Terry W. Ervin (52 page)

The wagon turned right, east, toward the stream side. Then, north again. A cacophony of noises, dull pounding of metal on metal, shouts of ogres and goblins, deep giant laugher in the distance, all mixed with horses snorting and creaking wagon wheels. Smells of burning coal and searing steel overpowered the hint of rotting flesh.

The sounds faded until the wagon stopped again. “Haw nona.” It wasn’t my goblin driver that shouted, but one from a wagon he followed. Goblins grunting preceded the sound of doors sliding over rollers. Then my wagon turned right and up a small incline where the doors had slid open.

My driver pulled the brake lever and hopped down from the wagon’s bench. He exchanged words with the other goblins before unhitching his horse team and leading them away. I crawled to the rear of the wagon and lifted the tarp to look around. I was in a dark warehouse lined with stacks of crates and barrels. Light from a nearby globe illuminated thirty feet of the warehouse through the open doorway. An ogre, with its horn tip broken off, stomped and shook its torch, unsettling the draft horses.

During the distraction I pulled Guzzy’s dirk and cut away the ropes securing the tarp to the front corner of the wagon before grabbing the backpack and slipping over the side. Kneeling near the wagon’s front wheel, I watched the ogre continue to bully the goblins, raising his fist as if to pummel them. It gave me a chance to dash and hide among the stacks of wooden crates.

Once there I worked my way to the north wall and edged around to the northeast corner to get a view of the door. The warehouse wasn’t packed full. I only spotted one or two crates sitting near the edge of the overhead loft. The ground floor was only two-thirds full with about three feet separating each cluster of stacked barrels or crates.

The ogre lumbered into the warehouse and jammed its big torch in a bracket by the door. After grumbling, it began shifting crates and barrels along the southern wall before unloading the wagons. I couldn’t read the black lettering painted on them.

Catching glimpses of the ogre between crates, I saw that it was an old one, missing an eye and two fingers on its right hand. Whether it was age or laziness, I didn’t know, but the unloading job that should have taken ten minutes dragged on for thirty. Finally, it turned my wagon around and pulled it outside, leaving the torch behind. I hurried along the eastern wall and, wary of the light shed by the torch, peered outside.

Lilly’s description was accurate. A straight road of packed dirt ran north to south. Along both sides of it the enemy had built identical warehouses. Their wood appeared gray from exposure to the sun, with the upper edges darker, probably due to soot and smoke. To the north the old ogre trudged, dragging the wagon behind it. From between a pair of the warehouses, two men wearing gray coats not unlike those Colonel Ibrahim’s gargoyle wore, appeared and spoke to the ogre. These men wore circular caps with flat tops and short brims. They also had black masks pulled over their faces with holes cut out for mouth and eyes. What caught my attention most was the red armband bearing a swastika. They had to be souled zombies—Nazi scientists.

Dismissing the old ogre, the zombies strode my direction, so I ducked back among the crates. The zombies entered and walked stiffly over to the barrels. One counted while the second stood with arms on its hips.

“Achtundvierzig barrel schmierfett,” said the counting zombie. Its hollow raspy voice was clear enough, but I couldn’t understand the language it spoke. “Schzehn barrel schweres maschinenöl.”

“Sehr gut,” replied the other zombie. “Wir haben achtzehn panzer auf wagons. Setzt die Kobold-Mechaniker darauf an. Der Boss wird nicht zufrieden sein, wenn wir unsere Quote nicht erfüllen.”

The counting zombie snapped his heals together while thrusting his right hand forward. The second zombie returned the gesture with less rigidity before both marched out. There was no doubt about them being zombies. The sickly odor of rotting flesh lingered after them. I hurried to the door. The counter zombie moved south while the order-giving zombie marched north. He seemed senior in rank, so I slipped out and followed him.

The senior zombie set a brisk pace. I recalled Private Shaws once telling me about circumstances where hiding in plain sight is more effective than attempting to move from shadow to shadow. The globe lights on tall poles connected by a stretched cable stood about fifty yards apart, providing enough light to see while leaving many shadows. I decided to take Shaws’ advice and walk down the west side of the road, near enough to the warehouses to duck between them should an ogre or goblin get close enough to identify me as human.

Before I’d followed more than three building lengths, a pair of high-sided wagons pulled by four ogres appeared at a crossroad fifty yards ahead. They waited for the zombie to stride past before turning south towards me. Keeping a measured pace I turned between two buildings before they took notice.

The warehouse buildings stood back to back between the parallel roads. I high stepped north, hurrying as best I could through the narrow weed-filled space between towering walls. I counted on the background metal pounding and forge noises to cover my movement. Upon reaching the east-west road, I stopped and waited in the shadows while a trio of goblins walked past, laughing wickedly as their leader snapped the neck of a rat before biting into it.

I strode across the road to the next set of buildings. Rats scurried away from me through the weeds. Food warehouses, I guessed, then continued north a few buildings before turning left to get a view of the north-south road. I spotted the senior souled zombie scientist still going north, deeper into the city-like stronghold toward the mountain canyon.

The zombie walked past two ogres wearing stained leather aprons and lugging crates. The ogres gave the zombie wide berth. I ducked back in and hurried on between buildings.

After crossing two more east-west roads, the buildings switched from warehouses to long one-story wooden structures with shuttered windows. Slivers of light slipped past the shutters, as did deep humming and grinding noises. I crossed the road and crept up to one of the windows. Peering through a gap in a pair of shutters revealed goblins wearing goggles standing by huge contraptions that spun or drilled metal blocks. At a long table other goblins measured and filed oddly shaped metal pieces before handing them off to be polished, wrapped, and placed in crates resting on shelves lining the walls.

I hurried past two of these buildings while trying to keep an eye on the zombie scientist, but it became impossible as activity in this part of the stronghold continued throughout the night. The zombie seemed to be making its way toward a round stone tower with cables angling down from its roof. Rising above the tower stood a billowing chimney whose smoke dissipated after rising thirty feet.

I crouched in a clump of weeds next to a battered cart holding rusting scrap parts. The pocket watch showed it was a little after one, causing my heart to race. Less than an hour and the bomb would arm to explode. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself and think. Except for the long wait on a wagon to get in, luck had been with me. I’d made it to the center of the area where the enemy made pieces for the Stukas and panzers. A good place for the bomb had to be close. Lilly’d wait for me; she’d get us out.

With renewed confidence I dashed across the road, again feeling the growing weight of the bomb on my back.

“Haw!” called an ogre just as I made it between a pair of three-story buildings. “Nud haw goll?”

I raced between the buildings and ducked around the first corner. Crouching low, I peeked back around through the weeds. The ogre stood, peering down the narrow alley. Not knowing if he’d raised an alarm, I continued east and crossed a north-south road. I made it to cover before the ogre stomped around the corner and trotted to look between the buildings I’d just left. I dropped to the ground and watched.

The brute stared for a moment, scratched his head, and then looked around. With a huff, he turned and trotted north. Rather than raise an alarm, he must have gone to get reinforcements. In any case, I had to think fast.

Then I heard that same language the zombie-scientists had spoken. I crawled along the road, keeping low to take advantage of the shadows and a few weeds. The building where the voice had come from had more, wider shutters. A zombie’s raspy voice asked, “Haben Sie die Spezifikationen für das 420mm Howlizter Rohr fertiggemacht?”

I took a chance and stood to peer through the gap-ridden shutters. Through my narrow view I saw a row of five slanted tables with black-masked men wearing swastikas on their sleeves sitting at them. The faint rotting odor confirmed them as zombies. One looked up and spoke to another I couldn’t see. “Noch nicht. Die Zauberer haben die Metallproben erst letzte Woche zur Verfügung gestellt. In drei Tagen…?”

“Das reicht nicht,” the first zombie said. “Der Boss will sie gegen die Königsstadt in Keesee noch vor Mittsommer einsetzen. Die Zauberer und ihre herbeigerufenen Monster werden die Rohre giessen. Nur die Mindestgrösse und die Spezifikationen, die notwendig sind, um dem Explosionsdruck standzuhalten, sind erforderlich. Morgen.”

The zombie had mentioned Keesee! I’d heard enough and crawled back between the buildings. This was it, or had to be. Five working and one speaking meant at least six in one place. Other shutters showed light behind them. Maybe the whole building was filled with zombies. I checked the pocket watch; twenty-five minutes until the bomb armed.

I looked around, wondering where I could place it. I couldn’t hide it between the buildings. What if the ogre came back? He couldn’t fit, but if he brought goblins, they could. I looked up. They wouldn’t search on the roof. The walls were less than three feet apart. I could scale them.

After tightening the backpack’s shoulder straps, I moved to where four building corners crossed and turned right. If I placed the bomb on the roof here, it’d detonate within fifty yards of the zombies. Pressing my hands against the walls, I jumped and set my boots against them.

Slowly I edged my way up. It would’ve been difficult enough without the bomb’s added weight. I only needed to scale three stories, thirty feet. Halfway up my legs began cramping while pain mounted in my ankles and knees, but I couldn’t rest; the bellowing orders of an ogre spurred me upward. No way I wanted to be caught part way up.

With about ten feet left to climb, torch-bearing goblins ran past on the north-south road but they didn’t look my way. I reached the top and gripped the ledge of the south building. It took me three tries to swing my leg over, with each effort my grip got weaker. Finally, I hooked my leg over and rolled onto the roof. Panting and flexing my legs and arms, I prepared to move. There wasn’t time to waste. Looking around the tarred roof, I decided the best place to put the bomb would be in the shadows near the ledge. Once doing so I scrambled south across the roof and looked down.

The ogre who’d spotted me stood in the road, directing two patrols of goblins to search between the buildings across the road. Free of the backpack’s weight, I hurried back across the roof while trying to make little noise. No goblins were on the ground below, so I hopped across to the next building. I continued north across the roofs of two more buildings before a gap ahead indicated another east-west road, so I stopped and climbed over the edge. Going down was easier. Once on the ground I checked the pocket watch. Ten minutes until the bomb armed. I had to make my way southeast, and fast.

I high stepped through the weeds. The time for stealth was about over. While goblins and ogres might spot and chase me, I figured the zombie scientists wouldn’t. They’d stay where the bomb detonated. I made it to a north-south road and peered out.

“You!” snarled a haughty voice. I didn’t have time to react before the stooped figure atop a black horse raised his fist, seizing my heart. “The seer promised we’d meet again.”

The pain I’d hoped never to experience again took hold in my chest, knocking me to my knees. This time the black-robed sorcerer wouldn’t be weakened or distracted. His mount stomped as he twisted his hand, tightening his grip. His cruel laugh reached my ears.

I had magic of my own and shifted my focus, opening my mind’s eye for the ribbons of energy. The pain made it difficult to chant. Still, I found a ribbon and directed it into my chest. A sliver of warmth pierced the sorcerer’s icy grip. Even so, the pain spread down my arms and up my neck to my jaw. Cold beads of sweat dripped down my face and back.

My healing powers were no match for his sorcerous strength and the goblins weren’t far away. I reached for Guzzy’s dirk. It was my only chance, but my arm was too numb with pain to throw it.

Reaching out again, I directed one long ribbon into my arm. As soon as the warmth struck I pulled the dirk and threw it.

The sorcerer’s horse reared up, neighing and snorting wildly with the glinting pommel of Guzzy’s dirk protruding from its neck.

The sorcerer, tied to the saddle, couldn’t be thrown as he struggled with the reins to control his wounded mount. The distraction freed me from his death grip.

I took two deep breaths. The sharp pain receded, but didn’t disappear. I drew my sword and staggered toward the sorcerer and his mount while shrieking goblins spotted us from down the road. I ignored them and hacked at the sorcerer’s leg. His mount spun too quickly and my blade bit deep into its flank, sending it galloping several strides before stumbling to the road. I looked back over my shoulder. The torch-bearing goblins pointed at me, signaling to the ogre coming around the building.