The Goblin Corps (77 page)

“This can’t be fucking happening!” It was far from the first time Cræosh had said something similar, since they’d begun creeping and sprinting their way across the massive nation that had once been home; but now, as they stared over yet another burned husk of what had once been a goblin town, he sounded more plaintive than ever. “This isn’t a war! It’s a fucking rout!”

“The Charnel King’s got a plan,” Gork insisted, staring nervously at the darkness around them, deliberately looming just beyond the pale ring of light shed by the village’s last smoldering fires. “All we’ve got to do is get to Dendrakis. We’ll hand over Lirimas, and things’ll turn around. You’ll see.”

Gork, too, had repeated the sentiment more than once. Cræosh was pretty sure, at this point, that the little kobold was struggling to reassure
himself
, not his companions.

But there came a point, some days later on, where even Gork could no longer pretend.

The squad had been making better time, for they’d stolen a skiff from an occupied fishing village and practically flown along the River Krom. Propelled by the currents and Belrotha’s mighty rowing, they were faster than any pursuit the humans could have offered, even had they been spotted. Finally, they were nearing their destination: The Sea of Tears loomed ahead, just beyond the island city of Sularaam.

Or what had been the island city of Sularaam. Now, though the bulk of the homes remained, the larger structures, the temples and government buildings, were as shattered as the central tower of Castle Eldritch.

“It isn’t possible,” Cræosh insisted once again, but much of the fire had gone from his voice. “Even if they’d been marching
unopposed
, Dororam’s army couldn’t have made it this far, this quickly. They…”

A brief shimmer, visible even in the light of the afternoon sun, flashed across a street near the outer edge of the once-great city. Like a curtain parting, a hole opened in the air itself. Through it rode a small platoon of Dororam’s knights, dragging prisoners—human soldiers of Kirol Syrreth, judging by their battle-worn armor—behind them.

“Ancestors,” Cræosh whispered. And then, more loudly, “Son of a bitch!”

“They…They cheated!” Considering his own proclivities, Gork seemed surprisingly offended by the notion. “They used magic! That’s not fair!”

“It makes sense…though,” Katim rasped, her attentions fixed on the newly arrived soldiers. “King Morthûl was probably…prepared to counter any…direct threat from duMark and…the other mages. But this tactic…may have caught him by…surprise.” She shrugged slightly. “After six hundred years…it might become difficult to…react to unexpected—”

“No!”

Cræosh and Gork, perhaps remembering the ogre’s
last
outburst, took a step back.

“Charnel King not surprised!” Belrotha insisted. “Him know what he doing! Him rule for lots of years!” She shook her head, and her voice grew softer. “Me rule Itho for only few seasons. But that long enough for me to know that nothing ever go right. Everything always changing. Charnel King rule Kirol Syrreth for long time, so him know change.”

“The ogre may have a point,” Cræosh admitted. “But we’re not gonna know either way until we talk to him.”

“Then I suggest we move,” Gork offered. “Unless you want to hang around here until those soldiers notice us, it’s still several days to Dendrakis. Probably longer, since we need to be circumspect. I’m sure Dororam has ships in the water by now.”

“And we’re going to get…a boat from where?” Katim asked. “This skiff wouldn’t last…an hour on the open sea.”

“Same place we always do,” Gork said, his fingers twitching slightly. “Wherever we can.”

She could see nothing at all, not through the layer of dusty, filth-encrusted sheets in which she was constantly wrapped. Nevertheless, she knew where she was. The jostling of the ship had been replaced by the far more familiar jostling of the ogre’s shoulders; the tang of the sea washed away by the more arid scent of the mountains. They must be almost to their destination, and she was damned—possibly literally—if she let herself be taken any farther.

Long, hellish weeks of constant pounding against the ogre’s back, of near starvation, of constant thirst had left her a parody of what she had been. But they had also granted her time, plenty of time, to study her captors: their patterns and behaviors, their actions and attitudes. Even better, they’d watched her far less acutely during their days at sea. She wasn’t sure if that was because they knew she had nowhere to go, or if they were too busy sailing the vessel and (from what she could hear) being violently ill. Regardless, she’d taken the opportunity to study the ins and outs, the loops and the coils, of the many knots that bound her. And if she was not, now, what she had been, then by all the gods she was still
who
she had been. And Lidia Lirimas, hero of the Allied Kingdoms, was nobody’s pawn. Winning free on the isle of Dendrakis was a frightening thought, but far less so than allowing them to carry her to the keep itself.

Her only regret was that, succeed or fail, escape or perish in the attempt, she would be unable to wreak her vengeance on the creatures who had done this to her. But from what she’d overheard, they suffered over what had happened to their lands, and that—at least until she was stronger, until she could hunt them down on her own terms—must suffice.

She waited, flopping loosely within the sheets, slowly working on those many knots, and watched for her chance.

“It’s over.” No despair, no grief in Cræosh’s voice, just simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment. He no longer possessed the strength for anything more.

“But…but…” Gork, for the first time in a great while, was truly at a loss for words.

Nobody else spoke, though Belrotha was making a vague strangling noise in the back of her throat. The others stared in silence.

Stared at what had once been the Iron Keep.

Whatever magics duMark and Dororam’s other wizards had called from the heavens had surely been beyond anything ever seen, beyond what even the Charnel King was prepared to repel. The wrought iron had become slag beneath the blast of some incomprehensible furnace, hardened into a jagged carpeting across the broken stones. Great pinnacles, the skeletons of towers, jutted from the wreckage. Blackened by smoke and soot, they leaned precariously at impossible angles, held aloft only by the grasp of the hardened iron pooled around their base. A few bits of half-charred furniture poked from the debris here and there; the stench was the unholy progeny of smithy and abattoir.

A pitiful legacy for a demigod who had ruled unchallenged for over half a millennium.

“We’re dead,” Gork whispered.

“No.” Cræosh finally looked up from the ruined keep, the symbol of everything he’d fought for all his life. “No, we’ve lost the war. We’re not dead.”

“It’s just a matter of degree now,” Gork insisted.

“No! You fucking listen to me, you little shit! We’re alive! And I don’t care how thorough Dororam’s armies think they were, genocide ain’t easy! There are more of us out there, a lot more! All right, fine! We’ll hide, for now. We’re going to go find them, and we’re going to survive! And if it takes me to the end of fucking time, I’m gonna see Dororam’s entire fucking kingdom dead! You got me?”

“Yeah, Cræosh,” Gork said, uncaring. “Sure.”

“Where did prisoner go?” Jhurpess asked suddenly. And indeed, where Belrotha had dropped her, all unnoticed, at the sight of what was left of the Iron Keep, now remained nothing but a pile of sheets and loose coils of rope.

“Should we bother to hunt her…down?” Katim wondered aloud.

The orc scowled. “No point. We need to be gone before any of Dororam’s soldiers find us.” He looked around, then pointed toward the mountains of Dendrakis. “We can get lost there, find shelter, and plan what happens next.”

He’d already turned away when Katim nodded, so he didn’t see her eyes, flickering from him to the mountain passes—and the precarious mountain ledges.

Slowly, despondently, their thoughts their own, the goblins of the Demon Squad filed away from the wreckage. All, that is, but one.

Her face twisted in despair, Belrotha couldn’t drag herself away, not yet. For long moments, as her companions moved ever farther away, she gawped, uncomprehending, at the mess before her.

They were strong! The Charnel King was strong! They were supposed to win! They
had
to win! It wasn’t supposed to end this way!

Belrotha didn’t know much, and there were times when she even
recognized
that she didn’t know much. But her knowledge of the Dark Lord’s power was absolute, her faith in his abilities unshaken. This could not have happened; he would have seen it coming. He
would!
Any minute now, he would appear from the air before her, explain that this was all a part of his master plan. Any minute now…

“Belrotha! You coming, or just breathing hard?”

The ogre crashed to her knees. It
was
real. No Charnel King. No plan. No victory. They’d fought for nothing. Gimmol had died for nothing. The ogre dropped her head to her chest in grief, and blinked.

She could have sworn that something
moved
, the iron slag rippling aside like a wake.

Hesitantly, afraid she might get burned or bitten, she reached out. How it had survived the raging inferno, she had no idea, let alone how it had come to her from the midst of the ruins. True, it remained half encased in melted iron, but that was hardly an inconvenience to her. A loud snap, and it had come free in her hand.

She could only gawk at the tarnished silver crown. Had it truly been drawn to her, as she’d imagined, or was it pure, dumb luck that she’d found it? Minds far wiser than Belrotha’s would have wondered; she knew only that it had to be a sign.

It had survived, somehow, even where its owner had not. And so had they.

Yes, the Charnel King had failed, but Gimmol hadn’t died for him, not really. He’d died for Kirol Syrreth, and Kirol Syrreth would one day rise again.

The crown clenched tightly in her fist, Belrotha rose and scurried after her companions, before she lost them in the distance. Broken rock passed beneath her feet, rocky plains and then the first low foothills to her right and left. But time and again her gaze was drawn away from her surroundings, back to the silver circlet in her palm. Despite the tarnish, despite the clouds, it gleamed; casually, Belrotha wondered if, despite its size, it might not balance on her own head.

Of its own accord, her hand moved upward…

From atop the nearest peak, a distance so great that he should never have been able to see them, Vigo Havarren watched the Demon Squad depart the ruins of the Iron Keep. He saw their expressions and heard their conversation. They might, he realized, even have half a chance of surviving. Assuming they didn’t kill each other.

Turning his back on the goblins, Havarren reached over and stripped the flesh from his left arm in a single, sudden yank. He sighed blissfully, wiggling his fingers. Hell, he thought he’d
never
escape that stupid man-suit!

He focused, gathering his will as he hadn’t done, as he
couldn’t
do, for six hundred years. And he laughed, nearly crying tears of genuine joy, as he felt the sudden flare of heat around him and heard once more the musical screams of the damned. All he had to do was step through…

His face, still masked behind a facade of mortal flesh, twisted in puzzlement. For just an instant, he’d felt a familiar tug. It was weak, oh so weak, scarcely an echo of the bond that had kept him bound to the undead creature who’d owned Havarren’s soul. It certainly wasn’t strong enough to hold him any longer, but that he felt it at all was troublesome. With Morthûl gone, the bond should have shattered completely. He should feel
none
of it now, however feebly.

Havarren shrugged, then, the last human gesture he planned to make. Some residual energy left over from the spell, perhaps. They’d been linked for a very long time, after all. It was of no moment, and all the comforts of home awaited him.

With one final glance around him, one final farewell to the planet-sized cage that had held him, the creature that men called Vigo Havarren departed. Nature itself seemed to sigh in relief as the weight of a demon prince was lifted away; and somewhere else, somewhere
deeper
, the damned began to scream just a little louder.

A
nanias duMark, half-breed, greatest wizard alive and greatest hero of the so-called Goblin War, slammed the door and loosed an audible sigh of relief. If he had to sit through one more flowery, sputtering speech, one more song composed by the “finest minstrels of the land” in tribute to their victory, he was going to either vomit or start turning random passersby into something unpleasant. And probably viscous.

And to think, he would have to endure this every year! Gods in Heaven, enough already! Today was the third anniversary of the Allied Kingdom’s defeat of Kirol Syrreth, and to judge by the celebration, you’d think the war had only ended last week. Oh, how these humans could natter on; for such a short-lived species, one would have thought that they’d have shorter attention spans. But every year on this day, duMark was paraded up on a ribbon-festooned podium with King Dororam, his simpering queen, Lidia Lirimas (and gods, what had he
ever
seen in her? Wouldn’t shut up about what
she
had suffered through, as though it was somehow
his
fault), and a dozen others. There they forced him to stand for hours on end, waving genially and smiling until his jaw threatened to rip itself off his face. So far he’d managed to mollify his own impatience by picturing himself crushing the whole lot of them underfoot like bugs, but it was getting to the point where his aggravation wouldn’t be assuaged by imagination.

He hated to admit it, but he was starting to understand where Morthûl had been coming from. They really weren’t much in the grand scheme of things, were they?

Slowly, his back pressed firmly to the door, the half-elf opened his eyes. This had been his house for longer than Dororam had been king of Shauntille. It hadn’t changed, not in all that time, but somehow it had never quite felt the same after the end of the Goblin War. That damn Demon Squad had soiled it; no matter that he’d fixed everything back the way it had been, he could never forget what they’d done. A ripple of anger shook the wizard’s frame, for not only did this time of year mark their victory, it also commemorated the day he’d learned of the hideous fate that had befallen his companions.