The Goblin Corps by Ari Marmell Read Free Book Online Page B

its citizenry.
    Which meant that Dækek’s next question, predictably enough, was, “Why?”
    “I,” Cræosh told him with a notable lack of enthusiasm, “was just assigned to a Demon Squad.”
    “Oh.” Dækek paused, watching his commander’s back. Then, “What about the bugbear? What do I do about him?”
    “Nothing,” Cræosh replied with a sigh, a truly uncharacteristic sound for an orc. “You see, he’s coming with me.”
    The bugbear looked up, mouth full of half-chewed orc, and grinned.
    It was a day no different than any other, and Timas Khoreth bustled with activity, unaware of the pending arrival of two new inhabitants. High in the watchtowers, guards chatted or dozed or threw dice, only half watching their assigned horizons. The great stone walls surrounding the city sat dully in the glare of the afternoon sun, casting a frigid shadow over the marketplace. Still, a bit of cold wasn’t about to put a crimp in the activities of
this
city. The citizens simply threw on an extra layer or so and ventured forth to face the worst the world could toss at them.
    Or the ungodly chaos of the market, which, some would claim, was the same thing.
    On this particular cold afternoon, the center of town ebbed and flowed with a veritable tide of humanity. The noise was sufficient not only to wake the dead, but to send them scurrying for sanctuary—or at least sticking their fingers in whatever remained of their ears. Several thousand people crowded into a space that would have been cramped for one-third their number, pushing and shoving and shouting and grabbing, each concerned with nothing but the completion of today’s errands. Only the occasional glimpse of a black leather jerkin or breastplate among the uniformly drab populace, a blatant sign of the Watch’s presence, kept the mob from degenerating into animalistic abandon.
    For their own part, the mercenaries and soldiers of that Watch were rather more concerned with getting their own carcasses through their shift in one piece than in enforcing any particular brand of order. Any disturbance was met with club and bludgeon—and then with crossbow and sword, should they encounter even the least hint of resistance. It was an explosive, deadly situation, but the citizens ignored it as they went about their disorganized business. It was, after all, a threat they lived with day in and day out, year after endless year; scarcely enough to concern them now.
    There was one in the marketplace today, however, for whom the general anarchy was
not
a familiar sight. Scuttling through the crowd, he glanced wide-eyed about him, mouth watering in anticipation of the opportunities.
    He was called Gork by those outside his own race—an undignified epithet at best, but the closest most people could come to the strange bark that was his true name. At just a hair under three and a half feet, he was tall for a kobold. Although the pebbly, lizard-ish texture of his stone-gray skin prevented him from growing hair, his face and snout sprouted the occasional whisker, useful for feeling his way through small, darkened caves. His irises gleamed like a cat’s in direct light, and were even more sensitive. (Only their massive cousins the troglodytes, and the Stars-damned tree-humping elves, could function as well in the dark as kobolds.) He wore ratty boots and a simple tunic, belted about the waist, that was clearly cut down from human-size. If the humans and other lumbering behemoths around him noticed him at all, they assumed he was just another scout or spy in the Charnel King’s armies. Those were the only positions the diminutive, devious little sneaks ever held.
    For his own part, Gork didn’t tend to think of himself as a scout, or a spy, or any other formal title. Sure, he’d done that sort of thing, and he’d probably do so again once his clan was called once more to service. But that was basically a side-endeavor, a hobby, as it were. No, first and foremost, Gork was a thief,