When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (10 page)

The elf shrugged. “Sounds like the country for it.”

“Look, I ain't trying to rile you,” he said, suddenly worried what she might do. “But sounds to me like you need a quick slap of reality across the face just so you know what's good for you. You get what I'm saying? You run around thinking you're good enough to fight a god, then you're gonna find yourself dead a whole lot quicker than you think. No matter how tough you think you are, you're still just flesh and blood. Just an elf. Sure, you're a good fighter. I've seen some of the best and know you're one of them. What you did to that ork last time you were through here was enough for me to know you're pretty fucking handy with those knives. But don't go getting ideas too big for your head. And, because I know you're the touchy unpredictable sort, that's all I'm gonna say on the subject. Already reckon I stepped too close to getting one of your stickers in my face as it is. So, there. That's it. Hope it's good enough for you.”

Suddenly, the elf felt more tired than ever before. As though a heavy weight was pushing down on her shoulders and she couldn't hold it more than another few breaths.

She dropped the spoon and lay her hands on the table, pressing her palms down against the wood. Spread her fingers wide, feeling the grain of the wood. Stared at the coffee-coloured skin and began to wonder why she was still here at all.

She knew she should have left months ago. Should have just headed on through the Bloods.

Instead, something held her back. Kept her constantly looking at the ragged spine of the mountains as though they were an impenetrable wall.

She moved a hand to her empty sheath and felt an irrational need to cry.

To bleed out the pain which she knew was hiding behind a wall of bravado. A wall she'd shot up in front of the suddenly wary cook, whose eyes widened as he expected her to kill him for his words.

Instead, she balled her hands into fists and pressed her teeth hard against each other so when she spoke, her words sounds sharp. Almost frozen solid.

“No, feller,” she said. Her belly gave another rumble and her lip twisted up toward the scar on her cheek as Ffloyd nervously watched her every move. She reached again for the spoon she'd put aside. Movements calm and deliberate. Intended to stop the cracks from breaking her wall. “It ain't anywhere near good enough. But, no sweat. I ain't fed up just yet.”

CHAPTER NINE

The door opened with a loud crash as it was nearly wrenched clean off its hinges.

She frowned, gaze shooting toward the doorway, where a weasel-faced man in a tattered old coat to his knees was frozen in a belligerent pose which issued an unspoken challenge. His dark brown eyes flicked across the interior of the cantina. He showed no alarm when his gaze swept across her.

Instead, he looked disappointed that other than herself, there was no one in the cantina he might pick a fight with.

The disappointment was expressed again with a slight shrug and deep sigh before he licked his lips with the barest tip of his tongue. Then spread his mouth into a foolish grin.

The grin of a man with an impish sense of humour. A man who fancied himself as impossible to dislike.

Two knives hung low on his waist. Handles of polished wood with a scored edge to keep them from slipping in his grasp when slick with sweat. Or blood.

They seemed the only thing about him which appeared clean. The sour stink of too many days spent without washing crawled from the doorway on an icy breeze.

His shirt had once been white, but was now an assortment of dull greys and browns. His pants, patched heavily, were wet to the knees from walking in the snow. His boots were scuffed. She was willing to bet he had a knife hidden in one of his boots. Probably the left one.

A thin string of coloured beads hung around his neck. An odd kind of decoration for an odd kind of man.

Yet, beneath the careless appearance was a man built tough. Had the hands of one who could fight not just with the strength of his arm, but also agility. And the elf noticed those hands never moved far beyond reach of the handles at his hip no matter how clownish he tried to appear. So, she had to constantly remind herself of the dangers of liking him. Of letting herself feel even the smallest grain of trust in her heart.

Because this man was, at his core, like her.

A killer.

She felt a sliver of uncertainty as his amused gaze returned to slide across her.

But outwardly, she showed nothing. Not even curiosity. Just kept her gaze on the bowl in front of her.

His grin spread wider as though he could read her mind. The grin revealed a large gap between his front teeth, almost wide enough to stick one of his fingers through.

He pounded his chest hard, raining a shower of dirt and melting ice around his muddy boots.

Looked around again.

Touched his forelock in Ffloyd's direction. “Whatever you have, my friend,” he ordered. “In a big bowl this time. And make it fast. But not so fast I cannot catch it, yes?”

“Eli,” the cook rolled his eyes. Groaned. “Not you, too. Was bad enough she showed up. Now you have to bring more trouble to my door. I should've known today was gonna be shit.”

The weasel-faced man ignored him. Chose instead to throw himself into a stool opposite the elf. Licked the back of his bottom teeth and studied her impassive expression.

“Greetings, Nysta, my friend. You know, it has been a long time since I have seen you.”

The elf grunted. “Ain't been long enough.”

“Ah, but it is not up to us to pull on the strings of fate, eh? A good thing, too, I am thinking. It means the world is a better place.” His grin was like a static mask. “And, while we are speaking of fate, do you know what I saw a little while ago?”

“Not sure I give a shit.”

“I found the body of a man.”

“Ain't no rare thing out here, Eli.”

“Someone spread him all over the snow.”

“That ain't new, either.”

“At first, I am sorry for him-”

“Fair enough.” Her mouth twisted with crooked humour. “That's new.”

But the mercenary continued as though he hadn't heard her. His voice getting more serious. “I wonder what monster must have happened upon him. A Draug? Dhampir? It is possible one fell off the mountain and landed on him. But then I see he wears a uniform. A grey uniform. And so I spit on his corpse and I move on. It wasn't far from here. Strangely, I see he was in the trees near where a large force made camp. I find their ashes of their fires and their tracks leading off into the trees. But then I find something which is very strange. I find bootprints! And they do not belong to these grey-jacketed bastards. No. So I follow them. And they lead all the way through the forest. They make a difficult trail, too, I tell you.” He showed his sleeve, which had been ripped many times. “Look what the thorns do to me.”

“Serves you right for being where you shouldn't be.” The elf kept her voice even.

Eli shrugged, unconcerned. “And then, I find another man. This time he is lying in the stream. I wonder at first if he is trying to get a drink. He must be very thirsty, I think to myself. For he does not lift his head for air. And then I see he is dead. Very dead. And the bootprints, they go across the stream, for they come out the other side. And I say to myself, I have a suspicion this is not the normal boot worn in the Deadlands. They are much too beautiful to belong to a Draug. Or a Dhampir. Or even an ork. No. They are much too elegant to belong to a simple murderer such as myself. Classy, I say. Soft. I say they must belong to a woman with great fucking legs. Legs which would knock me out to see them! So, I follow these bootprints all the way into the town. And through the street. And guess what? They lead me here. But now I see I am much too late. Because the beauty which must surely have killed like the reincarnation of Veil herself, is gone. I must have missed her. There is only you. And you are hurting my eyes with your face.”

His eyes sparkled. The humour was there. But so was something else. Something like sadness.

Or guilt.

He hid it well, but that wasn't what sent a chill up her spine. It was the thought that he'd followed her. And she remembered the feeling of being watched just before being startled by the owl.

Her jaw clenched as she realised it must have been him.

He must have been watching.

Her violet eyes were as unblinking as his own as she felt the boiling anger lap at her spine. That he'd been so close and she hadn't even seen him.

How close had he gotten?

Had he been breathing down her neck when she killed that owl?

Had he watched her stumble through the snow toward the fort?

Where had he been? And what did he want from her?

“Hey,” Ffloyd called, fumbling with another bowl. “I don't want no trouble here. Not like last time. You two want to fight, you get the fuck out of my place. Do it in the street like the alley cats you are.”

“Take it easy, my friend,” Eli said, eyes still on the elf. “This is something which is of no business to you.”

“My place,” Ffloyd growled, battling to inject a tone of authority into his voice. “My rules.”

Eli snorted. Glanced at the cook like he was a cockroach. “A man with a big mouth, he can talk himself to death. You should learn to be more careful. Because your mouth is almost big enough to suck on my dick, my friend.” He turned back to the elf, feigning sincerity. “On account of he talks too much, and my dick is very big. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure, feller.” Dropped her hand to the slender hilt of
Fate Amenable To Change
. “Could always use the challenge of a little target.”

Ffloyd choked on his amusement, attempting to hide it by pretending to be absorbed in the cleaning of a mug.

Elis' grin faltered, but returned almost as quickly. He slapped the table with a calloused hand. “That's funny, Nysta! I like that one. You tell the best jokes. I like you. I tell everyone this. Nysta, I say, I like her. She's very funny. Her mouth is quicker than her knives. Which, too, are said to be very quick. She is one of my favourite friends, I say. We are very close.”

“Wish you weren't,” the elf said evenly. “So I'd be obliged if you'd move a little further away. Preferably somewhere I can't smell you. Icereach should be fine.”

Barking a laugh, he slapped the table again. “One more time you are funny! You make me laugh with jokes which are about me. You know, Nysta, that is a very rare thing. Do you know why it is so rare?”

“Figure you'll tell me.”

He slid one of the knives from his waist and placed it gently on the table under his palm. Thumbed the handle until the point aimed straight at her heart.

The elf's eyes drank the wide curved blade. It was a beautiful weapon. Made by a skilled smith, and reminded her greatly of
A Flaw in the Glass
. An enchanted blade given to her by her dead husband. A blade she'd lost.

A slender reed of hate, an echo from the loss, swayed gently in her guts as Eli's voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Because there are not many who live to get so good at telling such jokes. Because, sooner or later, they tell a bad joke. Mostly sooner. And me? I love a good joke. I hear a good joke and I can laugh all day. Ha! See? I laugh now at yours. But if a joke does not make me laugh? Then I feel angry. I do not know why. It is perhaps one of my faults, of which I have a great many. And I feel ashamed to have such faults. So I feel more angry. It is a big circle and it goes round and around. I am not proud of it. So, to make myself feel better, I feel obliged to tell a joke of my own. A joke which makes me laugh for many days. You understand this kind of joke I am talking about, I think.”

Her violet eyes lifted to stare coldly into his as she allowed her mouth to curl slightly. “Sure, Eli. Reckon you're trying to tell me you have a sharp sense of humour.”

“Sharp sense of humour? Because the knife is sharp?” He tucked the blade away with another loud bark of laughter. The elf watched it go with a feeling almost of loss. “You are truly a most insane woman, Nysta. I tell you I will kill you, and all this does is make you tell more jokes. Truly, you are mad. Can you believe the stones on this woman, Ffloyd? It is very impressive. I am most impressed. You are impressed, too, Ffloyd? There is no need to say anything, I can tell you are. Yes, you are a rare woman, Nysta. Keep it up. Keep telling your jokes. In the end, it is always Eli who laughs last.”

“At least one of us will die laughing.”

Ffloyd stepped up beside them. Glanced at each in turn before dropping a bowl in front of Eli. Shook his head. “You know, I never understand how when your kind get together, all you do it pull your dicks out and compare sizes. You'd think by your age, Eli, you'd grow too old for that kind of shit.”

Eli's grin was maddeningly cheerful. His breath whistled through the gap in his teeth as he snatched his bowl close. “You are a greater man than me, my friend. But it is said, Ffloyd, that there is no man with a smaller dick than you. But you know something? I always defend you, my friend. No, listen to Eli. Don't make faces. I always tell the truth. Always defend you. I say, it is not the size which matters to Ffloyd. It is how he uses it. And I always say, Ffloyd could once gut a bastard before he could blink. I say if Ffloyd is that good with such a tiny dick, then those of us with big dicks? We could go very far indeed. I always say this. Because you are my friend. And this is what friends do.”

“You know, I don't get you sometimes, Eli.” Ffloyd ran his fingers through his thinning hair. An irritated look shot across his face before he spun away. Moved back behind the counter and tossed the rag aside. “But what the fuck? I'm too old to give a shit. Say what you like. It don't mean nothing to me anymore.”

For a brief moment, the elf thought she caught a look of pity on Eli's weathered face. But then the wide toothy grin was back and he reeled cheerfully on his stool. “Enough of the insults for today. It's time to put aside our many differences. Time to eat. Ffloyd, my friend. Bring wine. The elf and I wish to talk. And to drink. We will need much drink, I am thinking.”