The Goblin Corps (16 page)

“Jhurpess doesn’t do
anything
with elves!” the bugbear protested once he could jam a word in edgewise. “And what ‘cavorting’?”

“Meeting, playing with, socializing!” Cræosh snapped. “Generally being friendly! Which is why you have no idea what it means!”

Jhurpess began to pout. Cræosh ignored him.

“Fine, so you’re dark elf, or dakórren, or whatever. That means exactly what to me?”

“So hostile, friend orc? We are not enemies.”

“Legend says that you pseudo-faeries are one of the few races King Morthûl approached who refused to join his armies. If you actually exist, I see no reason to doubt that part of the story. So who’s to say we
aren’t
enemies, you pointy-eared bug-fucker?”

Katim rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “I see that…diplomacy is one of your…strong suits.”

“What’s wrong with pointy ears?” Gimmol whined at the same time.

Only the elf, it seemed, did not react adversely to the orc’s comment. He smiled, a white, even-toothed smile. “You’re alive, orc. Surely, that alone demonstrates my goodwill.”

“Or your cowardice.”

The smile slipped just a bit. “I could have stood outside and killed you through the open door before you even knew I existed.”

“Don’t think so, pixie. We’re Demon Squad! We’re ready for
anythaaaarrgh!!!”
Cræosh flailed his arms, trying to catch the strange little creature who had dived from nowhere and plucked a tuft of hair from the orc’s head.

“Rooo. Delaba wur! Ekee ekee!”

“Yes, I can see that,” the elf said gently to the creature as it landed, quivering, on his shoulder. “Quite brave of you.”

Cræosh shifted his near-perpetual scowl from the elf to the thing that had joined him. “You understand the little shit?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well.” The elf’s expression turned downright nasty. “Had your trollish ally not stopped you from harming him after his little game, you would have found my reception somewhat less cordial.” And then, once again, the newcomer was all smiles, casually scratching the strange little beast—which was
purring
—under the chin.

“Did you know?” Cræosh demanded of the troll.

“Under the…circumstances, I felt the creature could…very well have been a…wizard’s familiar. I thought it…safer to be sure.”

“You coulda said something, instead of spouting all that ‘Oh, it’s just a pwecious wittle animal’ horseshit.”

“Why? I wasn’t…sure one way or…the other. Look,” she said, placing herself between the orc and the elf. “You told us…that you want something…from us?”

The wizard raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

With a sideways glance that spoke volumes, Cræosh elbowed past the troll so he was once again standing at the fore. “Well, you said you didn’t want us dead. For my money, they mean the same thing.”

“Indeed.” The elf snapped his fingers once again and then proceeded to sit comfortably in the large plush chair that hadn’t been beneath him but a moment before. A sudden thump sounded behind them, followed by a brief whine as Gimmol’s ass hit the floor. “Very well. My name is Nurien Ebonwind.” He paused there, in case any of his “guests” wished to introduce themselves in turn.

“Ebonwind?” Cræosh sniggered. “Yeah, he’s an elf all right. You have a brother named Twinklefart by any chance?” Gork stuck his snout in his hands and giggled.

Ebonwind sighed. “Forget it. Anyway, I find myself with something of a problem, and I believe you good folks can assist me with it. As I’m sure you can imagine, considering how much hatred there is between my own race and the other elves, it behooves us to keep as close a watch on their activities as possible.”

“What ‘behooves’ mean?” Jhurpess asked. Cræosh smacked him.

“Unfortunately, the elves have grown adept at thwarting our spies. In the recent past, they have begun sniffing out our agents and intercepting our scrying magics with relative ease.”

“How recent?” Katim asked.

“Oh, a thousand years, plus or minus.”

Six pairs of eyes stared at him.

“Okay,” Cræosh said, his fingers casually, perhaps even unconsciously, poking small holes in the back of Fezeill’s chair. As he spoke, the orc constantly pulled the stuffing from within the cushions and shredded it, leaving a growing mess on the floor. “You got a problem. I sympathize, I feel for you, and all that rot. What the fuck do we do about it? And why do we bother?”

Ebonwind shook his head. “Patience is not one of your virtues, is it?”

“I try to make it a point not to have virtues. They itch.”

“Of course. Very well, then. As you are doubtless aware, King Dororam of Shauntille is gathering the Allied Kingdoms to attack Kirol Syrreth once the winter snows have passed.”

The squad members exchanged sharp glances. Sure, they’d heard the rumors, and most of them had assumed that that was why they were being assembled as a Demon Squad in the first place. Still, confirmation from an outside source was unsettling.

“I see that you have. Good. The elven nations, though not normally known for fraternizing with the humans—it means the same as cavorting, bugbear—
do
consider themselves to be one of the Allied Kingdoms. They are assembling their armies alongside the others, preparing to march.”

Comprehension dawned like a summer’s day. “And that,” Cræosh finished, “makes them easier to keep track of.”

“Exactly.”

“So I ask again, what do you need us for? Even Gimmol here couldn’t lose an entire army!”

“Why, thank you, Cræosh. I—hey, wait a minute…”

“True enough,” the elf continued, ignoring the protesting gremlin. “But keeping track of what the elves are doing isn’t enough. We need to know what they
will
be doing, before it happens. Once the elves have massed, they may decide to turn some of their might against
us
, should the fortunes of war permit. Or their absence from their homes could provide us with opportunities of our own. In either case, we must be ready. That’s where you could be of great help, my friends.”

Fezeill snickered. “I’m afraid I can’t turn myself into an oracle, Ebonwind. And most of this so-called squad couldn’t predict the number after seven.”

He seemed oblivious to the various hostile stares that came his way—as well as to the sounds of the bugbear quietly muttering, “Five, six…”

“But you don’t have to see the future,” Ebonwind told them. “After all, what is it more than anything else that determines the movements of an army?”

Katim hissed, a liquid sound even less healthy than her normal rasping breath. “The movements…of the enemy.”

The elf smiled, satisfied. “Precisely.”

Cræosh actually laughed aloud, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You want us to spy on
Morthûl
for you? Report the movement of our own armies? I was wrong; you’re not stupid. You’re downright insane!”

Ebonwind tapped one finger against his cheek. “Are you so certain that I couldn’t make it worth your while?”

“Worth? Pixie, you could hand me the entire fucking world on a platter, served hot with a nice side of cabbage and dwarf stew, and it wouldn’t even come close to being worth it!”

“And are you objecting out of loyalty, Cræosh? Or fear of what might befall you if you accept?”

“Ain’t any difference.”

“I see.” Ebonwind shook his head. “And the rest of you?”

“For once, the orc…and I are in perfect…agreement.”

The rest of the squad nodded.

“Commendable, of course.” The elf grinned once more. “And also unnecessary. I’m not seeking any classified information, just a slight advance on what the entire world would learn in two or three days anyway. That would give my people sufficient leeway to institute certain operations of our own against the eilurren—the ‘normal’ elves—with little chance of discovery. Actually, considering that the elves are a major part of Dororam’s forces, it would be to your advantage to help us out. It would almost be bringing the dakórren into the war on your side. You could be heroes.”

“And that’s all?” Fezeill asked. “Just troop movements, nothing more?”

“That’s all.”

“And who’s to say you wouldn’t just pass that information along to Dororam?”

Ebonwind actually managed to look insulted. “What do I look like to you? Why would I possibly want to do that?”

Cræosh, however, was frowning. “I dunno, pixie. It still sounds treasonous to me.”

“You aren’t seeing the big picture, Cræosh! It’s only treason if it brings harm to your nation. This…Why, this could be just the edge you need to ensure victory over Dororam’s forces!”

That
was a mistake. The orc’s gaze went flinty, Katim hissed again, and even the kobold was growling softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cræosh demanded. “You saying we can’t handle a bunch of elves and humans on our own?”

“Not at all,” the elf countered, obviously struggling to salvage the situation. “You can simply consider it some extra insurance.” Then, before anyone could say anything further, he added, “And in any case, I would hardly expect you to undertake such a thing without suitable compensation.”

“What compensation?” Jhurpess asked.

Ebonwind appeared uncertain as to whether the bugbear was asking for details, or for the meaning of the word. He decided to assume the former. “Oh, quite a lot. My people are
very
wealthy. We could pay more for this than you would see over the rest of your years combined.

“But more importantly, you must be aware that the potential opportunities for you all back home, should you survive Demon Squad duty, are enormous. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a friendly wizard owing you favors, hmm?”

Cræosh absently scratched at his palms. It was, indeed, a tempting offer. It probably wouldn’t do any harm, not if all he was asking for was troop movements a couple of days in advance. And if this was actually a dakórren initiative, as opposed to some personal gambit by Ebonwind himself, they were surely asking the same of others. Why shouldn’t they be the ones to benefit? Still…

“Oh, don’t decide now,” the elf said, clearly sensing his reluctance. “The sun’s long down. Why don’t you all sleep on it, and we can discuss it some more in the morning? You’re more than welcome to stay here, of course. It’s much warmer than the tundra.” And with no further ado, Ebonwind rose and slipped outside, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

He wasn’t, not entirely. Even through his cloak, even through his magics, Nurien Ebonwind shivered in the freezing wind. But if they thought he was, so much the better.

Not that he actually needed to wait for their decision. The orc was far too suspicious to take him up on his offer, the bugbear was too stupid, the gremlin too ignorant, and neither the doppelganger nor the troll would trust their fate to an “inferior.”

But one look at the kobold’s face as he’d described their “compensation,” and he knew he’d hooked one. And one, really, was all he needed.

“I do not…care for this at all,” Katim said to the others as they gathered around the roaring fire. “We cannot…trust this elf, whether or not…he is dakórren.”

“I tend to agree,” Gimmol interjected. “Definitely not worth the risk. Do you have any idea what they say King Morthûl
does
to traitors?” He trembled slightly.

Cræosh nodded thoughtfully. “Fezeill?”

“I will admit that our host makes a most convincing argument. Nevertheless, I fear I have to side with the gremlin. It simply isn’t worth it.”

“Gork?” the orc asked next.

“Oh. Same here. Not a chance.”

“Jhurpess?”

The bugbear scratched at his head. “Jhurpess not sure he understands what elf wants us to do.”

Cræosh decided that, once again, ignoring the monkey was the wisest policy. “Yeah, I’m with you. And there are too many unanswered questions. Did he bring us here on purpose? I’m not prepared to believe we just
happened
to stumble across a dakórren wizard’s hut in the middle of fucking nowhere. And there’s gotta be other sources,
easier
sources, of the information he says he wants. Nah, the whole thing smells wrong.

“So, we’ll go ahead and sleep here—no sense in letting a warm shelter go to waste—and we’ll leave in the morning.”

The troll cleared her throat; or at least, the others assumed that such was the intended purpose of the phlegmy sound that burbled from her gullet. “Are we willing to…trust that Ebonwind will not…harm us as we sleep?”

“Of course not!” Cræosh snapped. “I’m tired, I ain’t dumb. We’ll set a watch, same as usual.” He twisted toward the bugbear. “And we stay awake this time. You got that, Nature-boy?”

“Yes. Jhurpess remembers that from last night. Jhurpess not stupid.”

Cræosh opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it with an audible snap. Sometimes, it was so easy there wasn’t really any point.

Gork, his snout quivering with anticipation, forced himself to wait just long enough to be certain that everyone else was fast asleep. It took every bit of self-control he had, the waiting did, but impatient as he was, one of the first tenets of kobold philosophy was that one never went behind someone’s back in front of his face.

Kobold philosophy, it must be noted in passing, tends toward the convoluted.

Slowly, his footsteps landing on the creaky floorboards as silently as if they were sponge, Gork examined each of his companions in turn. As though his life depended on it—which, he realized nervously, it just might—he very gently prodded at them. Not enough to awaken even the lightest sleeper, only enough to confirm that they actually slumbered. Wiping his fingers roughly on his tunic—what, exactly, had Jhurpess
gotten
in his fur, anyway?—the kobold decided that the coast was as clear as it would ever be. Slipping through the open doorway, he made his way to their host. The elf sat casually by the front window, heedless of the cold, one hand again absently scratching the strange winged creature under the chin.

“I was wondering,” the dakórren said without looking away from the frozen plains, “when you might decide to join me.”

Gork’s snout wrinkled in surprise. “You knew I was coming?”

A not-quite-smile twisted the corners of Ebonwind’s mouth. “Does it really surprise you so much that I should?”