The Goblin Corps (48 page)

“That’s just it!” Gimmol was actually screeching. “It’s too much!”

Katim winced. “Gimmol, tone it down…a little. My ears are about to…climb off my head and seek…their own way in the world.” She reached up and poked him in one dangling foot with a talon. “Perhaps your head…might be willing to keep them…company?”

“It’s too much,” the gremlin said again—at a much lower volume. “You’re making a common mistake, Gork. You see the Charnel King as a wizard who just happens to be dead.”

The kobold shrugged. “It’s what he is, isn’t it?”

“Not by far. You ever wondered why this entire world isn’t ruled by wizards? Why they don’t just step in and make themselves gods?”

Another shrug. “I just sort of assumed they didn’t have the power.”

“Exactly. Even the greatest sorcerers can only channel so much magic, because the body and the mind can only handle so much without burning up. That’s why you won’t see any single wizard blowing up an entire kingdom, or mentally controlling thousands of people at once. A whole cabal working together might be able to do it, but most wizards don’t trust their fellows enough to cooperate to that extent. Too many trade secrets.

“But King Morthûl doesn’t have that problem. His body’s
dead
! It’s sustained by magic; it simply doesn’t have the same frailties as a living one, and he’s had
eight hundred years
to learn how to use that. King Morthûl can perform feats of magic that no mortal wizard could even contemplate, let alone achieve!” Gimmol’s voice had been rising again; at Katim’s snarl, he took a few deep breaths.

“It’s as close to godhood as a mortal can get,” he continued once he’d calmed down a bit. “In all recorded history, less than half a dozen mages who attempted the ritual actually succeeded; the strength of will required is enormous, even more than the sorcerous proficiency. Under other circumstances, I wouldn’t worry about Queen Anne being able to pull this off—except that she’s a stark raving loony, in case you hadn’t picked up on the fact. She might start off cooperating with her husband, but it wouldn’t last. How long do you think either of them could go on, trying to work side by side with the
one person
who posed an actual threat?”

Gork was finally starting to look troubled. “So wouldn’t one of them just kill the other?” he asked hopefully. “We wouldn’t be any worse off than we are now, right?”

Gimmol shook his head frantically. “You’ve never seen wizards go to war, have you? This would make all previous mage duels look like a children’s squabble. I doubt Kirol Syrreth would survive. I’m not completely sure the
continent
would survive!”

“We’d hide,” Gork said, very obviously arguing now for nothing more than the sake of being stubborn. “Kobolds are good at that. It’s what we do.”

“Not from this, Gork. If Kirol Syrreth goes, we
all
go with it.” Gimmol paused a moment. “And besides, even if by some miracle you did survive, what would you come back to?”

Gork was trying very hard not to be convinced, but the others, even Jhurpess and Belrotha, had heard quite enough. “Okay, Gimmol,” Cræosh said, “you’ve sold me. You’re the mage here. What do you suggest?”

“There’s no way I can take Queen Anne,” the gremlin told them. “Ten of me wouldn’t be powerful enough. The
only
choice we have is to tell King Morthûl and let him handle it.”

“You’re still assuming he doesn’t know,” Fezeill interjected. “That it wasn’t he who assigned us to Queen Anne.”

“He doesn’t. He’d never take the risk. I’m
sure
of it.”

Cræosh sighed. “I was really hoping for another way out of this,” he told the world at large.

Katim’s jagged, saliva-coated teeth gleamed in the setting sun. “There’s always…suicide.”

“Remind me of that when we get a little nearer to Dendrakis. I just might want to give it some thought.”

For good or for ill, he would have plenty of time to think it over. All the way from Ymmech Thewl, in the shadow of the Brimstone Mountains, to the Sea of Tears from which the isle of Dendrakis rose, was pretty close to the entire length and breadth of Kirol Syrreth. Between terrain and distance, even accounting for the Demon Squad’s stamina, reaching the Iron Keep would require…

“A month,” Fezeill told them, having been the first to complete the math. “Maybe more.”

“Well,” Cræosh said philosophically, “we’re fucked.”

Gork frowned. “Are we? I mean, the Stars only know what Queen Anne might do with that kind of time, but we’ve got the Tree of Ever. Even assuming it now properly qualifies as a forgotten god’s relic, it’s not going to do her much good if she doesn’t have it.”

“No,” Katim said, “we can’t…count on that. If Shreckt
is
the…demon in question, it means that…Queen Anne has all the components but…one. Were I in her…position, I would not be sitting around…waiting for it to come to…me.”

Belrotha cocked her head. “Little tree will go to her? What us here for, then?”

“You think she’s got other feelers out besides us?” Cræosh asked, letting the ogre stew.

The troll nodded. “It would make sense, don’t…you think? I’d say that we…can’t afford to wait a…month on this.”

“And our other option is what?” Gork asked caustically. “Do you suppose if we ask nicely enough, we might persuade time to wait for us?”

“Actually,” Cræosh said, his face lighting up, “yes.” He looked pointedly at Gimmol.

“Oh, no,” the gremlin protested, thrusting both arms out as though to shove the notion away. “Not even the Charnel King messes with time. No way.”

(Had Gimmol known the precise nature of Morthûl’s recent ritual—the one compromised and thwarted by duMark and his allies—he might have chosen a different example.)

“I didn’t mean it literally, Gimmol,” Cræosh clarified. “Can’t you just—I don’t know—pop us over there?” He snapped his fingers for emphasis, the sharp retort echoing like a breaking bone. “Shreckt and Queen Anne do it all the time.”

“I’m not Shreckt or Queen Anne,” Gimmol said bluntly. “There’s a whole steaming pile of things they can do that I can’t.” The gremlin scratched his temple, just beneath the brim of his hat. “Still…”

“Still what?” Fezeill prompted after a moment. “‘Still’ isn’t very informative.”

“I can speed us up a little,” Gimmol said hesitantly. “We won’t feel like we’re going any faster, but we can cover the distance in a couple of weeks. Ten days or so if we
really
push it.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Cræosh demanded.

“Because it’s harder than all hell, Cræosh,” Gimmol said. “And because there’s a price.”

Katim scowled dangerously. “What kind of…price?”

“This sort of thing wreaks havoc on the body,” the little wizard replied. “It’s vaguely possible that a few of us might not survive the shock. Not
likely
, since we’re all in pretty good shape, but possible. But even if it doesn’t kill us, it’s going to drain us. Think of it as aging a year or three over the next month.”

Cræosh scowled. “I’m not crazy about that idea,” he grumbled, “but I can spare a year or three. Most orcs don’t make it to old age anyway. I’m a little more concerned about that whole ‘not surviving thing,’ though.”

“I second,” Gork said, actually raising his hand.

“I’ll risk it,” Katim rasped. “It’s…extremely difficult to kill…a troll. I’m not…worried.”

“Well bully and hot-shit for you,” Cræosh muttered.

But in the end, their other options amounted to zero—a circumstance with which they were growing all too familiar. They roughly explained what was about to happen to Belrotha and Jhurpess. And then there was nothing left but to do it.

It took Gimmol three tries to get the spell right, and Cræosh was certain that the gremlin would dislocate his jaw with some of the harsh, alien syllables. When he finally
did
spit out the final phrase, the entire squad shuddered; a few even screamed. As though they’d taken a nice big slug of molten lava, a sudden heat blazed in their guts and radiated outward. Their blood boiled, their hair burned from the inside—or so it felt.

After only a few seconds, though, the burning faded to a tolerable level; not gone, alas, but easy enough to ignore.

“What now?” Cræosh asked, his voice sounding strangely high-pitched and tinny in his ears.

“Now we go,” Gimmol said. “The incantation should last about a day each time, so I’m going to have to recast it. A lot.” The gremlin sighed. “This is not an easy spell, Cræosh. It takes just about everything I’ve got. If we run into any sort of trouble, I probably won’t be much help.”

“That’s fine. You just leave it to us.”

The squad set out, and Cræosh was rather startled at just how swiftly the terrain flashed past to either side. It looked as though every step he took covered three or four paces’ worth of space.

“Not exactly,” Gimmol explained when he asked about it. “The size of your paces hasn’t changed. You’re just taking them a lot faster. Since your mind doesn’t realize how fast your feet are moving, it
looks
like each pace is covering more distance.”

“But we’re just moving faster.”

“Exactly.”

Cræosh pondered that. “Wouldn’t this be a huge fucking advantage in combat, then?”

The gremlin shook his head. “You’re forgetting how much stress you’re under. Yeah, you’d be a lot faster than your opponent, but a single blow would kill you. Combined with the rigors of this spell, even a minor wound might prove fatal. That, and you wouldn’t really want to age a few years every time you fight someone, would you?”

Cræosh just grunted and began very carefully checking his path for rocks and roots. Given what he’d just been told, he absolutely did not want to trip over anything.

Dying from a skinned knee or a twisted ankle would be humiliating.

“I just thought of…something,” Katim announced.

They’d halted for the night atop a small rise. It wasn’t much—barely even a hill—but it was defensible, something that couldn’t be said for most of the open plains here. They’d made good time, to have reached those plains already. At this rate, they would be at the shores of the Sea of Tears in less than another week.

“And that is?” Cræosh asked, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t really all that interested in anything the troll might have come up with.

“We were so concerned with…reaching the Sea of Tears, we didn’t…consider crossing it.”

“Um, by boat. Just how stupid—”

“And how many ports…stand on the coast of the Sea…of Tears?”

“Just Sularaam,” Gork interjected. And then, crushed beneath the weight of sudden realization, he groaned.

“What?” Cræosh asked.

“What’s in Sularaam…Cræosh?” Katim asked pointedly.

It finally dawned on him. “Castle Eldritch. And Queen Anne.”

The troll nodded.

“Shit!” Cræosh rose and began to pace. “Will she be able to sense us if we just pass through? I mean, she’s probably pretty busy, right?”

“Probably,” Katim agreed. “How much are…you willing to wager on that…particular ‘probably’?”

“Not much,” the orc admitted. “Okay, then. So what’re our other options?”

“Isn’t Tarahk Grond near Sularaam?” Fezeill asked him. “Couldn’t we go through there?”

Cræosh shook his head. “Yeah, it’s close. I have friends and relatives there. But Tarahk Grond’s farther south in the Grieving Mountains. It’s got no direct access to the Sea of Tears.”

“Oh,” Fezeill said. “Damn.”

After a fairly lengthy moment of silence, Gork scowled. “I’m hearing a rather disappointing lack of creativity here, people.”

“Oh, right,” Cræosh said, “like
you’ve
got any better ideas.”

The kobold shrugged. “Someone’s got to supervise, right?”

“Jhurpess have idea!” the bugbear announced. “Jhurpess knows what squad should do.”

“This,” the orc said, “I’ve
got
to hear. I’m not sure I
want
to hear it, but…”

“Jhurpess will take squad through Trussus!”

“What?!”

“Trussus is bugbear village! Trussus near Sea of Tears!”

“Trussus on the Steppes!” Gork raged at the simian creature. “You want us to go back up into the Steppes? Into the tundra? You’re not just stupid, Jhurpess! You’re insane!”

“Trussus is warm,” Jhurpess protested mildly. “Mountains shield Trussus from wind and snow.”

“Maybe,” Cræosh told him, “but that don’t make it the slightest bit easier to
get
to the fucking place. Sorry, Nature-boy, but I’ve got no intention of freezing my ass off again. If I want it gone, I’ll take my sword and cut it the hell off the top of my legs.”

“To say nothing of the fact,” Fezeill added, “that it would mean trusting our lives to a bugbear-made boat. Frankly, I’d rather have the raft of doors we made in Ymmech Thewl. I—”

The argument ended, or at least stalled, at the hideous sound of Katim running her talons thoughtfully down the flat of her axe blade. “What about the River…Krael?”

“What?” It came from three mouths at once.

“If we cannot get a boat…at the coast, we get one earlier. Then…we travel the Krael, which…takes us into the Sea of Tears…far north of Sularaam.”

“Well, that’s just fine, Dog-breath,” Cræosh said—filing away, for the moment, the troll’s
almost
unnoticeable faltering at the word “boat.”
Just like she’d hesitated before stepping onto the raft. Trolly’s got a weakness
…. “I suppose you’ve got a small ship stowed away in a belt pouch, right?”

Katim glowered until Cræosh began to fidget.

“All right!” he relented. “So you wouldn’t have fucking brought it up if you didn’t have some idea! So let us in on the secret, oh wise canine. We’re breathless with suspense.”

“If we’ve truly traveled…as fast as Gimmol claims,” she said, “then we should…be fairly near Timas Khoreth. Since the…city sits on a tributary…of the Krael, it stands to…reason that they might have a boat…or two on hand.”

“Wait a minute!” Gork exclaimed, horror dawning on his face. “Isn’t the Krael
also
in the tundra?”

“Not precisely. It runs along…the southern edge.” In fact, proximity to the tundra, and the poor quality of the frigid soil, was one of the reasons there
wasn’t
a port city where the Krael met the Sea of Tears. But neither Cræosh nor Katim saw any pressing need to mention that fact to the irate kobold.