Cold Counsel

by Chris Sharp

  The host of rich, worthless goblins turned their eyes and covered their ears, which only made him laugh harder. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. The fat goblin swung again, and the moon blade cut through his second arm as his limbless torso slopped to the floor.

  He bounced and rolled onto his back, his eyes pointing up at the sight of his own dangling arms, and he kept laughing as his heart and lungs wound down.

  “Finish it!” yelled the Khan.

  The last thing Neither-Nor heard was his own mad cackle echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The last thing he saw was his grandfather’s moon blade racing toward his own neck.

  ARROWS DROPPED SILENTLY into the snow on both sides as Luther led the free wolves in a zigzag retreat up the slope. Another of his pack yelped behind him, but he didn’t slow the pace to see if the freshly wounded wolf was all right. Five had fallen in battle and been left behind already. Only the gray bitch had hung with him at every step.

  Twice more, the two of them had torn out of the mist along the line, killing a few goblins and sowing terror for many. Each time she’d taken a goblin with her, eating the hearts between attacks, the way Luther had shown her. But she’d had to abandon her last prize, snout deep in the goblin’s guts when two snarling groups of Rock Wolves had given hard chase. Luther had been cut along his leg and side in the withdrawal. The goblin arrows and blades hadn’t even touched her, though she’d killed many.

  Luther’s pack had been gaining ground since—none knew the climb as they did, and wolves that carried goblins couldn’t keep up with those that didn’t. He looked at the gray bitch again, a tireless runner with long confident strides, her haunches covered in bite scars. She remained unbroken by her years of being omega. If she was to be his queen she would need a name . . . Luther would call her Riga, after a strange city he’d once visited in his dreams.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the wolf who’d taken the latest arrow still at the back of the pack, and he howled his approval. There were arrows sticking out of three others as well, and one of his best had the death-glaze in his eye. It had been the goblin warlock who’d arrived on wing and been left to walk who had turned the army and organized a defense. He’d blown away the mist with his dark words and led the force back toward the compound with his borrowed wolf panting hard out in front.

  The dying wolf at Luther’s heels had been the closest thing to a friend he’d had in the pack. A golden bolt shot from the warlock’s own crossbow jutted from his side. One day, that goblin would be made to pay for these deaths; Luther would eat his heart to honor his fallen kin. But it was the night-hag who’d never shown who had sealed their fate, and what would soon be six more free fighting wolves would die as result.

  Only thirteen left, not even enough to last another winter against the Rock Wolves. The Khan would send his riders in force this time, and Luther could only run for so long before hunger took hold. If he saw Agnes again, he’d snap her neck and be done with it . . . Unless, somehow, the troll with the cold ax could achieve what he set out to do. Though it went against Luther’s nature, something about that troll’s odd vibration across the land made him believe in the possibility.

  Horns sounded behind them, and Luther’s ears swiveled. The Rock Wolf pursuit had turned away. He slowed, climbing up a last jut of rock to a vantage over a wide swath of snowcapped forest. The Pack followed, panting hard with tongues lolling out the sides of rictus grins. They licked their wounds, and a few whimpered in pain, but Luther kept his gaze pointed toward the distant compound and the unknown events that unfolded there. Riga stepped beside him, brushing her shoulder against his. She tentatively licked a cut across his snout, and he lowered his head to her, letting all see how she tended to him.

  The last wolf with the death-glaze heaved himself up the cliff face with a ragged breath. The golden bolt had slipped between his ribs and pierced the lung below; it was time for him to stop running. Each wolf came to him as he stood there and trembled, licking his nose and smoothing his fur. Riga went last, and the other wolves backed away from her advance, paying respect to her new position. All but Luther, who kept his attention on the mountain that stretched out below—always listening, always watching for whatever would come next.

  As the wounded wolf slumped to the snow to die, a loud cry rose up from the far-off compound. Hundreds of wolf voices raised in unison, maybe a thousand—the whole of the broken pack, singing their song of victory. The last troll had failed. The end of the free wolves was inevitable now.

  Luther finally turned to his fallen comrade and licked his drying nose. The Wolf King bit the end of the golden arrow in his side and ripped it out in one quick tug as the wolf’s eyes closed for the last time with a labored exhale. No free wolf would die with the mark of the wicked goblins still upon them. The other arrows were ripped out soon after as the brave wolves of the Pack tried to hold their whimpers at bay.

  Luther returned to the ledge and tilted his answering cry to the sky, louder and clearer than that of any other wolf on the mountain. Riga joined him with her howl, and soon all the free wolves lent their sorrowful calls to the day. They sang of the fallen, and of defiance against the odds. But to Luther, it sounded like the hollow wails of ghosts, lost and wandering, who did not yet know they were dead. Still, for a moment, the howls of the free wolves drowned out the distant trumpet of their doom.

  NINETEEN: Cloak and Shovel

  THE GREAT HALL was spinning. Arokkhan had been drinking hard, as usual, but he’d chugged two extra jugs as they’d nailed Neither-Nor’s head to the beam above the throne, and that had put him over the edge. He was shit-faced, and it was still light outside. He’d fantasized about watching the last of the Moon Blades die for years, but now that it had happened, he felt nothing. It was the troll’s fault. Even in death, this Slud had robbed him of his victory. The giant, freezing ax was leaning against the throne—mocking him still. It looked powerful resting there, but the whole host had seen that it was too cold and heavy for him to wield.

  The wolves were licking at the wide pool of blood before the stairs, and the Khan considered having them whipped if they didn’t stop. He hadn’t let the scrubbers clean the mess after the bodies had been taken away; he wanted everyone to see what was left of the great goblin outlaw and this last troll who’d dared to try for his throne. Damn wolves would ruin the effect, but he was pretty sure he would throw up on himself if he opened his mouth to give the order.

  He’d had the six pieces of Neither-Nor hung across the clan compound. Short-Fuse and Long-Pig had wanted the scarred corpse so the mute cannibal could eat it, but the Khan wanted everyone inside and out to see what happened to those who rose against him. The troll, however, he wanted forgotten as soon as possible. After the tree had come down, just seeing the size of the hulking beast that had done it made Arok look vulnerable. Those in the hall who’d heard the troll speak had begun to whisper in the shadows and cast sideways glances in his direction. In just one morning Slud had commanded more fear than Arok had earned after years of working at it.

  The Khan had ordered that a huge bag be stitched together, and the troll’s corpse had been covered and dragged out by twenty goblins to be fed to the young wolves in the breeding pens. But the wolves wouldn’t touch the meat, tucking their tails low and whimpering at the edges of the enclosure as the corpse just rested in the muck—still mocking him. The goblins had dug a big hole, then and there, and tipped the tusked monster in before covering him up to be done with. Let him rot in the mud as the wolves piss an’ shit over his miserable grave.

  But Arok couldn’t stop thinking about what the troll had almost done. Nothing felt safe anymore. The doors to the great hall had been patched, and a new beam had been brought in to reinforce the lock, but the gates, bars, and army between him and his enemies seemed flimsy now. The massive tree that had been toppled across the outer stockade would take weeks to dismember and cart away. The fact that the troll and his ax had taken it down in a matter of m
inutes sent a shudder through the Khan. His hand went to his mouth to hold back the tide of nausea that threatened to spill forth.

  Once it subsided, he eyed the murmuring host before him and waved the Herald closer. “Get rid of ’em all. Don’t want ’em lookin’ at me,” he slurred. The Hairy Herald bowed with a whip of fur, and shuffled back down the steps and around the pool of congealed blood to where Short-Fuse waited with his newly acquired feathered cloak and curved blade.

  The Herald whispered in Short-Fuse’s ear, and the killer grinned with his piggy eyes swinging to the host. “Everybody’s gotta fuckin’ go!” he yelled, moving toward them with the moon blade in his grip. Long-Pig followed his lead with Neither-Nor’s other knife held at the ready as the crowd scrambled away from their approach. All the while, the scarred goblin’s severed head watched from above with slack eyes and his mouth locked in that final cackle.

  Arokkhan shut his eyes against the spin, but that only made it worse. He still heard the echoes of laughter in his pounding head. There was urgent talking and movement at the other end of the hall, but the Khan kept his lids shut and breathed through his nose until the Herald’s clear voice sounded from his perch on the first stair.

  “My Khan, Fixelcrick, Chief Hex Doktor, has returned with the advance army.”

  The Khan’s gaze snapped open to see the old apprentice marching toward him. At first, he didn’t recognize the creepy warlock without the black feathered cloak, but then the little fucker’s evil eye looked up at him, and Arok leaned over and spewed his lunch down the side of the throne.

  FIXELCRICK AVERTED his gaze quickly as the Khan continued to projectile vomit over the edge of the rock. Instead, his far-seeing eye swung to his precious flying cloak, now filthy with blood, food, and char, and draped across the shoulders of the wicked goblin thug who did the Khan’s most twisted bidding. He wanted it back.

  Short-Fuse met his hungry gaze and sneered, his thick fingers playing with a curved blade at his belt that hadn’t been there the last time Fixelcrick had seen him. The young Chief Hex Doktor looked away again, this time meeting the casual gaze of one of the Khan’s two wolves as they lapped at the edges of the giant pool of congealed blood before the steps. The beast stopped licking and growled. Next, the warlock raised his eyes to the ceiling, not knowing where else to look, as the Khan finished his undignified moment with a wet rag and a boisterous clearing of his nostrils.

  That was when he noticed the severed head nailed to the rafter above him—every spot of skin scarred with finely cut runes, and the neck cleanly sliced below a sharp pointy nose and red cap. Every goblin throughout the clans had heard the tales of the outlaw Moon Blade, Neither-Nor. Fixelcrick had always thought they were made-up stories that old goblins told the young to scare them into obedience. He half wondered if this was just some regular goblin who the Khan had cut and hung to make himself look more impressive. Aside from the scars and hat, he didn’t look all that special, but every guard, scout and merchant in the clan was talking about what the goblin and troll had done before they met their end.

  The felled tree was impossible to miss, and everyone seemed to know someone who’d either been at the battle at the doors or seen firsthand what had transpired within. The troll’s giant ax was resting casually against the base of the throne beside the puddle of puke. With his far-seer, Fixelcrick could see wisps of white mist rising from the weapon. It vibrated at a tempo offset from the rest of the world.

  “So . . . did ya kill me a witch?” the Khan asked, claiming his attention again.

  Fixelcrick bowed low. “Banished her devils and stopped the fire, me Khan.” Fixelcrick stayed down, head bowed, eyes on the stone the way his predecessor had done it. “Tried to break me the same way she done Bone Master, but I resisted, saw her plan fer the troll and goblin to attack . . . Sent Short-Fuse back with me coat to warn ya.”

  “Sent me? Bullshit! ’Twas my idea!” said Short-Fuse, a hatchet suddenly in his hand. “Almost had to give ’im a good whack just to get the coat off ’im.”

  The Khan waved for him to shut up, and an audible rumble from his newly empty stomach filled the following silence. “A troll, Neither-Nor, an’ a witch—said I wanted heads. Short-Fuse brought me the other two. Where’s my witch head?”

  “Far away by the time we’d reached the fire. Don’t know where she is, but she’s hid good, and me far-seeing eye hasn’t found her yet.” Fixelcrick swallowed hard. “Maybe, if I had me cloak, I’d cover more ground and search her out—”

  “Ya failed me, boy,” the Khan interrupted. “Witch still out there, plottin’ ’gainst me . . . Ya want yer coat back, bring me the witch head. ’Til then, it better serves me with him.” He pointed at Short-Fuse, and the nasty goblin smiled wide with his ugly, filed teeth.

  Fixelcrick’s head snapped up. His eyeballs felt like they might burst. “Can’t let him keep it! He’ll ruin it!”

  “You tellin’ me what I can or can’t do?” Arokkhan asked, meeting the gaze of Fixelcrick’s big eye while gritting his teeth. He moved his free hand to the hilt of the battle-ready blade sheathed in a notch in the throne beside the absurdly bejeweled display sword at his hip.

  The Herald’s eyes bulged in warning behind long strands of hair as the second hatchet slid out of Short-Fuse’s belt holster. The tall, scary goblin with the big sword silently stepped behind Fixelcrick . . .

  The hex doktor dropped his head again, this time all the way to the floor. “No, me Khan. Please forgive me. It’s just, I want to serve ya best I can . . . But I’ll bring ya the witch head anyway, you’ll see.”

  “You do that, or our scarred friend up there’ll get some company with mismatched eyeballs.” The Khan raked his gaze across Neither-Nor’s head, and spat in the general direction of his vomit. “The two o’ ya could fly up there togetha. Now, get the fuck outta me hall.”

  Fixelcrick turned and scurried out in a hurry as Short-Fuse laughed at his back. The guards averted their eyes from his presence as they unlatched and slid aside the fresh beam at the door, but Fixelcrick couldn’t help but notice the many wood splinters that still peppered the floor there.

  The hinges finally creaked opened to a cold evening. The thick crowd of goblins and wolves out front still wore dazed looks from the day’s events. Fixelcrick glanced back into the hall, wishing his evil eye could kill.

  “Get somebody to clean up this mess, an’ fetch me ’nother jug of pine ale!” demanded the Khan as the doors shut behind the hex doktor.

  FOR THE FIRST NIGHT in years, the guards who manned the walls of the outer stockade did not sleep on duty. They huddled around little fires and under furs, but word of the troll’s failed attempt on the Khan’s life had reached every ear in the clan, and the thunderous crash of the falling tree still echoed about their heads. The returned army had set up a heavy perimeter and had been told to stay alert, but they whispered still of the dark magick they’d seen at work in the woods that morning. Something about it seemed unfinished, and the six hunks of Neither-Nor that had been hung from hooks around the compound had the opposite of the intended effect on those who had to stay up all night beside them.

  Two heavy ballista teams had been stationed atop the fallen tree, and the Khan had sent a hundred riders to camp on either side of the hole it had punched through the outer stockade. A corps of goblin engineers had spent the entire afternoon attacking the trunk with axes, saws, and winches, but they still hadn’t come close to doing what Slud had achieved in minutes.

  Now that the work was done for the night, the compound had gone quiet. Save for the occasional yapping of the juvenile wolves, even the normally bustling and bawdy confines of Clan Center were silent. Doors and windows were shut to the cold as goblins hunched around the fires within, trying not to listen to the clatter against the windows or the bad voice that seemed to whisper in the bitter wind that whistled across the roofs. No one saw the knot of wood that moved down the trunk of the Clan tree, a vaguely humanoid shape, as if squeezed below th
e bark, clawing its way toward the ground headfirst.

  The knot shifted and spun slowly at the massive tree’s base. Jagged pine arms reached out and curled to pull free the rest. With the soft scrape of claws against the cobblestones, legs stretched out in rigid steps. What remained of Agnes articulated from the bark as her bony limbs ticked and creaked into being. Her wounds had healed, and her black eyes locked on the wolf pens across the courtyard.

  She sniffed deeply of the night air and moved toward the fence that contained the wolves. The penned mutts whimpered ahead of her arrival, but she was not interested in them. She straightened beside the tall fence. Bones cracked along her spine as she rose, far taller than any goblin, to peer over the top. There was a large patch of freshly packed dirt in the center of the enclosure that none of the wolves would step across. Agnes smiled.

  Footsteps approached, and she slunk back down into a bent crouch. Two shivering goblin guards moved through the courtyard on their rounds, but neither noticed the dark shadow along the fence as they passed. Once they’d moved away, Agnes turned with her ear cocked to the wind and heard the faint reverberation of someone muttering in the old giant tongue. It was her disciple, calling out to her still, begging always for the return of her stroke across his mind. She could grant him that.

  FIXELCRICK WAS FURIOUS. He stormed about his house, picking up unbroken vials of distilled liquids and the few jars of refined herbs that could be salvaged from the mess. A lifetime of meticulously gathered goods, scattered and smashed by the fallen tree. His unconscious goblin prisoner had been found sandwiched between his library of precious tomes and the bookcase. Escaped crickets covered everything, and the cold that whistled through the shattered window kept them quiet and unresponsive as he tried to move about without squashing more with every step.