Glissa slowly released the bowstring and slipped the arrow back into the quiver. Her eyes never leaving the human’s steely gaze, she crouched slowly and set the bow on the ground.
“The sword too,” the man barked.
“You’re too far away for me too-”
“The sword. If it helps, you’ll get it back. You just can’t take it where we’re going,” the human said conversationally, though he didn’t loosen his grip on Lyese for a second. In fact, he pressed down a little on the blade, making Lyese yelp. Her feet kicked uselessly in the air.
“Okay,” Glissa said. “No problem, just relax.” The elf girl reached slowly over one shoulder to draw her sword then cautiously set it next to the bow.
She hoped the goblins would attack her now. If they thought Glissa was helpless just because she didn’t have a sword or a bow, she’d love the chance to correct them with her bare claws.
The human feinted lowering his knife a few times, probably to make sure Glissa wouldn’t jump him as soon as he did. Apparently the Vulshok knew exactly how dangerous she could be.
Finally, the massive human released Lyese and gave her a shove that sent her stumbling into Glissa, who barely managed to catch her. By the time Glissa had propped her sister up with her shoulder, the goblins again had them surrounded, arrows trained on the elves’ chests. The fat goblin wore a crude brown bandage around his leg and looked like he might fire an arrow no matter what kind of deal the Vulshok struck.
“Now ladies, please,” the human said, “It appears we have gotten off to a bad start. I had hoped we could be friends. My lord wishes it. And so I wish it.”
“You ambushed us, ‘friend.’ Who’s this lord of yours, anyway? Wouldn’t be a really ugly son of a vorrac with four legs and six eyes, would it?” Glissa was in no mood for small talk.
“I’ll be sure to put your lord’s head and your own on the same stick,” Lyese said darkly. The younger girl rubbed her throat gingerly and stared daggers as the short man.
“You are bitter. Understandable. Forgive me, I’m operating under a different set of rules these days, but sometimes I still slip. Now, come with me, won’t you?” He turned and started to walk away. Two of the spear-toting goblins ran forward and collected the elves’ weapons.
The other goblins hadn’t moved, apparently waiting to see if the elf girls were going to try anything. Glissa remained still and noted with pride that her sister didn’t move either.
“Why should we do that?” the older elf girl called after the strange human that dressed like a goblin. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“My girl, you do not know my name, but I had thought my … position would be apparent,” the man said, turning to favor them with a toothy smile. “I am call Alderok Vektro. I am the Vulshok high priest of Krark’s Prophet. My other titles include master-at-arms of the revolution, commander of the Prophet’s commandos-” he waved an arm, indicating the goblins holding them at arrowpoint-“and I believe I’ve been made chief of Oxiddagg village. Don’t worry. I’m assured it’s an entirely honorary position. The real work is done by the elders.”
“Krark’s what?” Glissa asked.
“Prophet,” Alderok Vektro replied. “Do try to keep up. Do not be alarmed. My lord tells me you are an old friend. I believe you know him as ‘Dwugget.’”
CHAPTER 12
“Why does it resist, my Creator?” Memnarch asked the empty air. “Does it not know how fragile life truly is? Has this creature not yet seen enough pain?” The Guardian paused, listening to a voice that Slobad couldn’t hear. “Oh, very well. More pain, then.” He lumbered over to where the goblin hung in the rack and pressed a blue jewel mounted on the base with one pointed clawtip.
Flaming agony shot through Slobad, making his tortured muscles spasm chaotically. But a tiny part of his mind ignored all of this. A tiny part of Slobad had walled itself off within his brain, like the goblin himself had done so many times to escape danger. And that part of his mind refused to give up.
Glissa was alive. When Memnarch had given Malil his orders, Slobad could hardly believe it. Now that slim thread of hope-Glissa, alive, and still causing trouble for Memnarch, no doubt needing Slobad’s help-was all that kept the goblin from dropping into an open pit of despair. So while Slobad screamed as every nerve in his body burned, his hidden self still held out hope of rescue.
Finally, the Guardian stepped forward and depressed the blue gemstone a second time, and the fire dissipated.
Slobad sniffed gingerly-his nose was already broken in at least three places-and detected the distinctive aroma of cooked goblin. It was a lot like normal goblin, but with many of the more noxious surface odors burned away. He spat blood and bile.
“Hey … uh … ugly,” the goblin wheezed. “Call that … torture? Should try to eat … my cooking. Huh?” He laughed, which came out sounding more like a dry, persistent hack, then descended into a half-minute coughing fit. When that had run its course, Slobad added, “Oh yeah … where Glissa. Huh? Can’t find crazy elf … some god.”
“It tests me, my Creator,” Memnarch said. “It actually think it can taunt me. Me.” The Guardian chuckled, and reached out with a silver claw. He gently stroked the side of Slobad’s face, and the goblin found the energy to jerk back as if burned. Which he was, now that he thought about it. “Such a curious creature. Does it know it’s here by accident? Rusty, dusty, aggravating goblins crawling over this world like vermin. They all crawl, my Creator. Elves. The cat folk. The thrice-damned humans. Even my vedalken are truly nothing but infections, like this spore. I know that now.” Memnarch chuckled again, which disturbed Slobad a great deal more than the Guardian’s more predictable maniacal laughter. That laugh was maniacal, but something about that low chuckle was insane.
“Look who talking, bug,” Slobad managed.
The Guardian waved a claw, and Slobad felt an invisible hand slap him hard across the face, leaving three thin lines of ochre blood welling up on Slobad’s cheeks.
“Does it appreciate the honor?” Memnarch’s claws curled into a fist, and the goblin flinched, but the Guardian just rapped lightly on Slobad’s forehead, like a nervous suitor knocking on a lady’s door. “The instrument by which I ascend. It is in this puny insect brain. Waiting to be realized.”
“What?” Slobad managed. “I got spark now too … huh?”
“The vermin attempts another joke, my Creator. Yet this little ovoid atop its shoulders has displayed a remarkable affinity for building. It is an artificer. A designer and builder of things.”
Slobad couldn’t imagine what Memnarch was getting at. Or how he knew about Slobad’s abilities, for that matter. Then again, the Guardian had thousands of years to study the denizens of “his” world. Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise. “Been over this, crabby. You built a world, huh? So build your own stuff-Slobad’s busy. All tied up, huh?” Slobad giggled a little too madly.
Memnarch smiled, a look Slobad had grown to fear ever since his capture. He scuttled over to the goblin and pressed the flat side of a clawed finger into Slobad’s esophagus-not hard enough to break the skin, but Slobad preferred his windpipe open.
“Its torture is about to end.”
“Great,” Slobad rasped, his voice reduced to little more than a squeak by the claw tip now pressing against his throat. “How about now?”
Memnarch released his pressure on Slobad’s throat and crab-walked over to a small, radiant scrying pool. “Its body is alive, and it will stay that way. The machine will see to that.” He muttered a few soft words Slobad didn’t understand and the pool flashed brightly for a moment then went dark. “The vermin-with-a-mind is about to touch greatness. And then we shall reassess the timetable, yes, Karn?”