Betrayal in the Highlands (34 page)

“Oh”—he continued toward Edmund—“you’ll be with him and your darling soon enough.”

Don’t listen to him. Concentrate! You have to get close enough to stab him right in the heart.

“What was her name again?” Gurding feigned puzzlement. “That fat one with the big chest.”

She isn’t fat!

“Molly.” Edmund advanced a few more inches. “Her n-n-name is M-Molly. And I’m going to kill you for what you did to her.”

“Ah, yes. Molly …”

Scowling, Edmund lunged, jabbing at Gurding’s face. But the goblin leapt lightly backward, Edmund’s sword missing its mark by at least two feet.

“Kravel has her, you know.” Gurding’s wicked grin conveyed far more than words. “He’s probably having her at this very moment, if you get me.”

Lies!

Yet Edmund couldn’t help but glance at Molly’s dark, ramshackle house. As he did, Gurding pounced. The curved tip of the scimitar plunged into Edmund’s left thigh.

Edmund cried out, pain shooting through his leg and up his body. He grabbed the wound, blood spurting between his fingers.

“Why don’t you just come with me? I’m sure His Highness will treat you as well as he did before. Give him what he wants and he may even let you live.”

Edmund brandished his short sword and forced Gurding back. Blood splattered the top of the wall as he attempted to put more distance between them.

“I’m going to kill your precious Highness. Do you hear me? I’m going to kill him!”

Gurding shook his head, as if marveling at the stupidity of a child. He kept pace with Edmund’s stumbling retreat.

“Come with me. If you do, I’ll make sure you’ll have Molly and the pretty girl with the black hair. What was her name again?”

“Go to hell.”

You have to stop the bleeding. Cast your healing spell!

Gurding laughed. “I’m sure His Majesty will enjoy her as well.” He winked and slid his feet along the wall, following Edmund step for step. “We all will—enjoy her, that is.”

Stop the bleeding before you get too weak. That’s what he’s waiting for.

Edmund started to cast his spell.
“Smerte—”

But Gurding darted in and slashed Edmund’s left shoulder. Edmund cried out again, nearly dropping his sword as he staggered back.

“Like I told you,” Gurding said, “there’re many ways to subdue somebody without killing them.”

He pressed on as Edmund backtracked, blood pouring out of his wounds.

“For instance, I could cut your stomach open and let your insides hang out, push them back in, and you’d be fine.”

Gurding’s sword flashed in the starlight as it swept through the air, slashing at Edmund’s midsection. Edmund sprang backward. Pain shot up his leg as he landed awkwardly on the narrow stone. Teetering, he glanced at the rocky ground.

“Afraid of heights?”

“Not at all,” Edmund replied, trying to sound stronger than his weakened body felt. He steadied himself as blood coursed down his arm, soaking his shirtsleeve.

Next time he thrusts, parry it and get closer. He’s going to keep using his longer reach to his advantage.

“When I was a child, we used to play on these walls,” Edmund said, feeling lightheaded.

He slid back another step, leaves brushing against him. He couldn’t flee much farther before running into the branches he’d climbed out on. Edmund’s face tingled with cold sweat. His field of vision dimmed.

You’re starting to lose consciousness. Cast your healing spell before it’s too late!

“We used to call it ‘walking the wall,’ ” he went on, wondering if the goblin blade had poison on it. He waved his sword, hoping to drive Gurding back. “I was the only one who could make it entirely around.”

Gurding shook his head and pressed forward. “I doubt you could have gotten your fat carcass up this—”

He thrust his scimitar at Edmund’s right knee. Edmund swept his short sword down and blocked the blow, blue sparks exploding where the two blades met. Gurding stumbled, the last three inches of his weapon flying off into the weeds behind Rood’s wall. There was a deep notch in Edmund’s black blade.

As the goblin stared at his broken scimitar, Edmund quickly cast his healing spell.

“Smerte av reise!”

The wounds slowly closed as the grey weariness lifted from his consciousness.

Gurding flicked his chin at Edmund’s healing shoulder. “Nifty trick. But we know you can’t do anything too remarkable. Nothing like His Majesty, as you’ll soon learn.”

Catch your breath. And parry. Cut his sword down to size.

Resuming his fighting stance, Gurding eyed Edmund’s black blade with renewed interest and perhaps a sliver of fear. “Where did you get that? That old man you told us about didn’t have any other weapons made of that steel in his store. He said your family bought his only one.”

“I know how to make it, remember?”

Gurding opened his mouth, stunned. Then his expression turned greedy.

“If you tell me how to make it,” he whispered, “I’ll let you go. You can have that woman, the thin one, and die of old age wherever you like.”

Edmund laughed.

“What about your beloved king?” He jabbed at the goblin’s chest, but Gurding skipped easily out of range.

Wait for him to swing again. Parry his sword and cut it down to size. Then end this.

“Kings are kings.” Gurding shrugged. His grin grew conspiratorial. “Tell me how to make it.”

“Fine. Drop your weapon and I’ll tell you how to make it, right before I kill you.” He lunged again, jabbing at Gurding’s head this time, missing by at least a foot.

“You’re outmatched, Filth.” The broken end of Gurding’s scimitar traced an imaginary circle in front of Edmund. “If you won’t save yourself with a bargain, then why not put the sword down and come quietly. After all, you’ve escaped once.”

Feeling new strength returning to him, Edmund charged and swung at the goblin’s outstretched weapon arm. Gurding parried the blow. More blue sparks erupted, and another chunk of Gurding’s scimitar flew into the air like a wood chip cleaved by a woodsman’s ax. A second notch appeared in Edmund’s black blade.

Don’t let him get his footing!

Edmund drove forward and forced Gurding back toward the tree he’d been hiding in. Several times, Gurding positioned himself to parry Edmund’s wild blows but, noting his already damaged weapon, reconsidered.

Yellow light peeked over the eastern hills. Edmund nodded to the growing dawn.

“The sun’s coming up.”

“So?” Gurding ducked one of Edmund’s wayward swipes.

“I thought goblins were afraid of the sun.”

At the word “goblin,” Gurding seethed.

Edmund swung again, missing in a wide arc. “A
goblin
such as yourself must be getting very weak standing here in the bright sunlight.”

He stabbed at Gurding with the hope he would parry. But Gurding continued to slide backward, snarling.

“I’m a Tyli. We don’t fear anything.”

“Tyli?” Edmund shot another jab at Gurding’s face. “What’s that? Hiisi for ‘runt’?”

Gurding’s eyes smoldered, and for a second, Edmund thought the goblin would attack. But Gurding managed to control his growing rage and kept beyond the reach of Edmund’s short sword.

You need to get closer. You can’t stab him from back here.

The troll! Remember what you did to the troll!

Edmund smiled.

“What?” the goblin asked.

Edmund pointed his black blade at Gurding’s heart. “I have a surprise for you.” He winked.
“Forstørre nå!”

In a flash, the short sword blade doubled in length. But, quick as a whip, Gurding knocked the enlarged blade to one side and seized Edmund’s weapon arm. Then he kicked Edmund’s lead knee. Edmund cried out. His left leg buckled as he teetered on the edge of the wall.

“You’d think you would’ve learned by now.” Gurding dug his fingers into Edmund’s immobilized wrist. “Honestly, who taught you how to fight?”

Edmund grabbed hold of Gurding’s sword arm and tried to force the broken point of the scimitar away. But the goblin was too strong. The edge of the blade inched closer and closer until it pressed against Edmund’s neck.

“Tell me,” Gurding said in Edmund’s ear. “Who’s the runt?”

You can’t let them capture you! Not again!

They won’t take me alive. Time to finally end this
.

Don’t!

Edmund spat in Gurding’s face. “Go to hell.”

He threw his weight backward and flung himself from the wall, pulling the startled Gurding over with him. As they plummeted, Edmund pushed the broken scimitar away from his throat and twisted his wrist so that his short sword was aimed at the goblin’s chest.

Edmund bounced on the ground, rocks pounding into his back. Gurding slammed on top of him, the black blade of the short sword plunging into his stomach. Their faces inches apart, Gurding blinked at Edmund. He opened his mouth as if to scream. Dark blood bubbled out.

Wincing, Edmund heaved Gurding aside and jerked his sword blade from the goblin’s gut. Piercing pain shot through his badly bruised back as he gasped for breath. He leveled his sword point at Gurding’s throat.

“Where … where’s Kravel?”

Gurding’s mouth flopped open, closed, and open again, a look of disbelief in his eyes.

“Kravel!” Edmund shouted.

As if in answer, faint shouts came from the west side of town—human shouts.

He should have come to capture me.

He would have, if he were here
…

If he isn’t here, then—

Gurding’s trembling, blood-covered hands reached up to Edmund.

Finish this and go find Kravel.

Edmund knocked Gurding’s upraised hands away. “I’m going to kill Kravel and your precious king,” he said. “I’m going to kill every damned goblin I come across. But you …”

Gurding’s head and limbs twitched as Edmund placed his fingers over the hole in Gurding’s stomach.

“Smerte av reise.”

The gushing blood slowed to a gentle ooze and then stopped. Gurding examined his healing wound and, breathing hard, looked up at Edmund, bewildered.

“I hope you live a long time,” Edmund told him.

“What?” Gurding croaked.

Edmund slashed his black blade across the goblin’s eyes, blood spurting out of the deep incision. Gurding screamed, flailing blindly as Edmund limped back toward The Buxom Barmaid.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dripping with black goblin blood, Edmund limped through the ruins of Rood. His gore-covered short sword, now its regular length, glinted in the growing morning light. Behind him, Gurding’s screams had faded into strings of obscenities. There seemed to be some sort of commotion by the west gate; men were gathered there, shouting. Somebody stood on a box or a chair, raised higher than everybody else. Pond’s voice rose above the tumult. He seemed to be addressing the mob.

Then somebody yelled, “There he is!”

Two hundred armed men turned en masse toward Edmund. Seeing him hobble toward them, covered in blood, weapon drawn, their worried and anxious faces changed to wonder and admiration.

“What’s going on?” he said in as strong a voice as possible.

Pond and Toby pushed through the silent crowd.

“Are you all right?” Pond asked Edmund.

“Where’s Abby?”

“In the tavern, tending to the wounded. Becky’s with her.”

Many in the crowd began to murmur. Edmund lifted his chin toward the men standing before the closed west gate, several of whom had horses and ponies laden with whatever possessions they owned.

“What’s going on?”

“The cowards want to leave,” Toby said.

“Good.” Edmund attempted to straighten his back. He grimaced. “Then let them. They’ll all be dead by tomorrow.”

This stopped some of the angry grumbling.

Becky and Abby came racing out of The Buxom Barmaid.

“You’re alive!” she said.

“Abby! What happened to—?”

She gestured to her bloodstained shirt and hands. “It’s not mine. I’m fine. I was helping with the wounded, trying to do my part and all.”

“How many?” Edmund asked wearily.

“Are you okay?” Pond asked.

“How many?” Edmund repeated. “How many dead? How many wounded?”

“Thirty-two dead,” Abby replied. “Nearly everybody is wounded.”

“Anything I can do? Anybody need their wounds … you know?” Edmund raised an eyebrow, hoping to convey his meaning

Abby shook her head. “They’re in the tavern, resting. Those who survived this long will be fine. How are you? Are you hurt? We’ve been worried sick!”

“There were goblins!” somebody yelled.

And then, as if a spell had been broken, the entire mob began to shout.

“We were promised free land! Nobody said anything about goblins and, and … witches!”

A chorus of agreement arose from the men. Many shook their swords above their heads.

“Quiet down! Quiet down!” Pond hollered over them. “This isn’t the time to panic! Just quiet down for a moment.”

With Becky leaping merrily by his side, Edmund stumbled toward The Buxom Barmaid.

Everybody fell silent.

“Where are you going?” someone asked.

“I’m tired,” Edmund replied. “I need to sleep.”

“Wait!” somebody else called after him. “What did you mean by ‘we’d all be dead by tomorrow’ if we left?”

“You aren’t staying here, are you?” another one asked.

Are you?

Edmund stopped. Every part of him hurt—his arm, his back, his head … his heart.

I’m tired of running. I’m tired down to my very soul.

He turned back to the crowd.

“This is my home,” he said. “It used to be a thriving town.”

As he stared at the frightened men, something began to stir within him. The pain and weariness that smothered him fell away.

“And it could thrive again,” he said, louder. “It could make the right kind of men very wealthy. Men who aren’t afraid of hard work. Men who can fight together as well as drink together. If you want to live the lives you’ve dreamt about since you were boys, then stay and rebuild this town into something great. You’ll become heroes, renowned to all in the generations who follow us.”