Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories

by Vox Day

  Thus it was that Ummat-Mor had survived twenty moons of bitter warfare, albeit at a steep price. Perhaps the kingdom had not been sold outright to their larger, lighter-skinned ur-brethren, but many goblins felt things could not have been much worse if that had been the case. The mayor of even the smallest village now enjoyed the imposing company of an orc advisor, whose presence was inarguably helpful in collecting the steep war tax imposed by the goblin king at the suggestion of the Great Orc, and twice a year, bands of young male goblins were forcibly assembled and marched off to the north, seldom to be seen again.

  This latter fact was why Bextor Fenwick took little pride in his lofty title, Lieutenant Commander of the armed militia of Wiccam Fensboro, despite having attained it at the tender age of nine. He was tall for a swamp goblin, nearly four foots tall, as a matter of fact, and he carried himself with the air of confidence borne by one who knows how to use his weapons. As befitted an officer of militia, he was a good marksman, and if his sword work left something to be desired, well, he preferred a lance anyhow.

  His mount at the moment was whining pitifully at him, having spotted a deceased squirrel lying near the foot of a large tree. Bextor, feeling rather hungry himself, sniffed at the air and recoiled at the overpowering rotstink.

  “You’d think I never fed you,” he told the grey wolf, even as he loosed the reins and gave the beast his head. Upo snapped up the decaying morsel in two greedy bites, then growled low in his throat as Bextor urged him on with a kick behind his ribs. “That’s your second breakfast today, you insatiable monster, so don’t talk back to me!”

  He was pleased to see that Gurfang, the orc with whom Wiccam Fensboro had been saddled for the last nine moons, was nowhere in sight as he rode towards the two-story stone building which boasted the mayor’s office. Then again, it was only half past sunup, and Galdrun Gurfang seldom rose before sunhigh. This was understandable, since he spent most his nights drinking fermented cattail juice at one of the town’s two bordellos.

  Bextor slid from Upo’s muscled shoulders, ordered the wolf to sit and stay, then climbed the flight of stairs and entered the office without knocking.

  “Lieutenant Fenwick, I’m glad to see you,” declared Mayor Spitswiggle from behind his dilapidated wicker desk, reinforced by a pair of hewn-off pumpkin ash branches. He didn’t look very happy, though. His age-yellowed face was haggard and his eyes were red with fatigue. “We have a problem.”

  “We have? What sort of problem?”

  The Mayor did not immediately answer, instead he turned around and lifted a blown glass decanter containing a brown liquid. He poured himself a glass, then waved the decanter towards Bextor.

  “Drink, lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. Not before sunlow.”

  “Take it,” the older goblin ordered him. “You may find you’ll want it in a moment.”

  Bextor nodded and accepted the glass but placed it on the desk in front of him, untouched, as he sat down. The mayor sat as well, more than a little heavily, then leaned back in his chair to put up his unshod feet. He took a long draught from his glass then wiggled his clawed toes and shook his head.

  “Strong stuff, that. Sojo can brew, I’ll say that for the old hob.” The mayor sighed, folded his hands on his chest, then looked Bextor right in the eyes.

  “I don’t suppose you pay any attention to the war, lad?”

  “Not any more than anyone else, sir.”

  “Of course, of course. Well, I received a rather appalling message last night from a friend of mine in Sloughsley, up near the Zothian border. He informs me that the friend and champion of our race, the Great Orc Gwarzul, has decided that we goblins are not doing enough in our own defense. He has therefore decided what we need is some stiffening, which will presently come in the form of his soldiers.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.” Bextor stared incomprehendingly at the old goblin.

  “Let me put it more plainly: King Weezabreth apparently woke up dead one fine morning of late, and Gwarzul is now claiming stewardship of the kingdom. I suspect these two events are not entirely unrelated. Ummat-Mor is to be occupied, in order to better defend it from the depredations of our trollish foes.”

  “Even here?”

  “Even here, in Wiccam Fensboro.” The mayor nodded sadly. “And worse, it appears that our new advisor will not be an amiable sot who will happily leave us alone so long as we keep him well supplied with drinks and female companionship. I am informed that our old friend Gurfang is going to be relieved by one Sangrul Skullsplitter, who will be arriving tomorrow in the company of tenscore of his closest companions. Even worse, it appears this Skullsplitter is a captain of the Red Claw Slayers.”

  “Red Claw Slayers?” Bextor gaped. He had heard of these dread warriors from Zoth Ommog. Indeed, there were few in Ummat-Mor who had not. They were fierce warriors, fearless and cruel, savage trollkillers of great reknown.

  “Do you want me to raise the town?” he asked bravely. “I don’t know if we can stop them, sir, but I swear we’ll do our best!”

  “Fight them?” Mayor Spitswiggle nearly fell out of his chair in astonishment, an expression of horror on his face. He scrambled upright. “Gods, no, boyo! Are you mad? You’d get us all killed, and that’s a fact!”

  Bextor sank back in his chair, a little ashamed at his relief. If half the stories he’d heard about the Red Claws were true, his militia would be lucky to take down three of the elite soldiers before being wiped out to a goblin. He suddenly felt that the mayor had been right about the drink. There was no need to wait for sunlow.

  “Such a thought! Dear me!” The mayor wiped nervously at his brow, then he pointed a long, green finger at Bextor. “I forbid you to even think it again, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. No problem, sir.” But another thought occurred to him. “So, what is the problem, then?”

  The mayor harrumphed.

  “I’m not saying that two hundred orcs underfoot won’t be a problem, by the gods, no. But it’s the hobs who are my immediate concern.”

  “The hoblets?”

  Mayor Spitswiggle looked to the sky as if pleading for help.

  “Does the frog ever see past the lilypad? Bextor, lad, you are not unaware that orcs are, shall we say, rather less than fond of hobs, unless they are hungry and looking for lunch?”

  “Well, yes, but so are we. I mean, none of us would ever eat one, but no one likes them either. They smell funny. And they steal things.”

  “Your common orc may not be fond of hobs, Bextor, but the Great Orc has taken this lack of fondness to new heights. Or depths, as it were. It’s even said that Gwarzul has ordered their extermination throughout Zoth Ommog. Furthermore, these Red Claw Slayers are notorious for sharing his enthusiasm for hob-slaying—which poses a serious problem since we have approximately eighty of the little beggars living here in Wiccam Fensboro. Now, I’m not terribly fond of hobs myself, but I am the mayor of this town, and I do not intend to allow a troop of hobophobic orcs to march in here and slaughter eighty harmless citizens!”

  The mayor’s voice rose as he was carried away by his own rhetoric, and by the time he reached the word 'citizens' he was drawn up to his full four fores, two fingers. He seemed surprised to realize this.

  “Ahem… even if they are Red Claw Slayers,” he finished weakly.

  “So what do you want me to do?” asked Bextor.

  “Call out twenty goblins you can trust, but not to fight. Warn the hobs, all of them, and tell them they must either leave or find somewhere to hide. If they are still here at sunup tomorrow, chances are they won’t live to see sundown.”

  • • •

  It was well past sundown before Bextor felt that every hoblet in the town had been fairly warned. Not all of them were willing to abandon their low-slung homes and comfortable caves, and some seemed to fear that this was nothing but a trick to deprive them of their property, but on the whole, the hoblets were a sensible people who were not, for the most part,
eager to risk their skins. A few, like Sojo the brewer, scoffed at the notion of flight, but even he was cautious enough to send his wife and children next door to their goblin neighbors. However, there were ten families, some thirty hobs in all, who had nowhere to go, and Bextor was loath to simply send them off into the Rancid Fens.

  He knocked on a wooden door that was engraved with the symbol of Wiccam Fensboro’s college of magic. The college was little more than a small and rustic campus bordering the edge of the swamp, but it was here that many a famous goblin shaman had first learned his mystical trade.

  “Who’s there,” called a voice from behind the door.

  “It’s me. Open up.”

  “Oh, hello, Bextor.” His older brother, Wiltor, greeted him with curiosity. “What brings you here, and so late too?”

  “I need your help. That is, I think I need your help. I’m not really sure you can help me, but maybe you know someone who—”

  Wiltor held up a hand.

  “Slow down. You haven’t been dabbling in spells again, have you?” Wiltor was an accomplished shaman, one of the college’s youngest instructors, and he firmly disapproved of those who used the mystical arts for petty charms, love philtres and the like.

  ‘No, it’s the hoblets. And orcs… Red Claw Slayers. They’re coming tomorrow, the mayor says. Here! To Wiccam Fensboro! He says they’re going to kill all the hoblets, but we can’t allow it. I just spent the whole day trying to help them find places to hide.”

  “Ah,” his brother smiled. “That explains why so many of the little beastlies were rushing around town today. I was wondering if they were preparing for a festival or something.”

  “Not exactly. Here’s the problem. I’ve got ten families who don’t have anywhere to go, and I don’t know who I can trust to give them shelter. Old Toadsburp said he wouldn’t have them, and Gritsgrot Smeespit said he’d personally hand them over to the Red Claws if I stuck him with any of them.”

  Wiltor’s eyes narrowed and he put a long finger over his left nostril and dismissively blew snot.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised, Bex. I wouldn’t want to live with a family of the little thieves either. But don’t fret about it. Look, the college has some old storage caves which aren’t being used right now. They may not make for the most luxurious housing, but they’re nice and dry since we used to keep the school’s herbs and whatnot there. How many of them did you say? Ten families?”

  “Thirty-one hobs, to be exact, including the little ones.”

  His elder brother punched him on the shoulder.

  “Go get your hoblets, little brother. Bring them here. I’ll clear it with the Grand Shaman, and we’ll get them safely tucked away before those orcs show their ugly mugs.”

  • • •

  The walls of Wiccam Fensboro were not the most daunting defensive structure in Ummat-Mor. Though made of piled stone, they were only three fores high and were intended to delineate the town’s limits rather than to defend them. An orc could leap them without breaking a sweat. Nevertheless, the gates were opened wide for the approaching warband, who could be heard grumbling and swearing about their long march through the Rancid Fens of Wiccam.

  As the first orcs entered, the mayor raised his hand and a fanfare sounded, although unfortunately, two of the trumpeters appeared to be unaware of the key selected by the other four. The visitors were huge, almost twice Bextor’s height, and many of them bore wounds and other marks of recent battle.

  The Red Claws entered in two columns that expertly flanked the town’s little welcoming party, then drew their swords, which they clashed three times on their shields as their massive, black-armored warleader strode arrogantly through the gates. He was accompanied by a pair of powerful orcs bearing banners. The noise of the salute was terrible, echoing like thunder off the low stone walls, and Bextor, being one of the four wolfriders serving as the honor guard, was forced to steady Upo as the wolf growled low in his throat. One banner was red with an inverted V sewn in white, the other was black and adorned with a red clawed hand. Zoth Ommog and the Red Claw Slayers.

  Mayor Spitswiggle stepped forward to greet the dread warleader.

  “Welcome to Wiccam Fensboro, Grun-Kor Skullsplitter. I am Jereel Spitswiggle, the mayor of this town. Your deeds and fame precede you, and we are honored to be granted the privilege of hosting you and your orcs. We shall certainly do our best to supply all of your needs.”

  “Yar, me guess you will, gobbo.”

  The huge orc captain grinned humorlessly, exposing three broken teeth across his upper jaw. His face was green, leathered and was marked by several runic tattoos inked in dark red. His yellow eyes were hooded but ominously intelligent, and he was clad in uniform black except for a pair of high leather boots that had a strange blue cast to them. His armor was battered, and his left arm was bound to his body by a worn and bloody bandage, but his apparent indifference to the wound only made him seem all the more frightening.

  “Where de galdrun?” the orc demanded of the mayor. His harsh accent was atrocious, even barbaric, but was mostly intelligible.

  “He’s, ah, indisposed, I’m afraid.”

  “Me hear he be a sot,” the grun-kor nodded. “Me see him later. Me told you got a militia. Don’t see it about.”

  The giant warleader surveyed the surrounded goblins with an air of menace, and Bextor swallowed hard as Mayor Spitswiggle caught his eye. He suddenly felt very naked.

  “Er, ah, that’s me, sir.” It came out in a higher pitch than he intended. Bextor cleared his throat. “That is, I’m the commander. Lieutenant Commander Fenwick, sir. My goblins are at drill, sir.”

  Upo growled softly as the big orc took two strides toward them, and Bextor shushed him urgently, giving him a surreptitious kick for good measure.

  “Gor-Gor’s stinking crack, what you got on your nose?”

  Bextor’s stomach fluttered as the orc frowned at him, and he feared the scheme Wiltor had dreamed up the night before was about to go horribly wrong.

  Everyone likes flattery, his brother had insisted. Every orc believes goblins are stupid and incompetent, and since they have nothing but contempt for us, they naturally assume we want nothing more than to be like them. Play this right, and their leader should be amused enough that he’ll keep you around where you can keep an eye on him.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a plan. Of sorts. The problem was that Grun-Kor Sangrul Skullsplitter did not look amused.

  “W-warpaint, sir.” In for a squip, in for a grot. He threw himself upon the winds of fate and pounded his left pectoral with his right fist as he extended two of his four fingers. “The armed militia of Wiccam Fensboro is proud to serve the united peoples of Ummat-Mor and Zoth Ommog in the company of the famous Red Claw Slayers!”

  The orc captain bent down to take a closer look at him, causing a wave of putrescent foulness to sweep over him. The hot stench of the orc's noxious breath was worse than any rotting squirrel. He held himself at rigid attention while Sangrul looked him over from head to toe, taking in the white clay striped horizontally across his nose, the knee-high mucking boots he’d borrowed from Greem Mirlocc, and the sleeveless leather vest that exposed his spindly green arms.

  Bextor tried not to show any signs of fear as the orc stepped back and glanced at his men. Knowing his danger, he tried to focus on the heartening notion that at least Sangrul had not yet drawn his sword. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Of course, the fact that the big orc’s biceps were larger than Bextor’s head seemed to indicate that a weapon would probably be superfluous should he decide to take offense and rip Bextor’s spindly arms off.

  “See dis gobbo, skwakks?” Sangrul turned around and roared at his orcs. Bextor hoped the warleader didn’t notice his inadvertent leap into the air. “You sees him?”

  The feeling of two hundred pairs of orcish eyes fixated on him was not a comfortable one. Bextor wished desperately for a magical hole to appear that would allow him to sink safely
down into the underground river that flowed sluggishly beneath the swamp. He felt his head swim, and he tried to concentrate on not falling off his wolf’s back.

  “He be weak. He be wuss. He be afeared… smell it? But he ready to represent and fight like a real kor!”

  No one was more surprised than Bextor when the grun-kor returned the chest-pounding Slayer salute, then abruptly strode towards him and lifted him off Upo’s back in a crushing, but affectionate one-armed embrace. “No fear, little kin-bro, we make real kors out of you and all you damn gobs.”

  Great. It seemed his plan might have worked just a little better than either he or Wiltor had imagined. Well, he’d worry about the implications later. For now, Bextor only hoped that when the orc finally put him down, the majority of his ribs would be unbroken.

  The walk to the center of the Wiccam Fensboro was not a long one, but Bextor was glad he’d chosen to ride, despite the jarring pain that throbbed in his left side every time Upo put a paw wrong. The wolf had no trouble keeping up with the orc’s long strides, but by the time they reached Main Street, Mayor Spitswiggle had fallen far behind, huffing and panting. A crowd had gathered. They watched with a quiet, muted mix of hostility and fear as the orcs marched smartly to the building commandeered for their barracks.

  “Half-moon past, they take us off the front,” the grun-kor was telling him. The orc had become surprisingly loquacious after learning Wiccam Fensboro’s shaman school was considered to produce some of the best healers in all Ummat-Mor, and that Bextor’s brother was one of their teachers. “Mulguth be Guldur’s big dog, he make General Horwah his bitch at da Sweeswot River. Me losing seventy-two kors when damn elf-liver boar riders wuss and run, leave us holding our vanks on the left flank, sod those damn yellow skins. But rockheads don’t make us run. We retreat in form and me tell you something, dey be leaving more than a few stone troll behind, yar.”

  “Is that why you have so many replacements?” Bextor had noticed that, like him, many of the younger-looking orcs wore the white paint of the battle virgin striped across their faces.