Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (45 page)

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?”

The giant orc smiled wryly.

“Don’t see why not, Galdrun Fenwick.”

The orc’s clawed hand engulfed his hand for a moment, then Bextor saluted, bowed respectfully, and turned to go. But before he departed a thought occurred to him, and he stopped at the edge of the room.

“Grun-Kor, about that guard you mentioned. For the healers. May I suggest a list of my best soldiers?”

“Sure.” The orc captain reached for a stylus as Bextor thoughtfully tapped the brand on his unbandaged arm.

“Let’s start with Merfdel Stickswath and Curdweed Pizenberry….”

• • •

As the red-golden rays of dawn spilled across the swamp, Bextor stood at attention next to Bill Muckwoggle. Behind them was the entire armed militia of Wiccam Fensboro, minus ten of the most inveterate hoblet haters, all watching with barely concealed joy as the Red Claw Slayers marched away from their town. Bextor thought he had never heard music so sweet as the sound of the galvebels calling out the cadence.

“Me know a troll say her name were Bone.”

“Me know a troll say her name were Bone!”

“Sun cotch her out and she turnda stone.”

“Sun cotch her out and she turnda stone!”

Bextor looked over at Bill.

“Do trolls really turn to stone in the sun?”

“Can’t say as they do. I never seen one. Make it kind’o hard to fight during the day, you’d think.”

“Hmm….”

The two goblins stood together in silence until the last orc marched around the corner and disappeared from view.

Only then did Bill clear his throat and glance awkwardly at Bextor.

“Don’t mean to criticize, Bex, but considering who they took with them, I’m guessing it was you what told them who to take.”

“What makes you say that?” Bextor said innocently.

“I just happen to notice that you’re the only one with that claw thing on your arm who ain’t going with them.”

Bextor nodded. Three moons ago, he could never have sent goblins to certain death with equanimity. But that was a long time ago, and he was a different goblin now. He felt hardened, as if his heart had grown a rind. Perhaps he had done the wrong thing. Probably he had. And yet, someone had to go, and the ten he had named for the grun-kor were the most likely to put Wiccam Fensboro at risk when the hoblets resurfaced.

“I’ll tell you something, Bill. We’re going on a march of our own, as soon as I can see to the preparations. Those orcs are going to lose, and they know it. I don’t know how trolls feel about hoblets, I mean, they can’t hate them any more than the orcs do, but I’ve decided there won’t be a hoblet in the town by the time Mulguth gets here with his army.”

Bill shrugged. “I hear a troll sees a snack with what makes lunch for an orc.”

“Well, I just hope they don’t like goblin flesh. Anyhow, we’re for the Reeve. We’ll need about thirty, maybe forty goblins all told, to handle supplies and act like guards. We’ll rope up the hoblets to make them look like prisoners, and we’ll march them south, then head west as soon as we cross the river. They’ll be safe there, in their own lands. I couldn’t afford to risk Curdie and the others hearing about that, you understand.”

“Yep.” Bill nodded. “I guess you’ll be needing my help, won’t you?”

“It’s a long walk, Bill. We might not make it back, and even if we do, who knows what the trolls will get up to here while we’re gone.”

The other goblin shrugged.

“That’s as may be. I say we let the mayor out the jail and let him take care o’ the town. Somebody’s gotta help those nasty little buggers, and if the likes of you and me don’t do it, I can’t see who will.”

Bextor didn’t answer, he simply clapped his loyal sergeant on the shoulder, and together they watched the sun as it climbed into the sky over Wiccam Fensboro. It was going to be a long walk, it was, but no matter. Bill had the right of it. Some things you just had to do because if you didn’t, no one would.

FINIS

FAR BELOW THE rock I crouched behind, the goblins moved through the mountain pass in loose, meandering columns, stacked fifteen or twenty troops wide. It was hard to count exactly how many of the enemy light infantry there was, since the cruel whips of the orcs that drove them mercilessly onward wasn’t able to keep them marching in no sort of recognizable formation.