When Goblins Rage (Book 3)

by Lucas Thorn

  He flung his arms wide, the sword leaving his grasp to spin end over end as it flew over the circle of goblins and skittered along the ground.

  His eyes, which had once impressed her with their intellect, dimmed. His mouth, slack, loosed a string of bloodstained saliva which dripped onto his arm. The arm which clutched her own, trying to pull the source of his pain from his body.

  “You can't kill me,” he whispered. “I am Rule's chosen. I am Accepted. You're Tainted. You can't do this. I'm not ready to die.”

  She held the knife inside him, face impassive as she watched him die. Could almost feel his pulse through the handle. “You shouldn't have followed me, then,” she told him. “Should have let Grimwood Creek go. I was only after Raste. Didn't give a shit about you until you followed me.”

  “I don't understand,” his voice came in shallower gasps, and confusion rippled above his pain. “We weren't after you. It was him. He kidnapped her. Took her.”

  “Who?”

  “Queen,” he slumped, unable to hold himself up. The elf snatched his shoulder and lifted, trying to catch his last words.

  “What queen?”

  “Melganaderna.” Sweat glistened on his cheeks. His voice crackled. “She is queen now. King is dead. He killed her.”

  “And who is he?” She needed to know, but she wasn't sure why. Was it Chukshene he'd been chasing? Had the warlock gone back to the town before she had? Had he found this Caspiellan Queen there?

  Had everything about the warlock been a lie? Was this the real reason he was in the Deadlands?

  She had to know. The elf leaned closer, baring her teeth. His breath whistled through his lips as the Shadowed Gates opened, ready to take him in.

  Puzzled, the old General managed to lift his head to look at her. He didn't know what she was asking. “He will destroy us all.”

  And his eyes rolled back into his skull.

  Snarling, the elf tore the blade free. “Bastard.”

  “No!”

  She spun, seeing Alek Storrson leaping the startled goblins. His father's sword humming in his hand as he struck for her head.

  The elf spat a curse and dove away from the enraged young soldier. Tangled Web left her fingers, the small blade cooing for his blood. But he showed his speed one more time as he batted the blade with his own to send it skimming away.

  “I'll fucking kill you!” he roared.

  Stormer cheered, delighted by the appearance of a younger fighter. “Bloodhand kill!”

  A few other goblins reacted to the cheer with few of their own.

  “Assholes,” the elf swept them all with a disgusted gaze as she realised they wouldn't help her with Storrson.

  “I should have killed you when I first saw you,” he said through his teeth. “Never should have let you live.”

  “Ain't the best decision you ever made,” she agreed.

  “One I plan to remedy.”

  “Just like your father,” she sighed. “Both bad medicine.”

  He moved, coming in fast and low. The sword screaming for her flesh. She felt the point graze the thick wyrmskin pants. And where it nicked the leather, she could feel deep points of ice digging into her muscle. “Shit.”

  She'd never seen a human move this fast. His eyes were locked to hers, and every time she tried to either attack or move away, the sword appeared in front of her and sent her reeling back with the kind of clumsy desperation she'd felt only when she was new to the Jukkala'Jadean.

  As a student, she'd been humiliated by many of the tutors, driven back and made to feel a fool.

  The sudden fear of dying chilled her spine almost as cleanly as the sword was chilling the air.

  Despite its length and width, the new unnamed knife felt small in her hands. She knew she couldn't block the sword with it. She wasn't sure it could take the impact of the enchanted blade. Expected it would snap in half.

  But she held it in a backward grip anyway, the blade lined up along her forearm. And tried to spot an opening she could use to spill his blood.

  He edged closer, cautious despite the hatred burning his patience to thin strips.

  “Before you die, you'll tell me.”

  She frowned. “Tell you what, feller?”

  “Where she is.” Something in his eyes softened as he thought of his Queen. “If you've harmed her...”

  The elf felt a ripple of hope across her shoulders as she thought of a way to force an opening. A moment's hesitation. “What's she to you? She never said anything about you.”

  He paused. Sword still ready. No opening. Not yet. “You're lying. She knows I'd rescue her, no matter what that evil bastard's done to her. I'll save her.”

  The elf gave a light shrug, forcing herself to appear nonchalant. “Bit late for that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think I'd help her? A milk-fleshed Caspiellan bitch queen? Soon as I found out who she was, I slit her fucking throat and laughed as she died. Go south two days and you'll find her in a ditch. Right next to the spellslinging fuck who was with her.”

  His jaw worked.

  “She screamed,” the elf said, watching intently. “And screamed. And screamed...”

  The sword trembled.

  And Nysta moved. A fluid streak behind her unnamed knife.

  Her lip already curling in satisfaction of another kill, the elf moved past the blade. Into his instep. Brought the knife surging up for his guts.

  And pain exploded in her side as she was suddenly thrown aside. It felt like a giant had hit her in the ribs with its house-sized fist.

  Tasting blood, the elf was flung over the body of the horse and rolled to an agonised halt at the feet of Stormer, who let out a sigh of disappointment.

  “You too slow,” Stormer complained, patting the elf on the head. “Move fast, Bloodhand.”

  Nysta choked, unable to even spit at the goblin.

  “You will die slowly,” Alek said with a voice so cold and clipped it sent shivers down the elf's spine. He ignored the goblins, his furious gaze latched onto her. Hate boiled in the black pits of his eyes.

  She twisted onto her back, trying to catch her breath which came in savage gasps.

  He flexed his gauntleted fist. The same fist which had punched her hard enough to send her sprawling. He'd hit her so hard the metal guard over his knuckles had bent.

  Approaching with grim finality, the young soldier raised the enchanted blade. “Many died by this sword,” he said. “It delivers not just death, but pain. Suffering. It is fitting that you die by it, Tainted one.”

  He lifted it high above his head.

  She looked up at the blade and tried to move. To roll away from the coming blow.

  But couldn't. Horror crawled up her spine on cold fingers, wrapping icy fists around her heart and guts. Her arm twitched, trying to find her knife which lay just beside her, but her fingers were numb and her shoulder felt like it had been wrenched from its socket.

  The Old Skeleton cackled down at her from the jaws of the Shadowed Halls as the haunted gates opened.

  Storrson's face was void of expression. Jaw set firm. Sweat gleaming across his brow.

  The blade blurred downward, aiming to pin her to the ground like a bug.

  She flinched as she saw her death sweeping toward her.

  “Bloodhand!” The scream was accompanied by a howl of joy from the goblins.

  And then an awed silence as Quietly threw himself forward to take the blade clean through his guts. The enchanted blade tore through his body to emerge out his back.

  Shocked, Storrson staggered backward, holding the enchanted sword in both hands. He looked confused as Quietly squirmed on the blade, screaming in agony.

  The goblin's blood, a thick black ooze, steamed as it riddled down the metal.

  Watching in amazement, the elf saw the sword bend slightly from the goblin's back, then fall off like molten slag to the ground where it continued to steam as the metal turned to slag.

  Still
alive, Quietly grabbed hold of the length of steel in front of his guts and instead of pushing himself off the offending blade, instead chose to haul himself forward, covering it in his blood. Blood which continued to disintegrate the blade.

  His little green hand reached for Storrson, who dropped the useless weapon with a yelp.

  “Bloodhand,” the goblin moaned. “Kill thief.”

  She was a blur, her body moving of its own accord as the unnamed blade found Storrson's chest. Ignored ribs to spear into his heart.

  “Tell your god,” the elf hissed, lips pressed intimately against his ear. The words spilled from her mouth, but she wasn't sure why. “Tell him I'll come for him.”

  As he dropped, twitching, she took a strip of his grey shirt. Cleaned the wide-bellied blade on his shirt and slid it into a sheath on her thigh. Patted it affectionately, then turned to look down at the dying goblin.

  Quietly, black blood gushing across his lips, looked up at her proudly. His little body shivered. “Elf best there is,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  Her heart stuttered in her chest and she frowned down at him, amazed to find her eyes burning as tears coiled in the corners.

  “Shit,” she said.

  Bigshot skipped forward, glanced once at Quietly's body, and then grinned up at her. Slapped the elf's thigh and let out a roar, “Bloodhand best there is!” He shouted. “You hear! Quietly said so! She best there is!”

  Stormer mouthed a few curses before making a decision. Said firmly; “I best there is. Elf only best elf there is.”

  Then Eli moved into the circle, bleeding from a deep gash across his chest. In one hand he carried a small gold chain. An amulet hung on the end of it. He tucked it away before she could see it clearly, then looked down at the two bodies and grunted. “Ah, my friend. For someone who uses the knife so well, you are a very messy killer. You do know this?”

  “Beats being a messy bleeder, Eli,” she returned lightly. Nodded at his pocket. “You get what you came for?”

  “Mostly.” He winced. Jerked his head toward the body of Storrson's corpse. “I would have preferred to cut his head off myself. I very nearly had him, but you ruined it all by killing his damned father. He heard the scream and moved so fast, I could not believe it. As you can see, he cut me, too. Little bastard.” He kicked the corpse with the toe of his boot. Grinned in satisfaction.

  “Is that it?” Hicks looked to be almost untouched. “They're all dead?”

  “A bunch of them ran off into the mountains,” Sharpe said, appearing out of the smoke which still billowed from the burnt wagons. Flanked by two of his guards, he walked through the debris and dead bodies as though they weren't there. Pad was at his left, and he winked at the elf when he saw her. Sharpe squinted as a tendril of smoke lashed his face. “Maybe twenty or so. I'd go after them, but we've got a gate to rebuild.”

  A few goblins were also with the self-styled Lord. They looked happy, and covered in blood from head to toe.

  One was chewing on a raw ear.

  The elf shuddered.

  “Missed a few, uh?” She tied the small strip of grey into her hair.

  Sharpe scowled. “Bastards run fast.”

  Pad said; “The cleric was with them, bless his little feet.”

  The elf ran her fingers through her hair. Absently checked the horizon. “Figured he'd run like a rabbit.”

  “He'll be in Doom's Reach by lunchtime,” Pad said cheerfully. Then frowned, a puzzled look flicking across his face. “It's an odd thing, lass. I was sure I saw an elf with them. Can't miss an elf's ears, really. Not sticking out like they do. No offence, but they're not the easiest thing to hide under a hood.”

  “A prisoner?”

  “Didn't look to be,” he said. “Looked to be telling some of them what to do.”

  “I didn't see any elf,” Sharpe said. “They were moving fast, though. Maybe you didn't see him right. Besides, Grey Jackets kill elfs, not work with them. Might believe you if it were any other Caspiellan bastards. Even Black Blades might use one for a scout, if they could find one stupid enough to work for them. But not Grey Jackets.”

  “I guess you're right, my lord.” The big guard shrugged, looking around at the dead bodies. He moved his boot off a dismembered hand, screwing his face up in revulsion. “Ah, look at this mess. I'm certainly not doing the cleaning on this one. It's a right shame young Pryke is dead. This is just the sort of job he was made for.”

  “Well. Then if that's it, I'll be seeing you all around,” Hicks said to nobody in particular as he headed back toward the fort.

  He limped slightly, but his back was straight as he made his way.

  “They'll return, of course,” Sharpe said, not paying any attention to the departing mercenary. “This lot were just an excursion. Rule sent them out here just to see what we were made of.”

  “We bloodied his nose, then,” Eli said smugly.

  “More to it than that,” the elf murmured. They looked at her, so she was forced to explain. “Storr said someone kidnapped their Queen. Reckon that's what brought them out here. If it's true, it could be worse than Grey Jackets next time. Could be Black Blades. They ain't so fanatical, but they're better fighters.”

  “But they don't have a Queen,” Sharpe said. “Caspiellans would never put a woman on any throne.”

  “A truly backwards people,” Pad agreed. “Maybe you heard him wrong, lass?”

  “It's what he told me,” she said. “That their King is dead. Storr said he was murdered by some rogue spellslinger. Supposed to be a Queen now, but she was taken by the feller they were looking for.”

  She didn't add Storr's warnings of the evil power at the spellslinger's back. Didn't think it was important. What Caspiellans figured was evil was rarely the same as a Fnord's. And out here in the Deadlands, any dividing line was even murkier.

  In truth, the dire fears of a Grey Jacket would mean less to Sharpe than they did to her.

  “Good luck to whoever took her,” Eli grinned. “But what they would do with a rich Caspiellan woman, I do not know. More trouble than they are worth, trust me. My mother was one.”

  “You're half Capiellan? No wonder you're an asshole, Eli.”

  He shrugged. “We all have our burdens.”

  “What do we do now, then?” Flin had hobbled up from behind and was nursing her wounded leg. Her spear's blade was broken. But she'd still kept killing with it.

  “Now?” Sharpe looked around. “Clean up this shit. Repair the walls.”

  “But they'll be back,” the girl's eyes were wide.

  “So? They come back, and we'll kill them all again,” Sharpe said, eyes glinting dangerously. “Only this time, we'll be ready. I'm calling out for more fighters. We'll get the best out here. Train them up. And when Rule sends his next bunch of whelps, we'll tear them to pieces.”

  “Nysta?” Pad leaned hard on a massive axe, its haft pressed into the earth. “Will you stay with us? You're good in a scrap, lass.”

  Eli shot her a curious look, eager to see what she would choose.

  But the elf shook her head, eyes searching the sharp peaks of the Bloods. “I ain't staying, feller. Just passing through is all.”

  “You are leaving the Deadlands, my friend?” Eli pressed a hand to his chest, glancing down at the blood still flowing from the wound. He winced, but waited for her answer.

  “Reckon it's time.”

  “Good luck to you, then,” Sharpe said, obviously disappointed. Then seemed to remember something. “Eli? What about you?”

  The old mercenary showed his cheeky grin as he eyed his former leader. “I will think about this, old friend. Maybe Eli made a mistake. Maybe. But there is much bad blood still between us, I am thinking. We shall see if Eli stays around to help you. But at least now you don't need to worry about a knife in your guts while you are sleeping.”

  “Never had any trouble sleeping before,” Sharpe said drily before turning away. He strode quickly back to the fort, taking his guards
with him.

  A few goblins followed him, swapping items stolen from the dead.

  The elf crouched beside Quietly. She wanted to touch his face, but she kept her hands across her knees, fists curling tight as she struggled with emotions she couldn't comprehend.

  Bigshot smiled. “It okay,” he said awkwardly. “Eventide keep warm.”

  “Sure.”

  “He say elf treasure inside wagon. We look. Goblin magic find it.”

  “Goblin magic?” The elf prepared to scoff, her lip forming a wry grin. Then Bigshot handed her the item he'd taken from one of the burning wagons.

  Slightly scorched, the sheath wasn't made for the blade. Storr must have found it and decided to keep it. How he'd found something she'd searched so desperately for, she couldn't say.

  But there it was, and her eyes widened as she reached for the blade she'd thought lost to her.

  A Flaw in the Glass. She drew the knife and almost cried out as the familiar venomous green enchantment lit up the area.

  “Thankyou,” she said to the goblin leader, who looked more than a little uncomfortable at her unrestrained gratitude. “I owe you more than you know, Bigshot.”

  “It Quietly's magic,” he said gruffly. “He say Bloodhand want it.”

  Stormer sniffed. “I not see why it special. Just glowing knife. Pretty, maybe. But not have big spikes. Not a good knife. Good for wearing round neck only.”

  “Talek gave it to me. It's my heart,” Nysta said. And she felt warmth flood her body as she sheathed the blade in its rightful place against her hip. Turned her gaze back to the dead goblin's twisted body. “I was wrong. Wrong about your goblin magic. It's the best there is.” The elf ran her hand across his scalp. Patted his dead cheek. Her fingertips tingled. “Be warm, feller. I won't forget what you did.”

  Bigshot nodded. “Wise. Remember Quietly. He see elf again.”

  “Not too soon, I hope,” she muttered, getting to her feet.

  She took one last look around. Saw Eli heading back to the fort, clutching at his chest. She had the feeling she'd see him again, and the grin she aimed at his back was nasty as her hand moved toward the handle of her unnamed blade.

  She imagined chasing him down and killing him with it. The thought made her smile even crueller.