Goblin Corps, The Page 4

  “Why do I have to go back?” he snapped unhappily. “Let Dækek go. He's faster anyway.”

  “Yes, he is. Which is exactly why I want him with me.”

  The volunteer growled. “I don't remember anyone putting you in charge! I—”

  Cræosh's fist was a falling boulder. A bone-jarring thump was followed swiftly by a limp body sliding slowly to the grass.

  Father, but that helmet hurt! Cræosh casually rubbed his knuckles. “Minor change in plan,” he said, turning back to the squirming gremlin. “You wait here until he wakes up. Then you go with him to speak to Berrat.”

  “I…” The gremlin was looking astoundingly edgy. “That is, I don't really know that waiting around here is the best idea. I mean, I really ought to get back and report to my own superiors, don't you think? And besides, what if the humans get past—”

  Words melded into a high-pitched wail as Cræosh casually reached out and grabbed the gremlin by his bad elbow. The screeching continued for perhaps thirty seconds before finally trailing off in an abbreviated gurgle.

  “I’m sorry,” the orc said mildly. “I was thinking about something else. Were you saying something?”

  The ghost-pale gremlin frantically shook his head.

  “Oh, good.” Without further ado, Cræosh broke once again into that steady orcish jog, the other three following on his heels. There was no more time to waste with that Ancestors-damned gremlin, not when there were humans to kill!

  It didn't take long to locate their steel-clad prey. Barely had they broken through a small thicket of trees, only a mile south of where they'd met the gremlin, when the ground began to shudder. From behind a small rise, a distant foothill to the Brimstone Mountains, they came: six humans riding enormous chargers. Encased from head to toe in polished plate, the knights gleamed in the midday sun, as though the orcs faced not a band of mortals but stars yanked from the firmament itself.

  Cræosh wasn't impressed. Orcs, by and large, don't do awe; they have very little use for it. Out of long-ingrained habit, Cræosh offered a quick prayer to his Mother and Father, asking his Ancestors for their blessing in the upcoming battle. He knew, without checking, that his companions did the same.

  “Six against four,” Dækek grunted from behind, “and they're mounted. Hardly seems like a fair fight.”

  “Agreed,” Cræosh replied. Ignoring the rapidly nearing warhorses, he put on a show of deep thought. “Should we give them a handicap?” he asked finally.

  “What? Why? I hate fair fights!”

  At a distance of perhaps a hundred yards, the knights reined in their mounts. Slowly, raising a hand, one of the humans—the leader, Cræosh assumed—rode forward a few paces. The large orc shrugged, setting his breastplate more comfortably on his shoulders, and advanced a handful of steps as well.

  “Orc!” the human called loudly, his words carrying perfectly over the intervening distance. “I would speak with you.”

  “You would?” Cræosh shouted back in near-perfect Manspeak. “What do you call what you're doing now?”

  Dækek and the others chuckled loudly. A low murmur drifted back from the other knights.

  Their leader, however, appeared inclined to ignore the comment completely. “Surrender now,” he yelled, “and I promise you a quick, easy release from your wretched lives!”

  Cræosh raised his eyebrows, a gesture that meant basically the same thing in orcish culture as it did in human. “I'll make you a counterproposal!” he called.

  “Yes?”

  “Why don't you come and try to kill us the hard way, and I'll shove you up that horse's ass and feed him beans.”

  With a low bellow that would have done an ogre proud, the humans lowered their lances and charged.

  Dækek and the others spread out, weapons coming free of their sheaths with a series of menacing rasps. Cræosh, however, simply set himself, his stance wide, his arms apart. The knights were wielding stout, thick lances, and that, to the orc's mind, was a good thing. There was something he'd always wanted to try….

  As he expected, the leader headed directly for him. Closer he came, and closer, and still the orc refused to budge. Slowly, an insidious grin spread across his filthy green face.

  The lance was now mere feet from the orc's heavily muscled chest. And then, with a speed that was nigh incomprehensible, Cræosh sidestepped. Sidestepped—and grabbed.

  It was a move that would have been, for even the mightiest of humans, absolutely impossible. But Cræosh's people, with the exception of the gargantuan ogres, are easily the strongest of the sundry goblinoid races. One unfortunate human was about to learn just what that meant.

  Cræosh snagged the shaft of the weapon in both hands and jabbed downward, sinking the point deep into the soil. The dumbfounded knight vaulted into the air, held aloft by the lance's handle, which was locked professionally under his arm.

  For a timeless instant, the tableau held: the plate-clad human a living pennant swaying in the wind; the orc, biceps bulging, both fists locked around the warped and bending lance. But of course, it couldn't last. Something was bound to give, and quickly.

  It did. With an abbreviated scream, the knight slipped from the end of the lance and plummeted to the dirt, where he landed with a painful crash and a cacophony of clatters.

  Casually, Cræosh released his grip on the lance—which, though wobbling frenetically, still protruded from the ground like some demented sapling—and strode to the battered warrior.

  “How…?” the human gasped, struggling desperately to regain his breath, unable for the moment to move. “It's…It's not possible!”

  “You,” Cræosh observed, “appear to be having difficulty breathing. Would you like some help?”

  The knight's expression—now exposed, as the helmet's visor had been knocked askew in the fall—shifted in terror as the orc's foot slammed down hard beneath that helmet and crushed his windpipe.

  They get younger every year, Cræosh noted, glancing briefly at the human's face. Where's the honor in slaughtering children? Then he shrugged, turning his attention back to the others. At least, at that age, the meat was tender….

  He snarled, all thoughts of food forgotten. Dækek was handling himself admirably; he'd already punched several holes through his opponent's armor with the jagged spikes of his morningstar. But the other orcs were more evenly matched, and even as Cræosh watched, one of his tribe went down hard beneath the largest human's hand-and-a-half sword.

  With a thunderous cry, Cræosh charged, head down, shoulder forward. The knight, struggling to remove the massive blade from his opponent's corpse, barely had time to turn his steed to meet the sudden impact. Frantically he swung, determined to divorce the orc's head from his neck.

  Cræosh ducked and then dove into the legs of the startled horse. Several loud snaps reverberated over the sounds of battle, and the animal collapsed, screaming.

  The knight, abruptly pinned by one leg beneath his thrashing mount, struggled to yank himself free before—

  Too late. A thin string of drool swinging from his lips, Cræosh reached down, grabbed the human's forehead in one hand and his jaw in the other, and twisted. A sickening pop, a gout of blood, and Cræosh was once again glancing around for more enemies.

  But here, even Cræosh's years of battlefield experience proved inadequate. So busy had he been tackling the warhorse, he had perforce failed to notice another of his orcs dying beneath the blades of the two remaining knights. One of the pair went for Dækek, who had by then dispatched his own foe. The other had come for Cræosh—and by the time the big orc sensed his approach, it was too late to avoid the whistling blade.

  And yet, just before his sword hit home, the human lurched, an expression of bewilderment stealing over his features. The blow landed, yes, but with negligible strength, failing even to bruise through the metal breastplate. Before the astonished orc, the knight collapsed, and only then did Cræosh finally spot the arrow protruding from the human's helm.

&
nbsp; Arrow? But none of the remaining orcs were armed with bows. Who…?

  The surviving knight abruptly decided that discretion was the better part of survival. Spurring his horse into a gallop, he wheeled away from his confrontation with Dækek as fast as the powerful mount could go.

  Straight into the same copse of trees from which the arrow had flown.

  As the armored figure passed beneath the low-hanging branches, a silhouette dropped from above. Like a deranged monkey it bounced from tree limb to tree limb, hanging here from a fist, there from a foot, never staying put long enough to offer the human a viable target. With the accuracy of a circus juggler it tossed a gnarled club from appendage to appendage. Each time the creature attained a solid purchase on a branch it lashed out, club held tight in whatever hand or foot happened to be free. And each time it rang loudly, denting and mangling the protective shell of the knight's armor. Finally, after perhaps a full two minutes of such treatment, the human slowly toppled from the saddle.

  For an instant more, the creature hung suspended, staring at its victim. Then, with a high-pitched keen, it dropped to earth and began carefully removing the knight's armor, intent on reaching the softer parts within. It was only when the creature was finally in full view that Cræosh noted the black leather breastplate that blended with its fur, or the bow and quiver strapped to its back.

  “Bugbear,” the orc muttered, shaking his head. He'd trained alongside the peculiar simian creatures before, but he'd never seen one in a real fight. He had to admit that its technique, though maybe a little primitive, was pretty damn effective.

  This particular specimen sprouted unkempt red-brown fur, tinted so dark that in even the faintest of shadows it might as well have been black. Scars crisscrossed its shaggy form, roads of pain blazed through the foliage of its fur, and the predatory gleam in its recessed eyes said, as clearly as its actions, that this creature was a vicious, hot-tempered killer.

  Good.

  Hand hovering just above the hilt of his misshapen sword, Cræosh approached. He halted perhaps twenty feet away and cleared his throat. The bugbear's head swiveled toward him, bits of flesh and a small trickle of blood falling from his lips.

  “Appreciate the hand, Nature-boy. Name's Cræosh.”

  “Jhurpess,” the bugbear replied around a mouthful of raw knight.

  Cræosh waited for more. Once it became abundantly clear that the only thing coming from the bugbear would be more chewing, he continued. “Not to sound ungrateful, you understand. But why, exactly, did you…?”

  “Metal creatures kill Jhurpess's friends. Orcs kill metal creatures. Jhurpess help orcs.” The bugbear cocked his head. “Cræosh not very bright, is Cræosh?”

  After a moment's contemplation, Cræosh decided—reluctantly—that there was precious little use in taking offense. Instead, he said, “Some moments are better than others. So, you were with…” He twisted, turning a puzzled gaze on Dækek, who was cradling his bleeding left hand in his right. “What was that gremlin's name, anyway?”

  The other orc shrugged. “Don't think we ever got it, Cræosh. Scout's name was Ulev, though.”

  “Right.” Once more, he faced the bugbear. “With Ulev's group?”

  The bugbear paused, trying to connect the second half of the question with the first. When he finally succeeded, he nodded once. “Yes. Ulev was scout for Jhurpess. Ulev discovered metal creatures coming, so metal creatures killed Ulev.” The bugbear shrugged philosophically. “Ulev not very strong. Not have lived very long anyway.” Gesturing with what appeared to be a bloody femur, Jhurpess indicated the fallen orcs. “What about Cræosh's group?”

  It was the orc's turn to shrug. “They died in battle—a battle that shouldn't have proved all that tough. Either they got careless, or they'd done something to anger their Ancestors. In either case, they've paid the price.”

  Jhurpess looked puzzled for a moment, his apelike face scrunched up tightly. Then he shook his head. “Cræosh not understand question. Jhurpess want to know if Cræosh want them.”

  “Want them?”

  “Jhurpess still hungry. Humans not very filling.”

  Cræosh and Dækek exchanged looks. Orcs were known, on occasion, to consume their own fallen foes, but they'd rarely given much thought to others doing the same to them.

  But then…

  “Why not?” Cræosh said finally. “Dig in. Least we can do, I suppose.”

  The two orcs sat, taking a few extra moments to dress their wounds—or, more accurately, Dækek's arm. As Cræosh leaned over, holding the bandage in place so the smaller orc might tie it tight, he overheard a few choice whispered comments.

  “Excuse me?” Cræosh couldn't help but ask. “A lice-infested, monkey-fucking what?”

  Dækek shrugged, wincing at the pull on his bandage. “Sorry. I know it helped us out back there. I just…”

  The larger orc grunted. “You're young. It rankles, realizing you just got your ass saved by an inferior. An animal. But we're orcs, Dækek. Everyone's an inferior. And a glorious death in battle's all well and good—I intend to make damn sure that's how I go—but not for a while, and not in some two-bit, shitty little scuffle. So deal with your pride. Swallow it, choke on it, shove it up your ass, I don't care. But we're alive because of that lice-infested, monkey-fucking whatever. If that's the proxy the Ancestors sent to help us, then we'll thank them for it. You got me?”

  “I got you. I think I—I…”

  Cræosh had heard that sort of abrupt, mind-numbing terror before, but never in the voice of an orc. Senses screaming, he spun, hands raised to ward off whatever threat Dækek had spotted over his shoulder.

  And froze, his jaw dropping nearly to his ankles. From the earth it rose, a nebulous figure, the stuff of pure shadow. Gleaming red orbs, burning embers in an otherwise empty face, were the shade's only visible features.

  But while Dækek sat frozen in fear, Cræosh recognized it instantly for what it was. He'd never seen one before in his life, but he'd heard enough to recognize one of King Morthûl's messenger wraiths.

  Which meant that the master of the Iron Keep had a message—-for him. His apprehension would've needed either stilts or wings to rise any further.

  For perhaps a full minute the wraith stared, hell-fire eyes burning into the back of the orc's brain. And then it was gone, vanished into the chilling breeze like the barest wisp of smoke.

  “What—what…?”

  Cræosh didn't even look at his smaller ally. “King Morthûl had something to say to me.”

  “That was one of his?! But it didn't say anything!”

  Cræosh finally turned, a startled expression on his porcine features. “It didn't, did it? But…I remember what it was supposed to tell me.”

  “Magic,” Dækek muttered, and shuddered once.

  “All right, that's enough!” Cræosh snapped. “I've given you some leeway here, but you're an orc, dammit! Quit your sniveling!”

  Dækek straightened. “Sorry.”

  “And don't apologize. It makes your face break out.” With that, the massive goblin adjusted the scabbard at his waist and began to walk.

  “Where are you going?” Dækek called after him. “Chief Berrat should be here any minute now!”

  “I know. Tell him I've gone to Timas Khoreth.”

  The one-eyed orc blinked in surprise. “What? But—that's weeks away!”

  “That's why I’m starting now, isn't it?”

  It wasn't just the distance, though. Timas Khoreth was easily the largest city in all of Kirol Syrreth—and a human one, at that. The goblin races weren't exactly welcomed with open arms by its citizenry.

  Which meant that Dækek's next question, predictably enough, was, “Why?”

  “I,” Cræosh told him with a notable lack of enthusiasm, “was just assigned to a Demon Squad.”

  “Oh.” Dækek paused, watching his commander's back. Then, “What about the bugbear? What do I do about him?”

  “Nothing,” Cræosh r
eplied with a sigh, a truly uncharacteristic sound for an orc. “You see, he's coming with me.”

  The bugbear looked up, mouth full of half-chewed orc, and grinned.

  It was a day no different than any other, and Timas Khoreth bustled with activity, unaware of the pending arrival of two new inhabitants. High in the watchtowers, guards chatted or dozed or threw dice, only half watching their assigned horizons. The great stone walls surrounding the city sat dully in the glare of the afternoon sun, casting a frigid shadow over the marketplace. Still, a bit of cold wasn't about to put a crimp in the activities of this city. The citizens simply threw on an extra layer or so and ventured forth to face the worst the world could toss at them.

  Or the ungodly chaos of the market, which, some would claim, was the same thing.

  On this particular cold afternoon, the center of town ebbed and flowed with a veritable tide of humanity. The noise was sufficient not only to wake the dead, but to send them scurrying for sanctuary—or at least sticking their fingers in whatever remained of their ears. Several thousand people crowded into a space that would have been cramped for one-third their number, pushing and shoving and shouting and grabbing, each concerned with nothing but the completion of today's errands. Only the occasional glimpse of a black leather jerkin or breastplate among the uniformly drab populace, a blatant sign of the Watch's presence, kept the mob from degenerating into animalistic abandon.

  For their own part, the mercenaries and soldiers of that Watch were rather more concerned with getting their own carcasses through their shift in one piece than in enforcing any particular brand of order. Any disturbance was met with club and bludgeon—and then with crossbow and sword, should they encounter even the least hint of resistance. It was an explosive, deadly situation, but the citizens ignored it as they went about their disorganized business. It was, after all, a threat they lived with day in and day out, year after endless year; scarcely enough to concern them now.

  There was one in the marketplace today, however, for whom the general anarchy was not a familiar sight. Scuttling through the crowd, he glanced wide-eyed about him, mouth watering in anticipation of the opportunities.