Cold Counsel

by Chris Sharp

  The hot wind made Dingle’s eyes water, but still he watched, trying not to blink; he didn’t want to miss a moment. The giant hurled a rock that pulverized the alpha wolf’s head, and then another that clipped Hot-Shot in the shoulder with an audible snap, before he turned away and tore off through the forest. After a few enormous strides, the giant disappeared behind flame and shadow, and Dingle was left staring after him in awe. He slid off his wolf’s back and dropped to his knees with a bowed head. None took notice of the littlest goblin amid the chaos, prostrate and muttering the same words over and over: “Let wretched Dingle be your servant, oh Lord of Death.”

  The green tinge flickered out of the flames, and the inferno settled back into normal fire. But with the wind and the dried leaves of autumn still clinging to the trees, the burn quickly began to spread across the canopy.

  Groole knelt beside his dead wolf and lovingly patted the scruff of its neck as the rest of the pack cowered with ears pinned back and tails tucked between their legs. All of them had gone quiet. Even the wounded goblins with shattered shoulders and legs had been stunned to silence by what they’d seen.

  But Dingle didn’t want to wait or give up; he needed to follow the giant wherever he was going. He hopped back on his wolf and spurred it beside the smashed alpha. “It’s g-g-getting away,” he said to Groole. “I th-th-think it’s wounded,” he lied.

  Groole did not look at him, but he nodded, and when he stood again, his tired, yellow eyes had woken with new fury. “Bring me a spare wolf, an’ ready for fuckin’ battle!”

  Dingle leapt ahead again with gleeful abandon that read as courage. He urged his wolf upslope to get around the growing forest fire, and he did not wait for the others before taking off after his quarry on the other side.

  Fueled by the scout’s zealous display, Groole blew his battle horn and charged after him as soon as he’d mounted a fresh wolf. The others sprang at his heels a second later, and the chase was on anew.

  Beyond the fire, the overpowering stink of the musk dissipated, and the wolves easily latched on to a single trail of funk that stretched off through the trees. Dingle let Groole and the others overtake him then—they would be his offering to the giant, proof of his devotion.

  The wolves mounted a hill that topped off at a little clearing, ringed by steeper cliffs that climbed another twenty feet up in three directions. The scent trail ended here, but there was no sign of the giant as Dingle had hoped. Instead, a wiry little goblin, covered from head to toe in scarred letters, was propped against the far wall with a fighting blade in each hand. His chest was covered in blood, with a gaping hole in his shirt above his heart, and he was clearly dead. A blood-soaked cap slouched on the side of his bald head, and his fanged mouth had been locked ajar in rigor mortis.

  The wolf riders all stopped and stared in confused silence. Then the dead goblin took a sharp inhale and blinked.

  THE BLUR TOOK a moment to come into focus as electric twinges rocketed throughout Neither-Nor’s body. He would never get used to coming back to life, though this was the ninth time he’d experienced it, and the third in only the last twenty-four infernal hours. He expected to see the nightmare figure of the troll leering above him, to find his hands and feet bound, and to feel his newly restored heart starved for vengeance. He was only right about the last part.

  More than ten mounted and armed goblins stared at him from the far side of the clearing, and he had his two favorite blades in his grip to greet them. The Rock Wolf Clan had taken or butchered every woman and child of the Moon Blades after their defeat against the troll army. Neither-Nor carried a little hate for everyone he met, but his fury knew no bounds for these goblins that rode upon wolves and called themselves masters of the mountain.

  The murderous exploits of the rune-covered goblin still hiding in the hills of his fallen clan had made him the target of numerous hunting parties over the years. Every Rock Wolf in a command position knew his name and reputation. The kill-on-sight order and promise of reward had come down from Arokkhan himself.

  The particularly large and heavily pierced goblin at the lead of the band went wide-eyed with recognition. “Neither-Nor.” He smiled. “Today we kill us a legend, boys! Butcher him good!”

  Neither-Nor leapt to his feet just as the arrows and spears flew. He sidestepped the first spear, dodged an arrow, and barely ducked another that ripped the cap from his head. Then he found his rhythm and sliced the next two spears from the air with his blades. “Come on, ya fucks!” He waved them on.

  In they came, five of them, fanning out with enough space to seal off any escape. Axes, swords, and a mace all came at him at once, but none expected Neither-Nor to drop to his knees between five snapping wolf jaws. As the wolves lunged, his blades danced between them, and with a final roll, he came to his feet again as four of the five riders tumbled off dying mounts.

  He buried his straight blade in the throat of the closest goblin, and used the moon blade to open the chest of the next. The last wolf lunged, and he gave it a spin-kick to the snout before cleaving the skull of its rider. But then an arrow buried into his shoulder and knocked him stumbling back into the rock face. He snarled and attacked again, ignoring the wrenching pain as his blades ended the last two goblins who struggled to their feet. The final wolf, still feeling the ring of Neither-Nor’s boot in its ears, took off toward the others.

  Neither-Nor grabbed the arrow by its fletching and yanked it out just before another buried in his stomach and dropped him to his knees. A foolhardy goblin, looking to impress his boss after the quarry was already down, spurred his wolf in for the kill. Neither-Nor threw his straight blade spinning into the wolf’s face, and the rider went screaming over its shoulders before skidding into a chop of the moon blade that pinned him through his back to the earth.

  Already the wound in Neither-Nor’s shoulder had mostly healed as the runes realigned to make his body whole again. His hand went to the arrow in his stomach, but a spear caught him in the other shoulder with enough force to spin him around to face the rock.

  He ripped the arrow out and gasped with the pain of it, just as a thick curving blade jammed through his back. He looked down in disbelief at the pointy tip jutting out of the same hole that the troll had left in his shirt—it was notched, dull, and rusted in spots. This was the blade that had finally killed him for good. “Fuck it all.”

  Their big leader stepped over him with a victorious smirk. “Arok’s gonna make Groole a Big Boss for this.”

  Neither-Nor tried to hit him with the moon blade, but that arm didn’t work. He tried with the other, but the straight blade wasn’t there. The goblin called Groole chuckled before head-butting Neither-Nor’s nose with a sharp crack. He couldn’t see past the white-hot pain, and he felt himself slipping back into the familiar darkness, but Groole slapped him back into the moment.

  “Where’s the giant?” Groole shook him by the spattered collar of his coat. “What’s it want?”

  Now it was Neither-Nor’s turn to grin. “In yer nightmares, ya fuck . . . and he’s comin’ fer ya all.” A trickle of blood spilled from his lips, and he slumped over dead.

  SLUD WATCHED FROM above as the last of the Moon Blades keeled over amid a cluster of dead wolves and goblins. Slud was impressed. Li’l fella did betta den Slud figgered.

  Only the weird goblin with the pinprick eyes had noticed him looming above, fixed on him with an open mouth and a half-wit expression on his tiny, pinched face. Again, he gave no warning to the last few warriors beside him. Slud gripped the sword in one hand and the ax in the other and bent his knees for the drop. It was time for him to end this game and move on to a higher-stakes board.

  He came down sword first to cleave the Rock Wolf leader from collarbone to crotch, and spun into the others before they could react. By the time the two halves of Groole flopped to the ground, Slud had also made meat out of two more wolves and the last goblin bowman. The rest of the wolves broke and sprinted away through the woods.

&n
bsp; Even the wolf beneath the final goblin spun and lurched after the others, despite its rider’s fumbling attempt to hold it still. He tumbled from its back with a yelp and came up covered with leaves as Slud stepped toward him with the sword at the ready—noticing only then that the cut through Groole had left a crack in the metal half the length of the blade. The next chop would be its last. The troll was taken off guard when the tiny goblin inexplicably scurried toward him and dropped his head to the earth with barely coherent muttering. “Oh, lllord of d-d-death, let Dingle be your wwwitness, and scribe of your w-w-works.”

  Slud rested the broken sword on the back of the goblin’s bent neck and looked out across the mountain. The air was heavy with smoke, and already he could see the orange flicker of fire approaching through the trees.

  “W-w-what do you ask of mmme, my lord?” the goblin muttered.

  Slud moved the blade below the goblin’s chin and raised his head so he could look down into his crazy eyes. He saw blind faith and fealty staring back. Slud liked the idea of a follower who would do whatever he asked, and he wondered if others might also bow down before he was through. Perhaps he could use this goblin to his advantage? “Run back to yer clan. Tell ’em what ya saw here.”

  A hot wind blew across the slope to rustle the leaves above. Again, Slud felt the eyes of the mountain upon him, waiting to see what he’d do next. “A bad wind’s blowin’, ’n’ a reckonin’s comin’ wit’ it.” Slud raised the flat of the blade slowly to bring the goblin up; the little fellow didn’t even reach his knees. “Go back to yer Khan, tiny fella. Tell ’im Slud Blood Claw’s comin’.”

  BLACK SMOKE FILLED the sky, blocking out the rolling clouds of a rose-hued dusk. The mountainside was burning. Agnes breathed in the mingling stink of char, fox, and rotting corpses, and bowed her head to the one who was responsible. The young troll still eluded her, having climbed on from the massacre of the hunting party that had been foolish enough to try to corner him here. One did not corner a force of nature.

  But as Agnes had learned over the ages, such forces could be coaxed if one knew the right words. Her past incarnations had summoned rain and wind, called lightning, and induced the ground to shiver at her bidding, but this troll lad was her greatest feat since Angerboda’s Children of Doom had tread across the Dream. Soon, the whole mountain would know the name Slud. Soon after, all would learn to fear it.

  SEVEN: Black Cloud Rising

  THE IMMENSE DOORS of the great hall swung open. The pair of wolves at the base of the throne raised their heads in unison. A wind had blown up from the lowlands, carrying the stink of wood smoke. Black clouds gathered in the sky above the mountain. The usual roar of the hall had dimmed to expectant whispers, and the clan’s best hex doktors slunk off into a corner to cast bones and mutter to themselves.

  Arokkhan wanted answers. He’d sent for the Big Boss of the scouts over an hour ago, and his two best killers finally escorted him in. He’d forgotten the scout’s name again. He walked with a lazy left foot that scuffed behind with every step, and he had to be the shaggiest goblin that Arok had ever seen. Long mud-brown fur wisped behind him as he shuffled toward the throne; even his arms and legs were covered with it. Arok found it freakish and distracting, but the hairy bastard was good at both keeping watch and keeping out of the Khan’s way—until today. As Arok eyed his approach with a practiced air of casual disdain, he contemplated which of the two escorts he might let open the scout to see if the hair grew on the inside as well.

  The squat guard with the hatchets and the temper kicked the furball in the back to speed things up, and the dull murmur of the spectators went silent. That guard had been dubbed Short-Fuse. The tall, mute cannibal on the other side of the scout was called Long-Pig. The Khan had never seen two goblins with a greater fondness for violence, which was handy on days like this, as Arokkhan wasn’t about to try to bite the head off this hairy monstrosity.

  The hushed audience of bootlickers pressed close around the fire pit; even the hex doktors wanted to hear what the scout would say. Short-Fuse and Long-Pig moved to the sides and left the scout alone before the wolves. Arokkhan took a swig from the pine-ale jug and felt the familiar burn along the back of his throat. It was never too early in the day to begin dulling his way toward a long sleep. He was distracted for a moment by the wolf-jaw hood that framed his face—Bet them teeth would look real nice dipped in gold.

  Everyone was looking at him expectantly, but when he lowered the jug and looked back they all averted their eyes. The Herald was still shuffling papers behind the throne, taking his sweet time, as always, to make an entrance. But the Khan had no patience for theatrics today. He cleared his throat, and it echoed back from the arched ceiling. Still, the Herald didn’t come . . .

  Only after the guards at the doors slid the lock back into place with a loud bang did the little fucker amble out with his pointy nose in the air. The Herald slid to his spot on the first step and held up his precious ledger. “Big Boss Harog of the far-rider scouts,” he announced with a nasally whine.

  Arok was starting to hate the screech of the Herald’s voice, but he turned away from the pinched little weasel to face down this Harog instead. “So, why’s my mountain burnin’?”

  Harog wisely lowered his head before he spoke. “Forgive the wait, my Khan. Wanted accounts from multiple riders before I came.” His voice, by contrast, was deep and clear for a goblin. “Forest fire broke out on a ridge halfway up the western slope. It continues to rage with the hard wind, and it climbs quick.”

  Arok had to admit, The hairy bastard speaks good. “Do it come here?”

  “Not today or tomorrow, my Khan. But if the wind continues on this path, it could reach us here the day after.”

  Arokkhan clenched his jaw, still feeling the strain from the last head he’d bitten off the week before. That one had been a miserable goblin tailor who’d brought him a new set of robes with sleeves too short. He’d mounted that head outside the tailor’s shop in case the apprentice who took over the business shared his master’s notion of quality workmanship. “Any stoppin’ it—clearin’ brush and timber; throwin’ water and earth?”

  Harog shook his head, and the fur that hung from his ears whipped back and forth. “Wind’s too strong; sparks will carry across any gaps we make.”

  Arok didn’t like what he was hearing, but he couldn’t deny the authority in the hairy goblin’s account either. The Khan couldn’t remember much, but he was pretty sure his wife’s brother had been the one to suggest Harog become the Big Boss of the scouts. He was starting to feel less inclined to kill someone for it.

  Instead, his eyes peeled away from the freak to scan for the creepy doktors in the back, but the misguided intentions of the Herald broke his concentration again with a nasally shout.

  “Arok Golden Wolf: Chief of the Rock Wolf Clan, King of the Mountain, and Khan of the Goblin Horde won’t be told NO, you miserable buffoon!” A string of spit flew from the Herald’s mouth, and his face went red in an instant. “Give solutions or be replaced with one who can!”

  Harog nodded. “I wonder, my Khan, if Bone Master might be able to turn the wind back? I’d take him there myself and guarantee his safety.”

  Now it looks like his idea! Arok contemplated leaping down to wrap his tusks and fangs around the head of the Herald, but his mouth ached just thinking about it. He looked past him and caught the fixed gaze of the Chief Hex Doktor at the back of the audience. One eye was black and one green; the black eye was twice the size of the other. Bone Master rarely spoke in the common goblin tongue, preferring to spout off in an old dialect that no one understood except his shifty apprentices.

  He motioned for the withered goblin, who came with the clanking of a thousand little bones strapped across his body. The first apprentice followed at his heels, clad in a floor-length cloak covered entirely in black feathers. Others made a path for them and looked away; no one wanted to get too close or dare a direct glance, lest the evil eye fall upon them.


  The doktors stopped before the wolves and bowed in unison.

  “What do the bones say?” Arok asked.

  The bent old goblin stayed bowed, his gaze locked on the floor. It was the apprentice who righted himself to answer with a voice broken by years of chanting and smoke. “Trouble’s comin’. Might just be the fire, but me master feels somethin’ more behind it.”

  “Can ya turn the wind or not?”

  Bone Master looked up at this, and his oversized black eye found the Khan.

  For a moment, it felt like someone was pissing on Arok’s grave, and an involuntary shudder crept across his shoulders. Bone Master gave a curt nod and thankfully averted his gaze again.

  It took a slow inhale for Arokkhan to feel right. He blinked and took another hard pull from the jug. “Go with Har—Har— What’s yer fuckin’ name again?” he asked Harog.

  The Herald answered with an unnecessary scream, “HAROG! Big Boss of the far-rider scouts!”

  Arok was starting to get that head-biting feeling, but he kept his eyes on Harog. “Take these two to the edge of the fire, and keep ’em safe, or I’ll toss yer goods to the rafters.” The Khan glanced up, and Harog followed the gaze to the strings of dried intestines that had been previously flung over the beam that crossed the shadows above the throne.

  Harog bowed with a muddy wave of fur crashing and retreating. “My Khan.”

  Short-Fuse cast Arok a hopeful look as he stepped back to the scout’s side, but Arok shook his head. Harog began the slow shuffle back down the length of the hall as the hex doktors trailed after.

  “Hargo!” Arok called out, silencing the gathering once more. Harog turned back and swallowed hard. “What news from Groole’s pack and that stutterin’ runt of yours about this giant in the Iron Wood?”