The Goblin Corps (22 page)

Close up, the writhing mass of component vermin was even worse, revolting on a purely instinctive level. He’d been told that King Morthûl sometimes gave a similar impression, what with the various crawling things infesting his half-dead body, but this was worse than anything Cræosh had heard about his Dark Lord.

He dealt with it—the fear, the revulsion, all of it—in typical orcish fashion: by trying to kill whatever it was that made him uncomfortable. The massive, jagged blade plunged through the roiling chest. A spray of dead and dying creatures, worms and centipedes primarily, spurted from the wound and splashed across the combatants’ feet. The thing staggered a moment, and the vermin that formed the “flesh” near the injury wavered and twitched,
almost
falling free as though whatever magic held them in place had wavered.

A moment of weakness, perhaps, but a moment only. The creature straightened and shambled forward a step, moving inside Cræosh’s reach, arms outstretched in horrid mockery of an embrace.

The sword, Cræosh noted sourly as he backpedaled, was clearly not the proper instrument for this particular endeavor. He knew that the things could be hurt, and he assumed that meant they could be
killed
, but it would take some special effort to make it happen.

A quick glance told him that the others weren’t having that much better a time of it. Jhurpess bounced from foot to hand to foot, capering about his chosen foe in a spastic dance. His cudgel rose and fell, first in this fist, then in that, and each swipe crushed a sizable heap of worms. Cræosh wasn’t sure if he could actually kill the thing that way or not, but as long as he could keep moving, not let it lay a grotesque hand on him, he had a shot.

Katim, naturally, had faced off against the swarm that had taken the form of the missing yeti, rather than any of the smaller ones. Her axe, presumably as useless as the orc’s sword, still hung at her back, but her
chirrusk
was a steel cyclone, sweeping through the creature’s form again and again, hurling the tiny creatures away by the score. With each whistling revolution, the faux yeti staggered, but again, Cræosh couldn’t be certain if the damage was lasting.

The others weren’t having even that amount of luck. Gimmol and Fezeill stabbed again and again, their short-bladed weapons proving all but useless, and Gork had once more disappeared entirely.

And then Cræosh’s foe lunged, the hollow of its mouth agape in what could only be described as a silent roar, and the orc, parrying desperately, had no attention left to devote to the others. He could only hope that
someone
would come up with a bright idea of what to do next.

Gork wished desperately to the Stars that he had any idea of what to do next. Peeking from the lip of his latest burrow, he peered at the raging chaos and gave serious thought to just waiting it out. It wasn’t cowardice that kept him out of the fight—well, not
just
cowardice—but rather an absolute conviction that his presence wouldn’t make the slightest difference. His
kah-rahahk
wouldn’t do any more good than Gimmol’s short sword, not against enemies without solid flesh, let alone internal organs. He
sure
as hell wasn’t prepared to
bite
the damn thing, and that didn’t leave him any other options….

Well, maybe
one.

The vapors of an idea beginning to coalesce beneath his ears, and the kobold tore into his backpack.

Katim howled in bestial exultation as the worm-yeti finally lost cohesion, the entire swarm of vermin scattering beneath the weight and the wind of her spinning
chirrusk.
Like halflings fleeing a burning building—and yes, she’d seen it happen, so the comparison felt justified—the tiny creatures fled every which way, some burrowing into the snow, some freezing where they landed, some literally bursting in what must have been some sort of mystic backlash from whatever magics had bound them together. Her voice rose even higher as she cried her triumph for all the worlds to hear, for if these horrors could cast spells, as Jhurpess claimed, then they must possess intelligence—intelligence that would be hers.

Welcome it, my pets
, she cooed internally, delighting at the thought of such a horror serving her in the next life.
Welcome it, and make it room. It will be with us all a very long time.

She knew, though, that she had precious little time for celebration. Three more swarms remained, and the others were not doing so well as she. Jhurpess seemed to be having
some
effect, his thrashing club having taken its toll; the creature looked somehow smaller, less substantial than it had. But he seemed, too, to have hit some sort of plateau, a point beyond which he could not injure it further, could not land a final blow. He pranced around it, remaining a step ahead of the thrashing limbs, but that was all.

Cræosh had turned to the flat of his blade, wielding it as a cudgel, but the awkward grip and his previous yeti-dealt wounds were slowing him. He hadn’t done even so well as Jhurpess, and though he fought hard, the eventual outcome was plain for all to see.

But he could stand a few moments more; it was Gimmol and Fezeill who most needed her aid. Even as she watched, the bugbear-wearing-doppelganger staggered, struck across the chest by a vicious backhand. He screamed, a sound more terror than pain, and began wildly grasping at his own chest. It took Katim a moment, from where she stood, to see that Fezeill was desperately yanking worms and centipedes from his own flesh! Her
chirrusk
spinning once more, the troll leapt upon the shapeshifter’s writhing foe.

Good!
Gork gasped in heartfelt relief as the troll hurtled through the air to drive her whistling chain through the thing’s body. He’d have been mortified if he’d had to come to Gimmol’s rescue
again
, and he
definitely
wasn’t putting his stony ass on the line for Fezeill!

That left Jhurpess and Cræosh, though, each battling his respective foe, and the plan was as ready as it would ever be. A brief sigh, a final prayer to the Stars, and the kobold emerged from his burrow and began a squirming crawl toward the bugbear, scowling at the taste of wood in his mouth.

In his peripheral vision, Cræosh saw Katim’s expression twist in rapture as the second worm-thing finally burst apart beneath her whirling chain. That left only the two, and damn, he hoped he could finish his off before Jhurpess did. That’d be embarrassing, if his was the last….

And then the one he faced took a step back, for the shambling monstrosities had clearly decided they were done playing fair. In perfect unison they raised their arms, and four glittering shards of crackling, semisolid fire shot from their fingers.

Katim was lifted from the snow and thrown back to the ground as two of the arcane missiles slammed into her. Wisps of smoke rose from her burned leather armor and scorched fur, and Cræosh smelled the aroma of roast meat. She climbed quickly to her feet, a snarl of fury rumbling from her throat, but she winced with every movement, every rasping breath.

The third flaming bolt struck the bugbear, spinning him in place, and the fourth…

Cræosh raised his sword, hoping to deflect the last one—it wasn’t moving
that
quickly—but the damn thing
swerved around the blade!
A moment of searing agony, the world did a few quick somersaults around him, and the orc found himself lying sprawled some yards from where he’d started.

Rigidly holding his neck straight so that his ringing head would stay attached, Cræosh tried to struggle to his feet. And noted, with more confusion than pain, that his legs refused to cooperate.

Well, this is not good.
And now he
knew
he’d been hurt worse than he thought, because he was clearly hallucinating! He hadn’t
really
seen a flaming kobold burst from the snow. Flaming kobolds weren’t native to the Steppes, were they? The snow—Cræosh actually found himself fighting back a giggle—the snow would put them out, right?

And then, mercifully, he passed out before he had the chance to say any of this out loud and
really
embarrass himself.

Gork was not, in fact, on fire—self-immolation would certainly have been an
unexpected
way to end the fight, but probably not the most effective one—but the torches he held in each fist most certainly were. He rose from his crouch behind the creature that had been battling Jhurpess, and struck before it even knew he was there.

The first blazing torch slid easily into the swarm. Charred vermin fell to the earth with a muffled
whumph.
Gork swung the second torch high, lunging on his tiptoes, and drove it into the creature’s chin. Another instant of crackling and sizzling, and then the kobold was showered with dead and dying bugs.

Between the kobold’s torches and the troll’s
chirrusk
, the final swarm was gone in moments.

“Well,” Gork muttered, extinguishing both torches in the snow, “so much for the easy part.”

Katim dropped her gaze on him like an anvil. “Easy?”

“Hell, yeah!” He waved one blackened brand at the comatose orc. “Now we’ve got to get
him
back on his feet!”

Katim nodded slowly. “Indeed. That…could prove difficult. I—” And then, with a pained and rather puzzled scowl, she too collapsed at the kobold’s feet.

“Well, shit.” Gork waved the others over to give him a hand as best they could. In the distance, another pack of yetis howled their fury at the rising moon.

“Well, that was productive,” the doppelganger said some time later, his voice so thick with sarcasm it threatened to freeze in the cold. “So what do you suggest we do now?”

Gork glanced up from the sprawling heap of orc and troll that lay before them, his jaw clenched in impotent fury. “I don’t have the first fucking clue, Fezeill. Why don’t you turn into a horse so we can carry them?”

“I can’t do anything the size of a horse, kobold.”

“No? You seem to be doing quite well as a horse’s a—”

“Shut…up.”

Everyone turned to the prostrate troll. “We thought you were unconscious,” Gimmol muttered.

“That’s because…you’re all stupid,” she said, glossing over the fact that she damn well
had
been. “Help…me stand.”

It took the combined efforts of Jhurpess and Fezeill, but they did just that. Katim couldn’t take more than a few steps without stumbling, but she was upright.

“We can’t stay here,” Gork pointed out. “Either the yetis or the worms could come back with reinforcements.”

“I know. Is that…why you dumped the orc…and me in that rather…undignified pile?”

The kobold kicked the snow at his feet. “We thought that once we’d gathered you up, it’d be easier to move, or at least it’d keep you from freezing….”

Katim raised a hand. “Spare me the…details. How do you…plan to move the orc?”

Gork, Gimmol, and Fezeill traded guilty glances. “Actually…” the gremlin began reluctantly.

“You were going…to leave him,” Katim concluded. She laid just a touch of emphasis on
him
, making it damn clear that what she meant was
us.

“Well,” Gimmol said defensively, “it’s not as though anybody likes him! And more importantly,” he added quickly when Katim scowled, “we have to survive! That means we can’t stay here! And—”

Katim growled. “We need him. We…wouldn’t have survived…this long without him.”

Fezeill snorted. “That, and if you let him die here, you can’t claim
huurrk
…“

The doppelganger dangled, thrashing and flopping, from Katim’s fist.

“Jhurpess thought Katim was injured,” the bugbear said.

“I thought Fezeill was faster than that,” Gimmol added.

Gork grinned. “And
I
wonder how long doppelgangers can hold their breath.” Indeed, the bugbear face Fezeill was wearing at the time was turning an impressive, floral shade of violet.

Alas, his burning question would forever be unanswered. Katim opened her fist with a snort of disgust and then stepped over the gasping figure by her feet. “Jhurpess, throw…the orc over your shoulder…and let’s move.”

She recognized her mistake just a split second before the loud
thump
reached her ears. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut in pain, suddenly understanding the reasons for Cræosh’s constant bad attitude. “Jhurpess,” she said, steadfastly refusing to turn around. “I meant…
carry
the orc…over your shoulder.”

“Oh. That does make more sense to Jhurpess, yes.”

For the first time ever, Katim felt the urge to whimper. Still, it was less than half an hour until sundown, and then Shreckt would get them out of this frozen wasteland.

She could barely wait.

In the comfort of the gently rocking carriage, a cup of tea halfway to her lips, Queen Anne abruptly froze. “Oh, dear.”

Belrotha, who was still, after so many hours, squirming about in search of a comfortable position that didn’t wedge her butt painfully between the armrests of her chair, tensed. Her nerves were stretched near the breaking point already, so the consternation in the queen’s voice was absolutely
not
what she needed to hear.

“What?!” she asked in as close to a squeak as an ogre could possibly get. “What wrong?”

“Nothing to concern yourself over,” Queen Anne assured her with the faintest shake of her head. “Just something I had better deal with. We can’t have them dying on us just now, can we?”

“Who? What? Huh?”

“Precisely, my child. Excuse me just a moment, please.” And with that, the queen…shimmered.

Belrotha blanched. Queen Anne had, and had not, disappeared. A vague image—transparent and blurry, almost a soggy watercolor—remained in the chamber. But the strange apparition was utterly motionless, failing even to rock with the swaying of the carriage. The ogre hauled her knees up to her chest, causing the chair to groan in pain, and tried her damnedest to curl into a ball.

The moon had reached its zenith and begun the long descent toward morning by the time the squad arrived, limping and battered, in the craggy foothills. Shambling as awkwardly as the worm-men they’d battled, they stumbled into a tiny valley: little more than a crack between two steep slopes. It was cramped enough that every one of the goblins had either a protrusion of stone or someone’s elbow poking them in the ribs, but the hills kept the worst of the frigid winds off them. They could probably have found a better location, if they’d bothered to look before it was already dark, but they hadn’t.