled back as a flutter of black feathers dropped from the sky, and the warlock apprentice came to his feet before him. The feathered goblin’s evil eye looked wider than ever as he stepped toward the fire lizards with a burning branch in one hand and a blood-filled syringe in the other.

  FIXELCRICK HAD NEVER been so afraid in his life. His hands shook as he forced his legs to step closer. He needed to show the Khan that he was ready to be Chief Doktor, to show the witch that he was worthy of her teaching; this was the only way. He took a deep breath and jammed the needle of the syringe straight through his breastplate and into his heart. Before he could second-guess it, he squeezed the plunger and felt a hot tingle course through his body—then the pain hit.

  He had to cough, but found that he couldn’t. It was like an electric current rocketing through his veins and sparking every nerve ending. He’d dissected a few bodies throughout his studies and knew the ways his blood flowed within, but never had he been so instantly aware of every faculty and function of his inner design.

  All at once, his heart jolted into a hard sprint, and he felt like he was drifting upward to the point of disassociation with his body. But his thoughts remained clear and focused as his arm raised the burning branch over his head and he slipped into the old goblin tongue with an ear for pronunciation he’d never possessed before.

  SHORT-FUSE TRIPPED on a wolf leg and wound up in the snow. Without thinking, he swung one of his hatchets and chopped the offending leg in two. The wolf and rider tumbled in a mess of blood and flailing, but Short-Fuse stayed down beside them as a scorching wind washed over their position. Riders scrambled back on both sides as more screaming voices rose at the front.

  Only the feathered goblin advanced into the heat, stepping over Short-Fuse with a syringe buried in his chest, the burning twig held high, and strings of spit and gibberish flowing from his mouth. The air around the hex doktor crackled, and Short-Fuse could feel his hair stand on end as he passed. The downed goblin beside him was hollering angrily as he tried to free his leg from under the wolf. Short-Fuse silenced his yammering with a short swing of the other hatchet. He could smell cooked meat and burnt hair, and he felt his own cheek beginning to crisp.

  He’d lost Long-Pig in the commotion of legs and arms, but the young warlock stepped toward the fire lizard undaunted. He’d always thought that the black-feathered apprentice was almost as creepy as the Bone Master he served. The apprentice locked his evil eye on the closest lizard and inexplicably lowered the burning branch to the snow.

  FROM ON HIGH, Agnes could see over the outer stockade of the clan compound, and she did not like what she saw. She’d had the spirits of the air drop her among the highest branches of one of the thousand-year-old pines at the base of the ridge. One of her hooked hands gripped the trunk as she leaned out for a better vantage. She hadn’t expected to see so many wolves and warriors left within the compound. Bowmen walked the walls and manned every tower, a hundred warriors waited just within the front door, and two packs of heavily armed riders sat at either side of the inner gate to the Khan’s hall.

  The troll’s tracks passed the base of the tree far b
elow with the comparatively tiny prints of his goblin companion alongside. She’d heard of the scarred goblin’s exploits in her previous life: Neither-Nor, the troll slayer, fastest blade on the mountain. With him, maybe Slud could stand a chance at taking out the Khan. Perhaps the goblin killer had been sent by the mountain itself to aid their cause.

  Still, the hubris of the young troll to think that the two of them could take on the entire remaining clan was confounding. Perhaps he is not ready after all?

  She watched as the two renegade fighters emerged from the wood far below to survey the fortress before them. She could not guess what the troll had planned next, but even from the distance she could feel the bravado wafting off him—as if he somehow believed he possessed the upper hand. All she could do now was add more chaos to the fray and see how resourceful her pupil could be. A hard wind would soften the goblin nerves before she turned the cowed wolves upon their masters in the streets.

  But a murmuring in the air drew her attention away. Agnes swung around to peer toward the smoke and clamor in the far distance. Something there worked against her fire minions; someone dared challenge her mastery of the arts. She shut her eyes to listen and heard the old goblin language spoken in the wind. Another clan warlock thinks he’s got talent.

  She would show them that no one of this age could defy her pull on the elements.

  FOURTEEN: Blood Pressure

  THE INFERNAL TRAIL of the demon lizards cut deeper into the Rock Wolf ranks; fire splitting the army in two, just as the night-hag had foretold. The Wolf King watched them dart forward through the crowd as nearby bodies charred and burst with their insides boiling over in an instant. Goblins and wolves scrambled away in a frantic press of meat. The few arrows and spears that launched true burned away before reaching the black lava hides, but most of the goblin missiles flew wild and struck other screaming Rock Wolves. The chaos of it was too much for Luther to resist.