by Vox Day
Bonecracker’s companion roared and charged, but Bextor’s second arrow punctured his unarmored throat. The orc stumbled and dropped to his knees, where he fell easy prey to Upo’s razor-sharp fangs. The wolf snarled and worried viciously at the mortally wounded orc until Bextor called him off and finished the thrashing brute with a thrust of his sword.
Bextor was examining the scroll Bonecracker had been reading when Wiltor, Muckwoggle and the others rushed in.
“They’re dead,” Wiltor said incredulously, staring at the two huge bodies sprawled on the floor. “Bex, you killed both of them! How did you ever do that?”
“Never mind. We’ve got to think of a way to explain this somehow. Skullsplitter is going to go berserk when he hears the vergalvebel is dead. He’ll burn down everything from the swamp to the roadway!”
“Can’t we just sink the bodies in the Fens?”
Bextor shook his head.
“Wiltor, think about it. If they start tearing apart everything looking for these two, what are they going to find? Hoblets! Everywhere! And once they do, it won’t take long to figure out how many goblins were involved in hiding them. Bonecracker was already suspicious—that’s why he was looking for the town archives. I can’t imagine he was the only one harboring doubts about the town.”
Bill Muckwoggle nodded and looked grim. “We can’t fight them in the open. But maybe we’d have a chance if we attacked at night.”
“Come on, Bill, you’ve seen them drill.” Bextor shook his head. “Asleep, they could still kill us all.”
“I have another idea,” Wiltor broke in. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“What is it?”
“Do you remember that old house, belonged to a goblin named Cattail? We can drag the bodies out there and tell the grun-kor that his two orcs were killed by hoblets that ambushed them while they were searching.”
“But there aren’t any hoblets hiding there!”
“There will be.” There was an uncharacteristic ruthlessness to his brother’s tone, and Bextor’s blood turned to ice as he began to realize what Wiltor was suggesting. “Don’t argue with me, Bextor. There isn’t any other way. It’s them or everyone, hoblet and goblin. At least they’ll have a chance to fight back, we can give them that much.”
Not waiting for a response, Wiltor turned to Bill Muckwoggle. “Take your boys and get these bodies wrapped in blankets while Bex and I get his story straight. Drag them over to Cattail’s place, then get back over here and scrub this place clean. Don’t miss a single drop of blood, understand? Their sniffers are as good as ours.”
Bill was obviously reluctant to obey.
Bextor decided that his brother was probably right and they had no other option. “Do as Wiltor says, Bill. That’s an order, okay?”
“All right, then, if it’s an order,” the sergeant saluted halfheartedly. “The boys’ll lick it up with their tongues if they have to, Bex. I mean, sir!”
Bextor winced at the thought. “Do whatever it takes, Bill. Our lives may depend on it.”
Bill saluted again and ran out to get help. Bextor glanced at the two dead orcs and shook his head. Putting an arrow through a murderer was one thing, but how would he be able to sleep at night if he allowed hoblets to be betrayed this way? Even if by doing so he saved dozens more. He forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes. They were intense, remorseless.
“We’ll do it because we have to, Bex. You can’t let the town burn for the sake of a few hobs. Now, let’s figure out what you’re going to tell that orc captain, and we’ll worry about the future later.
Bextor nodded, but the thought of facing Skullsplitter nearly made him sick with fear. The huge orc was not going to be pleased to hear about his officer’s death. Bextor only hoped the grun-kor was not inclined to kill the messenger.
Skullsplitter was apoplectic, to be sure, but fortunately his rage was directed at the sneaking, murderous hoblets and the traitorous goblin whose treacherous hiding of the hoblets had caused the death of his orcs.
“Where dey hiding?”
“In a house, sir, belonging to a goblin named Cattail. I, ah, I don’t know much about him, sir. He lives alone in a clearing near the swamp, in a big house. He is known to have had some doings with kobs in the past, grun-kor.”
“How many dey be?”
“We believe less than twelve, sir, but they are armed. They have bows, sir, the kobs do. It seems there was a window left open, which is probably how the vergalvebel caught their scent. He and the kor were investigating the area when the kobs ambushed them. The militia patrol that accompanied them immediately surrounded the building and prevented the kobs inside from escaping, but they didn’t have the numbers to storm it. Several of them were wounded as well, one severely, while they recovered the bodies.”
“You done good. Who command de patrol?”
“Sergeant Muckwoggle, sir. He’s my best non-com, sir. He was prepared to fire the house, but I thought it best to come to you first, sir.”
The orc’s nostrils were still flared with anger, but he nodded approvingly.
“Good on you, Drun Fenwick. You see now why we don’t let damn kobbers live? Dey like rabid rats! Gwarzul got it true! Now, follow me, and you see how Red Claw Slayers deal wid rebels, traitors, and koblovers!”
Bextor was amazed at how even in a white-hot rage, Skullsplitter was able to roar a few succinct orders, and, in what seemed like a matter of moments, have two bands of twenty orcs fully armored and ready to go into action.
“Me wants the gobbo alive, rokkul!” he commanded. “Kill de kobs, but me be making example of de traitor nobody gonna forget! Me giving a half-moon pass home to da kor be capturing him alive, but twenty lashes for da skwaak dat kills him.”
The orcs murmured at this, and Bextor didn’t wonder. He earnestly hoped Wiltor had told old Cattail to vacate the premises.
The march to the swamp end was a fast one, and Bextor had to give Upo his head in order to keep up with the fast-jogging orcs. The house stood alone. It was a sprawling one-level house that had started out as a muck miner’s hut, onto which rooms had been added over time. It would burn easily, being mostly constructed of wood, but burning the house was clearly not the Skullsplitter's intent.
Bill had somehow managed to reinforce his patrol, so the house was now surrounded by more than twenty goblins hiding ineffectively behind trees and small bushes. As Bextor dismounted and tied Upo to a tree, there was a quick flash of motion at a window and a goblin screamed as a shaft pierced his unprotected thigh.
Muckwoggle himself was bleeding from a shallow wound on his forehead as he rushed over to the orcs and gave a situation report. The tension in his voice was real, and Bextor marveled at the sergeant’s acting ability. Then a shaft thudded into the ground not two paces from his own feet. Bextor leaped backward and found himself loudly cursing the hoblets with genuine vigor. He didn’t need to act anymore—all their lives were in real danger as long as they were out in the open.
The orcs quickly formed two lines as the galvebels barked out their orders. One squad of ten veterans broke out powerful crossbows that sent bolts slamming into the wooden house with such violence that it seemed to shake, forcing the hoblet archers away from the windows. The rest of the kors and most of the galkors were battle virgins, Bextor saw. As one, they raised their round black shields, each marked with the red claw, when the grun-kor lifted his mighty meatchopper over his head. Bextor felt a rush of air on his face as the great blade came down, and his heart sank when the orcs rushed forward in silence, no doubt to avoid warning the house’s defenders of their charge.
If they reached the house without the hoblets hearing them…
With a sudden flash of inspiration, Bextor drew his blade and screamed. “Zoth Ommog and Gwarzuuuul!” Then he sprinted after the huge orcs.
About half of the surrounding goblins followed his example, shrieking and howling like a demonic horde escaping Hell. Their cries did not escape notice, and
the windows were suddenly filled with hoblets, loosing shaft after shaft at the onrushing orcs. The crossbows answered, and the deadly missiles flew in both directions. At such close range, the results were lethal.
Several of the Slayers fell, and Bextor tumbled over the thrashing body of one big orc who’d fallen directly in his path. He felt something smash into his forearm and he dropped his sword, discovering that he’d been hit. Oh, but it hurt! It hurt! Sporkko, did it hurt! He dropped to the ground just in time to avoid a second shaft that whizzed by his shoulder, and he fumbled for his sword with his left hand.
It only took a moment, but by the time he managed to grip it properly and push himself to his feet, no more arrows were zipping through the air. Instead, ungodly shrieks were coming from inside the house. Groaning like a wounded swamp toad, Bextor stumbled into the house well behind the last of the orcs.
The battle was already over. It had ended almost as soon as it began. Not a single hoblet still lived, and Bextor was depressed to see that he recognized every single one of the fallen. There were eight in all. Mr. Overdale lay beside his wife, his hands still gripping a sword much too long for him. Mr. Roundheel’s bow lay at his feet. He’d been hurled backward by the pair of bolts that killed him.
But hoblet and she-hob alike, they had died like wolves, fighting to the very end, not like their poor brethren in Zoth Ommog who had been butchered or sent to starve as slaves in the salt mines. There was little dignity in this desperate death, but there was honor in it. And better still, there was not a single hoblet child among the dead.
Wiltor and Cattail were surely taking the young ones to safety in the depths of the fens even now. But how hard it must have been, watching them say their last farewells to their brave parents. Bextor bit his lip, almost glad of the wound that gave cover to his glistening eyes.
But the hoblets’ sacrifice had likely saved the town. That was something, anyhow, Bextor thought as he staggered outside, wiping his eyes. He counted four orcs lying dead, pierced with arrows. Three more were wounded, as were nine goblins, including Bextor and Muckwoggle.
“That were brave, little drun,” Skullsplitter praised him reluctantly. Standing in between two of the fallen orcs, the orc commander looked as if he had a bad case of nausea himself. “Brave and… Real brave. Like a real kor.”
“Maybe a damn stupid one,” he heard one Slayer mutter to another. “We be in the stinking house afore they know if he don’t be screaming like a skwaak getting troll-raped. Wouldn’t lose no kor, forget four!”
“Gobbos,” the second orc spat like a curse. An arrow was still sticking out of his shoulder armor. “What you expect? Damn good the grun-kor don’t be thinking he take them with us no more.”
Well, that was good news, at any rate. Not enough to make him forget what he’d just seen, or the fire that seemed to be devouring his right arm, but good news all the same.
“Where is de traitor?” the grun-kor was roaring. “Me wants de damn koblover!”
Orcs were running in and out of the house, looking for signs of its owner while kors, no longer battle virgins, were carrying the hoblet corpses out of the building and tossing them into neat lines on the grass. They carried the bodies casually, some in just one hand, showing the dead less respect than they showed their weapons. It troubled Bextor, but there was no point in protesting. The hoblets were past caring about indignities now.
He stared at the arrow still sticking out of his arm, wondering what to do about it. Then he winced and tried to pull away as someone grabbed his arm with both hands.
“Let’s have a look at that.”
Bextor stiffened as he recognized his brother’s voice. “You got the little ones away?” He kept his voice low and didn’t look at Wiltor.
“Cattail knows a place deep in the fens. The orcs will never find them there.”
“You sure?” He looked up at his brother’s face, wondering if he’d misheard the note of amusement he detected in Wiltor’s voice.
Wiltor winked. “Just wait, you’ll see.”
An orc shouted that he’d seen something moving behind a tree out in the swamp. Then a second orc claimed to see an old goblin with white hair walking deeper into the swamp, as did a third.
Alarmed, Bextor glanced at Wiltor. His brother smiled faintly and shook his head, very slightly. Even so, Bextor held his breath as he watched two galvebels order the nearest galkors into the swamp. The orcs obeyed reluctantly. Being bigger and heavier than the goblins and totally unfamiliar with the fens, they knew a simple misstep could easily become a death sentence. It wasn’t long before there was a soupy splash and a fearful cry for help. The grun-kor had to order four kors to rescue the shrieking galkor and bring him back, covered in stinking yellow-green muck, to the safety of solid ground.
“Me sees him!” a galkor shouted. “Right over—”
Everyone, orc and goblin alike, jumped at the booming sound of detonation, which was followed by an ominous red-purple cloud rising over the fens. The explosion was echoed by terrible screams of agony and the muffled footfalls of frightened galkors fleeing the swamp. About ten had gone in, but only six were returning.
“What da stinking hells was dat?” the grun-kor shouted at the nearest goblins. Even Bextor drew back. The big orc looked ready to murder them all.
“Swamp gas, sir,” Wiltor lied calmly. “It builds up here and there. The fens are riddled with pockets of them. Very dangerous, sir.”
“And nobody say nuttin?”
“We assumed you knew about it, Grun-Kor,” Bextor said. “But if the dirty kob-lover ran into the swamps, you can be certain he won’t last long.”
Skullsplitter glared at them then turned towards the swamp. His fleshy, tusked face was the very image of fury and frustration as he listened to the pathetic sobbing of a badly wounded galkor who’d been left behind. He shook his head, observably bewildered, as he turned around and took in Bonecracker’s body, beside which there now lay five fallen orcs.
“How in da name of Gor-Gor’s giant vank we losing ten against eight stinking kobs?” The orc commander looked at Bextor and gestured towards the swamp. “Take a squad of your gobs and get me kors out of dere. At least one still being alive.”
“Yes, sir. But first I need to do something about this, sir.” He held out his arm.
“Get me damn kors now, Drun Fenwick!” the giant orc roared.
“Yessir,” Bextor saluted awkwardly, as he tried to avoid poking out an eye with the arrow sticking out of his arm. But the grun-kor didn’t return the salute, he was already stalking away, furiously barking orders at the vergalvebels.
• • •
There was a darkly morbid air about the grun-kor when Bextor reported to him the next morning. For a moment, Bextor feared Skullsplitter was about to announce the long-rumored wave of executions, but the pensive look on the orc’s heavy face when he saluted helped dispel his concerns.
“At ease, Drun.” The grun-kor waved Bextor to a seat. “Me should say, Galdrun.”
“Sir?”
“You be promoted. Now you be outranking Gurfang, and me already send de scrolls south, so don’t be letting him round you damn flanks.”
“Thank you, Grun-Kor. I shall certainly do my best to prove myself worthy—”
“How de arm?” Skullsplitter gestured toward Bextor’s bandaged forearm.
“Not too bad.” Bextor was surprised that the orc had asked. “A scar is better than ten medals—isn’t that what you Slayers say, Grun-Kor?”
“Yar, we say it.” The orc captain smiled wearily. “Be sitting please, Drun Fenwick. Me thinking dat despite me being orc and you being gob, we being friends, Bextor. Me allus say if you be orc, you be one damn good Slayer. So, me sorry saying me not bringing you gobbos when we march tomorrow.”
Bextor was glad to be seated in Morswot’s temple, because he was sure the great frog god could hear the unvoiced praises of thanksgiving resounding through his head. Despite what he’d overheard the day before,
he’d been convinced that Skullsplitter would change his mind and decide that a lousy troop of archers was better than none.
“We still got no healers, so me taking twelve studiers from de college here. Dey need a guard too, so maybe ten gobbos from your militia be good. Me happy having you captain the guard, but you being the best kor in the town, me say it better if you stay and take hold of Fensboro. Anyhow, dat arrow you take yesterday keep you from representing right.”
Bextor did his best to look disappointed. “I understand, sir. But Grun-Kor, without the presence of your kors to support it, how will we keep up the martial law?”
“Do what you like, Galdrun. War law or no war law, you got Fensboro now. Call yourself mayor, general, or great high queen, what you want. Still, maybe be best be sending everyone in jail south wid de next taxer.”
Bextor nodded, feigning acquiescence. He leaned forward and for the first time since the Slayer had come to Wiccam Fensboro, dared to directly meet the big orc’s eyes.
“Grun-Kor, do you really think you can win? Your kors are as ready as they’ll ever be, and I know how well you’ve prepared them, but can two hundred Slayers really make that much of a difference?”
Or one hundred ninety, as the case may be.
Sangrul Skullsplitter leaned back and sighed heavily. He looked out the window toward something in the distance. What did he see? The mountains of Zoth Ommog, perhaps? Then he turned back to Bextor and shook his head.
“Bextor, Slayers making no difference at all. Mulguth be too strong. Maybe dat why me leaving you gobbos here. We got orders, so we going to represent and we going to die, but no reason why you got to die wid us.”
Despite himself, despite all that he knew about this violent, murderous orc and his innumerable evil deeds, Bextor was deeply touched by the orc's unexpected concern for him and the town militia. He felt oddly conflicted as he rose from his chair. And to his surprise, he found that he actually meant what he said next. “Grun-Kor Skullsplitter, it was an education and an honor serving with you, sir. May I shake your hand?”