The Goblin Corps (51 page)

“Wait!” Cræosh called after him.

Havarren froze. “Wait,
what?
” he asked dangerously.

Cræosh nearly choked on it, but he wasn’t
that
stubborn. “Wait, please.”

The mage smiled. “Of course. What is it?”

“He knew we were coming, didn’t he?”

Havarren’s smile widened. “He became aware of your journey the moment your keel hit the waters of the Sea of Tears. He found it most curious that his own Demon Squad felt the need to sneak across the kingdom in a leaky fishing boat, so he ordered his forces to allow you to land, rather than to sink you outright, and to avoid disturbing or distracting you on your way through these halls. He’s most anxious to hear your tale. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Cræosh watched the enigmatic mage depart and then reluctantly turned his attention to the black door. He drew a deep breath, doubtless preparing some crude comment, and slowly exhaled as the door opened by itself.

“You’d think they’d get tired of that trick,” Gork whispered, drawing another of Cræosh’s patented Irritated Glares. Then, drawing himself up to his full height, the orc stepped across Morthûl’s threshold.

The expansive chamber swallowed the sound as they made their way across the onyx-hued floor. Their footsteps landed with muffled thumps, and even their own breathing sounded somehow distant. Cræosh, as well as most of the others, examined the twisted cages that were wrought in the filigreed walls, wondering and worrying as to their purpose. Gimmol, however, glanced downward just in time to see a flash of movement beneath the supposedly solid floor. A brief tremor shook his body, and he found himself moving closer to the ogre, seeking a protection that he knew she wasn’t equipped to offer.

And then they reached him. He was seated behind a mundane writing desk, poring over a large tome stained and cracked by centuries of use. One leathery finger reached out, slowly turning the page, and none of the squad could tell where the crackling of parchment left off and the rustling of dried flesh began.

Only after he had finished that final page did the Charnel King rise.

Cræosh had seen countless corpses in his life. He had faced the undead in the swamps of Jureb Nahl, and the skittering vermin of the Steppes creatures. Disturbing as it was, nothing in Morthûl’s visage should have proved so overwhelming. And yet the orc swallowed hard, barely forcing a whimper back down his throat. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and for the first time, he truly understood Gimmol’s horror at the notion of there ever being a second such creature. Now, beneath that sickly glowing gaze, Cræosh wasn’t certain that the world could survive
one.

As though reading his thoughts as easily as he had the book—a possibility that Cræosh wasn’t willing to rule out—the flesh-covered half of the Charnel King’s face contorted into a shallow smile. The bending and snapping of the desiccated skin sounded like cracking ice. “I understand,” he said in a distorted voice, a voice all the more horrible for the fact that it had clearly once been human, “that you wished to see me.”

Cræosh’s jaw moved, but he found to his horror that he was unable to form the words. For a moment he gaped idiotically, and then he finally shut his mouth, trying to salvage some semblance of dignity. Behind him, the others shuffled, none willing to speak up, and Morthûl’s parchment-like flesh creased in irritation.

It was Gork, actually, who stepped forward to speak—not because he was any less terrified than the others, but because he was
more
terrified of irritating King Morthûl. If the master of the Iron Keep chose to peer into their thoughts, rather than waiting for their answers, he’d learn
far
more than Gork ever wanted him to know.

“You-your Majesty,” Gork stammered, “we did indeed wish to-to speak with you. You see, we discovered—”

The Charnel King raised a hand, and Gork choked on his own words. “I have been too busy to properly keep abreast of your activities,” the Dark Lord informed them. “Perhaps that was an error in judgment. Start from the beginning. Start from your arrival at Castle Eldritch.”

And so he did. Gork launched directly into the tale and, other than omitting any mention of the dakórren and his peculiar familiar, spared no detail. The others chimed in occasionally, when he neglected something or to clarify a point; and though he remained terrified, Gork found himself feeling slightly more relaxed by the time the tale wound to its conclusion.

“There are some who would suggest,” Morthûl said softly, “that I should not believe a word of what you’ve just told me.” Gork’s nerves began to fray once more, to pound beneath his skin, perhaps seeking their own escape. He began to sweat, and dug his nails into his palms to keep from fidgeting.

“But,” the Dark Lord continued, “I cannot imagine that you would come all this way, risk your lives and even your souls, to lie to me.” He spun on his heels, the gesture flinging a small shower of thrashing insects from his tattered blue cloak. He either didn’t notice, or ignored, the kobold’s frantic efforts to dislodge them before they burrowed into his clothing.

“It seems that I have not been paying attention,” Morthûl said, staring at something only he could see. “I have neglected my queen, and she has gone astray. And I fear there is little to be done for it now.” He faced the squad once more, his sockets blazing with a profane yellow light. “I must act. And you will help me.”

“M-me?” Gork squeaked.

“All of you.” Morthûl returned to his desk and waved a hand over it, once, twice. A transparent image of Castle Eldritch materialized atop the wood, shimmering and wavering. For a time, the undead king studied it, as though attempting to breach its walls through will alone.

“Castle Eldritch was the home of King Sabryen,” he said without looking up from the image. “He imbued it with many sorcerous protections, and Anne has expanded them further. Some, now, are nearly as potent as my own magics. Were I to waste the strength to batter through them, I would be forced to delay other preparations I must complete before Dororam launches his so-called invasion.” Now he did look up, somehow seeming to meet each goblin’s individual gaze at once. “It is time for you to serve your
true
master, my Demon Squad. You will return to Castle Eldritch, and it is through you that I will deal with my wayward queen.”

“Um, Your Majesty?” Cræosh began, finally having regained his voice. Even in the midst of their overwhelming terror, the rest of the squad looked shocked at the discovery that the orc could, in fact, be polite. “May I speak?”

“You may.”

“Well, I’ve been a soldier for more years that I can count, Your Majesty.”

“More than three, then,” Gork whispered very, very softly.

“So please understand,” Cræosh continued, “that I’m not questioning orders. And if you order us to our deaths, that’s your right, and our privilege to obey. But your Majesty, there’s no way we can take on Queen Anne.”

“I’m aware of that, orc.” Morthûl waved a hand in a casual dismissal of his concerns. “I have no intention of having you attack my bride. I simply need you to deliver this.” Something spun through the air toward Gork, who—with a loud “Eep!”—barely raised his hands in time to catch it.

It appeared to be a human skull the size of an apple, carved from marble. Gork opened his mouth to ask a question and just about fainted when the skull began chattering its teeth together and cackling softly.

“What…?” Cræosh began.

“It’s a talisman, orc. It should allow me to penetrate the barriers surrounding Castle Eldritch without breaking them down first. It will save me a
staggering
amount of effort.

“Of course, for it to work, it must be in immediate proximity to the source of the wards to be circumvented—in this case, the very heart of my dear queen’s laboratory. I rather doubt she’ll allow you just to walk in there, no matter how much she trusts you. But you’re a Demon Squad. I’m certain you’ll come up with something.”

The entire squad stared stupidly at the Dark Lord as the marble skull continued its mindless cackle.

The booming echo of Morthûl’s chamber door washed over them from behind, and with it a rapturous feeling of relief. Yes, they remained within the alien halls of the Iron Keep, and there was still enough tension in the air to chew on, but the worst was behind them. They hadn’t felt this relaxed since their fishing boat had bumped up against the pier on Dendrakis’s shore.

And of course, now that they felt more themselves, they were more than willing to argue. “We should have told him about Ebonwind,” Fezeill said as they moved back down the hall. “I think he’d have wanted to know that someone’s trying to gather information on his military movements.”

“I didn’t hear you suggesting it in there,” Gork snarled. “It’s real easy to think about it now, isn’t it?”

“We were all…distracted,” Katim interrupted before the doppelganger could respond. “Not a one of us was…thinking clearly at the…time. We’re alive, and…we’ve delivered our news. Let’s…call this a victory and leave it…at that.”

Cræosh glanced around, noting that the human servants and living guards had finally chosen to make their presence known; obviously, Morthûl was no longer concerned with “distracting” them. That, too, provided a sense of normality and added to the squad’s (relative) peace of mind.

Havarren awaited them on the lowest step of the first of many stairs they would have to descend on their way out. The squad stopped, falling silent in as close to a show of respect as they could muster. After the Charnel King himself, Havarren just didn’t seem so intimidating.

“Are you ready?” the wizard demanded. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Ready for what?” Gork asked suspiciously.

“For your journey, of course.” Havarren wiggled his fingers. “You didn’t think King Morthûl would take the time to have you
sail
back to Sularaam, did you?”

“But,” Gimmol said, “he told us there are wards in place to prevent—”

“Yes, yes, yes.” The blond sorcerer was clearly growing impatient. “Around Castle Eldritch itself, not the entire bloody town. You’ll appear just beyond the main bridge. You can walk from there, and it’ll create the illusion that you’ve arrived by more mundane means. Now, if you’re through asking stupid questions?”

Actually, Havarren clearly didn’t much care if they were through or not. He twisted his hands, and it was done. The Iron Keep melted away like wax under the midday sun, and in its place appeared a familiar stretch of Tiehmon’s Way. The wind blew cold, carrying the frigid bite of the Steppes. Beyond the next rise in the road, they all knew, stood the bridge that crossed the River Krom. And beyond
that
, Castle Eldritch, where Queen Anne waited.

But waited for what? Cræosh glanced over his shoulder at his companions. “Who’s got the Tree of Ever?” he asked. Katim tapped the largest of her sundry bags and pouches.

“Good,” the orc said, nodding. “Until we learn otherwise, we’ll assume that Queen Anne’s still waiting for the relic, and has no idea anything’s changed.” He frowned. “Keep your eyes open, though. If she
does
suspect something’s up, she sure as fuck ain’t gonna give us a lot of warning before she acts on it.”

They crossed the bridge with little difficulty, receiving a shallow nod of acknowledgment from the guards as they passed. Most of the bustling throng cleared out of their path, and those who didn’t were casually shoved aside. The constant low roar of the crowd finally faded just slightly behind them, and there they were. Castle Eldritch towered over them, gleaming white in the sun. The gates, however, were closed, and no line of petitioners occupied the lanes surrounding the walls.

Fezeill grunted and shifted back to his human form, abandoning the orcish body he’d worn for a while now. “Easier to hide in the crowd,” he said in response to the squad’s puzzled looks. “Should the worst happen, of course.”

“Of course,” Cræosh said.

“Should we knock?” Gimmol asked.

The orc shook his head. “I don’t particularly like this development. Where are all the people?”

“Home,” Gork said. “Which makes them smarter than us.”

“Let’s not announce our presence just yet,” Cræosh continued. “The wall ain’t so tall that we should have any real problem getting over it. If we’re spotted, we’ll just tell them that we got impatient. Hell, that’s in character, right?” He grinned.

“For you, anyway,” Katim said. “But it…will suffice.”

“I’m so fucking thrilled you approve.” He glanced down toward the kobold. “Grappling hooks are damn loud when they land, Shorty. Why don’t you scramble on up there and secure a rope for us?”

Gork skittered up the wall, grumbling the whole way—more for the sake of being ornery, Cræosh thought, than because of any real objection. He carefully planted a grappling hook over the lip of the stone, then waved. Cræosh tugged it a few times, nodded, and the entire squad shimmied up to the top.

All, of course, save Belrotha, who was a whole lot more ogre than the rope could handle. Instead she backed up a few paces, raced forward, and leapt. Without hesitation and seemingly without difficulty, she vaulted the thirty-foot wall—her hands coming very near to squishing Gork in the process—and landed in a crouch on the other side.

Gork and Cræosh, still hunched atop the wall, gawped at one another.

The kobold was the first to speak. “Did she just…?”

“No,” Cræosh informed him. “She didn’t. Now shut up and flip that rope over here so we can climb down.”

All told, it took the Demon Squad less than two minutes to clear the wall. It was swift, professional, and relatively silent (despite the thump of the ogre’s landing). Still, Cræosh found himself disturbed by the complete lack of attention. Sure, he’d hoped their entrance would go unnoticed, but he hadn’t really
expected
it to. Queen Anne’s guards might not be of the same caliber as the men (and other things) who patrolled the Iron Keep, but they couldn’t be
this
incompetent, could they?

Which meant they had to be occupied elsewhere, with something big enough to draw every last one from his assigned post, or they’d been dismissed. Neither option was appealing in its implications.