The Goblin Corps (7 page)

“Get off me!” Completely ignoring his commanding officer, the nine-fingered soldier advanced on Hrark. “I’ll push you any time I feel like it, you—”

Two things happened then, damn near simultaneously. First, Gork noticed a pair of kobolds who had been skulking about at the rear of the crowd untying the horses from the blasted tree. One of them, all five reins clutched in his tight little fist, led them away while the other began brushing and covering the tracks with a small broom.

The second event was that Hrark, much as Gork himself had done, stepped forward and bit down. Only this time, since the human’s hand was out of reach, the patriarch chose a target somewhat closer to his own level. Cloth and flesh ripped audibly. Hark retreated a pace, chewing thoughtfully, as the soldier collapsed to the ground, screaming in a painfully high-pitched timbre.

Everyone else watched the older soldier, who was torn between the need to avenge the rather excruciating injury done to his man and the realization that the kobolds currently outnumbered the humans by about six to one.

It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that humans put far too much emphasis on size.

“Kill them all!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, ripping his sword from its scabbard.

Hrark barked, and the entire clan fell upon the humans, an avalanche of teeth and flesh and bad attitude. Kobolds jumped, dove, and even threw one another through the air—anything required to fasten a fist or a mouth upon their larger foes. Men toppled, overwhelmed. Tiny fists with tiny claws rose and fell, jaws bit down, and blood flowed freely from deep within the writhing kobold pile.

It was, Gork decided, safe to join in. With a joyous cry, he scurried up the blackened tree like a spastic cat, pausing on the very tip of the highest branch that would support him. Then,
kah-rahahk
in a two-fisted grip, he launched himself into space, coming down smack-dab in the middle of the wriggling mass. Taking only enough care to ensure that the flesh was not stony, he sank the dagger time and again into any target soft enough to accept it. Gouts of blood followed the blade each time he ripped it free, and he fancied he could hear the cries of pain, even beneath the deafening turmoil around him.

“Hey, no fair!” one of the nearby kobolds shouted. “He’s using a weapon!”

“No points for Gork!” another voice called from the crowd. “Everybody else’s bet is still good!” And with that, the speaker suddenly reached into the fray and yanked loose a flap of skin that appeared, just possibly, to be an ear. “Five points!” he called gleefully. His brethren ignored him, each intent on claiming his own share of keepsakes—as well as the money contained in the betting pool some nameless kobold had started while Hrark addressed their “guests.”

A few more moments, and it was well and truly over. Skeletons coated in a thin fleshy pulp were all that remained of the humans, and even those wouldn’t last long. Already, a “cleanup” crew was at work, hacking the bodies with axes and passing the severed chunks around the gathering. Anything edible would be gone within the hour, and the rest would wind up at the bottom of whichever river the clan next happened across. It was, all told, an efficient system; unsurprising, considering that this was hardly the first time they’d needed to make some of their “fellow” soldiers disappear without a trace.

Nor was it the first time that Gork had been responsible for that need.

“You!” The patriarch snagged Gork by the collar and yanked him out of the line where he stood with other eager kobolds, awaiting his portion of human. “Let’s talk.” Fingers locked firmly on Gork’s tunic, Hrark strode swiftly away from the others.

“I certainly appreciate the assist, boss,” Gork offered once they were out of earshot of the others. “If I—”

“Gork?”

The kobold swallowed. “Um?”

Hrark glowered at him. “I am looking for an excuse,” he said, “to hurt you. A lot. You with me so far?”

“Umm, yes?”

“Good. Now, pay close attention; this is the good part. You listening?”

“Yes…”

“All right, we’re cooking now. As of this moment, I am telling you to shut up. I am going to ask you some questions. You may answer those questions. Anything
else
you say will be the excuse I’m looking for. Is
that
clear?”

Gork looked around nervously.

“It’s a question. You can answer it.”

“Oh, right. Yes, boss, it’s clear.”

Hrark nodded, and then started twitching his snout, the kobold equivalent of the human head-shake. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you. Haven’t we talked about this sort of thing?”

Gork decided, after a moment, that the question was more than just rhetorical, and thus presumably safe to answer. “Well, yes, but it wasn’t my fault! They—”

“It’s never your fault, is it, Gork?”

That one, the other kobold decided,
was
rhetorical.

And then, Hrark grinned. It was a twisted expression, curling back the snout, revealing the front teeth, and it was most assuredly
not
what Gork wanted to see. His own expression, already less than overjoyed, fell notably. He could feel his ears drooping loosely atop his head.

“Gork, my boy,” Hrark oozed at him, actually going so far as to place an arm around his shoulders. “All trouble aside, that took skill, you know? What have you accomplished here today? Kept that little crystal from the soldiers, stood up for yourself, and that was a pretty spectacular leap you took into the fray earlier. You really are impressive, did you know that?”

Gork gawped at his patriarch, waiting for the other claw to drop.

“In short,” Hrark concluded, “exactly the sort of kobold they need.”

“They?” the other asked in a tight little voice.

“Oh, yes. ‘You are so commanded,’ the wraith said—or at least, I
remember
it saying, which isn’t really the same thing, but close enough, ‘to choose the best among you for assignment to the master’s elite.’ Congratulations, Gork. You’re Demon Squad.” The patriarch’s grin stretched very nearly larger than his snout itself. “It’s a great honor, of course. You’ll be a hero when you get back.”

Gork’s world was very methodically crashing in around him. Demon Squad?! He was a dead kobold, pure and simple. “Great honor” his rough stony ass!

“Hrark…Boss. Couldn’t you find someone else? I mean, battle isn’t really my thing….”

“Nonsense, my boy. You’ll do fine.”

“But they say that no one’s ever survived a full tour of duty in a Demon Squad!”

The patriarch’s eyes gleamed in the fading afternoon light. “That,” he told Gork, his voice suddenly frigid, “is an added benefit.

“Pack your stuff and say good-bye to everyone. I think an hour ought to be sufficient, don’t you?”

Finally,
finally
, Timas Khoreth hove into sight, a darker spot against the gleaming snows of the Steppes that began some leagues beyond the city. Cræosh was not, by nature, a sentimental orc. Hell, there
weren’t
any sentimental orcs. But after weeks with the damn bugbear as his only companion, he felt an overwhelming urge to dash on ahead and kiss the very walls in thanks.

For his own part, Jhurpess squinted quizzically at the sprawling shape. “That it?”

As much as he hated the idea of a human city, Cræosh couldn’t quite keep the grin from his voice as he answered, “Yeah, Nature-boy, that’s it. Timas Khoreth.”

“Oh. What ‘Timas Khoreth’ mean?”

The orc looked daggers at him. “It means the Khoreth of Timas. How the fuck do I know what it means?”

“Jhurpess just asking.”

“And Cræosh just answering. Can we get moving already? It’s been a long walk, and I need a drink.”

The bugbear immediately started to reach for his pack.

“I mean something a hell of a lot stronger than water,” Cræosh told him.

“Oh. Jhurpess understand. Cræosh want to celebrate arrival at city.”

A brief pause. “Sure, something like that.” The orc headed toward the towering city walls, his pace newly quickened.

After a moment’s hesitation, the bugbear loped up beside him, moving on all fours. “Jhurpess enjoy last few weeks. Cræosh and Jhurpess going to be good friends in Demon Squad.”

My other option was death
, the orc reminded himself silently.
I can deal with a lot if it means I don’t get dead.

“Jhurpess not even care that Cræosh not very bright. Jhurpess a tolerant bugbear.”

On the other hand, death has its perks.
…

Jhurpess’s tolerance was clearly a trait not shared by the black-armored humans standing post at the gates. “That’s a first,” one of them remarked loudly as the traveling companions approached. “A pig and an ape loose in the wilderness. Wonder how that happened?”

Cræosh reluctantly suppressed his temper. It wasn’t worth getting into trouble in an alien city—and besides, his nose wasn’t
that
piggish. Instead, he took a moment to examine the fortifications themselves, rising steeply behind the annoying soldiers.

This, despite its great size, was clearly a city designed with defense foremost in mind. The surrounding wall was close to twenty feet high, with large crenellations and dozens of murder-holes halfway to the top. The gates, flanked by a pair of watchtowers, consisted of massive oaken doors reinforced by a bar thicker around than Cræosh himself and supplemented by an iron portcullis. Cræosh was certain that the guards had ballistae, cauldrons of oil, and other such weapons close at hand. Even with an army of orcs, he’d hate to have to take Timas Khoreth by force.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to lay siege to the damn place—and as for a particular trio of irksome guards, well, them he could deal with. He decided to be diplomatic about the whole thing, and rather than draw a weapon or even offer any retort, he simply continued on ahead, ignoring the fools entirely.

Orcs, it’s worth noting, have a broader definition of diplomacy than humans do. It more or less amounts to “Anything other than killing you.”

The guard who’d spoken, however, a bald fellow with just a few days’ worth of beard, was clearly intent on making a scene. “Hey!” he shouted, stepping in front of the large orc. “Obviously, you didn’t get the hint. Not surprising, really.”

Cræosh glared.

“In words of one syllable, then,” the human continued. “We—don’t—want—your—kind—here. Is that sufficiently clear to you?”

“‘Sufficiently’ has more than one syllable, you leprous, brain-damaged goat-fucker.”

The guard retreated a step, startled, but still determined to block their path.

“Look, I don’t care if you
can
speak a civilized tongue. Timas Khoreth is a
human
city. That means
humans
live here. You people cause us nothing but trouble, and we’ve had it up to—”

“Jhurpess tired of this,” the bugbear declared. Before Cræosh could even think about stopping him, the simian creature loped forward and backhanded the bald guard solidly across the face. The soldier’s feet actually left the ground, and he spun for two full revolutions before crashing to the earth in a cloud of dust.

Had Cræosh hit the man like that, he’d have caved in the side of his skull and shattered the jaw completely. Bugbears aren’t quite as strong as orcs, on average, so Jhurpess’s blow merely snapped his neck.

The end result was pretty much the same, though.

Cræosh yanked his sword from its scabbard, cursing under his breath as the humans did the same. This, he figured, was probably not the most auspicious start to his new assignment. Briefly, he glanced at his irritating ally. He wasn’t sure whether or not Jhurpess understood
why
they were about to be attacked by the entire watch, but the bugbear was smart enough to recognize the situation for what it was. One long hand snaked up over his shoulder, lifting the cudgel from its makeshift sling. Jhurpess pounded it once into the earth, launching a second dust cloud easily the equal of the first, and dropped into a simian slouch.

One of the other humans rose from where he had knelt to check on his fallen companion, his face a mask of rage. “You bastards! You killed—”

“What in the name of the blackest hell is going on here?”

Orc, bugbear, and human examined the late arrival. Another human—older than the others, to judge from the gray streaks in his chestnut-brown beard—approached from within the walls. He sat atop a gargantuan black warhorse, and his armor, similarly hued, was steel rather than leather. The symbol embossed in the man’s breastplate, the silver crown of Morthûl, instantly marked him as an officer.

“Captain!” one of the soldiers called to him. “These—these creatures attacked us! They—”

The officer raised a gauntlet-covered hand, silencing the guard. Then, turning to face the heavily muscled orc, he asked, “Is this true?”

Cræosh shrugged his massive shoulders. “They didn’t want to let us pass.” He didn’t point out that, technically, only the bugbear had committed any violence. He’d save that for later, if necessary….

The captain turned back to the soldiers.

“He’s an orc.” The same soldier answered the unspoken question, as though it explained everything. “And he’s got a bugbear with him!”

The captain nodded. “I’m not blind yet, soldier. Last I checked, we were all soldiers of Kirol Syrreth. Was I asleep when they changed the rules?”

“No, sir, but—”

“And didn’t I specifically mention at last week’s assembly that we were expecting a few, ah,
foreigners
because the general was assembling a Demon Squad?”

The guard snapped his mouth shut, unwilling to admit that he didn’t know—because he’d been recovering from an unauthorized night on the town, and suffering from an equally unauthorized hangover, on the morning in question. The dead man lying on the ground, had he been able, might have admitted to a similar condition.

The captain shook his head. “You,” he said, pointing to a passing soldier, one who’d been uninvolved in the altercation. “Show these two to the barracks.” The soldier had been on his way to the mess hall for a much-needed lunch, but clearly knew better than to protest with the captain in this sort of mood. Glumly, he nodded, then gestured for the travelers to follow. The captain was still haranguing his men fiercely when they finally passed out of earshot.