Krazgul Runeblade's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Krazgul spread the king's map on a flat stone by the fire. Grizelda Hexwhisper traced the muster lines with one blue nail. "Six tribes," she said. "Maybe more. They gather at the king's hall by the next full moon." Krazgul counted his own fighters. Forty spear-goblins. One berserker. One smoke wolf. Against six tribes, they were a handful of ash. Grak Bonecrusher slapped his axe against his palm. "Numbers never stopped me." He grinned with filed teeth. "We march. We kill." "We march and we die," Krazgul said. "Forty against hundreds." He studied the map again. One tribe sat closest, a day's walk through the dead woods. The smallest mark. He pressed his thumb on it. "We don't fight them all. We take the nearest tribe and make them ours." Grak's grin dropped. "Make them ours? They serve the king." "They fear the king," Grizelda said. Her yellow eyes brightened. "Fear can be turned." They reached the nearest tribe at dusk. The village was gone. Charred walls leaned over collapsed roofs. Embers still glowed in the dirt. The king had burned them for being slow to answer his call. A few dozen goblins crouched in the wreckage, blackened and shaking. A huge shape stood among the ruins. A war chariot, built of iron-banded wood and carved with old runes. Its wheels stood taller than a goblin. The survivors had dragged it from the flames and now guarded it like a last coin. An old goblin limped forward, clutching a broken spear. "You come to finish us?" he said. "The king already did." Krazgul sheathed one dagger and raised his empty hand. "The king burned you for being late. I killed his troll. I routed his riders." He pulled the troll's dried ear from his belt and threw it in the dirt. "Follow me, and you burn his hall instead." Grak stepped beside him, axe ready. He said nothing. His stance said enough. The old goblin looked at the ruin, then at the runes on Krazgul's skin. They were burning faint red. "Prove it," the old goblin said. He pointed at the chariot. "Our war-cart. Our ancestors' mark. No goblin here can pull it to battle. The beasts that drew it are dead." Krazgul whistled. The smoke wolf slid out of the dark trees. It was not one beast but many strides of grey smoke. Krazgul set his hands on the chariot's yoke. The wolf pressed to his side. Together they hauled. The runes on the wood flared to match his skin. The great wheels turned, then rolled. The burned goblins stared. Then the old goblin dropped his broken spear and knelt. One by one, the survivors followed. Krazgul had a chariot now, and a second tribe at his back. But he had also seen the king's work. The king burned his own people to make them march faster. That was the man Krazgul had to reach before the full moon.