The Goblin Corps (65 page)

“Damn the Charnel King, and damn that wretched kobold….” It was a final, petty snipe, followed by a loud creaking as the dakórren sank onto the shabby mattress. “All right,” he continued, “how do we warn them?” It was an old habit, speaking to his familiar, since the little creature was his only constant companion.

“I can’t just teleport to them. The eilurren have warded their woods against our magics since our last war.” Narrow fingers drummed idly on the mattress, or would have if the mattress had been capable of producing anything approaching a drumming sound. More accurately, they “fumped” idly on the mattress. “I’d have to enter on foot, and by the time I could find them…Agh! Bastards!” He rose and began to pace once more, though this time the walls were spared the fury of his fists.

“Oh, they’ll suffer for this betrayal, the kobold and eventually the Charnel King himself! Once the eilurren have fallen, they’ll—”

“I think not, dakórren.”

Ebonwind barely had time even to register the voice, let alone recover sufficiently from his shock to react to it, before the sound bowled him over. Thunder—thunder so weighty as to tangibly fill the room—burst over him. The walls shuddered, the wardrobe toppled to spill its contents across the floor, even the mattress exhaled its down with a feeble puff of breath. The dakórren found himself sprawled against the far wall. His head rang, his ears throbbed with pain; he struggled to stand and found his equilibrium so skewed that he couldn’t even begin to rise.

And only then did the
real
pain wash over him. Agony climbed his body like a mountain, digging into him with blazing pitons. It chewed at his nerves, bit at his mind, shredded his concentration like wet paper. He thrashed, bit his lip in an effort to regain control—and gawped, in sudden, abject horror, at the charred, steaming ribbons of meat that had, not long ago, been his legs.

Of course.
It was almost funny, somehow.
With so much thunder, there
had
to be lightning.

Random flopping of muscles finally twisted him about, enough to stare at the chair in the corner and the creature who had launched the eldritch assault.

His familiar was no longer seated upon rickety wood, but upon the shoulder of a man who now occupied the chair. In his other hand, the cloak-wrapped stranger clasped a heavy staff. He peered at Ebonwind through features not all
that
dissimilar to Ebonwind’s own.

“Well,” the stranger said, idly scratching the cooing creature under the chin, “I’m glad I’ll not be doing
that
again.”

“Who…?” Ebonwind’s difficulty in finding his voice was not due solely to the physical pain. “What about my…?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your familiar’s actually been mine for quite some time. You cannot
begin
to imagine how subtly I had to balance the magics, not just to usurp the link but to keep you from sensing it. I lost my connection to a familiar once, myself. Put me out for two weeks. It’s been exhausting, to tell you the truth.”

“You—you’re…”

“Ananias duMark, at your service.” The half-elf bowed from the waist, so far as the chair would permit. The creature danced on his shoulder, trying to retain its perch. “Well, for a few more minutes. After that, even my services wouldn’t do you much good.”

“Why?”

The brown-haired wizard leaned back in his chair. “Because you were perfect. I could keep an eye on the dakórren—it was pretty obvious you’d use the war as cover to strike against us—and gather intelligence on Morthûl’s armies, all at once. I’d really hoped to learn his plans for his Demon Squad, too,” he admitted, “but you saw how well that went. Honestly, I think even they didn’t know. Otherwise, the kobold would have said something about it.”

“You…” Ebonwind took several deep breaths, struggling past the pain—both physical and, as his familiar fluttered its wings, emotional—and gathered the tattered remains of his faculties. “I’m surprised,” he said weakly, “that you haven’t set out to save Tirfeylan.”

He had, at the least, the pleasure of seeing the smug satisfaction fall from duMark’s face. “Because I know the bony bastard too well,” the mage admitted sadly. “If he was willing to tell me about Tirfeylan, it’s only because he knew I could do nothing about it. He probably triggered the spell long before you opened the tube, regardless of what his message claimed. He thought you were me, Ebonwind. He knew I had family there, and this was his punishment.” The half-elf sighed. “Perhaps I can do nothing to save Tirfeylan, but I’ll not subject myself to the pain of seeing the results.”

“And what of me?” Ebonwind asked quietly.

“You? You, my friend, are dead. I don’t know if any of your people are within the range of Morthûl’s spell or not, but you’ll ensure that at least one dakórren joins Tirfeylan in death. That, and I can’t have you interfering in this war, or launching more attacks on the eilurren, can I?”

“Someone else will take my place,” Ebonwind spat.

“Perhaps. And I’ll do this to them, too.” DuMark raised a hand and pumped a second levinbolt across the chamber. Ebonwind’s head turned instantly to ash, though it was some moments before his legs ceased twitching.

It was all so
aggravating
! He’d put so much effort into this, ever since he’d learned through his eldritch spies and divinations that Morthûl was assembling a wartime Demon Squad. Uncovering the dakórren’s efforts; appropriating the obnoxious, tiny creature; using the wizard’s lingering link with “his” familiar to subtly influence Ebonwind’s actions—from intercepting the initial teleport to focusing on the Demon Squad when other sources of information might’ve been easier or more forthcoming—it was absolutely grueling. It had distracted duMark from his other efforts. And all for what? The intelligence he’d gained had been useful, but none of it
vital
, none of it regarding the squad’s own purpose, none of it anything he couldn’t have acquired more easily through other methods.

“You’re fortunate,” duMark said bitterly, standing from the chair and nudging the corpse distastefully with his left foot. “You deserved a death as horrible as what was done to Tirfeylan. Give thanks from hell that I was feeling merciful. Or…”

Again, a tiny breeze flitted across the sealed chamber, making the ashes of the dakórren dance. DuMark began to fade away.

“…at the very least, feeling rushed,” he amended. And then he was gone.

The tiny creature tumbled, spreading its wings and gliding to a halt only inches above the floor. It felt duMark vanish, not just physically but mentally, felt the link binding them dissolve. It glanced about the chamber, spotting no avenue of escape.

And then its gaze fell on its former master.

“Ookt irpva!” It settled beside the smoldering corpse and began to chew.

Cræosh was absolutely livid. Bad enough that the rail-thin bastard had woken them in the middle of the fucking night, but now he had the gall to hand them this load of merry dancing horseshit!

“But we’ve actually got a fucking plan!” he protested. Again. “We were gonna start out tomorrow! We can do this!”

Havarren, sitting casually on Cræosh’s sleeping pallet with his ankles propped up on Gork’s backpack, shrugged. “And I commend you for your creativity, but your assignment has changed. You are not to attack Dororam’s forces.”

Cræosh growled as he introduced his fist to a nearby tree.

“It makes sense, Cræosh,” Gimmol said carefully, keeping a weather eye on the orc’s movements. (He wanted a good head start if he had to run.) “If Ebonwind was the spy—or had a spy in his own people—there’s a good chance that they know we’re here. I mean, he found us easily enough, right? Who’s to say how long he was listening before he revealed himself?”

“I didn’t say it didn’t make fucking sense!” Cræosh snapped at him. “I just said I don’t like it!”

Katim, who had been staring moodily off into the distance ever since being told that she would not, after all, have the opportunity to add a large handful of mages to her stable, aimed her snout at Havarren. “This was all quite…deliberate, wasn’t it?”

“Why Katim, whatever do you mean?” He wasn’t even bothering to hide his smirk.

That, at least, got Cræosh’s attention. “Yeah, troll,” he said, “what
do
you mean?”

“They never intended us to…complete this mission, that’s…what I mean. This entire…damn exercise was a…lure.”

Gork’s own irises, gleaming evilly beneath the faint light of the moon, also locked on the mage. “You wanted to be sure that Ebonwind was the one,” he said slowly. “So you gave us something to do that would draw his attention.”

Havarren’s smile widened. Cræosh put his fist back through the tree, ignoring the sizable smears of blood he was leaving across the bark.

“It had to sound feasible,” Havarren explained blandly. “An assignment that was too obviously fake wouldn’t have fooled anyone. There is some good news, though.”

“Fuck you,” Cræosh said.

“You haven’t wasted your time out here. You’ve gotten a solid idea of Dororam’s troop movements, so it’ll be that much easier to avoid them. And since you’re several days out of Kirol Syrreth, you’re already that much closer to your
real
objective.”

“And assuming you aren’t lying through your fucking teeth again,” Cræosh grumbled, “where would this ‘real objective’ happen to be?”

“Why, you’re going to Shauntille.”

To that, even Cræosh had no comment.

“The truth is,” Havarren told them, after allowing them a few moments to settle down, “this is not a war we can win.” He quickly held up a hand to forestall any protests. “Not through standard tactics, that is. Dororam’s army is simply too big for us to confront head-on.”

“So?” Gork asked, his tone suspicious. “You and King Morthûl together should be powerful enough to just, I don’t know…” He waved his fingers about randomly. Then, glancing over at Belrotha, he shrugged. “Wigglety-poof. No more army.”

“It’s not that simple, kobold. It’s possible to destroy an army this size with magic, but it would take a sizable portion of Kirol Syrreth along with it. You’re right, though, that we
could
make a substantial difference—if not for one particular irritant.”

“DuMark,” Katim rasped.

Havarren bobbed his head once. “DuMark. Dororam has other wizards, certainly, but either myself or our Dark Lord could deal handily with them, leaving the other free to concentrate on more mundane foes. But duMark…” The mage scowled, and it was quite clear that he didn’t care for the taste of the words to come. “DuMark is quite possibly my equal, and not too substantially weaker than even Morthûl. This impudent half-elven mongrel requires that one of us grant him our full attention; combined with Dororam’s other pets, it means that neither of us can focus on the armies themselves.”

“So why us not kill wizards as planned?” Belrotha asked, having managed (with Gimmol’s occasional whispered explanations) to follow the discussion. “Then you not need to worry about them.”

“Because only a few of the Allied Kingdoms’ wizards are actually in Dororam’s entourage. You could make a difference, but not enough of one. Not here. Thus, we need you to go to Shauntille.”

“More cities!” Jhurpess whined unhappily. As had become the norm, he was quite soundly ignored.

“And what,” Cræosh asked carefully, “would you have us do in Shauntille?” His muscles stood out from his arms and shoulders, etched against his skin, and the others slowly backed away at the realization that he was actually prepared to
attack Havarren
if he didn’t care for the answer. “You don’t fucking expect us to take on duMark, do you?”

“What would you do if I did, orc?” the gaunt human asked languidly. “Kill me? It might be an interesting attempt.

“But there is,” he continued, “no need for such suicidal gestures. I’ve no intention of sending you to your deaths. Not in so futile an effort, anyway. You’re good, but you’ve as much chance of defeating duMark as you have of lifting the Iron Keep from its foundations and sailing it across the Sea of Tears. Besides, duMark isn’t
in
Shauntille.”

“But there are…others,” Katim said.

“Precisely.”

“Others?” Gimmol asked. “Others you want dead, you mean.”

“Scarcely surprising, is it? You weren’t assembled for your social skills.”

“Queen Lameya?” Gork guessed. “That’d do some nasty things to Dororam’s state of mind.”

But Havarren shook his head. “Dororam is quite upset enough at the moment. And we’re not sending you into Castle Bellatine. Ever since the demise of Princess Amalia, it’s far too well guarded, even for a group as creative as you’ve proven to be.

“But duMark has friends, or at least allies—national heroes all. It was they who assisted him in his prior efforts against King Morthûl; they who made this war necessary in the first place. They are the key to demoralizing not merely the populace, but duMark himself, and they, not the royal family, are your targets.” He handed over a small scroll case sealed with wax. Cræosh, after a moment’s hesitation and a quick flashback to the message for Ebonwind, accepted it. “It’s taken us months to find them. DuMark warded them against all manner of scrying and mystical detection. But our mundane spies have finally located them.

“Which reminds me…” Havarren waved a hand, and a cloud of glistening dust wafted through the air. It sprinkled down across the startled goblins, making them glitter like fool’s gold for an instant. Noses wrinkled against a vaguely peppery stench, and then it faded.

“What…?” Cræosh began.

“A similar ward, for you,” the wizard explained. “In case Ebonwind—or some other sorcerer, for that matter—gets it in his mind to try to find you again, or spy on you from afar.”

Cræosh couldn’t help but notice Gork’s head come up a bit, as though he was surprised at what he’d heard—or had finally figured out something that’d been bothering him.

“Given the sorts of folk duMark is apt to hang out with,” Gork interjected sardonically (deliberately changing the subject, perhaps?), “I’m starting to see why you didn’t just send your typical cutthroats to deal with this.”

“It might have proven insufficient,” Havarren agreed. “There are four names discussed therein,” he said, pointing at the scroll. “And you’ll need to destroy that once you’ve read it, by the way. The first three, you are to kill, by whatever means necessary. The bodies are to be left public, displayed in the most grotesque, atrocious ways you can devise. We want to engender the greatest possible reaction.”