by Chris Sharp
He’d reset Dingle’s absurdly angled shoulder with a hard tug, and then bound him to a chair in the cricket pen. This time the tiny goblin was gagged with a thick knot of cloth wedged in his mouth, and no disjointed or broken limbs would free him. The ever-muttering Bone Master had been returned to his cot in the corner, but he’d sat up again, with his eye locked on the open window as the nonsensical words ebbed and flowed.
The old goblin’s focus didn’t shift when someone rapped gently on the door, but Fixelcrick snapped around with his hand crossbow leveled. The knock came again, less gentle this time. He sidestepped to the door, trying to go quietly despite the crunch of crickets at every step. Fixelcrick put his ear to the thick wood above the gated crossbeam. Even the Khan’s killers would have trouble getting through the lock he’d installed, at least long enough for Fixelcrick to escape out of the root cellar if it was Short-Fuse come to ensure he could keep his new property.
He could sense someone there, just on the other side of the door; he was almost able to see the vibration of their presence through the wood with his wide eye. Moving as slowly as he could, he swiveled the cover from the peephole and looked out. Nothing.
DINGLE WATCHED the hex doktor through squinted eyes. He’d been awake for an hour as the angry little warlock stormed and cussed his way through the cleanup of the house, and he wasn’t eager to announce his consciousness after what he’d seen. The goblin had taken particular care with his remaining syringes, and one of them was newly filled, presumably with Dingle’s blood, and placed gently in the little satchel he wore at his belt.
Now that someone was at the door, Dingle couldn’t decide if he was better off being discovered or not. The doktor was looking through a peephole with a loaded crossbow in his hand, but Dingle noticed the tendril of dense mist that crept through the window to slip down the wall. The mist condensed, and a hunched woman in furs with long, bony limbs and pitch-black skin emerged. She looked across the room at Bone Master, who’d turned toward her and stopped his muttering. Then she looked at Dingle, with her solid black eyes boring through him. He could feel her presence in his head like an itch at the base of his skull just before his whole body went rigid.
The itch grew hot, and then it was searing. Dingle would have screamed, but he found that he couldn’t move or make any noise at all. It felt like his mind had been tossed onto a bed of coals. He was certain he would die, but then she turned her attention away, and he deflated with a whimper. The warlock’s head snapped around just as her claw shot out to wrap around his throat and pin him to the door. The crossbow shot off into the ceiling, and the hag smiled with a mouth full of long, needlelike teeth.
“You’re the one who cast out my salamanders, yes?”
FIXELCRICK GAVE HER the evil eye, which was bulging especially large with his constricted airways, but she only smiled wider, looking like she might take a bite out of his face. His hand scrambled at the satchel and grabbed the syringe, but her other claw pinned his wrist to the door as he tried to bring it to his chest. She leaned in with her long nose hovering close, and sniffed, first him, then the syringe.
“Ah, blood magick. Clever goblin.” She looked back over her shoulder at the now awake prisoner. “But where did this one get the blood?”
The tiny goblin said something unintelligible through the gag.
The witch plunged the syringe into her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment as she savored the taste of the blood. “Pure?” Her other claw constricted around Fixelcrick’s throat, and she yanked him away from the door and dragged him toward the cricket pen. He tried to pry open her hand and kick his way free, but her spindly arms were as unforgiving as iron. She ripped opened the gate and tossed Fixelcrick to the terrain beside the chair before removing Dingle’s gag with a sharp tug. “Where did you get it, goblin?”
“W-w-what?” Dingle sputtered as Fixelcrick coughed at his feet.
“The elixir of life, how did you come by it?” Fixelcrick tried to crawl away, but the witch’s clawed talon of a foot pinned him to the ground.
“Scraped the jar b-b-by the rrriver,” Dingle blurted. “I ssserve Lord Slud. I ammm his disciple!”
The witch cocked her head. “I see . . . You could be useful, yes.” Her eyes shifted back to Fixelcrick, who felt like he might vomit. She had mastered the greatest alchemical feat there was. The Nectar of Amrite, Liquid Gold—it made his creation of the flying cloak look like the work of a half-wit child.
“Fixelcrick serves only you, m’lady,” he gasped. “I’m a student of the Knack. Lemme be yer disciple and learn from yer great wisdom. I’ll do yer bidding eternal.” He ceased his feeble battle against the crush of her foot on his chest as she squeezed the breath out of him.
His vision started to blur, and his tongue rose quivering out of his mouth . . . She let up at the last second, just as he could feel his consciousness start to slip. He gasped deeply, his lungs burning. “Perhaps you too could be of use for now . . . Do you have a shovel?”
Bone Master stepped into the pen beside them and held up Fixelcrick’s shovel with a bowed head.
TWENTY: Night Moves
AGNES EMERGED FROM the door with a bloody knife in one hand and two shit-shovels in the other. The three wolf breeders behind her would not rise again from their beds. The thirty juvenile wolves hunkered together at the farthest end of the pen, whimpering as they waited for her next command. Bone Master, as he’d previously called himself, was already digging in the center without pause or comment. The other two goblins glanced between the wolves and her approach, but they’d already learned to keep their tongues to themselves. She tossed the stinking shovels at their feet, and licked the knife blade clean before sliding it back into her belt. “Dig.”
The tiny goblin, Dingle, was eager to comply; the young warlock, less so. He was more focused on watching her than doing what she said. Dingle’s measly dirt was already flying by the time Fixelcrick had bent to retrieve the shovel. His big eye focused on Agnes, as if trying to glean her knowledge from afar. His impudence matched his ignorance.
She met his gaze with a lash across his mind that brought him to his knees in the muck—just a taste of the last Agnes’s pain from when Dingle and his friends had run her through with spears and left her to char. Fixelcrick buckled over with his hands at his stomach as she approached. She leaned down with her teeth hovering beside his ear and released him from the agony. “Quickly now.”
The warlock sprang to his feet and started digging beside the others in a hurry. The goblin runt who’d tasted the elixir of life struggled to outpace him, but his spindly little arms were barely long enough to get a good grip on the shovel, let alone lift the heavy muck over his shoulder.
Once the hole was dug, Agnes would drink his blood and take back what he should not have tasted. For now, she needed all the shovels she could command. Her black eyes scanned the wooden plank fence that ringed the pen, built high to block the occasional escape attempt of young mountain wolves that hadn’t been broken yet. She’d been watching the courtyard for a while from above. Another patrol wouldn’t be by for almost an hour.
The pen was far from the outer stockade, but Agnes could see the campfire on one of the towers from there. Luckily the night was dark and the shadows long around the Clan tree. The shops and stalls that hadn’t been crushed were shut tight, and many of the torch lights had been blown out in the hard wind. The Khan had picked a spot for Slud’s disposal where curious eyes could not easily see.
She whispered words to the sky, “Ig’na’a thoch zu-ghul,” and the wind howled across the roofs in answer. Shutters rattled and walls creaked; some of the more anxious goblins started moving beds into root cellars and bringing the goats and pigs inside for the night.
The watching wolves cringed as Agnes’s eyes passed over them—small and weak compared to their free cousins. The size and instinct had been bred and beaten out of them for generations. Agnes would have made them tear each other apart then and there if not for th
e noise it would raise.
“Hit something,” the little warlock called over his shoulder. The runt leapt into the hole and started scrabbling at the dirt with his bare hands.
Agnes approached, giving Bone Master a wave to get him out of the hole. They’d barely gotten three feet down, but there was a heavy canvas bag, stitched haphazardly and stained with blood. Dingle heaved a chunk of dirt over his shoulder and dove back for more. A couple of his stubby claws had broken off with bloody ends, but he didn’t slow.
“There.” Agnes pointed at the ground where Bone Master stood, and he buried his shovel again and started digging. In a few heaves he uncovered more of the bag. She pointed again, and Fixelcrick gave it his shovel, and again for Bone Master, until the whole length of the massive sack was uncovered. She didn’t have to tell Dingle anything as he scurried across it to scrape away the rest.
The Khan’s goblins had been in a rush to bury him; the hole wasn’t deep enough and they’d rolled him in faceup. Agnes could see the shape of his giant head and outstretched boots through the bag. There was a huge stain around his neck, and the butts of arrows were still sticking up across the canvas in little blood-soaked tents.
She drew her knife again and flipped it into the earth beside the fawning little goblin. “Cut the bag over his face.” She pointed. “Careful now.”
Dingle moved up, mindful of the arrows as he traversed the troll’s chest. He pinched the bag over the jutting tusks and sliced it with the utmost care before peeling it to the sides. The corpse had started to stink, and Dingle crinkled his nose. Slud’s face and hair were painted with crusted blood, and his heavy lids were shut. The skin and lips were slack and pallid. There was an ugly slash across his throat, but it was hard to see if it had healed beneath the gore. Dingle stayed perched on his chest and bowed his little head. Fixelcrick looked at Agnes expectantly, but she kept her gaze locked on the troll lad. Time to see if he paid attention to his old auntie’s lessons.
Dingle began to rock and mutter as the warlock waited for Agnes do something amazing. There was nothing she could do; only her long-gone daughter, Hel, had mastered the art of raising the dead, and those mindless, savage creatures would not fit her plans. The troll had to do this on his own or else stay here to fertilize the mud.
The wind whistled between buildings. The clan tree creaked; damaged branches clattered down to the stones. The cluster of wolves whimpered as the reek of decay wafted from the hole. Even if he managed to wake, the lad would never be the same as he was. Once glimpsed, death had a way of marking one of its own. Black Agnes peered at him, waiting for the slow beat of his heart . . . nothing.
She turned away with a hiss and glared up at the mountain. The dreams lied! Another quarter century wasted! Then she heard it, THUMP, slow and strong. She spun back to kneel beside the lad with her eyes held close to his face. There was a twitch in the troll’s eyelids, then the gentle intake of air through his wide nostrils. Her needle teeth emerged in a grin, and she took a step back as Slud’s dark eyes peeled open.
Dingle didn’t even notice until the troll spoke. “Oi, get off Slud’s chest,” he rasped.
Dingle’s face snapped up with a yelp, and tears of joy started flowing. He scrambled out of the hole and bent his forehead to the mud. “Oh, L-L-Lord of D-D-Death, I kn-kn-knew you’d come!”
“Silence,” Agnes commanded.
Fixelcrick watched in awe as the troll grimaced and shifted. Slud’s gaze took in his present state before rising to meet Agnes’s close appraisal.
“Who’re ya?” Slud stopped himself and his dark eyes narrowed. “Aunt Agnes . . . Outta de fire, aye?”
She nodded. “I’ve been watching, lad. You’ve done well, but your work’s not done.”
“Shoulda known.” He tried to sit up, but the pain of the arrows sent him back to the dirt with a grunt.
“Need to get those arrows out for you to heal, boy,” Agnes said, creeping closer to the edge. “Your auntie is gone, but I am here to help you in her stead, yes?”
His eyes held her back just beyond his reach. “Is all dis Slud’s game, or yers?”
“Yours, my boy,” she said with a bowed head. “All the training, all the pain, readying for this moment and the throne that’s yours to take.” She gave him her best smile, but he looked unconvinced. “I am but one of your pieces. Tell me what you need, and I shall see you have it, yes.”
“Neider-Nor, where’s he at?”
Fixelcrick stepped up to command the troll’s attention. “Dead. Not comin’ back this time.”
He smacked his lip against a tusk. “Burned, buried, or eaten?”
“Cut in six parts. Spread ’bout the compound fer all to see,” Fixelcrick answered.
Slud looked back to Agnes. “All right. First, get Slud outta dis hole . . . Gonna need a nice big sword . . . Den, ya go ’n’ fetch all dem scarred pieces. Slud’ll need ’im whole.”
Agnes was surprised by the command the troll had gained in his gruff voice. Perhaps he’d brought back something extra from his latest ordeal after all. He stank of the grave, and she doubted the smell would ever go away, but there was also an added weight to his presence that left even her a little unnerved. Now he’s ready.
“Ya do dat, ’n’ Slud’ll go get his ax ’n’ end dis fuckin’ clan fer good.”
She hadn’t been certain he’d have the strength to wield Thrym’s Ax. The ancient King of the Frost Giants had never been bested until Thor’s hammer had delivered his murder. None had managed to carry the frozen ax since.
There was much to do before the break of day; killing her goblin helpers could wait. She met the troll’s dark gaze and nodded.
FIXELCRICK HAD an arm and a torso in a bag over his shoulder. The infamous Neither-Nor was not a particularly large goblin, but he was dense with lean muscle and knotted bone. The load had gotten heavy after that last arm. The warlock hadn’t slept in over thirty hours, and the only thing that kept him moving was the residual effect of Dingle’s blood in his system. He scurried along the felled tree through Clan Center for the third time that night, having previously swapped out the legs and the other arm. But the head still seemed like an impossibility.
Once the absurd crew had squeezed into Fixelcrick’s house, the many jutting arrows had been removed from the stinking troll, and the witch had packed the wounds with a meal of herbs and alcohol that she’d scrounged from unbroken jars and piles on the floor.
Black Agnes had retrieved one of the goblin wolf breeder’s bodies at the troll’s suggestion, and Slud had Dingle dismember the corpse with a bone saw in the cricket pen. The tiny goblin threw up repeatedly as he worked, but he did not stop or slow, handing up the parts as they came free. Slud took the sharpest knife Fixelcrick had and set about carving little runes across the dead goblin’s skin, one piece at a time. There was no pattern or reason to the symbols he etched, but the finished product came away looking surprisingly authentic once the excess mess had been wiped away.
It had been Fixelcrick’s job to swap out the parts. He tried to use the loss of his beautiful coat as a reason to get out of it, but Agnes had taken another syringe of Dingle’s blood and shot him up when he wasn’t looking. Then she’d given him a string of strange words for controlling the spirits in the wind, and he found that he could blow out the torches and rise up to swap the limbs before the guards even bothered to look. It wasn’t the same as flying freely with wings of his own, but it was enough to keep him going and remind him of what he’d lost.
The exhausted goblin fell against the door to his house and knocked slowly four times. After a moment, he could hear his key sliding into the lock of the cage on the other side, and then the heavy beam raising up from the brace on the spring and winch system he’d devised. He slipped through the opening, wedging the gathered body parts against the doorjamb before he squeezed through.
Agnes watched him with her unreadable obsidian eyes as she shut and locked the door behind him. Fixelcrick dropped the bag and stum
bled to a chair while she bent to examine the contents. “No head?”
“Can’t . . . I’m through. Send Dingle,” he said.
Slud was sitting on the cot at the far side of the room as it bowed dramatically beneath his weight. He didn’t even look up from the line of runes he was cutting across the back of the severed head braced between his knees. It looked like a toy ball in his grip, though he appraised it carefully. Bone Master stood by the fire, muttering to himself. Dingle wasn’t there.
“The little one has gone to fetch a weapon,” Agnes said. “This is for you to finish, yes.”
“Too tired, can barely walk, let alone use the Knack effectively . . . Maybe if I had me cloak.” A lance of agony shot through his mind to knock him out of the chair. He felt a rope around his neck as he dangled from the branch of a tree. Breath would not come, and he felt like his head would explode from the pressure as arrow after arrow slammed into his body, shot by a large host of elves on horseback below. The pressure released, and he found himself on the floor of his wrecked house again. He drew a desperate breath and clutched his throat, tears running down his face.
Agnes leaned over him with the light of the fire reflecting off her long wet teeth. “I do not ask, goblin. If you wish to learn, listen and act, or I’ve no need of you.” She had one of his syringes in her hand, and she jammed it into her own arm and drew a tiny amount of her almost-black blood. “You like to play with blood. Try this.” She grinned.
Fixelcrick climbed back to his feet and brushed a squashed cricket from his elbow before accepting the syringe. The whole house shook as the troll stood and lumbered toward them. He had to stoop to get his head below the joists, and Fixelcrick had to steel himself against the instinct to back away or drop to his knees.
