by Chris Sharp
Harog yelped as Slud pulled him inside and tossed him to the floor. Agnes slammed the door shut. Before the Herald could yell again, the dull blade had swung to his throat and pressed close. The hairy goblin’s eyes went wide beneath the fur as he took in the sight of Slud leering above.
“How?” he asked.
“No point askin’ dat.” Slud pressed the blade under the goblin’s chin, but he doubted it was even sharp enough to cut through the thick layers of fur.
“If you kill me you’ll never be able to get out,” the Herald said. “The Khan will send others to find me. There’s more than five thousand War Boys surrounding the compound.”
Slud leaned closer, and the furry goblin winced at the press of his breath. “Don’t wanna get out, goblin. Wanna get in. Slud ain’t done yet.”
“How?” Harog asked again.
This hairy goblin was good under pressure, Slud had to give him that. The troll nodded to the headless body of Neither-Nor on the table. “He’s goin’ down de chimney. Gonna open up de doors from inside.”
Harog looked at the spindly, decapitated body and was glad the troll couldn’t see his expression. One of his hairy legs shook. “There’s no way. Too many guards and crossbows, inside and out. More than before.”
Slud motioned to Agnes, who was watching with a hungry glare and a strand of drool slipping from her fangs. “Gonna have us a nice big distraction first.”
Agnes stepped closer and her hooked claws opened. “Enough talk. I will drink this one. Agnes is so thirsty.”
“There’s another way,” Harog blurted. “A better way in.” He raised his hands in surrender and slowly pulled a large key on a string from beneath his shirt. “I wanna see the Khan dead too. I can get you inside without a fight . . . but we’ll need to go now.”
THE DAY’S LIGHT finally burned back the dark clouds that had claimed the ridge. The sky cleared through the branches as pinks and oranges gave way to an azure expanse. The cruel wind had subsided, but the goblins and wolves remained crouched and shivering beside the few fires that hadn’t been snuffed out by the elements. From the thick pines upslope, Luther and Riga watched the puffs of breath rise from the towers. Even from there, looking down at the giant tree that had cut through the defenses of the mighty Rock Wolf Clan with ease, they could smell the fear of their enemies and hear the chattering of their teeth.
The Wolf King had left the Pack behind to rest and heal in their temporary den, but Riga would not leave his side despite his snarls and snaps of warning. Eventually he’d had to give in to her persistence, and now, standing in the snow on the cold cliffs while contemplating acts of reckless hunger, he was happy for her presence.
She nuzzled him, still filthy from the battle, and brushed her erect tail across his face suggestively. He eyed her offering and felt a stirring of life within that had been dormant for too long, but turned back toward the compound before she noticed. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of so easy a victory.
He scanned the sprawling, bisected house of his enemy, and his keen eyes stopped on a severed goblin leg that hung from a spike on the stones of the tower. Even from afar he could see the symbols cut into the skin. On the next tower he found a matching arm. The famous Neither-Nor had met his final end, but there was still no sign of the troll’s fate.
Luther couldn’t shake the scent of Riga’s musk from his nose, but his attention darted between tiny specks moving below: a goblin guard stretching on the wall, a scrawny wolf slinking out of an open pen door, two goblins walking through the Clan Center. His eyes locked on a little goblin wearing black, not within the compound but moving along a high branch that hung over it. The goblin glanced down before stepping off the branch with his arms outstretched as the wind picked up along the ridge with an ill-omened moan. He drifted down to the stones like a seedpod, though Luther didn’t see the sheen or shape of feathers.
He did spy a familiar golden crossbow beside a dirty bag at the goblin’s belt. It was the same goblin who had turned the tides against the free wolves at the battle the previous morning. The same crossbow whose golden bolt had killed one of his best wolves. Luther’s hunger churned in his gut.
Riga had walked in a circle and came up beside him again. This time she nipped at the shag of his mane and knocked her body into his with playful force. He growled and gave her a more substantial nip in return, but she only batted him in the face with her tail and kept walking.
Her pleasing musk hung in the air, but he forced his anger back to the surface, looking to the jutting spires of wood where the massive tree had fallen. The trunk had become a bridge, leading straight to the heart of the enemy. If Luther jumped to the top, he’d be able to run to the inner yard of the Khan’s great hall in only a few seconds. He estimated at least two of the big javelin bolts and twenty or more arrows would find him in that same span, but he had the strong urge to give it a try anyway.
This time, the wing flutter of a raven distracted him from the yearning in his belly. It flapped down and landed with a hop in the bloodstained snow beside the tree, then cocked its head this way and that. Numerous bodies of goblins and wolves still littered the site, covered in frost and locked in rigor mortis. The raven pecked at one of them, claiming an eyeball.
Luther had seen this raven before, always watching from above, usually making itself known in disconcerting moments when he thought he was alone. It was not just any raven, but one of a pair of old brothers whose eyes scanned always in service of another. The bird flapped into the air with heavy beats of broad black wings and sailed up into the branches the goblin warlock had vacated. No good could come from that bird’s presence on the mountain or the attention of the one who watched from afar through his gaze.
On her third pass, Riga decided to forgo the subtlety. She bit Luther hard in the haunches, and he snapped around with a snarl. She answered with a rub of her ass across his snout, which shut him up quickly. He could still smell the goblin blood mingling with her scent, and this time he couldn’t resist. He mounted her from behind and bit the scruff behind her ears as he worked. She looked back and nuzzled and nipped at him as wolf-lock set in and his future son set out.
They would be connected like that for a short while, unable to pull free even if they wanted to. Luther could not easily remember feeling contentment before, a willingness to share his space with another of his kind—though he knew the hunger had only been staved off for a brief time. He rubbed his ear against the top of her head, and she let a joyous whine spill out of her open jaws.
The wind picked up again, moaning as if in answer to her cry, and Luther thought he heard words flowing with it. At first he tried to ignore it, savoring the moment with Riga, but the dark whispers continued. The words grew louder, harsher, and below, in the compound, the wolves of the clan rose up in howls all at once. Before long, goblins could be heard yelling, and then a horn blew. The words swelled, and Luther felt them pulling at his mind as Riga let out a low growl beneath him. It was the witch, Agnes—whatever had happened to the troll, it wasn’t over yet.
The grumble in his belly demanded a response, and the howls below took on a more savage tone. He wanted to run down and kill whatever he could, but not Riga. He would never hurt her or the pup he knew she was carrying within. They would hunt together as a pair, and they would dine on the hearts of every goblin and traitor wolf of the clan until none were left—starting with that flying warlock and the deceitful night-hag who sought to test his will again.
TWENTY-TWO: Death March
THE MARCH DOWN the great hall had never seemed so long before. Sweat was beading on Fixelcrick’s scalp, and his heartbeat was shaking his rib cage. The hex doktors had always held a place of prominence in the clan, but Harog seemed to think the combination of Short-Fuse’s bad whispers and the Khan’s alcohol-fueled madness might end their historical reprieve from violence.
The heavy locks of the doors banged shut, just as the howls of wolves rose up outside as if in celebration of
his pending fate. Fixelcrick kept his far-seeing eye on Harog’s shaggy, shuffling feet and tried to keep a step behind Bone Master, who ambled silently at his side. Maybe if things went wrong, the Khan would take it out on the old, infirm goblin instead of him, though Fixelcrick wasn’t sure what his muttering spellbound master might do next.
The normal host of rich goblins and puffed-up henchmen had convened to watch the Khan eat his breakfast. As always, they hid their faces as the warlocks passed, though today their whispers behind Fixelcrick’s back were charged with expectation. Fixelcrick glanced past Harog to the two pacing wolves before the throne. They seemed agitated, growling quietly as they loped back and forth before the stone steps. The effects of the witch’s blood had started to slow, but he thought he heard her dark whispers from above as the wind rattled against the walls. She’s started.
The fire had been built high, and some of the fresh logs on top were smoking heavily from the moisture of the recent snow. Perhaps that could work to conceal the scarred goblin’s descent, as long as he didn’t pass out from smoke inhalation halfway down and drop into the flames. Fixelcrick hazarded a look up at the nailed head on the beam above the throne. It hung at a different angle from the one he’d seen there the previous afternoon, and the color of the scars was not right. Someone had replaced the red cap that he’d knocked off just a few hours earlier. His eyes traveled higher, but he saw no sign of movement at the familiar bright square at the peak of the shadowed ceiling.
They kept marching, and Fixelcrick swept his gaze across one of the rows of crossbowmen staring back from the murder boxes along the wall. A couple didn’t look away in time before the shudder from his evil eye passed through them. But the tiny triumph was interrupted when Short-Fuse blocked their path wearing the feathered cloak and a smug grin. Long-Pig waited like a statue nearby, his eyes locked on Fixelcrick, unfazed by the far-seeing eye looking back.
Harog glanced over his shoulder with a hair-covered face that showed nothing and said everything, before he left the doktors to stand at the edge of the fire. He shuffled between the killers without a glance, making a beeline toward the Herald’s table behind the throne. One of the wolves growled as he passed, looking like it might lunge for his throat. He kept moving, needing to get to the dead-bolted steel door at the base of the throne for any of this insanity to work.
“Where the fuck’re ya goin’?” Arok had a gold platter on his lap stacked with pig-fat fried eggs over easy. The first jug of pine ale was freshly uncorked at his feet. He opened his maw and tossed in another egg as the gathering went quiet.
Harog stopped and shuffled back like a scolded wolf. “Just fetching the ledger, my Khan.” His leg was shaking again.
“Don’t need it! Get back in yer place, an’ announce.”
Harog hesitated a moment but then bowed and scurried to the first step. He and Fixelcrick shared an uneasy glance across the flames. “Bone Master and Fixelcrick, Chiefs of the Hex Doktors,” he called in a clear voice that echoed about the hall.
It was hot this close to the fire, and the sweat started to drip down Fixelcrick’s cheek. His eye swiveled back to the coat—some of the feathers had been broken or bent where the fat goblin had slept on them.
“The fuck ya lookin’ at?” Short-Fuse challenged with a hatchet suddenly in his hand. Fixelcrick looked away.
“So . . . where’s my witch head?” asked Arokkhan.
It took Fixelcrick a moment to realize that Arok was speaking to him. “Uh . . . only been a night, me Khan. Don’t know where she is. It’ll take a little more time is all.” He stared at his own feet to keep from looking at the ceiling. He’d never been a particularly adept liar. He could hear the vibration of Agnes’s words in his head, feel the residual swell of her power coursing through his veins.
“He’s lyin’, like I told ya,” said Short-Fuse. “Prob’ly workin’ with the witch, or maybe there ain’t no witch at all? I bet he called ’em fire lizards hisself, fucked up Bone Master’s head so he could be Chief.”
Bone Master stared at the Khan with his one little eye as he continued to mutter words in old giant under his breath. Fixelcrick couldn’t quite make it out, but he was starting to understand phrases here and there.
“What say you, Bone Master? Where’s the witch?” asked the Khan between eggs. A spurt of yolk spilled over his lip.
Bone Master rocked in place, continuing to spout guttural whispers. The old goblin suddenly raised his cracked voice and yelled, “Cog-noch ig’n zu-ghul druch kul-ul-dwall!”
Fixelcrick thought it was something like: hearing, my compel, to self-kill, bearers of bows. That didn’t sound right, but he was surprised to find his own hand crossbow suddenly in his grip.
Bone Master raised his gnarled fingers toward the Arrow Boys on either side, and all thirty of them suddenly went slack-faced. Some of their arms began to shake; others didn’t hesitate, but all pointed their crossbows under their chins.
“Shoot him!” the Khan bellowed. The crossbows all fired at once.
Bolts shattered jaws and pierced skulls as thirty goblin bowmen collapsed. The splatter hit the gathered host, who slipped easily into panic. Fixelcrick was the only one who hadn’t pulled the trigger; the tip of the bolt shook a bloody groove in the wispy tuft of hair under his chin. He gasped and stumbled back as his finger twitched; the shot nicked his nose before lodging into the slope of the ceiling.
Bone Master’s expression remained blank as he swung his outstretched hands toward the fire and started another string of Agnes’s words. “Ig’na’a noch zu-dracht—”
Short-Fuse cut him off with a hatchet lobbed deep into the old goblin’s chest. The other hatchet struck his face a second later, and Bone Master dropped with a last jitter in one of his legs. Fixelcrick stumbled to his ass beside his dead teacher, and Long-Pig’s sword was suddenly at his throat.
“Wait!” The Khan had dumped his eggs and was looking out from behind the platter.
The blade at Fixelcrick’s throat hesitated, but Short-Fuse unhooked the moon blade from his hip and approached with his filed teeth showing. “Lemme show ya his insides, boss.”
“No! Take his crossbow, but let him talk,” said the Khan as he tossed the platter down the steps with a racket and grabbed the jug for the first big swig of the day. “Clan still needs a good doktor, an’ it looks to me like Bone Master’s the problem. Never should’ve trusted a fuckin’ Bone Shield.”
Short-Fuse kicked the hand crossbow out of Fixelcrick’s grip hard enough to break his thumb before jamming his boot into Bone Master’s throat and tugging his hatchets free. Fixelcrick yelped and cradled his hand, trying to decide if he should try to look meek or play it tough. There wasn’t much leeway regardless, with the razor-sharpened blade still hovering above his Adam’s apple.
The Khan scanned his dead and dying Arrow Boys and took another hard pull from the jug. “Bring him here.”
Rough hands yanked Fixelcrick to his feet, and the curved blade jabbed into his back to move him forward. He could hear the witch’s words fall across the compound like a heavy blanket—the invocation she worked was like Bone Master’s compulsion for suicide, but on a much grander scale and targeting the wolves this time. He felt the potential for his own enhanced pull on the Knack waiting expectantly in his blood. Maybe he’d be able to summon the wind spirits within the hall and sail up to the relative safety of the rafters if it came down to it?
The dummy head stared down at him—not laughing, as it should have been, but proclaiming itself an imposter for all who looked closely to see. Below, the wolves’ manes bristled and their ears folded back. Fixelcrick eyed the curl of their lips and the reflection of the fire in their eyes. He tried to slow his approach, but Long-Pig’s blade poked him hard enough to draw blood and propel him stumbling toward the steps.
If Harog didn’t unlock that door and Neither-Nor didn’t get down the rope soon, Fixelcrick would either be torn apart or cut in half in the next few minutes.
THINGS WERE GOING bad in a hurry across the Rock Wolf compound, and Neither-Nor had no idea how he’d come to be at the heart of it. He wasn’t wearing shoes, and his feet were cold, standing on a steeply pitched roof beside a chimney that billowed smoke. A rope was coiled across his shoulder, and he had crap-quality replacement knives at his belt. He noticed the pitch-black night-hag behind him—her talon-tipped hands and guttural words were raised to the sky as a vicious wind wailed down from the mountain.
Snow, dust, and pine needles blew into a dervish that cut across the inner courtyard as the wolves turned on their riders below, tearing out throats and mangling limbs without warning. Goblins screamed as others rushed to open the stockade gate, not realizing that there were even more of the blood-mad wolves on the other side. The whole compound had exploded with snarls and shrieks.
Neither-Nor had come back to life only one agonizing minute earlier, wrapped in the hag’s ironlike grip while floating a hundred feet in the air over the clan. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but this was a hard death to bounce back from. Every breath and gesture hurt like hell as the runes struggled to fuse muscle and bone while replenishing his blood supply from scratch. He remembered getting cut apart by the Khan’s goons in the great hall with unpleasant clarity.
The great hall! That was the building he was standing on, though what he was now doing on the roof was anybody’s guess. His whole life since he’d met that fucking troll had been a series of hard deaths and harsh awakenings. He glanced out to the compound in chaos, still a little blurry at the edges. The fallen tree was where he remembered it, and it was still morning, but he was beginning to think this was a different day. “What fuckin’ day is it?” he asked no one in particular.
Horns blasted from the towers, and the sounds of fighting picked up on all sides. From up here, he could see over the stockade wall to Clan Center, where a Rock Wolf guard buried a spear in a wolf’s chest just before three others attacked the goblin from behind. They tore him apart and started eating in a snarling frenzy. “The fuck’s all this then?”
