by Chris Sharp
The banging outside had stopped, but the screams of fighting and dying had renewed there. Neither-Nor just wanted to sleep. Instead he found his feet, stumbled to the doors, and heaved up the second iron jamb from the floor. With a last glance over his shoulder, he got a better grip on the bloodstained hatchet and started chopping at the huge beam with everything he had.
AT THE FAR SIDE of the hall, Harog was also frantically trying to open a door. The heavy iron hatch at the back of the throne had apparently not been opened for years. The Khan had only entrusted him with the knowledge of its existence the day before, and Harog had immediately considered the possibility that this long-ignored symbol of Arok’s paranoid delusion might be used to precipitate his demise. He’d gotten the key inside the lock, but the rust buildup had fused the cylinder within. He put more pressure on the key, scared it would break off and seal all their dooms with it, but the bolt slowly started to turn with a metallic screech.
Harog didn’t know what had happened to Fixelcrick or Neither-Nor, but there was still plenty of screaming at the other end of the hall, and he hoped it would buy him enough time. The mere sight of the troll alive again, and the command he’d shown in putting this mad plan into action, was enough to make the hairy goblin want to try. Better to die quickly in an act of defiance than be tortured to death in a few days or weeks when the Khan got bored with him.
Harog braced the key with both hands, slipping his fingers close to the hole to keep it from bending as he turned. The lock protested loudly, and he was sure he would be found out, before it gave suddenly and clicked open. He blew hair from his face to show the triumphant grin beneath, so focused on the door that he didn’t notice the Khan’s approach behind him.
“Quick thinkin’, Herald. Get it open an’ grab a torch.” The Khan had sheathed his big sword at his back, now clutching a little chest of precious gems in its place, while still hugging the jug of pine ale with his other hand.
Harog froze and stared at him.
“Get a fuckin’ move on!” the Khan growled. “I ain’t fightin’ ghosts an’ witches.”
Harog’s nervous grin was hidden beneath his fur again as he put his hands on the trapdoor’s handle and his good foot against the stone. He heaved it open with a loud groan to reveal a steep rock-cut stairwell descending sharply into a lightless tunnel below.
The Khan pointed to the torch on a sconce beside the Herald’s table. “Get the ledger too, an’ lock it behind us.”
Harog stared into the tunnel, but nothing happened. He shuffled over to the table and grabbed the ledger and torch as the Khan started down, but both of them stopped fast. The rumble of lumbering footsteps sounded from the darkness.
TWENTY-FOUR: King of the Mountain
THERE WAS LIGHT at the end of the tunnel, and the flickering definition of stairs. A heavy shadow moved at the mouth of the opening. Slud could see a boot trimmed in gold fur. The boot retracted and the shadow moved away, but Slud kept coming.
There was no way Neither-Nor would have been able to get those front doors open. Slud only hoped there’d still be someone left for him to kill after the frustrated goblin did his worst in the confined space. Slud would never tell him, but he’d actually missed the ornery little bastard’s company since Agnes had dug him up.
At the base of the stairs, he hooked a hand up on the lip of the rock ceiling and stepped out. He smacked his lip against a tusk and gave the sword Dingle had found him a little spin. The wobbly blade wouldn’t be able to withstand much, and the Khan of the Rock Wolf Clan stood a few paces away with fear in his eyes.
The Khan dropped a box full of gems that tumbled across the floor in a wave of sparkling color before snatching the fancy sword that had cut Slud’s throat from over his shoulder with a shaky hand.
“Slud’s got unfinished bidness wit’ ya.”
“I killed ya! I watched ya die!” the Khan shouted, backing away.
“Time to return dat honor.”
The Khan banged into the Herald’s table beside Harog. “Yer just a nightmare! Ya ain’t real!” the Khan yelled.
“Den ya got nuttin’ to worry ’bout, do ya?” Slud rolled his neck with a deep crunch.
Dingle popped up the steps beside him and started screeching. “He’s the LLLord of D-D-Death!”
Slud looked down at the tiny zealot and furrowed his brow. “No more talkin’, li’l fella.” Dingle recoiled like he’d been slapped and snapped his mouth tight with a curt nod. Slud started toward the Khan as Harog shuffled out of the way with a big grin peeking out past his hair.
“Where’s me ax?” Slud asked.
The Khan reached back to finally surrender the jug to the table. The sword was shaking in his grip, and he brought his hands together to steady it. “I’m Arok Golden Wolf, son of Grummok Green Hammer, King of the Mountain, an’ Khan of the Goblin Horde! I killed more than a thousand goblins meself!” He’d grown more comfortable with the bottle than the blade since then.
“Yer a drunk, ’n’ a weaklin’, ’n’ Slud ain’t no goblin.” He swung out at the Khan in an overhead chop, but the golden sword rushed up to meet it. The steel of Slud’s blade shattered at the base and clattered to the stones. He was left frowning down at the Khan with only the hilt in his fist.
It took Arok a quick moment to realize what had happened, and a glimmer of hope returned to his crazed eyes. He brought the golden sword back and thrust it toward the big target with all he had. Slud sidestepped and grabbed the Khan’s wrists to pull him closer as he rammed the broken sword hilt into the big goblin’s face three times. He could feel the Khan’s nose and some teeth break beneath his knuckles before he tossed the hilt and grabbed the goblin by the furry lapel. Slud brought his face close, letting his stink waft over the Khan as he raised his chin to show the mean gash where his throat had been cut the day before. “Ya owe Slud a t’roat.”
He ripped the golden sword from the Khan’s hands and heaved him sliding across the floor past the throne. Slud gave Harog a nod and swiped the jug from the table, taking a loud gulp before following after his quarry.
“To me! To me!” Arok yelled toward the far end of the hall.
One of the wolves was savaging some well-dressed meat, and Slud caught a glimpse of Neither-Nor behind it, hacking away with a tiny hatchet at the big beam that braced the doors. The troll chuckled and looked back at the crawling Khan with another swig of the pine ale. It was much better than the stale brew he was used to.
The Khan tried to scramble to his feet, but Slud hooked a boot under him and kicked him back against a dead wolf on the throne steps. “Take yer seat, king.”
Arok stumbled over the furry corpse and climbed on all fours up the steps, drawing a good combat sword from the slot cut into the stone at the top. His hands were shaking again as he turned back to face what was coming. Slud glanced down at the foolish gold and gem-encrusted blade he held, frowning as he approached. “Slud’s ax, where is it?”
The Khan didn’t answer as he scanned the room, searching for help that wasn’t coming. Slud grabbed the dead wolf by the scruff of its neck and hurled it aside. “Can do dis clean or messy.”
“To hell with ya, demon!” the Khan bellowed with a cracked voice.
“Messy ’tis.” Slud cocked the bejeweled mockery of a weapon and slammed it into the Khan’s parry. The silly blade went loose on the first swing against the Khan’s steel, but Slud cocked back and hit it again with a little torque. The sound of the big goblin’s arm snapping echoed about the hall just as the golden hilt split in half and the sword pieces fell over the edge with a clatter.
The Khan’s sword slid down the stairs as he clutched his shattered arm with blood and snot dribbling over his quivering lip. “I’m King of the Mountain,” he whimpered.
“Nuttin’ but meat.” Slud took a last swig of the jug and smashed the butt end on the stone armrest. He jammed the jagged end into the Khan’s throat repeatedly as the golden pelt turned red in a rush. The Khan gurgled and tried to hold
his mangled neck together, but Slud slapped his hands aside and kept stabbing.
FIXELCRICK HOVERED HIGH along the interior gable of the hall as Neither-Nor hacked futilely at the massive crossbeam below. The alpha female of the Khan’s pet wolves continued to tear through the rich goblins of the recently defunct Rock Wolf Clan. Despite all the hubbub, Fixelcrick’s far-seeing eye remained locked on the battered feathers wrapped around the corpse of Short-Fuse. The cloak still vibrated with the delicate interweaving of his Knack, but the golden thread had been severed in multiple places, and halved feathers lay scattered about the floor.
Once Long-Pig had abandoned him to defend the Khan at the throne, the warlock had scrambled to retrieve his crossbow—holding it now with his unbroken hand, and loaded with the last of his precious golden bolts. He’d borrowed the night-hag’s words again, and the wind spirits had answered his call, or at least the call of the witch’s blood in his veins. They had come down the chimney and carried him above the chaos. Their invisible grip cradled him under his arms and feet as gusts of cold rushed about the hall, buffeting the flames in the fire pit and sending smoke and loose papers spiraling about the room in rogue eddies.
Without intending it, his focus on the coat brought him sinking toward the floor, but he stopped fast as Long-Pig emerged from the shadows along the wall to stand over his fallen comrade. Someone started pounding on the outside of the great doors again, this time with enough force to bend the fresh beam inward. Neither-Nor hacked at the wood with renewed fervor as insignificant chips flew off in every direction. He didn’t notice Long-Pig raising the big curving sword at his back.
“Neither-Nor!” Fixelcrick shouted as he aimed and shot. The golden bolt lodged in Long-Pig’s shoulder blade, stalling the chop just long enough for Neither-Nor to spin around and rake the moon blade across the mute killer’s belly. Long-Pig stepped back, as expressionless and unfazed as ever, and then charged in with a flurry of jabs and slices in response. Their two blades flew and clanged together too fast for Fixelcrick to follow as bloody nicks appeared across arms and legs on both sides.
Again the doors thundered and bowed inward, and even the alpha wolf stopped its madness to turn a curious gaze toward whatever was trying to force its way in from outside. It sniffed the air and tucked its tail low with a building growl. The beam started to crack, with long splinters peeling up from the center as Neither-Nor dove away, with the near-missed swipe of Long-Pig’s blade following after him.
Fixelcrick could no longer hear the arcane chanting of Agnes above, and the wolf snapped out of its homicidal daze with a whimper. The remnants of the goblin host turned their panicked gazes to the force that worked to break through the unbreakable doors for the second time in as many days as Neither-Nor slashed, ducked, and rolled at a dizzying pace among them. Long-Pig kept coming, always just a step behind.
But all of them, from the unflappable Long-Pig to the booming quake at the doors, stopped abruptly and turned toward the throne as a deep echoing voice filled the hall. “Oi! De Rock Wolf Clan’s done!”
Slud stood atop the steps, bathed red from chin to foot, with the limp figure of mighty Arokkhan held before him. With a last tug and an audible pop, he wrenched the Khan’s head from his shoulders and held it high for all to see.
The hall went completely silent. Even the wind spirits ceased their bluster as all eyes held on the towering figure.
“Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me!” Neither-Nor shouted.
SLUD KICKED the Khan’s body down the steps, and noticed his ax resting off to the side at the base of the rock. He met the scarred goblin’s furious gaze with a nod. “Sorry, fella, had t’be done.”
Long-Pig took the moment of distraction to drive his sword straight through Neither-Nor’s chest, killing him instantly—just as the front doors crashed inward and the beam snapped in half amid a shower of jagged wood.
The Wolf King, and another giant gray wolf, burst into the hall, both of them peppered with arrows and cuts. Luther lunged, taking Long-Pig from his feet with a bite that cracked bones and opened arteries. The gray wolf pounced on the Khan’s alpha female, biting the back of her neck with a snarling ferocity that could only be personal. Both goblin and wolf were pinned to the ground, savaged as their limbs thrashed and then stilled. The dying wolf’s eyes rolled back to her killer’s with what almost looked like pride, and Slud glimpsed a satisfying final grimace of pain on the mute goblin’s face before Luther swallowed the head with a tear and a shake.
The last troll stepped down the stairs as Dingle and Harog moved out from behind the throne on either side. Dingle carried the ledger now, already scribbling furiously in its blank pages with a look of utter glee on his face, recording every nuance and observation he could of his master’s rise. Slud handed the Khan’s head to Harog and grabbed the handle of his ax with the cold comfort of the Frost King’s bite taking root in his hand and over his heart once more.
Luther and his bitch finished their kills and stepped around the waning fire, licking their gore-slick chops as they eyed the Khan’s body.
“Eat ’im here; let ’em all watch,” said Slud.
He climbed back up the stairs to take the Khan’s messy seat for himself as the black wolf approached with a growled laugh. “Mountain King.”
The troll rested the cold ax on the stone by his feet, and the blood there froze solid as frost climbed up the armrest. “Told ya, wolf, Slud ain’t no king. Just gonna take a seat fer a li’l while, s’all.”
Luther bowed his head, pausing for a respectful moment before he tore into the Khan’s chest. The gray wolf joined him as Slud raised his gaze to face the stunned goblin host. “Come closa! Somebody get dat fire burnin’ bright!”
The blood-spattered gathering pressed in, and Fixelcrick fluttered down beside Harog, wearing his feathered cloak once more. He gave Slud a deep bow, and Slud felt nothing but a tickle as the goblin’s big warlock eye passed over.
“Khan’s head on de spike, if ya please,” Slud said, pointing to the fake Neither-Nor above. “’N’ get dat sword outta Neider-Nor’s chest.”
Fixelcrick took the head from Harog and fluttered up to the rafter over the steps. He tossed the dummy head to the coals and jammed the Khan onto the nail in its place as Harog shuffled to where Neither-Nor had fallen.
An odd tendril of smoke drifted down in the wrong direction from the hole in the ceiling to collect above the orange glow of the fire pit. Between the distorted, shimmering heat waves, Black Agnes took shape. She stepped out from the embers with a wicked grin on her long, pointy face and clasped her clawed hands together with a gleeful laugh that sounded like a hiss. “Very good, my boy. You’ve learned the game well, done your auntie proud this day. Now the board sets for the next match.”
“Ya ain’t Slud’s aunt, ’n’ he didn’t do it fer her neider.” Slud still hadn’t taken his hand from the handle of the ax. A bluish tinge spread along his skin and sank into the whites of his eyes. “Now step aside, Agnes, or we’ll see if ya like de cold as much as de flame.”
Agnes gave a little bow and grinned wider as she moved beside Dingle. “As you wish, my boy, but this one must answer for tasting the Nectar of Amrite. His blood belongs to me, yes?”
“No,” Slud countered. He’d gotten fond of the idea of having a chronicler of his exploits. The tiny goblin continued to record everything that was happening around him, despite the talk of his pending death. “He stays wit’ Slud. If he’s tasted somet’in’ he shouldn’ta, take his tongue ’n’ it’s square.”
For a moment Agnes’s grin turned to a sneer as her black eyes locked on Slud’s. He gripped the ax handle tighter and smacked his lip against a tusk. She bowed again and slipped her finger blade from her belt sack. “As you wish.”
Slud nodded to Dingle, and he nodded back. To his credit, he didn’t even squirm as he stuck out his tongue and she sliced it off and ate it in one quick motion. The little goblin hopped up and down with wide, watering eyes before settling a
gain. He held the ledger further out so as not to dribble his blood on the precious pages, and kept writing.
The gathered host watched with a mixture of horror and reverence as the wolves dug out the Khan’s heart and shared it between them at the feet of this last troll, who they’d watched die and come back like an emissary of death itself. The hall had been bathed in blood, and all had witnessed atrocities they would never forget. But the air within was charged with expectation—the same way that Slud had always felt when listening to the legendary tales of the great heroes of old.
Neither-Nor coughed as he nudged his way between the gaping onlookers, both of his reclaimed blades back in his hands where they belonged. He ripped the filthy bandit cloth from his face and tossed it into the fire as he passed. His eyes locked on Slud above as the mosaic of runes swam across his body. He rolled his shoulders with a wince, looking like he was getting ready to charge.
“So, ya stayin’ or goin’, frien’?” asked Slud.
“You and me ain’t done yet, troll,” Neither-Nor spat.
Slud smacked his lip against a tusk. “No . . . we’re just gettin’ started.”
EPILOGUE
MUNINN WAS LATE. Auberon, High King of the Elves, waited at the window in his study, looking out with the other raven perched on his shoulder. Once again, the day had bloomed bright and warm across the gilded halls of the ruling fae. The midmorning light streamed past him through the window, burning away the dark pockets about the room that he’d cultivated throughout the night. The heavy shadows that had gathered across his increasingly pale face were bathed again in a mask of glamour, but his back was still hunched after hours of reading.
Books and maps were piled upon the desk behind him, marked by his hand in the places where his research had uncovered the rumor of old doors between the worlds. It had become Auberon’s nighttime obsession. He hadn’t slept in over a century and wondered if he’d ever sleep again. The Dreaming World had begun to seem too small to sleep, and the old resentments had crept up from beneath the roots where he’d buried them long ago.
