by Vox Day
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.
“Yar. Me need a good moon to pretty up, school the skwakks, and maybe, if you gobs can hack it, raise up some missile auxies. How you like dat, kin-bro, you having a troop of Slayer auxies?”
I shouldn’t like that at all, Bextor thought wryly. Trolls didn’t bother with archers. They didn’t need to, since their idea of ranged weaponry primarily involved throwing very large rocks at the enemy. Bextor reminded himself that he was supposed to be a wannabe Slayer.
“Really?” he gushed enthusiastically. “Do you mean it?”
“Show me you gobs can hack it, and you march out like Slayers when me getting the word, yar.”
Knowing his goblins’ skill with their weapons, or near complete lack thereof, Bextor wasn’t terribly worried on that score. Still, he made a mental note to order his goblins to aim with their opposite eye and perhaps switch swordhands as well.
As they approached the Temple of Morswot, which was the only building in Wiccam Fensboro with ceilings high enough to suit orcs, they passed the inn belonging to Sojo, the hoblet. He was standing defiantly on his porch with a determined look on his rou
nd little face. Bextor was inwardly cursing the stubborn hob, but forced himself to remain impassive as the orc captain wrinkled his nose and looked across the street. A harsh murmuring broke out in the mass of troops behind him.
“Me was smelling the stink o’ kobs,” he snarled. “You, kobber, what you do here?”
“I live here, orc. I might ask you the same.”
The nearby goblins gasped. Every eye was upon the grun-kor as he walked slowly towards the hoblet. Although the porch on which Sojo was standing was elevated, the giant orc’s greater height brought them eye to eye.
“So ask, kob,” the orc commanded, with a dangerous tone to his rumbling voice.
Sojo raised an eyebrow. Clearly he had not expected that response. He nodded bravely and folded his arms. “Very well. What are you doing here, orc?”
There was a sudden flash of black and silver, and the hoblet collapsed, holding both hands to his throat. He made a brief choking noise, his legs convulsed, and then he lay still.
“Killing kobs,” the grun-kor said with an air of satisfaction. For a moment all was quiet, and then the Slayers burst out in a terrifying explosion of cruel and sadistic laughter. To Bextor’s dismay, several watching goblins joined in. Most, however, only looked on in horrified silence.
The orc turned his back on his victim and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Galvebel, get me dagger and clean it good. Den we burn this kobhole. Dis be a warning to any koblovers, hear? Kob disease, we fight with fire. Any house got a kobber in it, we burn. With everyone in it, kob or gob.”
Bextor closed his eyes. He did not love hoblets, but still, he had known Sojo all his life. He despised himself for what he was about to say, but he knew he had little choice if he hoped to find a way to protect the rest of Wiccam Fensboro’s hoblets from these insane killers.
“Grun-Kor Skullsplitter, sir!”
“Who say that?”
Bextor steeled himself to avoid flinching as the orc whirled around. He pointed to the inn.
“The old kob was an innkeep, sir! He served ale there, sir! A point of possible interest, sir!”
The orc captain laughed and smote him a tremendous buffet on the shoulder that almost knocked him off Upo.
“Damn good, Drun Fenwick. Me got a possible interest, damn sure! Galvebel, afore you firing de inn, you be finding those kegs.” The orc bared his tusks approvingly at Bextor. “By Gor-Gor’s giant vank, little gob, damned if we don’t make a real Slayer from you!”
The first month of the occupation went by with rather less violence than one might have expected. Three young goblins were killed in a drunken altercation with an unruly Slayer, and an uncharacteristically sober, newly-demoted Drun Gurfang’s first order of business was to instruct the town brothels to send out to all the nearby towns and villages for reinforcements, in order to meet the twentyfold increase in demand for their wares. A family of five hoblets had been discovered in an abandoned house. The father was murdered on the spot, while the mother and children were held in the local jail for later transportation to the salt mines of Zoth Ommog.
Why the hugely overmuscled orcs might require hoblet children to work their mines was not a question that anyone in the village dared ask.
Bextor’s campaign of ingratiation proceeded well, and he was often invited to join Skullsplitter’s daily staff meetings. The grun-kor clearly preferred to regard him as the town’s representative, and he made a regular habit of consulting him first before imposing new restrictions on the townspeople. But, as well-informed as he was, Bextor was nevertheless surprised when a scarred grungalvebel interrupted him at spear drill, informing him that the grun-kor required his immediate presence. He was even more surprised to see Mayor Spitswiggle being hustled down the street by two large orcs with his arms bound behind his back.
“Dirty runt lying to me, growled the orc captain, shaking an unrolled scroll as Bextor saluted him. “See how he like the mines. Better dis place under war rule, anyhow. So, what you know about kobs in dis town, little drun?”
“Being lied to, sir?” Bextor didn’t have to fake his confusion.
“Spitswiggle tell me dey got no more kobs here. Say dey leave last year. But we find five on Lundy, and today anudder tree. Damn traitors be hiding them!”
“Grun-Kor, sir, it makes me sick to hear it! I had no idea!”
“It getting worse.” The orc pushed the scroll forward and stabbed at it with a meaty finger. “The vergalvebel find dis. He say it be dis year’s head count. Dat say dere be some eighty kobbers in Fensboro! Dat lying koblover Spitswiggle say dere weren’t none! So where dey be?”
Bextor thought frantically. He couldn’t permit the orcs to search all of Wiccam Fensboro. They’d surely find enough hoblets to justify burning down the entire town, and perhaps slaughtering every goblin in it for good measure. He bought himself some time by reaching for the scroll.
“That can’t be right, sir! May I see that, sir?”
He pretended to peer thoughtfully at the thin ratskin and nodded his head.
“I think I found your problem, Grun-Kor. Bubo Wickslow is the town publican this year. He’s not very good with numbers. From what I hear, he can’t count past ten. See, that eight should be a three.” He laughed scornfully. “We always had a few kobs lurking about, but not so many as you’d notice them much. There were never more than thirty, to be sure.”
The orc captain stared at him incredulously. “You gobs got a taxer he can’t count?”
“Well, he was the only one to volunteer, sir.”
“By Gor-Gor’s almighty arse, you gobs be dumber dan you look!”
“As you say, sir.” Bextor saluted crisply. “But sir, if you’ve already caught six of the little stinkers, that means there’s at least another ten of them out there somewhere. By your leave, sir, I’ll ask for volunteers and put together an anti-kob patrol to go house-to-house and search them out, sir.”
The orc captain shared a disbelieving glance with one of his staff sergeants, then looked back at Bextor and shook his head.
“Yar, Drun Fenwick. You do dat. Dismissed.” But as Bextor spun about and marched from the room, he pricked up his ears and heard the grun-kor muttering to his officers behind his back. “Five and tree be six? No wonder dey so damn useless! Damn Korzork in chains, dat mad orc Gwarzul got no idea what he gotten us into!”
“You be thinking he lie?”
“Dat little gob? No, why he do dat? Dey just gobs, verkor, dey can’t help it if dey stupid.”
Bam-bam-bam! Bextor pounded on the front of the lowslung house. “Open up, or we’ll break down the door!” he shouted. He hoped the Bumblestumps had paid heed to the quiet warning they’d received the night before.
When no one came to the door, Bextor gestured to his troops. They had taken well to their role as would-be Slayers, some of them a little too well. Two of them in particular, Merfdel and Curdweed, were virulent hob-haters and had gone so far in their orc-worship as to brand the Slayer’s claw on their left arms. The two goblins eagerly leaped forward and began smashing their makeshift ram against the door. Three-four-five blows, and the door splintered inwards. Merfdel and Curdweed rushed in immediately, howling like battle-mad orcs, and were followed rather less enthusiastically by the rest of the patrol.
Bextor sighed, drew his sword, and entered. It was a small house, and he knew the fruitless search would not take long.
Sure enough, it was only a short while before Curdweed, looking very disappointed, appeared and gave his report. “I can smell them, sir, but the scent is fading. They were here, though, I’m sure of it. Shall we arrest the Bumblestumps when they return?”
“No, there’s no need for that. I’ll speak with them myself.” He tapped the side of his blade meaningfully. “There are other ways to teach them a lesson they will not forget, the dirty koblovers!”
Curdweed smiled admiringly, exposing sharp yellow teeth.
“I’ll bet you’ll do just that, Lieutenant, sir!”
; Shows what you know, you swampbrained idiot. Bextor had half a mind to punch the wretched goblin right in his smirking face but he restrained himself and instead slapped his sword against his leather-clad shin.
“Right you are, Curdie. Right you are!”
Despite almost three moons of success at leading the great hoblet-hunt astray, Bextor knew he could not afford to relax. He was treading in quicksand, and a slip at any moment might cost not only his life, but the lives of every goblin and hoblet in Wiccam Fensboro. In spite of his efforts, two more hoblets had been discovered, and the town jail was already full of goblins who had fallen afoul of the martial law that was imposed following the mayor’s arrest.
The town was full of dark whispers of imminent executions and unspeakable feasts if the remaining hoblets were not found soon, and more and more alarmed goblins were slipping away into the deep fens to wait out the orcish occupation.
The bad humor of the orcs was understandable. The war was reportedly going poorly, so much so that the Troll King was now boasting the name Goblinsbane. Twenty thousand goblins had been lost in a battle at the River Ouze, and another fifteen thousand were captured when Mulguth the Mighty cunningly slipped his army past the great goblin fortress of Ummur. Surrounded and short of supplies, Ummur itself had fallen two weeks later. Mulguth was now merely eighty leagues north of Wiccam Fensboro, and it was only a matter of days before the Red Claw Slayers would be ordered back to the front lines.
We can survive until they leave, thought Bextor. Surely they must go soon! He was overseeing two lines of his archers as they practiced a rapid fire drill, and the results were satisfyingly awful. Barely one shaft in twenty hit the giant butts despite the hail of arrows flying more or less towards them. The butts were scarcely thirty paces away, and a more useless troop of missileers would be difficult to imagine.