Cold Counsel

by Chris Sharp

He leaned around the tree further, his hand gripping the trunk with hooked talons at the end of his long fingers. Now his arms were young and strong, with obsidian skin stretched taut over lean muscle. This was not some vision of the ancient past. This was today—moments ago.

  He looked back to the tree line, waiting for something with hungry expectation . . . Finally, a figure emerged from behind the largest tree and swung a massive battle-ax to his shoulder. It was the troll, and Fixelcrick knew this was Slud of the Blood Claw Clan, last of his kind.

  Fixelcrick had no idea what the lad might do next. It had been centuries since he’d been truly surprised, but this troll, his adopted son, never ceased to confound him. Slud was perhaps even more brazen in his actions than the Demon Wolf had been. All of Fixelcrick’s plans, all of the training and toil for twenty years, all of it likely wasted on the next few minutes—

  Fixelcrick jammed the second plunger into his heart and broke out of the vision with a desperate shout: “NO!” The word reverberated within his head and across the woods, and he immediately fell from the invisible hold. His chin smacked into his knee in the landing with a burst of white across his vision. He slumped to the side with a pitiful groan. His face pressed to the hot earth as the kick and tingle of Dingle’s blood swept through him again.

  He was himself once more, but only because of the thinned trace of her potion. His heart raced as he lurched to his feet and found the piggy eyes of the goblin called Short-Fuse staring back.

  The wind had stopped blowing, and the mist no longer swirled with menace. He knew this was not the attack—this was only a diversion. Fixelcrick stumbled up to Short-Fuse, his far-seeing eye looking through him, beyond, still seeing the clan compound from on high, unaware and unready for whatever was coming. He tried to shake off the lingering effects of the assault, but his psyche had been stretched thin, ready to snap at the smallest provocation.

  “It’s a trap, a trick to draw us away from the compound. Clan’s under attack. The troll, Neither-Nor, they’re there.” Fixelcrick wasn’t sure his words made sense; he still heard the ancient tongue of the giants echoing in his head.

  But Short-Fuse’s eyes widened and settled on the black feathered robes. He raised one of the hatchets ever so slightly. “Coat lets ya fly?”

  Fixelcrick wiped his nose and smeared blood across his cheek. He nodded.

  Short-Fuse reached over and pulled the syringe from Fixelcrick’s chest. “And would it work fer anybody?”

  This time Fixelcrick didn’t respond as the scary, mute goblin with the big sword stepped behind him.

  FIFTEEN: Chop, Chop

  THEY COULD HAVE snuck back into the trees and made off without anyone taking notice, or at least waited until night to try to sneak in through the shadows. Instead, the lunatic troll rolled his neck and took off the absurd bearskin coat. He spat into his hands and took up the ax again with a last look at the compound wall a couple hundred paces away.

  “Don’t fuckin’ do what I think yer doin’,” said Neither-Nor.

  But Slud grinned as he cocked the ax and swung into the base of the monstrous tree with a loud thwack that echoed across the ridge.

  Neither-Nor was still a little drunk, but he sobered instantly. It was the damndest thing the goblin had ever seen. “Ya crazy fuckin’ bastard! Ya just killed us!”

  Slud ripped the ax out of the tree and swung again with an even louder thwack. The broad blade disappeared completely into the wood. This time, when he ripped it back out, a thick wedge of wet tree came with it—big enough to have felled any normal-sized trunk already.

  Neither-Nor looked up; this tree was far from normal, wider than the best house he’d ever lived in and stretching higher than most birds cared to fly. The scarred goblin had never seen its better save for the giant pine that the Rock Wolf compound had been built around. Slud seemed to be aiming this tree at that one.

  The heads of guards started to pop up above the sharpened logs of the stockade. After the third echoing thwack, a horn blew from somewhere behind the wall.

  “Dey’ll be comin’,” said Slud between strikes. “Yer blockin’ arrows fer de bot’ of us ’n’ killin’ wha’ever gets close.” He struck again with another resonant thwack.

  “Fuck.” Neither-Nor turned back to the wall and gave his knives a spin. Another horn blew, and the sound of harsh yelling carried from within.

  Slud kept working at a steady pace, unhurried but relentless. Already four heavy wedges had been ripped from the trunk, then five, but there was an ominous thump followed by a resounding creak at the front gate to coincide with his next strike.

  Neither-Nor could see a siege crossbow being set up on the closest tower. Other goblins with longbows were lining up along the wall. “Fuck.”

  The first arrow flew from the wall a moment later. It fell thirty paces short of their position—just a test shot to gauge the distance as the creaking of the front gate continued.

  “What’s the plan once that tree comes down?” Neither-Nor asked. The troll didn’t answer, lost in the rhythm of the ax while the pile of cleaved wood grew at his feet.

  Riders on wolves began to appear from around the corner tower—first just a couple, milling about in the snow with their eyes on the action, but soon a full pack of twenty had come into view amid a flurry of snarls and shouts.

  “Fuck.” Neither-Nor was beginning to think he should forget his map and make a run for it, though he doubted he could climb back up to Luther’s ridge before the Rock Wolves caught him. Another couple arrows whistled out of the sky, each disappearing into the snow up to the fletching. The closest was only ten paces away.

  The riders made their way along the wall for a pending charge as more shouts brought all the bows above them cocked toward the sky. The bows released at once, and a swarm of arrows launched in a high arc.

  Neither-Nor tracked the approach—at least half lacked the power to reach them, and half of the rest were aimed poorly, but five or so were dropping fast. He ducked one as he skipped back toward the troll with a last-second leap. He clipped two arrows from the air as three more sank into the snow nearby.

  Neither-Nor ducked again, just before Slud’s ax swung back an inch above his red cap. The troll didn’t notice or slow the chopping, having already hacked out a gap in the tree big enough for Neither-Nor to stand in.

  The goblin scampered away with a sneer before returning his eyes to the wall. “Yer fuckin’ welcome,” he muttered, just as the giant crossbow released and an eight-foot javelin hurtled their way. This one flew with little arc, and Neither-Nor didn’t have time to react before it sailed over his head and buried itself in the trunk of the tree just a few feet to the side of the troll.

  Slud glanced over his shoulder with a frown, but didn’t miss a beat as another wide chunk of blond wood ripped out with the ax. “Do betta.”

  Neither-Nor cracked a shoulder and gave the moon blade a spin as the next volley launched from the long bows. This time, only three of them found the range. Neither-Nor ducked the first and cut the second from the air, but the third was meant for Slud’s head. The goblin leapt back and tossed the moon blade spinning straight up. The hilt clipped the arrow midair and knocked it off course to clatter uselessly against the tree. Neither-Nor caught the knife and grinned.

  The grin failed when the siege crossbow fired again. His instincts took over as he dropped into a crouch and leapt as high as he could with the moon blade swinging in an upward arc. The blade caught the thick shaft at the peak of his swing, and the momentum of the missile ripped the knife from his hand. Both spun away, buzzing Slud’s head again before they landed quietly in the snow. The troll glanced over his shoulder at the tower and smacked his lip against a tusk—and kept chopping. Neither-Nor sprinted over to retrieve his knife, but again there was no acknowledgment from the troll.

  “Oi, lemme see dat arrow,” said Slud. He left the ax buried in the tree and spun toward Neither-Nor with an outstretched hand. Neither-Nor raised an eyebrow but
tossed the javelin. Slud caught it with his dark gaze settling back on the tower. A third volley of arrows climbed into the air, and this time Neither-Nor wasn’t close enough to defend the troll. An arrow came for the goblin, but he sidestepped it as another three sped toward the bigger target.

  The troll just stood there as two missed him by inches. The third, he swatted out of the air with the back of his hand. He gauged the weight and balance of the javelin before bringing it up to his chin. He cocked his arm back and hurled with a deep grunt. It flew high and long, but the damned troll had already turned around to keep chopping before the shot landed.

  Neither-Nor watched with his mouth agape as the javelin came down atop the tower to impale the trigger-man at the crossbow. It was the most remarkable throw he’d ever seen. The longbow team at the wall stopped firing. Even the twenty-pack of the Khan’s wolf riders had gone silent at the sight of it.

  But with another yell, the bows rose up and fired again, just before the riders spurred the wolves forward with a chorus of shouts and snarls.

  “Hold ’em off,” said Slud between chops.

  “Ah, fuck it all,” said Neither-Nor before he started to dance again.

  AGNES REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS hanging upside down fifty feet above the ground with a branch sticking through her thigh. A repetitive chopping echoed across the ridge, and she could hear the howling of wolves, though she couldn’t see much past the freezing blood in her eyes. She hadn’t expected the wave of air and energy to rebound back at her, knocking her from her perch to tumble down through the dense branches. Her hand went to her scalp and came away dark red. There was a long gash beneath her hair, and the muscles in her leg tore further with every movement she made. She snarled with the pain and hoisted herself back up to the larger limb that held her.

  A hundred years earlier, an elven war party had caught her scent and ridden her down while she was wandering to gather roots and herbs in the hills at the base of the mountain. They ran her through with a lance and shot her full of arrows before nailing her to an oak tree and leaving her to feed the crows. Once their proud horses were out of sight over the hills, she’d called lightning down to the tree and burned it and herself to the ground. Aunt Agnes had been born out of that fire, but she remembered, as did Black Agnes now, what it felt like to be hung out to die. This was nothing.

  But she liked this new body and wasn’t pleased to see it damaged already. A goblin warlock shouldn’t have been able to resist her attack. None still alive, save for maybe a few of the high elves, should have had the power to counter her pull on the flow. This goblin carried the divine trace in its blood, but it was not the same tiny imp she’d seen hunting Slud on the lower slopes.

  Agnes sat up on the broad limb and twisted her leg around the blood-tipped branch with a hiss. She removed a serrated knife from the belt she’d lifted from one of the dead goblins and slipped it under her leg to saw through the base of the stake. Now that she was upright, the blood started to run across her face from her scalp. Her black hair was soaked with it, and she was beginning to feel the cold.

  The steady chopping had not wavered below, but the frenetic sounds of combat replaced the twangs of bows. She wiped the blood from her eyes and squinted down at the commotion. The scarred goblin was surrounded by a pack of wolf riders, skipping between them as the troll kept hacking at a massive tree like he was the only one there.

  She’d meant to turn the wolves on their riders and let Slud go in amid the chaos, but between the loud chopping and her current predicament her plans had soured. Now she needed all of the Knack at her disposal for healing. The troll and his lively little friend would have to make their own way. Slud alone must prove he’s worthy of the mountain’s blessing.

  Agnes gritted her teeth and sawed until her leg came loose. Before she could think it over, she raised her thigh, grabbed the bottom of the branch, and yanked it out. As much pain as she’d swallowed in her lifetimes, she never really got used to it, just less afraid of its return.

  Blades clanged together below and a couple goblins gave their death grunts before a wolf yelped its last yelp. She watched the goblin spring up from a roll with a jab and a slice that offered two more red sprays to the snow. Slud kept hacking at the ancient tree, wielding the giant’s ax as if born to do so. Her vision began to swim as she scooted toward the trunk and turned all of her energy inward.

  Her claws reached back to grip the bark until sap ran down her nails, and her head tilted against the rough surface as her heartbeat began to slow. While the fight continued below, and the rallying horns of the enemy sounded, she closed her senses to the outside world and melded with the tree. Within moments, if any had looked straight at her, they would have seen only another gnarled knot at the joint of the first big limb.

  THE TREE STARTED to groan and list. Slud had passed the midway point, and now the chops lacked the heavy thunk of hitting something impenetrable. The ax had made his hands and arms icy cold, but he found that he no longer noticed the pain—the bitter sting had spread throughout his body, slowing his blood and taking root in his bones. Even his breath had stopped pluming, and with every strike, crystals of frost spread from the ax blade, freezing the sap and making the wood brittle before the next whack. He’d never felt so powerful.

  The grunts, yips, and clangs of fighting continued behind him as he slowly surfaced from the rhythmic trance of chopping. It was like swimming up through frozen waters and bursting from the ice. He recognized, only then, how remarkable it was that neither arrows nor blades had reached him yet. He also recognized how much he wanted to see what the ax would do to flesh, and he spun around to find the scarred goblin circled by six wolf riders as four other pairs bled out in the snow.

  The Rock Wolves had been content to ignore Slud just as he’d been ignoring them, too stupid to realize that the chopping of the tree posed the only real threat to the clan. A cluster of ten more riders had stayed by the stockade wall, more than willing to let others go up against the unceasing blades of Neither-Nor while they watched from a safe distance. Another bad choice.

  Two of the riders were so brazen as to have their backs to him as they attempted to close in on Neither-Nor. Slud swung in a wide arc parallel to the ground, cleaving one and then the other through their chests; a tumble of arms, torsos, and legs flopped to the snow. The cold of the ax froze the wounds instantly, and only a couple drops of blood escaped as the bodies came undone.

  Slud laughed, a deep, booming chortle at the sight. He wanted more. The others turned in horror at his approach, leaving a distracted moment for Neither-Nor to open a couple more bodies. Slud chopped through another rider and the wolf beneath to offer a fascinating glimpse of the internal workings of the halved forms. The last goblin and a couple riderless wolves retreated at a frantic clip.

  Neither-Nor was left breathing heavily in the center of a ring of gore. He dropped his knives to his sides and cleared his throat. “What the fuck we doin’ here?”

  Slud ignored him, taking a moment to appreciate the splay of his handiwork. He spun the ax head and admired the gleam of the blade, as sharp as ever despite the bones and tree it had hacked through. But Neither-Nor had turned back toward the gate where another pack of twenty riders emerged from around the corner. More bowmen lined the wall above them, and the giant crossbow was loaded and cocked again. With the blast of a horn, all of the waiting riders leapt to a sprint toward them.

  “Troll!”

  Slud walked casually back to the tree and brought up the ax once more. “Have some faith, li’l fella.”

  “Faith is fer the foolish and desperate,” Neither-Nor hissed as Slud began to chop again.

  It only took two more whacks before the tree started to tilt noticeably. “Stand aside, now,” said Slud as he reached up to pluck the first javelin from the slowly angling trunk.

  The massive tree moved in slow motion. The creaks turned into thunderous cracks as the remaining wood at the base gave way to a jagged claw of giant splinte
rs. Then it started to fall faster. The bowman on the wall looked up in disbelief as a few of the riders attempted to course correct their forward momentum in the deep snow. It was too late for that.

  The sound of the tree coming down was deafening, drowning out the screams of all those who were caught in its path. Neither-Nor lost his footing to get a face full of snow in the mad scramble. The upper branches connected with the outer limbs of the even larger Clan tree, sending huge juts of wood and dangling cages crashing down into the houses and shops below. The felled trunk landed a second later with a furious shake of the earth as the outer stockade wall exploded beneath the weight. The riders and bowmen in its path vanished, and hundreds more were crushed within the confines of the bisected compound.

  Slud was grinning as he donned the bearskin coat again. Neither-Nor picked himself up to survey the damage in a state of shock. The spared riders had stopped their approach, unsure of how to proceed after witnessing such an act. But Slud wasted no time, using the ax and a few ragged splinters of wood to hoist himself up onto the top of the trunk. He gave the prone giant a gentle pat. “Sorry, ol’ girl, had to be done,” he said, and then looked down at Neither-Nor. “Come on now, dey ain’t gonna stand aside foreva.”

  Neither-Nor came, climbing up with his knives working like picks, but now his eyes regarded Slud with a wary respect that hadn’t been there before. “Gimme the map, and lemme go.”

  Slud chuckled. “Nah, fun’s just startin’, ’n’ I can’t do it wit’out ya.”

  “Ya ain’t gonna be happy ’til ya kill the whole world, are ya?”

  Slud gave him a hard pat on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow. “We’re all dead already, just too stubborn or stupid to see it yet.”

  SIXTEEN: Boom, Boom

  MINUTES EARLIER, a big cricket had hopped up and perched on the rope tied tightly around Dingle’s chest. There was something vaguely threatening in the black, bulbous eyes on the side of its little head, staring up at him like it might jump at his nose at any moment. He tried to shake it off, but he was hog-tied, gagged, and dangling from a golden hook in the feathered hex doktor’s hut. The room was absurdly warm—the fire never seemed to diminish even though no new wood had been added in hours—and the undulating waves of cricket chirps were starting to drive him bonkers.