The Goblin Corps (74 page)

The night air was already redolent with smoke, made pungent by the sharp tang of alcohol and the disturbingly appetizing aroma of roasting meats. From his new vantage atop a nearby baker’s—a perch easily enough obtained, despite the encumbering robe—Gork watched not only the growing flicker of his handiwork, but also those others who watched it.

Heads were beginning to pop through various windows, and running footsteps could be heard in the nearest side streets. A few quick-thinking souls were shouting for their neighbors to form a bucket brigade, and already one brave citizen had torn a hole through one of the parchment windows and begun to scream at what he saw within.

And of course, there was the rest of the squad, huddled once more in that alley. Expression and identity were difficult to determine from above, thanks to the thick hoods, but their postures and gestures suggested that they watched the growing conflagration with some concern. Gork briefly considered waiting to see how long it would take for one of them to go look for him—but he quickly decided that he didn’t want to know, since it was entirely possible they’d never bother. Instead, he pried a chunk of shingle from the roof and winged it into the alleyway, smirking as it careened off the orc’s head. Four gaping hoods tilted his way, and he waved.

Cræosh’s return gesture was somewhat more crude.

“You may want to get out of that alley,” the kobold called in a loud whisper. “It’s going to get pretty smoky, and I think we want to be gone before it gets too crowded.

“I’m going to take a look around from up here,” he continued. “I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”

The robed procession ambled into the street, skirting the edges of the throng that was already forming around the edges of what had been the Capering Kobold.

The
non
-capering kobold flinched as a contingent of the city watch came running along the street, then forced himself to relax. They’d never spot him way up here, and they’d probably be fixated enough on the building, spitting flames like a stuttering dragon, so as not to notice the others, either. And even if they did, the disguises should hold up for a little longer. Hopefully…

Ignoring them for the moment, then, Gork scanned the rest of the gathering crowd. The ugly man there, wringing his hands and pleading with the guards in almost eunuch-high tones to do
something
, was probably the owner of this not-so-fine establishment. Nothing of import there. Wait, that man there in the back! Was…? No, he was nobody. Just a tall, thin human who bore a passing resemblance to Nurien Ebonwind. (Gork remained a tad jittery at the thought of the dakórren coming back for revenge.) And there…Oh, yes.

The flailing arms and strident demands coming from the witness who’d peered in through the tavern’s window had finally managed to divert one of the guards from the fire. Gork watched the soldier’s expression ripen from aggravated impatience, through disbelief, to utter horror; saw his cheeks go white even in the ruddy glow of the burning building. The kobold couldn’t hear a word, but he knew very well what the witness was describing.

The guard, in turn, went to fetch his commanding officer from farther along the street, and Gork scrambled over the rooftop, desperate to worm his way near enough to hear. Again, fortune and the Stars smiled upon him, for against the noise of the crowd and the flaming timbers, the guard had to shout at his captain to make himself heard. The lurking goblin couldn’t make out
everything
that was said, but he heard enough.

He heard the captain tell his subordinate something that sounded an awful lot like “You’d better go tell her.”

Unless Gork was woefully mistaken as to who “her” must be, their final target was within their grasp. Practically galloping on all fours, he crossed the roof’s deep shadows once again, cursing with every gasp of exertion. He had to tell the others, let them know what was going on, and get back before the messenger was too far gone to tail.

At the far end of the roof—the near end of the roof?
Oh, Stars blast it all, the
squad
end of the roof!
—Gork saw his companions shuffling slowly away, only a few buildings along, determined not to draw attention. Determined, but unsuccessful. Another of the city guards, her hands clasped on the bucket she’d just emptied with a steaming hiss onto the fire, was scrutinizing the “monks” with undisguised suspicion. She, then, turned to the nearest members of her squad, muttering and pointing.

And Gork’s memory began whispering in the back of his mind, placing her among the guards who had appeared at the temple after Father Thomas’s murder. Again the kobold cursed, louder and longer;

someone was finally doing the math and coming up with “monks” for an answer. The soldiers—who, despite their best efforts, could really do precious little good until the fire-wagon arrived with its larger barrels—laid their buckets on the ground and advanced, hands on hilts.

Gork, running dolefully short on any better ideas, yanked another, heavier shingle from the roof. He cocked his arm back and threw, his entire body snapping like a mangonel. The tiny projectile sailed down the street and completely missed its target (the orc’s head again, naturally), but its impact against the cobblestones did the trick anyway. Cræosh and the others spun, seeking the object’s source, and saw instead the team of guards headed their way.

“You there!” one of them called, realizing they’d been seen. “Halt!”

The squad, of course, declined. All pretense of stealth and subtlety abandoned, they charged headlong for the nearest intersection, half a dozen of Brenald’s finest in hot pursuit.

Scowling, Gork returned to his own pursuit, hoping it wasn’t already too late for him to catch up with the other soldier—and hoping, as well, that Cræosh or Katim would remember where they were supposed to meet.

Because dammit, if he had to spend days tracking them down through this stinking, aggravating,
human
cesspool of a city, then by the Stars he was going to take it out on somebody’s organs!

The “monks” dashed past startled passersby, ignoring shocked and puzzled glowers, shoving the slow-moving from their path or deliberately knocking them prone to entangle the legs of the pursuing soldiers. But this was no blind, panicky flight, for all its chaos. Cræosh wasn’t running
from
, but
to
, if only he could find what he needed in this city he didn’t know….

There! Grinning beneath his hood, the orc led his companions around the rough corner of a dilapidated warehouse. As he’d surmised from the road, they found themselves in a cul-de-sac, really little more than a wide alley with a wall at the far end. They’d cornered themselves, yes, but more importantly, they’d also stepped out of sight of the city’s citizens.

The guards pounded around the corner, weapons drawn to meet what must surely be the final stand of cornered, desperate fugitives. These were Brenald’s finest, expertly trained, and they outnumbered the enemy six to four.

They never stood a chance. The last one died, Katim’s
chirrusk
buried in his throat, before the first, his head mashed to paste by Jhurpess’s club, had even ceased twitching.

“That was fun.” Cræosh said.

“But dangerous,” Katim pointed out. “This city’s…already lost three of its most…hallowed citizens. And now an entire…patrol of the watch as…well. If we keep this…up, we’ll have the entire city…locked down before we can get…out.”

“True,” the orc admitted. “We need to get this done with, then.”

“Are disguises still good?” the bugbear asked, though whether due to real concern or just hoping to shed the uncomfortable cloth was anyone’s guess.

“Well…” Cræosh nudged an unrecognizable hunk of flesh and muscle with his boot. “The guards who recognized us are, um, indisposed. But there’s no telling if any of the others were suspicious, or how quickly news spreads in this fucking human-hive. I’d say as long we don’t run into any more guards, or anyone we just tossed out of our way, we’re good for a
little
while longer…but not much. Let’s find Gork.”

Find him they did, though it required half an hour of waiting, cursing, waiting, idly scuffling feet, and waiting in the shadows cast behind the ostentatious structure. (Clearly designed to impress anyone passing through the front gate—that was why it had stood out, why Cræosh had picked it when they first arrived—it was probably a city office of some sort, though the goblins never did find out for certain. Regardless of its intended purpose, it served well as a conspicuous landmark for visitors lost in Brenald’s winding streets.)

“Took you fucking long enough,” Cræosh barked as Gork finally materialized from the darkness.

“Gee, I’m ever so sorry, Cræosh,” the kobold replied. “Next time I’ll only follow the target
half
the way. I mean, that’s close enough, right?”

“Okay, fine,” the orc said, somewhat grudgingly acknowledging that Gork probably had a point. “And you’re sure it was her?”

“Unless the guard had reason to visit some
other
scar-faced redhead and report what’d happened to Brookwhisper and Bekay.”

“So where is she?”

“Home,” Gork said simply. “Or it’s
someone’s
home, anyway. It’s a stone house on a hill at the outskirts of the city.”

“City has a skirt?” Belrotha asked.

Gork sighed. “Outskirts,” he explained slowly, through clenched teeth. “It means the very edges of the city.”

“Oh. Me understand.”

“I’m
so
glad.”

“Gimmol would explain to me nicer, though,” she said with a loud sniff.

Cræosh distracted the kobold with a light cuff on the shoulder before he could retort.
I really hope he’s fucking smart enough to watch his mouth around her.
If Gork made even one disparaging comment about Gimmol where Belrotha could hear him, Cræosh planned to wash his hands of the whole situation and just try to avoid the blood as he dove for cover.

“Just how far out are we talking about?” the orc asked. “’Far out’ as in no neighbors?”

“A few,” Gork corrected, his brow and muzzle wrinkling as he envisioned the area. “But none on the hill itself. It’s a really big property, far bigger than the house warrants, actually. Guess she really does love her some natural surroundings. Neighbors
could
see something amiss, but they’d have to be looking up and making a point of it.”

“Well, that’s a help,” Cræosh muttered, his brow creased in thought.

“It also,” Katim pointed out, “means that anyone…in that house is probably…going to see us coming.”

Cræosh shook his head. “I was sort of hoping to hold off until later. Maybe after midnight, make sure everyone’s good and asleep.”

“No,” Gork said firmly. “Cræosh, it took me over an hour to make my way back here through those damn streets. Kobolds don’t build in straight lines, but that’s because we have to make do with caverns. I don’t know what the humans’ excuse is.

“But the point is, I can’t swear to you she’s even at home
now
, let alone where she’ll be in a few hours. If she decides to hunt down whoever killed her friends, or if she realizes she’s the next target—and I sort of got the impression from Havarren that she’s not a complete moron—there’s no guarantee she’ll wait till morning before going Stars-know-where.”

Cræosh chewed his tongue. “All right, you’re making sense for some reason. Don’t know what the fuck this world is coming to, but there it is. We’ll go now.”

Again they marched at a stately pace, arms crossed piously before them and heads bobbing to a rhythm only they could hear.

“You can get us there without taking us back past the Capering Kobold, I hope?” Cræosh asked. “I’d rather not run into anyone who remembers the jogging monks.”

“Relax, Pork-face. We don’t have to get anywhere near there.”

“Pork-face?”

“What I want to know,” Gork continued, “is how we’re planning to get her out of this damn city, if and when we do manage to grab her.”

“Yeah, well…” Cræosh hedged.

“Actually,” Katim rasped from behind, her robe bulging as she talked, “I believe I have…an idea about that….”

“What do you think, Gork?” Cræosh asked once Katim had spoken (and rasped) her piece. “Anyplace on the way you can grab the gear?”

“Quite a few,” Gork said. “We’ll have to make a detour to get the bodies, though.”

Cræosh shrugged. “Unless someone happened to wander in, the guards should still be in the alley where we dumped ‘em. We’ll have to get a little closer to the Capering Kobold than I’d prefer, but I think we can pull it off.”

“Then let’s pick up the pace a little,” Gork whispered. “There’s a lot to do. And Cræosh?”

“Yeah?”

“The tavern is gone. We burned it down. So stop looking for excuses to say the damned name, would you?”

They stood now at the base of the shallow hill, gathered alongside the property’s fence line. Streetlamps flickered at every nearby intersection, but the pockets of shadow were more than thick enough to hide in. Stacked at their feet were several man-sized bundles, just beginning to smell.

“If Havarren’s to be believed,” Cræosh muttered, his tone indicating quite clearly what he thought of
that
idea, “this one’s supposed to be more dangerous than any of her companions.”

“Yeah,” Gork said, somewhat less than enthusiastically. “Great.” Both were clearly thinking of Bekay and Gimmol, though neither spoke either name. If Lirimas was worse…

“I never in my whole fucking life ever thought I’d say this,” the orc said, “but I think I’ve had enough fighting for the day. Anybody got any bright ideas as to how we ought to go about doing this?”

“Jhurpess could set the house on fire,” the bugbear offered. “Squad could wait outside and hit Lirimas on the head as Lirimas comes out.”

“You know something, Nature-boy?” Cræosh said. “You’ve got an unhealthy obsession with fire for someone as flammable as you are.”

“It may not, however, be such…a bad idea,” Katim pointed out.

“Uh, hello? Dog-breath? That’s a
stone house”

“The tavern was stone, too. The…furnishings inside still burned well…enough, yes?”