The Goblin Corps Read Online Free PDF

“employment” with Morthûl that he deeply resented, but it was nice to see the Dark Lord’s old self again.
    It meant that someone, a lot of someones, were going to die.
    The isle of Dendrakis, from whose rocky earth the Iron Keep rose, lay secluded in the northwestern corner of the massive kingdom. Isolated from Kirol Syrreth proper by the Sea of Tears, it was a part of their homeland rarely visited by most inhabitants—human or otherwise—of that nation.
    While it may have been the most important portion of the Charnel King’s domain, however, Dendrakis constituted but the smallest fragment of it. Across the length and breadth of Kirol Syrreth, often in locales through which humans would dare not travel let alone dwell, goblin communities spread, a sporadic rash upon the earth. Gremlins and ogres, trolls and kobolds all made their homes here, in this last refuge from the sprawling mass of “civilization.” Once, they had warred upon one another constantly, unmindful of all who got in their way. The human cities of Kirol Syrreth surrounded themselves with walls and watchtowers, leftovers from the days when any cloud of dust on the horizon could signal the advance of a goblin army.
    The rise of Morthûl, centuries ago, had changed all that. But now, as whispers of his great defeat spread, the humans looked again to the horizon, awaiting the day when the growing chaos among the other races once more spilled over into indiscriminate bloodletting.
    Many weeks south of Dendrakis, beyond the foul waters of the Swamps of Jureb Nahl, nestled in the shadows of one of Kirol Syrreth’s many mountain ranges, sat Tarahk Trohm. An orcish stronghold, that sprawling settlement—like its twin, Tarahk Grond, so many leagues nearer the Iron Keep—was one of the largest nonhuman cities within the Dark Lord’s kingdom. As such, and given its relative proximity to the Brimstone Mountains, its inhabitants were largely responsible for patrolling the nearest border.
    One such patrol camped now in the thick forests just north of the Brimstone Mountains, having stopped for a leisurely noontime dinner. The sun shone directly overhead, though little of its light or warmth penetrated the canopy of leaves. Most of the broad-shouldered, bestial creatures sat around the cook-fire, laughing at crude jokes and feasting upon the slightly charred flesh of wild horses they had come across the night before. Some, more conscientious than their brethren—or perhaps simply more retentive—sat with their backs to any convenient tree, polishing their weapons with spit and old, stained rags.
    And some, even in the middle of the day, stood watch.
    “Cræosh! Join me by the fire!”
    The orc so addressed, slouched in the bushes some twenty feet from the others, tugged his attention from the forest to glance back at his chieftain.
    “I’m on watch, Berrat.”
    “Others can watch. Come.”
    Reluctantly, Cræosh straightened up. Although only about six feet in height—perfectly average, for his race—the warrior’s shoulders were massive, nearly three feet across. Squinting red eyes, a sign of almost feminine beauty, peered from folds of swampy-green skin, and his shock-white hair was matted into three large tails by the careful application of mud and the blood of his enemies. A top-heavy sword, wickedly serrated, hung casually at his side, the leather-wrapped hilt permanently stained by the acrid sweat of his palms. Over hide tunic and breeches, the orc wore breastplate, greaves, and armbands that he’d melted down and reforged himself from metals scavenged across a dozen battlefields.
    Casually, Cræosh wandered to the fire and slid to the leaf-covered ground, shoving a pair of smaller orcs out of his way. They glared at him, but neither felt brave (or foolish) enough to complain. With a forced grin at Berrat exposing a number of jagged yellow teeth, Cræosh ripped off a chunk of horseflesh and began to chew noisily, ignoring the sizzling rivulets