Goblin War (14 page)

 
The town walls—what was left of them—rattled in the wind as Gratz led the goblins through a jagged gap. Jig wasn’t sure what he had expected. Smoldering ruins, perhaps. A mob of orcs scrounging through the remains.

Instead, for the most part, the buildings inside were undamaged. Most were various shades of red, brown, and orange. As they passed, Jig saw that mud had been layered onto the wooden structures to give them their coloration. He half-expected to see humans peeking out the doors, as they had done back in Avery.

Gratz noticed him staring, and grinned. ‘‘Most of the humans had already fled by the time we arrived. They’re scared of us, Jig. We haven’t fought a true battle in over a month. Though Billa says we’ll see real combat soon enough.’’

Jig and his companions were the only goblins in sight. Only orcs lived inside the walls. Everywhere Jig looked, he saw orcs hurrying between the thatch-roofed buildings or working to repair a broken wagon or hauling bundles of chopped wood.

This was Jig’s first time seeing orcs up close. Their gray skin was bumpy, with a greenish tinge. Their flattened noses reminded Jig a little of boar snouts. Many of the orcs had scarred faces, though the scars were too precise to be battle wounds. The one carrying pots out of a home had three short lines running up the cheeks. Another who was hauling a wagon full of blankets had a broken line over her eyebrow. They all seemed to have a single scar beneath their noses as well.

‘‘Tribal scars,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Each tribe of orcs has its own pattern. But they’ll all have that scar on the nose. That’s Billa’s scar. All the orcs wear it to mark their loyalty.’’

‘‘They let Billa cut their faces?’’ Jig asked.

Gratz shook his head. ‘‘They’re orcs. They do it themselves.’’ He gestured to another orc who was carrying a bundle of spears. Most of the orc’s nose was missing. ‘‘Sometimes they get a little carried away.’’

‘‘We don’t have to do that, do we?’’ Jig asked, trying not to stare.

‘‘No scars until you become an officer. Even then, only the orcs of Billa’s tribe receive extra facial scars to mark their ranks. The rest of us get different marks, on our arms.’’ Gratz actually sounded disappointed. He pointed to a pair of orcs standing guard in front of a building with swirls of darker mud blended onto the walls. Pot shards hung from one corner of the roof, clinking in the wind.

The orcs watched them approach. Neither said a word. Jig wondered how close the goblins could come before being cut down by those huge, double-headed axes.

‘‘I need weapons and armor for these three,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Lieutenant Silverfang’s orders.’’

One of the orcs grunted and disappeared into the building. Jig stared in wonder. Back home the guards would have been playing a game of Roaches or drinking stolen klak beer. Here they were actually
guarding
. The remaining orc was like a statue, barely blinking as she stared at the goblins. Though a statue wouldn’t have had pimpled skin on her arms from the cold.

‘‘How many of them freeze to death?’’ Jig whispered, staring at the muscles on those bare arms.

‘‘A handful each week,’’ said Gratz. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. ‘‘They believe an orc who isn’t strong enough to survive doesn’t deserve to survive.’’

Jig could only imagine what they thought of him. Of all the goblins and kobolds, actually. How did they feel, traveling with so many ‘‘weaker’’ monsters?

The first orc returned carrying an armload of leather and steel, which he dumped into the snow.

‘‘What’s this?’’ Trok said, picking up one of the swords. If it could even be called a sword. The blade was a simple length of rusty steel, sharpened on one side. There was no crossguard. Twine held a bit of padding around the end for a handle. ‘‘Why can’t I get an ax like yours?’’

Relka grabbed a suit of armor. Heavy pads of leather were sewn together to form a crude breastplate. She stared at the various straps which connected it to smaller pads. ‘‘Could I get a suit without an arrow hole? One that doesn’t smell like blood?’’

The orcs ignored her.

Jig picked up a helmet, a simple bowl of metal like Gratz wore. He placed it on his head, then yanked it off. ‘‘They’re freezing!’’

‘‘Put it on,’’ Gratz snapped. ‘‘That helmet is your best friend. Not only can it save your life, but it also serves as a stool, a pillow, and a bowl for your meals. I know one fellow who uses it as a backup chamber pot, but I wouldn’t recommend that.’’

Judging from the smell, this one had been used to serve a stew of mold and fetid meat. The edge of the helmet pressed down on the earpieces of Jig’s spectacles.

Jig grabbed another suit of armor. Relka was having little luck with hers. Jig turned the armor about, then glanced at Gratz, trying to guess how everything fit together. If he put his head through the straps at the top, then those heavy pads would fall across his shoulders. . . .

The shoulder pads came nearly to his elbows, and the bottom of the breastplate brushed his thighs when he tried to walk. He pulled out the hood of his cloak, transferring Smudge there so the armor wouldn’t squish the poor spider. No matter how tightly he tied the armor’s straps, he still felt like a dried seed rattling around in a pod.

‘‘A little large, but it should do,’’ said Gratz.

‘‘Why do they bother guarding this garbage?’’ Trok asked.

Gratz drew his own sword, which was far nicer than Trok’s. Without a word, he swung the edge of the blade into Jig’s stomach.

Jig staggered back. Why hadn’t he taken a sword, too? He tried to grab his knife, but he had donned the armor over his cloak and belt, so this involved sticking his hand inside the breastplate.

‘‘That’s why,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘You wear your armor at all times, follow orders, and you might actually survive your first battle.’’

Before Jig could respond, a second blow slammed into his back. This one knocked him face-first into the snow by the orcs’ feet. He rolled over to see Trok grinning down at him.

‘‘Hey, this is fun!’’ Trok raised his sword again, and then Relka slammed her own sword into his side.

‘‘Watch it,’’ Trok snapped. ‘‘You almost hit my arm.’’ He thrust the blunt tip of his weapon into Relka’s gut, and she doubled over.

‘‘That’s enough,’’ Gratz shouted. ‘‘One of the first rules states that if you strike a fellow soldier, Billa gets her choice of your ear, your eye, or your hand.’’ He reached up to rub his own missing ear. ‘‘It’s how she keeps discipline. And believe me, you don’t want to be drawing her attention.’’

‘‘Does that mean Silverfang can’t really kill me?’’ Jig asked hopefully.

‘‘Oh, it’s different when it’s an officer doing the killing,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘Silverfang could kill every last one of us, if he felt the urge. But then who would clean the wolf pens?’’ He laughed loud and hard at his little joke as he grabbed Jig’s wrist and hauled him from the ground. ‘‘Now come on. We’ve got elves to hunt.’’

Jig picked up the remaining sword. The weapon was horribly balanced, like someone had strapped heavy rocks to the end of a stick. Testing the edge on his cloak, he decided rocks on a stick might actually be a better weapon.

Once they were away from the orcs, Gratz glanced around and said, ‘‘Billa brought along some orc smiths who make those swords. I think they deliberately blunt the edge. It’s harder for new recruits to rebel when they’re spending all their free time trying to hone their weapons.’’

That made sense. Unfortunately, it also meant Jig would be hunting elves with nothing more than a metal stick for a weapon.

Relka stopped so abruptly Jig bumped into her. ‘‘What’s that?’’

The building she pointed to was covered in large tiles. The doors had been ripped away, revealing an enormous brick oven at the rear of the building. The mouth glowed orange, and Jig could feel the heat from here. He moved closer, raising his hands to the warmth.

‘‘Humans call it a kiln,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘They use it to make pots and such. I’m told this town’s famous for it. I think the orc smiths tried using it as a forge, but they couldn’t get it hot enough.’’ He kicked a broken shard near the doorway. ‘‘The walls broke almost as easily as the pottery. I don’t understand why Billa chose this place as a target. No real fighting, and no tactical value that I can see. But that’s why I’m only a corporal, eh?’’

Relka didn’t appear to have heard a word of it. ‘‘I could bake two bodies at a time. Three if they were dwarves. Golaka’s oven is full of cracks, but this one . . . do you realize how much faster I could cook? We have to get one for the lair, Jig!’’

‘‘Maybe we should figure out how to get into our lair first,’’ Jig pointed out.

Trok stomped another bit of pottery. ‘‘It doesn’t sound like Silverfang’s interested in helping us.’’

‘‘You’re welcome to complain,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘You wouldn’t be the first. Back when Billa first brought the orc tribes together, they didn’t get along at all. They were stabbing each other every time you turned around. So Billa ordered that anyone who couldn’t resolve their own problems should come to see her.’’

‘‘And that worked?’’ Jig asked.

‘‘They say that first day there had to be thirty orcs lined up at her tent. Billa marched out, took one look, and ordered them all butchered for breakfast. Things have been a lot calmer ever since. Still, if you catch her in a good mood, she might listen.’’ Gratz continued toward the walls, leaving the goblins little choice but to follow. Jig didn’t want to know what the punishment would be for fresh recruits found wandering through the town.

Gratz waved to a small group gathered by the gate. ‘‘Oh, good, they’re ready for us.’’

The shabby weapons and armor were similar to Jig’s own, but it was the kobold who caught his attention.

‘‘Hessafa?’’

‘‘Kobolds aren’t worth much in a fight,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘But they’re fast little things, and the best trackers in this goblin’s army. They’re not too fond of goblins, though. Being assigned to help us is punishment among the kobolds. I wonder what this one did to get herself into trouble.’’

Hessafa’s lips pulled back, showing off her teeth. Her yellow eyes never blinked. Jig wasn’t sure how to read kobold expressions, but he suspected it was a very good thing that Billa’s law prohibited her soldiers from killing each other.

 
‘‘Kobold, make sure you stay at least ten paces ahead of us, as spelled out in procedures,’’ Gratz shouted. He turned to check the other goblins. ‘‘The rest of you spread out far enough that your weapons can’t touch if you start swinging. Keep your ears up and your eyes wide. Elves are tricky bastards, but we’ll find them.’’

‘‘Only one elf,’’ said Hessafa. ‘‘This way.’’

Jig kept his arms spread for balance. Hessafa had insisted on taking them over the frozen swamp. Dead trees and brown weeds jutted through the ice all around them, like an enormous version of the spiked pits the hobgoblins built back home.

Jig’s boots were soaked from breaking through the thin ice, and most of the goblins had slipped and fallen at least once. Hessafa seemed determined to lead them through every pool of mud, filth, and foul-smelling slime she could find, while somehow avoiding them all herself.

‘‘You can really track the elf through the swamps?’’ Jig asked.

‘‘Hard to track elf over smelly goblin, but elf stink is here. Always trust scent, goblin.’’ She sniffed the air and bared her teeth. ‘‘Scent goes this way.’’

‘‘Up those icy, bramble-covered rocks?’’ asked Trok.

Hessafa’s yips sounded suspiciously like laughter. ‘‘Goblin skin is so fragile. Try not to bleed too much. Spoils the scent.’’

The sun was low, nearly touching the horizon. Jig’s stomach gurgled. They had already missed dinner. How much longer did Gratz plan to hunt this elf? ‘‘Why would an elf be sneaking around here anyway?’’

‘‘Hard to say.’’ Gratz scratched the scarred nub of his ear. ‘‘Normally, elves stick to themselves. They look at humans like short-lived savages. Kind of how humans see us, actually.’’

‘‘No, I mean why here?’’ Jig asked. ‘‘What good can a few elves do against an entire army?’’

They’re scouts,’’ Gratz said. ‘‘They shot a few arrows, killed an officer or two here and there, but mostly they’re spying. It takes time to move an army. They want to know what we’re doing and when we do it. If you can anticipate your enemy’s actions, you can crush them.’’

‘‘What
are
we doing?’’ Trok asked.

‘‘We’re changing things.’’ Gratz’s voice was soft, but his eyes were afire. ‘‘You said those humans attacked your lair. Well, Billa the Bloody is going to make sure no surface-dweller ever threatens us again!’’

He drew his sword and shook it overhead. ‘‘It started a few years back, when Billa led her tribe against the trolls. She drove those trolls right out of their mountains. The trolls had nowhere else to go, so they started lurking about human villages, raiding their farms for food.

‘‘Naturally, the humans didn’t take kindly to this. Trolls, orcs, goblins, it’s all the same to them. They began hiring adventurers to come into the mountains. They paid gold for every orc ear or troll head. So Billa summoned the other orc tribes, slew those who wouldn’t follow her, and led the rest into battle.’’

He picked up a handful of snow. ‘‘They say the gods themselves were on her side that day. Snow blinded their soldiers. The wind fouled their arrows. Billa the Bloody sent those surface-dwellers fleeing for their lives. Everywhere she goes, she draws new monsters into her army. She plans to conquer every last inch of this land.’’