The Goblin Corps by Ari Marmell Page B

air.
    “Gork!”
    The kobold, still studying the doppelganger, just about came out of his skin. “What?!” And then, before the imp could draw breath to reprimand, he corrected, “What,
sir?”
    “You’ve had some, ah, problems with the local authorities.”
    “Yes, sir! You were there, sir!”
    “Indeed.” Shreckt scowled. “For better or worse—worse, I expect—you idiots are my charge for the time being. And that means nobody fucks with you except me.”
    The imp actually rubbed his hands together. “Now, I’ve got a few
activities
in mind for the soldiers who arrested you. But we need to set an example, Gork. Did you get a good look at the man who accused you in the first place?”
    The kobold hesitated a moment. Then, “I wish I had, sir. But I’m afraid not.”
    Shreckt’s face fell. “No?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Not even a glimpse?”
    Gork shook his head.
    “Drat. All right, then, that’s it for now. You’re billeted in that piece-of-shit building to your left. Between the roaches and the bird droppings, it oughta feel homey enough. Each and every one of you, equipped and ready to move, better be lined up in this courtyard at dawn tomorrow. You,” he added, glaring at the bugbear, “get your ass to the infirmary. I’ll be buggered if I’m healing any more of you myself today, and I expect you in top form in the morning.” With that, and another puff of smoke, he was gone.
    Slowly the group dispersed, milling about in various directions. A puzzled and vaguely suspicious expression on his once-more-human face, the doppelganger appeared at Gork’s side.
    “Why?”
    “Why didn’t I turn you in?” the kobold clarified.
    Fezeill nodded.
    “Real simple,” Gork told him, his little muzzle twisted into an evil grin. “I don’t
want
you in trouble with Shreckt.”
    “You aren’t upset about what happened?”
    “I didn’t say that.” Gork’s grin grew wider, revealing jagged, yellowed canines. “You see, I want to deal with you myself.”
    The kobold delighted in the feel of Fezeill’s gaze boring into his back as he casually wandered away in search of a bunk that wasn’t
too
disgusting.
    As ordered, they were all lined up like good little soldiers when the dawning sun finally broke over the horizon. (Although it must be noted that Gork, panting just a bit, had arrived with seconds to spare, and Jhurpess had simply bedded down in the courtyard once he’d returned from his side-trip to the infirmary). And, good to his word, Shreckt appeared but moments later. He carried a riding crop, cut down to his size, that he slapped against his leg as he marched back and forth across that same stretch of nothing.
    “Good,” he said with a grin. “You can follow orders. Not a bad start.”
    The imp took a moment to examine them each in turn. “You’re here,” he began, “as part of this squad, because you’re
supposedly
among the best your races have to offer. Trained and experienced soldiers, or killers, or—whatever. So it would be redundant to try to train you further in any
conventional
capacity.”
    Cræosh didn’t know about the others, but he was starting to get a twitchy feeling in the pit of his gut. Never, in all his years of war, had he heard of any “unconventional training” that didn’t involve extreme discomfort.
    “The Serpent’s Pass,” the imp persisted, “is the only route through the Brimstone Mountains large enough for an army. But Dororam might utilize the other passes to try to squeeze smaller groups of his people around behind our main defenses. Likeliest places for
that
are the northeast mountains, in the Steppes. So step one is to make sure that you ‘elite’ can function as well there as you can down here.”
    Cræosh winced. He
hated
the cold.
    “Your first exercise, then, is straightforward enough. Survive four days in the tundra. Then we’ll talk further.”
    The troll raised a clawed hand.
    “What?”
    “Four days…will barely get us…into the