When Goblins Rage (Book 3)

by Lucas Thorn

  Then Sharpe was there, the heavy falchion meeting shields with a great scream of steel. He struck again and again, a frenzied attack. The sound as the heavy blade chopped deep into the shields was deep. Heavy.

  If steel were a living being, those shields would have been shrieking in agony.

  He screamed his battle-cry with a firm voice which shook with rage. “Kill the bastards!”

  Flin's spear slid past Nysta's shoulder, impaling another through the throat. He clutched at the blade, fingers sliced free on the ruthless edge as he fell.

  The elf twisted sideways, trying to escape another surge of armoured men. This wasn't the kind of fight she was good at. She couldn't find the room to move. Panic brought a sick taste into her mouth as she realised her mistake in rushing beyond the first line of defence.

  A sword snickered past her ribs and caught one of Sharpe's guards in the thigh. He bellowed hard in her ear and threw himself at his attacker, pushing her aside to get past.

  More blood.

  “Pad!” Sharpe roared, forced backwards. “Get the fuck down here. Everyone off the walls! Get the fuck down here. Archers, keep firing! Keep shooting the bastards! And aim for their cleric, damn you! I want him dead!”

  Ffloyd leaned inside the fort from the arches above. He dropped another jug after carefully aiming it. Empty of contents, it was still heavy enough that when it hit the head of one of the soldiers, it brought him to his knees.

  The soldier shook his head. Looked up. Saw the elf looming above, and let out a whine. “Please-”

  Kindness tore out his throat. Blood erupted across her fist.

  She danced away, finally free of the chaotic melee.

  “I thought those fucking goblins said they'd be here,” Eli hissed, suddenly shoulder to shoulder.

  She wasn't sure how he'd made it to this side of the ram, but he was sheathed in blood and his left cheek was swollen. His axe crunched into the chest of an overly-eager young Grey Jacket, while he kicked another in the gut.

  Tore the axe free.

  Didn't bother shaking the blade to release the gore. He spat a red-stained globule onto the fresh corpse.

  “Still time,” she said, though she didn't believe they were coming either.

  “I told you, my friend. Goblins are cowards. They would not be here.”

  Grunting, she managed to avoid getting a sword in her chest. Had to use her bracer to deflect the blade, and felt the heavy sword nearly cut through the light wyrmskin.

  “Keep them here!” Sharpe howled, splitting open the screaming head of a young Grey Jacket. “Don't let them inside any further or we're fucked! Pad!”

  “One second, my Lord.”

  “Move your ass, Pad!”

  Pad's voice strained to respond. “Ass moving, my Lord.”

  She chanced a look up and saw the big man was pulling hard on one of the stone blocks he'd been chiselling at earlier. For a second, she was mesmerised by the strength of the man as he wrestled with the block.

  Then Flin's fingers dug into her shoulder and shoved her to the dirt.

  The sword, which had been snaking toward her chest, found only air. The young girl's spear flashed and was bathed in blood.

  Screams hammered her from all sides.

  Screams of hate. Screams of fear. Screams of pain.

  The smell of steel, blood, and sweat.

  A gauntleted fist smashed into her shoulder, sending a rigid shout of pain through her arm. But she was lucky. The fist had been aimed at her head, and if the heavy steel had found its mark, she'd most likely be sprawled on her back right now with a sword sticking through her chest.

  Blindly, she struck out with Kindness and felt the blade bite deep, tearing through padded armour and driving into flesh. The blade had found the gap between steel plates near the man's elbow. More luck on her side.

  The Grey Jacket howled in agony.

  She twisted, ripping the blade free. She felt it splinter bone and cartilage on its way out. Prepared to follow with a strike to his face.

  Then Flin grabbed her by the back of her jacket and dragged her free of the fight.

  The girl shouted something, but Nysta couldn't make out the words. Her ears ached from all the noise.

  She caught a glimpse of the Caspiellan cleric, robes slick with blood. Saw him casting through the shifting wave of iron and steel. Blinked, and he was gone, retreating back to the ranks of Grey Jackets who surrounded the wagons outside, waiting for the gateway to be taken so they could rush inside.

  A few Caspiellans, dazed from their healing, shuffled back toward the fight like Draug waking from a long sleep.

  The acrid echo of magic suddenly grew cloying, making her crawl a few feet further back.

  More guards tumbled over them to get into the fray, and she saw Hudson chopping at anything which moved. His eyes burned with the insanity of it all. He was fast, she thought grudgingly.

  Hicks was close to his lover, wrestling one of the Grey Jackets to the ground. He pinned the man and brought his hatchet down.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third, just to be sure. Then looked up just in time to block a sword to the face.

  The ork, Redfist, finally fell, swarmed over by five or six Grey Jackets, who hacked at his body even after it was dead. He'd made no sounds of pain when he died. At least, none she could hear.

  The old woman, small cooking knife in hand, hobbled slowly around the edges of the battle. Found a wounded Grey Jacket and slit his throat with as much reluctance as if she was cutting a cord.

  The man, eyes wide, died with a stunned expression on his face while she rifled his belt in search of his purse. Which she tossed to the old man creeping along behind her

  He caught the purse, weighed it thoughtfully in his hand and dropped it into a bucket he was carrying at his side.

  There was something alien about their manner. As though they didn't belong. Like they were an echo of something more domestic which had been peeled from its time and place and magically superimposed on the killing field.

  The elf struggled to regain her senses.

  The ram, draped by dead Grey Jackets and a few mercenaries, was moving as the soldiers outside began trying to drag it free so they could push through in a more cohesive wave. She saw Storrson, red-faced, screaming and shoving more soldiers at the ram to get it clear.

  It wouldn't be long, she thought. Then they'd pour into the town like an uncorked wine bottle.

  Flin danced backward, nearly falling over a body. Snapped at her, “Now we're square, right? I saved your life.”

  With a jerk of her head, the elf choked on dust and sprang away, heading for the ramp. Her mind, still rattled, had recognised what was more important. Knew she had to do something more than just fling herself into the steel horde. And figured she had an idea what was happening above the arches.

  “Nysta!” Eli called, his voice shrill. “Where are you going?”

  Ignoring him, she sprinted along the wall toward where Pad was still trying to move the stone. Ffloyd, sobbing in terror, struggled with him. Further down the ramparts, Bill had lined up a few archers and was sending arrows into the Grey Jackets trying to get to the ram. They were down to their last arrows.

  She frowned at the stone, suddenly aware of just how big it was. Especially as it was deeper than she'd expected. If it were a box, she'd bet all three of them could have fit in it comfortably.

  And still had room for Sharpe.

  It looked imposing. And heavy. Too heavy for the three of them to move even an inch.

  Surely the man was mad trying to move it in the first place?

  Pad's look was one of gratitude when he saw her.

  “Ah, lass,” the big man panted. “You're a little thing for sure, but I hear you elfs have more strength than you look. We could do with your hands. The bastards are coming through the gates like sailors to a whorehouse. We've got to block it fast. I know you've heard the stories. That this place is nigh on indestr
uctible. Well, that ain't the truth. It's been falling apart for a long time now. Now, I had a look at the walkway under our feet, and it's got a bit of rot in it. I'm thinking if we drop this wee stone on it, the arches might collapse and break a few heads. I also had a go at loosening it earlier and I think I did enough. Didn't have time to hook up any ropes to do this any easier, though. So, it's dangerous work. We'll have to move out of the way quickly. If it falls on your foot, I don't think you'd like that. Think you're up to it?”

  Without answering, the elf squeezed up into the gap between the large blocks. Got a good grip and gave him a look which said she was ready.

  “Right,” he said. “On count of three. One. Two. Three!”

  They pulled hard, trying to send it back onto the walkway.

  Tugged with every shred of strength she had.

  But the stone hardly moved.

  “From the top,” Ffloyd managed. Shoved his hands between hers to get a grip on the back of the block. “Roll it off.”

  Pad shuffled to the other side, reached across and planted his feet. The elf shifted further outward, balancing on the edge of the wall and risking an arrow in the back from below.

  They nodded as one, and tried again.

  “Pad!” Sharpe screamed.

  “Not now, you annoying shit,” Pad growled, putting everything he had into it.

  The elf's eyes hardened. Her muscle shivered in her shoulders. Something whipped across the skin of her back. An arrow? Insect?

  A rush of ice, glittering across her skin.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out as the stone began to move. Barely inched backward.

  “Shit,” Ffloyd croaked. “It's moving. It's moving!”

  And she did scream as her arms burned in protest. As the muscles ribboned along her bones like steel snakes, straining to the point of breaking.

  Pad let out a primal roal.

  Something cold wriggled across the back of her neck. Down her arm.

  A droplet of sweat, she thought stubbornly.

  And then nothing. The stone seemed to weigh nothing.

  For just a second, it felt like she could throw it all the way to the Great Wall.

  She blinked.

  Tasted metal.

  Then Ffloyd released his grip with a squeal, throwing himself out of the way while Pad let out a whoop of pleasure.

  And the stone tore free of its position, seemed to hang in space for less than the time it took for her heart to beat, then dropped. It landed with an ear-splitting crash onto the walkway between them. Splinters of wood danced up, but the stone walkway held the weight.

  Ffloyd frowned at it. “Didn't work, Pad.”

  As if responding to his criticism, the ground beneath their feet began to shake ominously.

  Pad looked up, meeting her eyes. She still stood on the wall, the masonry at her feet looking like a scab. A scab which was cracking. Splitting.

  A subtle rumbling as though heavy boots were kicking at the wall.

  The rumble rose in pitch and vibration to an unearthly roar.

  Her eyes widened.

  Deep within the wall, something howled as it broke, the bones of the little fort finally giving way.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Pad said in horror. “I might have miscalculated, lass.”

  “Run,” she breathed. “Run!”

  And the world suddenly sucked the stone from beneath their feet with a deafening bellow.

  She dove away from the yawning gap, arms flailing for a hold on anything which could stop her falling to the ground below.

  For a brief moment, she felt weightless. There was nothing, she realised, beneath her feet but air. Heart pounding like a trapped animal in her throat, she struck out wildly. Her fingertips managed to find a part of the wall which had resisted the sudden collapse and she held on desperately as the heavy shuddering of earth below made the walls tremble.

  Heard Ffloyd let out a horrible shriek of agony, but couldn't bring herself to look down. The shriek was cut short by a heavy crunch.

  Dust billowed upward as she hauled herself back up onto the remnants of the wall, rolled onto her back, and looked up at the grey sky. Coughing, the elf spat dust and small pieces of stone.

  Her shoulders felt like there were massive knots embedded in the bone.

  Then the wailing began.

  The cries of men calling for help. Clinging desperately to life.

  “Kill them,” Sharpe's voice said. Stunned, but determined. “Quickly. Kill them all. Come on, you bastards, before their damned healer can get to them!”

  She twisted painfully to get a view of the inside of the fort.

  The gate had fully collapsed on top of the ram, and the wall above was completely torn away. Where the gate had been was now a mountain of stone rubble and twisted bodies. Wet blood lapped at dust. Twisted metal bars speared upward. The metal bones of the fort had finally been broken.

  The force of the collapse had not only bent the heavy iron frame which had formed the gate, but had torn it to pieces.

  She could see the bright glitter of armoured men beyond, frozen by the brutal collapse. Thought she saw Storr, mounted and unmoving beside his precious wagons. But they were quickly swallowed by the mist of dust still settling across the debris.

  And then Sharpe's fighters swarmed the mound.

  They attacked the wounded, knowing they had one chance before the Grey Jackets recovered themselves enough for a rescue. Before their cleric could make the desperate act meaningless.

  “Nysta!” Eli shouted. He waved up at her, grin spreading madly across his face. He sounded delighted to see her. “Nysta! They ran like the cowardly bastards they are, but they're coming again soon, my friend. We need you down here. Not up there. If you stay up there, you will only miss a very good fight indeed!”

  She groaned, probing one of her ribs. It didn't seem cracked, but it was certainly bruised. She sucked a pained breath and looked for a way down. The ramp had been torn away from the wall and was lying in ruin.

  With a sigh, she judged the height.

  Figured it was going to hurt, but dropped off the wall anyway.

  And she was right. It hurt.

  Her shoulder, already in pain, hit one of the broken stones as she rolled. And her knee thudded hard enough into the ground that it trembled, sending waves of numbness up her leg.

  “Fuck.”

  Flin helped her to her feet, the spear in her hands dripping blood.

  The elf winced. “Obliged,” she told the girl.

  “It's worse now,” Flin said. “Before, we didn't know how many there were. But look. Look out there. Look how many there are. And now the gate is gone. Now there's nothing to stop them.”

  Pad emerged from the ruin, a boyish smile on his face. “Well,” he said. “That didn't quite go as I'd have liked now, did it?”

  Sharpe, a crazed look in his eyes, reeled around on top of the mound. He looked lost. Perhaps the carnage had loosened his sense of bearings, she thought.

  He looked down at his sword. So coated in blood it was, it seemed the blade was made of it.

  “Are you thinking of going somewhere, Lord Sharpe?” Eli asked calmly. “There is no way out from this one, my old friend. You cannot run from this fight like you did the other. Now, I saw you fight. You did very well. Almost the man Eli remembers. But I will not let you run. Not this time. This time, you will die with us here. Because this one time more, Eli will fight for you. For the King of Tannen's Run. Whose kingdom is about to fall.” His tone was mocking, but there was a note of sympathy in his voice, as though unconsciously he still held a small spark of respect for his former leader.

  Sharpe looked around at the rest of them, taking in the exhaustion. The fear. The desire to escape.

  He saw Hicks, trying to stop the blood from rushing too fast from Hudson's side. He'd caught a vicious swipe which had nearly opened his belly. His face was pale. Eyes fogged over.

  But he'd live.

 
Provided they could hold the town.

  He saw the elf, still looking stunned, her left arm hanging loose from her damaged shoulder. Flin, at her side, blood leaking from a vicious cut to her leg. If the girl survived, she'd never run fast again.

  Boe stood beside Count Steel, both fighters covered in blood. Some their own. They wore similar grim expressions, but neither looked ready to run.

  A few more guards and mercenaries scattered about. None of whom was unscathed. All looked tired. Dirty.

  Eyes haunted by pain and doubt.

  Turning, he saw the Grey Jackets through the dust.

  Still numbering more than sixty. And even if many of them weren't as seasoned as the mercenaries and guards left in Tannen's Run, it was a fool's fight, and he knew it. They were outnumbered and now the gates were down.

  He clenched his jaw tight before speaking.

  “You can mock me, Eli,” he said, loud enough for the rest to hear. “Mock me all you like. But the Deadlands wasn't made for the weak. It was made for the strong. For those who can take what they want if only they can keep it. At the moment, this land is lawless. A land of fighters who don't know what to fight for. All I wanted, Eli, was to give them a reason. Give them something to fight for. Give them pride, maybe. And what's a better reason to fight for than a home? Me and you, Eli, we ain't got any pride left. We're what happens if you don't have a reason to fight. Now, you can believe me or not believe me, I don't care any more. But I didn't walk out on you in Trollspit. Sure, I wasn't in the cave when you got hit. Before any of you were awake, I'd headed further up the mountain for a better view. Tried to find a way out for us all. When I got back, I found everyone dead and Asa's assassins everywhere. How do you think I felt, Eli? Not being there while my friends were cut down by the Emperor's bitch of a daughter? Knowing all I could do at the end was hide in the dark like a coward? But what the fuck else could I do? I couldn't attack them on my own. I felt like shit, Eli. And the Dark Lord knows I've had to live with that since. If I'd have been there at the beginning, Eli, I'd have died with them. I wouldn't have run. Just like I won't run today. So, you stand up here with me. Close. And you fight with me. And tell me at the end if I'm the kind who'd run from a fight. Even one we know we're gonna lose.”