The Last Witchking Page 6

  There were six pups gamboling about a field near the distant treeline far below. They were young, perhaps four months old, but they retained their human limbs and wolfish heads, and they snapped at each other as they play-fought with the same unrestrained vigor Speer remembered so vividly from three years ago. And as he watched, one of the pups, pinned down by its fellow, transformed into its wolf form and slipped out of the erstwhile victor’s grasp, then transformed again and leaped back into the fray.

  Then all the pups froze, went bolt upright, and whirled around in response to something Speer could not hear. A moment later, he saw a tall black-furred beast-man appear at the edge of the forest, gesticulate at the six of them, then turn around and vanish, obscured by the trees. The pups dashed after him, and they too disappeared into the woods.

  Speer turned to Scaum-Durna, unashamed of the tears that wet his cheeks. “They live! They breed!”

  The demon nodded, its eyes narrow with pride and satisfaction.

  “Thank you. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done. I know you have been watching over them.”

  “They are my children too, in a way, little brother. If you are their father, does that not give me the right to call myself their uncle? In truth, I have done very little. They do not merely survive, they thrive. This is the second litter of three. The changer fathered eleven more cubs on the other two bitches.”

  “I saw the one change. Are there any changers in the other litters?”

  “Two in the first, one in the third. They all breed true. And they are killers. I got too close once and one of the grey males nearly tore my throat open.”

  “I remember the scar.” Speer stared at the meadow, knowing that against all the odds, despite all the sacrifices it had required, his father’s last vision had not been for naught. Even from the grave, the Witchkings would claim their revenge against the unsuspecting enemy. His father had not lived to see the day. He would not see it himself. But even so, it would come. One day, his wolves, his children, his vengeance, would arise and devour the world.

  That night was one for celebration in silent Mordlis. Even the grave tongueless men were visibly cheered to hear the news of the pups’ survival. It seemed they had come to feel affection for the wolflings and did not bear them any grudge for the deaths of their fellows killed in the escape. Speer drank considerably more than he should have, and it was with some difficulty that he navigated the stairs up to his tower.

  He collapsed on the bed, face-down, and did not bother to close the door to the chamber. He was still lying there, sound asleep and snoring, when a black-and-white cat padded softly into the room.

  Speer thought he was dreaming when he felt someone roll him over onto his back. He opened his eyes and found a strange woman with golden skin and inhuman green eyes bestriding him. She ran her hands down his torso, and her fingernails sliced his tunic open as neatly as if she was holding razors. She was beautiful, her touch inflamed his flesh, and her six breasts were small, but well-formed—six breasts!

  Speer sat up violently and tried to throw the demon off him, but she was suddenly far too heavy for him to move, and she easily pushed him back down onto the bed.

  Her eyes flared with emerald anger and she bared her teeth, revealing small, wicked fangs that resembled those of a cat.

  “You fathered that race of wolves, now you will give me my own flesh-children!” she hissed.

  “I’ll give you nothing, demon bitch!” Speer roared and he spat a spell at her, powerful enough to shatter any lesser demon and to give even the greatest foul spirit pause.

  The she-devil only laughed. “Do you think me one of the wretched soulless, magician?” As he looked up at her in horror, two inky wings of darkest shadow erupted from her shoulders and arched forward to stroke his face with soft black feathers that burned his skin like ice.

  “I was once called Baastiel. Did you truly think it was an accident that Scaum-Durna found the feather you needed for your spell so easily?”

  “I will not cast the spell for you!”

  “I am no fell spirit, magician. I cast my own spells. You know the only thing I need from you.”

  Speer tried to resist, tried to fight the treacherous instincts of his body, but when the fallen angel changed its shape and took the voluptuous form of Her, with her sweetly bland peasant’s face, her thick, muscular hips and large maternal breasts, its betrayal was complete. He groaned and, helpless before the illusion of his earliest desire, reached for her.

  The old woman nodded as Sigurd, the eldest of the mute castle guards, signed the bad news to her as she finished washing the last of the men’s wooden breakfast platters. She wasn’t upset. She wasn’t even surprised to hear that the young master had finally come to a dreadful end. She had known such an ending was inevitable since the filthy demon began parading itself around Mordlis with its fat paps on display as if it was doling out sweets. The old woman had no idea what the nature of the relationship between the young master and the demon had been, but the strange man whose shape it was wearing last night appeared to have disappeared too. Good riddance, as far as she was concerned.

  “Them as lay down with devils got no cause for crying when they can’t get up again,” she told the black-and-white cat lazing about in the morning sun. “Little monsters and pet wolves, and the gods know what other devilries the young master got hisself up to in that tower. He should have stuck with bedding the local gals, if he knowed what was good for him.”

  The cat stared at her, unblinking and indifferent, before stretching and sprawling out stiff-legged on the warm stone floor. There must be a good bit of mice about, thought the old woman, because the moggy looked uncommon fat for summertime.

  She sighed, thinking about how many times she’d have to walk up the stairs to the tower carrying a bucket of hot water. Perhaps she could convince Sigurd to tell one or two of his men to help her once they’d removed the young master’s body, or what was left of it. She reached down and picked up her cropped-straw scrub brush, then wiggled her arthritic fingers and winced. Scrubbing the bloodstains out of wood was always a trial.

  FINIS

  The Hoblets of Wiccam Fensboro

  It was a bad time to be a goblin in Ummat-Mor. Not only had the kingdom nearly been brought to its knees by a series of unsuccessful wars against the Iron Mountain dwarves, but two years ago a new and dangerous threat had arisen in the north, in the form of the Troll King. Rightly skeptical of his army’s ability to fend off the Troll King’s dark and terrible forces, King Weezabreth had not been tardy in rushing to the side of his distant demi-cousin, the Great Orc Gwarzul Headsmasher, Warleader and Skullcrusher Supreme of the Zoth Ommog sept.

  Thus it was that Ummat-Mor had survived twenty moons of bitter warfare, albeit at a steep price. Perhaps the kingdom had not been sold outright to their larger, lighter-skinned ur-brethren, but many goblins felt things could not have been much worse if that had been the case. The mayor of even the smallest village now enjoyed the imposing company of an orc advisor, whose presence was inarguably helpful in collecting the steep war tax imposed by the goblin king at the suggestion of the Great Orc, and twice a year, bands of young male goblins were forcibly assembled and marched off to the north, seldom to be seen again.

  This latter fact was why Bextor Fenwick took little pride in his lofty title, Lieutenant Commander of the armed militia of Wiccam Fensboro, despite having attained it at the tender age of nine. He was tall for a swamp goblin, nearly four foots tall, as a matter of fact, and he carried himself with the air of confidence borne by one who knows how to use his weapons. As befitted an officer of militia, he was a good marksman, and if his sword work left something to be desired, well, he preferred a lance anyhow.

  His mount at the moment was whining pitifully at him, having spotted a deceased squirrel lying near the foot of a large tree. Bextor, feeling rather hungry himself, sniffed at the air and recoiled at the overpowering rotstink.

  “You’d think I neve
r fed you,” he told the grey wolf, even as he loosed the reins and gave the beast his head. Upo snapped up the decaying morsel in two greedy bites, then growled low in his throat as Bextor urged him on with a kick behind his ribs. “That’s your second breakfast today, you insatiable monster, so don’t talk back to me!”

  He was pleased to see that Gurfang, the orc with whom Wiccam Fensboro had been saddled for the last nine moons, was nowhere in sight as he rode towards the two-story stone building which boasted the mayor’s office. Then again, it was only half past sunup, and Galdrun Gurfang seldom rose before sunhigh. This was understandable, since he spent most his nights drinking fermented cattail juice at one of the town’s two bordellos.

  Bextor slid from Upo’s muscled shoulders, ordered the wolf to sit and stay, then climbed the flight of stairs and entered the office without knocking.

  “Lieutenant Fenwick, I’m glad to see you,” declared Mayor Spitswiggle from behind his dilapidated wicker desk, reinforced by a pair of hewn-off pumpkin ash branches. He didn’t look very happy, though. His age-yellowed face was haggard and his eyes were red with fatigue. “We have a problem.”

  “We have? What sort of problem?”

  The Mayor did not immediately answer, instead he turned around and lifted a blown glass decanter containing a brown liquid. He poured himself a glass, then waved the decanter towards Bextor.

  “Drink, lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. Not before sunlow.”

  “Take it,” the older goblin ordered him. “You may find you’ll want it in a moment.”

  Bextor nodded and accepted the glass but placed it on the desk in front of him, untouched, as he sat down. The mayor sat as well, more than a little heavily, then leaned back in his chair to put up his unshod feet. He took a long draught from his glass then wiggled his clawed toes and shook his head.

  “Strong stuff, that. Sojo can brew, I’ll say that for the old hob.” The mayor sighed, folded his hands on his chest, then looked Bextor right in the eyes.

  “I don’t suppose you pay any attention to the war, lad?”

  “Not any more than anyone else, sir.”

  “Of course, of course. Well, I received a rather appalling message last night from a friend of mine in Sloughsley, up near the Zothian border. He informs me that the friend and champion of our race, the Great Orc Gwarzul, has decided that we goblins are not doing enough in our own defense. He has therefore decided what we need is some stiffening, which will presently come in the form of his soldiers.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.” Bextor stared incomprehendingly at the old goblin.

  “Let me put it more plainly: King Weezabreth apparently woke up dead one fine morning of late, and Gwarzul is now claiming stewardship of the kingdom. I suspect these two events are not entirely unrelated. Ummat-Mor is to be occupied, in order to better defend it from the depredations of our trollish foes.”

  “Even here?”

  “Even here, in Wiccam Fensboro.” The mayor nodded sadly. “And worse, it appears that our new advisor will not be an amiable sot who will happily leave us alone so long as we keep him well supplied with drinks and female companionship. I am informed that our old friend Gurfang is going to be relieved by one Sangrul Skullsplitter, who will be arriving tomorrow in the company of tenscore of his closest companions. Even worse, it appears this Skullsplitter is a captain of the Red Claw Slayers.”

  “Red Claw Slayers?” Bextor gaped. He had heard of these dread warriors from Zoth Ommog. Indeed, there were few in Ummat-Mor who had not. They were fierce warriors, fearless and cruel, savage trollkillers of great reknown.

  “Do you want me to raise the town?” he asked bravely. “I don’t know if we can stop them, sir, but I swear we’ll do our best!”

  “Fight them?” Mayor Spitswiggle nearly fell out of his chair in astonishment, an expression of horror on his face. He scrambled upright. “Gods, no, boyo! Are you mad? You’d get us all killed, and that’s a fact!”

  Bextor sank back in his chair, a little ashamed at his relief. If half the stories he’d heard about the Red Claws were true, his militia would be lucky to take down three of the elite soldiers before being wiped out to a goblin. He suddenly felt that the mayor had been right about the drink. There was no need to wait for sunlow.

  “Such a thought! Dear me!” The mayor wiped nervously at his brow, then he pointed a long, green finger at Bextor. “I forbid you to even think it again, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. No problem, sir.” But another thought occurred to him. “So, what is the problem, then?”

  The mayor harrumphed.

  “I’m not saying that two hundred orcs underfoot won’t be a problem, by the gods, no. But it’s the hobs who are my immediate concern.”

  “The hoblets?”

  Mayor Spitswiggle looked to the sky as if pleading for help.

  “Does the frog ever see past the lilypad? Bextor, lad, you are not unaware that orcs are, shall we say, rather less than fond of hobs, unless they are hungry and looking for lunch?”

  “Well, yes, but so are we. I mean, none of us would ever eat one, but no one likes them either. They smell funny. And they steal things.”

  “Your common orc may not be fond of hobs, Bextor, but the Great Orc has taken this lack of fondness to new heights. Or depths, as it were. It’s even said that Gwarzul has ordered their extermination throughout Zoth Ommog. Furthermore, these Red Claw Slayers are notorious for sharing his enthusiasm for hob-slaying—which poses a serious problem since we have approximately eighty of the little beggars living here in Wiccam Fensboro. Now, I’m not terribly fond of hobs myself, but I am the mayor of this town, and I do not intend to allow a troop of hobophobic orcs to march in here and slaughter eighty harmless citizens!”

  The mayor’s voice rose as he was carried away by his own rhetoric, and by the time he reached the word 'citizens' he was drawn up to his full four fores, two fingers. He seemed surprised to realize this.

  “Ahem… even if they are Red Claw Slayers,” he finished weakly.

  “So what do you want me to do?” asked Bextor.

  “Call out twenty goblins you can trust, but not to fight. Warn the hobs, all of them, and tell them they must either leave or find somewhere to hide. If they are still here at sunup tomorrow, chances are they won’t live to see sundown.”

  It was well past sundown before Bextor felt that every hoblet in the town had been fairly warned. Not all of them were willing to abandon their low-slung homes and comfortable caves, and some seemed to fear that this was nothing but a trick to deprive them of their property, but on the whole, the hoblets were a sensible people who were not, for the most part, eager to risk their skins. A few, like Sojo the brewer, scoffed at the notion of flight, but even he was cautious enough to send his wife and children next door to their goblin neighbors. However, there were ten families, some thirty hobs in all, who had nowhere to go, and Bextor was loath to simply send them off into the Rancid Fens.

  He knocked on a wooden door that was engraved with the symbol of Wiccam Fensboro’s college of magic. The college was little more than a small and rustic campus bordering the edge of the swamp, but it was here that many a famous goblin shaman had first learned his mystical trade.

  “Who’s there,” called a voice from behind the door.

  “It’s me. Open up.”

  “Oh, hello, Bextor.” His older brother, Wiltor, greeted him with curiosity. “What brings you here, and so late too?”

  “I need your help. That is, I think I need your help. I’m not really sure you can help me, but maybe you know someone who—”

  Wiltor held up a hand.

  “Slow down. You haven’t been dabbling in spells again, have you?” Wiltor was an accomplished shaman, one of the college’s youngest instructors, and he firmly disapproved of those who used the mystical arts for petty charms, love philtres and the like.

  ‘No, it’s the hoblets. And orcs… Red Claw Slayers. They’re coming tomorrow, the mayor says. He
re! To Wiccam Fensboro! He says they’re going to kill all the hoblets, but we can’t allow it. I just spent the whole day trying to help them find places to hide.”

  “Ah,” his brother smiled. “That explains why so many of the little beastlies were rushing around town today. I was wondering if they were preparing for a festival or something.”

  “Not exactly. Here’s the problem. I’ve got ten families who don’t have anywhere to go, and I don’t know who I can trust to give them shelter. Old Toadsburp said he wouldn’t have them, and Gritsgrot Smeespit said he’d personally hand them over to the Red Claws if I stuck him with any of them.”

  Wiltor’s eyes narrowed and he put a long finger over his left nostril and dismissively blew snot.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised, Bex. I wouldn’t want to live with a family of the little thieves either. But don’t fret about it. Look, the college has some old storage caves which aren’t being used right now. They may not make for the most luxurious housing, but they’re nice and dry since we used to keep the school’s herbs and whatnot there. How many of them did you say? Ten families?”

  “Thirty-one hobs, to be exact, including the little ones.”

  His elder brother punched him on the shoulder.

  “Go get your hoblets, little brother. Bring them here. I’ll clear it with the Grand Shaman, and we’ll get them safely tucked away before those orcs show their ugly mugs.”

  The walls of Wiccam Fensboro were not the most daunting defensive structure in Ummat-Mor. Though made of piled stone, they were only three fores high and were intended to delineate the town’s limits rather than to defend them. An orc could leap them without breaking a sweat. Nevertheless, the gates were opened wide for the approaching warband, who could be heard grumbling and swearing about their long march through the Rancid Fens of Wiccam.