by Ari Marmell
He was called Gork by those outside his own race—an undignified epithet at best, but the closest most people could come to the strange bark that was his true name. At just a hair under three and a half feet, he was tall for a kobold. Although the pebbly, lizard-ish texture of his stone-gray skin prevented him from growing hair, his face and snout sprouted the occasional whisker, useful for feeling his way through small, darkened caves. His irises gleamed like a cat's in direct light, and were even more sensitive. (Only their massive cousins the troglodytes, and the Stars-damned tree-humping elves, could function as well in the dark as kobolds.) He wore ratty boots and a simple tunic, belted about the waist, that was clearly cut down from human-size. If the humans and other lumbering behemoths around him noticed him at all, they assumed he was just another scout or spy in the Charnel King's armies. Those were the only positions the diminutive, devious little sneaks ever held.
For his own part, Gork didn't tend to think of himself as a scout, or a spy, or any other formal title. Sure, he'd done that sort of thing, and he'd probably do so again once his clan was called once more to service. But that was basically a side-endeavor, a hobby, as it were. No, first and foremost, Gork was a thief, pure and simple. (Well, maybe not so pure.)
And here, in the lively market that was the beating heart of Timas Khoreth, there was opportunity enough to set any thief up in comfort for a good long while.
The only question now, Gork decided as he actually rubbed his rough palms together, was where to begin. And the answer to that very dilemma struck him like a bolt from the clear blue. Actually, it was a bolt from the clear blue: A glint of sunlight stabbed directly into Gork's beady little eyes. Although briefly blinded, the greedy creature was alert enough to rapidly assess the crystal that had sent the dazzling gleam from a merchant's carrel across the way.
It hung, spinning lightly in the breeze, from the drawstring of the merchant's coin purse. Pure quartz, just over an inch in length, it served no purpose other than sheer ostentatious display. It wasn't worth all that much—probably less than the contents of the purse itself—but it was far easier to get hold of, and should pay for a few diverting afternoons.
Gork maneuvered across the intervening road, silent as a thought—not, really, that he needed to be. The deafening discord of the marketplace was such that Gork could have sneaked up on the distracted shopkeeper even if he'd been accompanied by a herd of elephants, a marching band, and a jogging ogre with a bunion.
The merchant in question—a rather rotund individual, with thinning brown hair and a white cloak of softest fur—was currently haggling (read: arguing) with a young, cocky member of the watch. The soldier, clearly unaccustomed to anyone standing up to his intimidation, was loudly berating the shopkeeper over the asking price of a silver goblet, while the merchant, hands waving wildly in the air, rebutted with constant (and wildly inconsistent) pleas on behalf of the starving children they both knew he didn't have. It had long since degenerated beyond the point where either of them cared any longer about the goblet itself. This was a battle of will and wit between two men with far too much of the former and none of the latter, and was unlikely to conclude any time in the foreseeable future.
Gork breezed past them with naked blade outstretched. In a move so practiced it was all but invisible, he pocketed the crystal in one of the tiny pouches sewn onto his belt. And just that quickly, he was gone, carried away from the scene of the crime by the constant press of humanity long before the merchant could possibly discover he'd been victimized.
Humans, Gork chuckled silently to himself, would always be one of his favorite races. Big, clumsy, for the most part stupid—and, since Gork himself possessed little in the way of riches, always worth stealing from. A few rapid sidesteps carried him between two small buildings, out of the main thoroughfare and away from the largest concentration of shoving, unwashed bodies. Whistling a traditional kobold folk tune in a pitch no human could possibly hear, he began once more to scan the market, seeking his next acquisition.
His view was abruptly obscured as a large shadow fell across the mouth of the alleyway. Gork looked up—and up, and up some more—until his gaze met that of the black-garbed human standing before him.
There were enough dissimilarities in their features to make it clear that this was not the same soldier with whom the merchant had been bickering. Nevertheless, all humans looked enough alike to Gork that they might as well have been brothers.
“Is there something I can do for you, Officer?” the kobold asked politely. Or it sounded polite in his own ears, anyway. Humans never sensed anything but hostility in the gravelly tone of kobold voices.
“Oh, I think so,” the human told him, smiling arrogantly down from above, a bothersome demigod. “I think you can hand me the crystal.”
“What crystal?”
The soldier frowned. “Don't play games with me, you little shit. I saw the whole thing. See, you only got the thing because one of my platoon was distracting the fat guy. Way I figure, that entitles us to half.”
Gork shrugged. “Can't give you half, can I? It wouldn't be worth nearly as much broken.”
“Exactly. So you give it to me. I'll sell it, and then I'll find you and give you your cut.”
Dragonshit, Gork thought. What he said, however, was, “Why not let me sell it, and I'll find you and give you your half? I've done this before, so I'll get a better price.”
“I'll get a better price, because I’m human. People around here don't wanna deal with bugs like you.” The frown, by this point, had deteriorated even further, bordering now on a full-fledged snarl. “Give me the crystal, you little…”
The man was already leaning down, fingers outstretched toward Gork's throat—whether to shake him up or actually choke him, Gork couldn't tell, and didn't plan to find out. With a vicious little growl, the kobold thrust out his snout and clamped down with his powerful jaws. Then, not waiting to see if the soldier's scream would draw other guards running, he spit the man's pinkie finger onto the ground and darted back into the crowd.
With a furious roar, the soldier came after him, shoving citizens and shopkeepers from his path; but for every pedestrian he was forced to manhandle, the lithe and tiny kobold gained precious seconds. A series of quick turns, a jump to the left here, a step to the right there, and it was done. By the time the enraged mercenary finally broke into the open, Gork knew that the man couldn't possibly see him. The human, cradling his bleeding hand, cast his glance over the constantly shifting crowds, seeking, searching…
All to no avail. With a last, frustrated curse, he made his way, somewhat more gently, back through the crowd, apparently only now thinking to return to the barracks and seek attention for his injured hand. Despite the open hostility burning in the expressions of many whom he had shoved, the crowd parted to let him pass. It was a scene that could, in other circumstances, have gotten very ugly in a very small amount of time.
But not here. Nobody in Timas Khoreth—nobody in Kirol Syrreth—would dare stand in the way of a soldier of King Morthûl.
From beneath the shadowed corner of a merchant's fruit stand, Gork tracked the soldier's progress. He let loose with a heartfelt sigh of relief, one that came all the way from his toenails—followed abruptly by a chuckle of sheer contempt. Were humans stupid, or what?
On the other hand, they were also really big, they carried lots of pointy objects, and there were a damn lot of them in this city. It would, the kobold decided reluctantly, be better for all concerned if he were to simply vanish from Timas Khoreth for a good long while.
Oh, well. The clan, camped in the browned grasslands outside the city, had been making noises about moving on anyway. None of the diminutive creatures enjoyed staying so near the Northern Steppes, not with the chilly nights and the ever-more-frigid winds. Gork would just have to talk to Hrark, the clan patriarch, and convince him that it was, indeed, time to be on their way….
And thus were his thoughts occupied as he made his way fr
om the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, sauntering between the looming watchtowers that flanked the south gates. He could feel the derisive glare of the guards on his back and head as he passed, and shrugged it off. Gork knew that whatever scorn the humans might heap upon him, he could easily return tenfold and still retain enough to choke a griffin.
Hrark's clan was encamped some miles to the west, and Gork happily occupied his mind on the long walk back by creating, listing, and categorizing all the reasons why humans were lower than dog shit. It kept him moderately amused, as well as oblivious to the weary miles, until he finally came within sight of the camp. Gork stiffened, senses straining, whimsy gone from his mind.
Many years and snows and bolts of lightning ago, it had been a thriving tree, covered in green leaves and waving gently in the brisk breezes. Now, it was an ugly, cadaverous claw, stretching toward the clouds, seeking salvation. It had been there, quite possibly, for centuries, as much a permanent feature of the landscape as the Brimstone Mountains to the south and east. Hrark had, in fact, chosen this very spot deliberately. The dead thing made it easier to spot the camp; many kobolds, accustomed to finding their way in the blackness under the earth, found life on the surface disorienting.
Gork had never had that problem, but he was somewhat dismayed to see the five large horses tied loosely to the decrepit trunk. Kobolds did not ride horses; simple geometry made it uncomfortable at best, often flat-out impossible. Ergo, the visitors, whoever they were, were not kobolds.
Gork dropped into a low crouch and crept, ever so slowly, around the encampment. Here he slid behind the tiniest of shrubs; there he vanished into a random pool of shadow. Carpets of dead vegetation and a ground liberally strewn with twigs might as well have been the plushest of carpets for all the sound he made. Finally near enough to hear what was happening in the center of the camp, Gork settled down behind a convenient hedge and watched. His fingers idly brushed the hilt of his kah-rahahk dagger: a hideous weapon, jagged and barbed across the flat as well as along the edge.
Hrark, patriarch of the clan and all-around bastard, was currently facing off with five of Morthûl's human mercenaries. His skin was touched with a subtle tint of blue, and it somehow made him appear harder than the other kobolds. The humans towered over the diminutive creature, looming dangerously in their midnight-hued leathers. The man in the center, a white-haired veteran with a long, lightning-shaped scar across his left arm, had the bearings of a leader—but he appeared to be present, at the moment, purely for moral support. The human doing the speaking (or shouting, as the case may have been), and the one to whom Gork's eyes and ears were instantly drawn, was a much younger man. A man with a bad disposition that might have been due, in part, to the finger with which he'd so recently parted company.
“…rightfully mine!” Gork heard him screaming as he finally focused in on the conversation. “The little bastard took it, and I want it the hell back! You get me, you little son-of-a-bitch?”
Hrark peered up, squinting over the end of his snout. “First off, you towering turd, there's no need to scream at me. I can hear better'n you, with those stupid, tiny little rectum-looking things you call ‘ears.’” The patriarch's own ears—large, triangular affairs that appeared vaguely canine—perked up at that, as though assisting him in making his point. “Second, I'd really prefer to hear his side of the story before I make any final decisions. I don't think that's unreasonable, do you?”
“I don't give a damn about reasonable!” the human shouted, having lowered his voice not one whit. Angrily, he thrust his bandage-wrapped hand in the kobold's face. “You see this? I lost a finger to that little shit! Reasonable be hanged, I want him!” His other hand lashed out, shoving the kobold back a few steps. “Are we clear?”
Hrark's face went cold, and the surrounding kobolds stiffened. The patriarch took a single step back toward the human, his jaws clenched. “You did not just push me.”
It was at that point that the older veteran began to get the hint that, just maybe, they had overstepped their margin of safety. “Hey,” he said, placing one hand gently on the younger man's shoulder. “Maybe we should—”
“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.”