When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (12 page)

He nodded, still watching her carefully. “Maybe it is as you say, Nysta. Maybe this is just a story. But I still think they come here for the mage. And if I were the woman who was at Grimwood Creek? I would leave this place. I would head north through the Bloods. I would leave now. Right now. I would not even finish my beans. Especially not with the news which arrived this morning. News which has our good Lord Sharpe shitting himself.”

The elf's lip twitched irritably. “What's that?”

“They were seen south of here, just an hour before now. Not just one or two scouts. But the whole cursed lot of them. And they are coming here.” Eli looked away as Ffloyd shuffled back into the cantina, struggling to contain more than a few bottles in his arms.

The cook muttered beneath his breath as he fumbled one onto their table.

Didn't wait around for gratitude he knew he wouldn't receive. Just headed right back to his place behind the counter, where he took to drinking his newly acquired stock.

Neither Nysta nor Eli made a move toward the bottle.

Just kept holding onto the silence.

She remembered what she'd told Storr just before he'd left the tent. Remembered his words. And knew he was coming here for her.

She hadn't believed they would. Hadn't really accepted the General's line of questioning as the reason they were rampaging through the Deadlands. She still thought there had to be something else. But if Eli was right about them being just outside the town, then she was trapped like a mouse.

Finally, the weasel-faced man nodded as he saw the hint of understanding flicker across her expression. His grin rippled across his face. A lighter grin. The kind of grin he'd been wearing the first time she'd seen him. One which made most people think he was stupid.

Most people. But not her.

Because he couldn't hide the coldness in his eyes.

She spoke first. Soft enough for Ffloyd not to hear. “Why are you telling me this? You could make a lot of gold by handing me over to them.”

His voice matched hers for volume. “This town is full of men who would want to trade a skinny little elf for a purse of gold, my friend. But I am not one of those men. Who knows why Eli does anything? It could be I am mad. Over the moon like the drunken cow. Could be I don't like Caspiellans. Southern scum and their fucking treacherous bastard god. Could be all these things, my friend. And it could be none. Maybe I think you are beautiful, after all, and do not deserve such a death as this man would give.”

The elf grunted as she snatched the bottle. Tugged the cork free and tossed it over her shoulder. It bounced away beneath the few other tables and was lost in the shadows. Took a deep swallow before passing it to the man.

A peace offering, perhaps. She was still so muddled up inside she couldn't tell what she was thinking.

Hoped she wasn't warming to him.

He accepted with a shrug.

Drank from the bottle just as deeply.

Belched.

“And I am thinking, while I do not believe you were not at Grimwood Creek,” he added casually. “I believe you did not kill this man and steal his treasure. And to Eli, this is all that matters today. Because I know this man very well. He is my brother. And I loved him. He was a better man than I. And it is as I said, he did not deserve to be murdered like a dog.”

“Sorry to hear that, Eli.” She rubbed at her forehead, feeling the ache move around behind her eyes. “But I still don't much give a shit if you believe me or not.”

“I know this,” he said impishly. “Which is why I always liked you, Nysta. You know, I tell everyone I meet. I say, I like the elf called Nysta. She is not like other elfs. She is not like anyone I meet at all. And I tell them you are my friend. And there are not many in the Deadlands Eli thinks of as a friend. It is why I would truly hate to have to kill you. Still, one day Eli would like to find out who would win such a fight. It would be a magnificent battle, I am thinking.”

“Wouldn't be a fair fight. You'd cheat.”

“How can you say that?” He managed to look genuinely hurt. “Eli never cheats in a duel!”

She swallowed her last mouthful of beans. Grabbed the bottle and lifted it in mock salute. Drawled; “I reckon any fight with you would never be even. You've always got a third person.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The self-styled Lord Sharpe had been an outlaw for most of his life in the eastern forests of the Fnordic Lands. He'd led a gang of mercenaries worse than any who passed through Tannen's Run. Led them well, too.

But he had dreams. Grand dreams of a life far above that which he'd been born to. Dreams the Emperor disapproved of.

And what the Emperor of the Fnordic Lands disapproved of, he destroyed.

For Sharpe, it was the end of his life north of the Wall. He'd run south in hope of finding the seed to his dreams in the Deadlands.

A vain hope, as he soon realised.

But what he lacked in luck, he made up for in initiative and the dream of being something so much more than the simple outlaw he'd grown into. So when he found the town of Tannen's Run, he saw an opportunity.

He joined the local guards. Worked hard.

And it didn't take long for him to murder his way to the top. And even less time to convince the locals to accept calling him by the title he claimed for his own. A title he'd always dreamed of having as he'd pillaged his way down the south-eastern coast of the Fnordic Lands.

A man of respectability. Of power.

By this time, as he recognised the dream as a child's one, but it didn't stop him from working to make it a reality.

A strong man, whose tall body was only just beginning to give way to the signs of ageing, Sharpe carried himself well. Long brown hair flecked with grey. Face frozen into an expression of bitter distaste only seconds from scowling. Eyes constantly squinted. A few thick scars raked his face across the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks.

He wore a heavy falchion at his waist. Heavy enough to cleave a skull clean through. A long knife strapped to his thigh had also killed more men than he could count.

He hadn't given himself the title of Lord for the riches, however. Which was a lucky thing, because Tannen's Run had no riches. So the uniform he wore had been taken from the body of the previous captain of the guard and still had the ugly stain ripping down the back. Stitched together with a scrap of leather thong.

His boots were mismatched, but he didn't care. They were comfortable, and didn't pinch his toes.

He clicked his tongue in disgust as he entered the small eatery.

He was flanked by two guards. Bill and Pryke. Bill, elder of the two, looked bored and uninterested in anything except the dry snot he was rolling between his fingers. There was something simple about his expression, but nothing simple about the sword at his waist.

Sharpe's grey eyes searched the gloom. Ignored the cook, whom he'd never liked. And found Eli's back.

The elf, studying the man, could read his sudden desire to plunge his sword into Eli's back as clearly as if he'd screamed his intent.

Eli, still grinning at the elf's joke, didn't even turn. But his glittering eyes narrowed slightly as the door opened, and the elf recognised the oil-thin ribbon of hate simmering beneath the mercenary's skin.

He sucked a lungful of air and said; “Did I ever tell you, Nysta, about the Lord of this hovel? He is a big man. A big man with a big mouth. I swear you can hear him all the way across the Deadlands when he whispers. Many people are afraid of him. They say many things about him. But you should never be afraid of him, no matter what you hear. Do you know why? Two things, mostly. One, he's a coward. He will run from trouble, leaving you to die in his place. So you are safe. But also because he is so loud you will always know he is coming. Even if you don't hear him, you can smell him. Smell him like an ork's fart! Isn't this so,
Lord
Sharpe of Tannen's Muck?”

Lord Sharpe's lip twisted into a snarl, but he kept his anger in check. Instead, he kicked a stool out of his path and loomed over the table. His gaze flicked toward her, then quickly looked away.

He'd come for Eli.

“You're a pain the ass, but I don't have time to deal with your shit, Eli, you old fuck. But one day, I will.” His voice was the raw voice she remembered from the wall. Dry and tough.

“One day is the same as the next,” Eli shrugged.

“Pryke said you came in from the south.”

Eli shot the named guard a withering look. “Pryke has a big mouth. No wonder you two are very good friends.”

“You reckon everyone has a big mouth,” Nysta pointed out.

Eli nodded with mock seriousness. “This is true. It is because there are too many dicks here which need constant attention by the town's guards. Especially their
Lord
.”

Sharpe's heavy hand reached out and gripped Eli by the throat. He pushed, rather than shoved, the mercenary against the wall.

He was a big man. Bigger than Eli. But rather than look afraid, the weasel-faced man simply accepted the display of brute force and returned Sharpe's glare with a cheerful grin. His eyes, however, shivered with the need to kill.

His fingers twitched.

“Go for it,” Sharpe snarled. “See if you can draw before I snap your neck like a fucking twig, Eli. Go on. Take a chance. Maybe you're fast enough to stick me. But you'll never be quick enough to kill me before I kill you.”

Bill licked his lips and flicked his snot away. It spattered into the wall beside Eli's head.

Pryke looked away, his eyes tugged toward the elf.

“Has anyone ever told you, Sharpe,” Eli choked out. “That you are a very violent man?”

“Answer my question.”

“How can I?” Eli mockingly threw him a puzzled expression despite struggling to breathe. “When you did not ask a question.”

“You know what I'm asking.”

Eli's gaze slid across to her as Sharpe's grip tightened. He showed a nervous smile. “A little help, my friend?”

Nysta shrugged. “I'm eating.”

Sharpe's voice was clipped. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” Eli at last moved, bringing his hands up to grip the captain's wrists. Rage crackled in his voice. “I saw fucking nothing, you piece of stinking dog shit.”

There was a sliver of time where the two men were suddenly consumed by their hate for each other. When it looked as though Sharpe would tear Eli's throat out.

And Eli would go for his knives.

And blood would spray across the cantina's stained walls.

Ffloyd inhaled loudly. “Please, Lord,” he said nervously. “Not inside. Take him outside if you want to kill him.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “I will kill you, Sharpe. Or you will kill me. This is a sure thing. But not today, I am thinking. You will need me. You know this. You kill me now, and you will die. Grey Jackets are coming. An army of them. And you have, what? Twenty men on the walls? You need every one of us. Now, you let me go, you dirty sonofabitch. You let me go. Or I will kill you now. Make no mistake. I will kill you. Because you need me more than I ever needed you.”

Lord Sharpe released him with a furious growl. “It's true I need you, Eli. But maybe not as much as you fucking think. Maybe I just want someone to clean out the shit buckets.”

“How long do we have?” Ffloyd asked from behind the counter. He'd pulled the cork from another bottle and already half-drained its contents. “Your Lordship? How long until they get here?”

“Hours. Fucking minutes. Seconds.” Lord Sharpe's fists clenched and unclenched. “How the fuck should I know? But they were seen this morning. They're coming here.”

“We could run?”

“Run?” He sneered. “The Shadowed Halls will freeze before I run from Caspiellan bastards. I don't give a shit how many there are. No. We fight. And anyone who tries to leave, I'll gut like a fish. You'll fight, too, you yellow sonofabitch.”

“Me?” Ffloyd squeaked. “I can't-”

“Don't piss me off,” Lord Sharpe said, voice suddenly quiet. “I know what you used to be, Ffloyd. The kind of bastard you were. You don't just lose it. It's there. Maybe buried so deep you think you can't drag it out of the stinking depths where you hid it. But it's there. Always.”

The cook blinked, then turned away to stare down at the empty bottles behind the counter.

“Don't bet on it, feller,” the elf said.

Lord Sharpe turned, slowly. His hard face unreadable. “And who are you, Long-ear? Some stinkweed blown in on the breeze? I saw you squeeze inside before Eli. Turds always comes in twos, I figure. Pad said you'd seen something of these Caspiellans. Well, what about you? You really see them?”

“I saw them,” she said easily. “Grey Jackets. Well-armed. Some of them looked pretty good at what they do. As for who I am? Well. That ain't any of your business.”

“You wanna know what's my business around here, Long-ear?” He waited for her to reply, and continued when he realised he was getting nothing from her except an impassive stare; “Everything. That's what. I'm the Lord, here. As close to a king as this shithole's ever going to get. Now that maybe don't mean too much to someone like you. Maybe you ain't never thought of putting down roots. But this shithole's all I got. I worked fucking hard to get it. And I wanna keep it. No fucking piece of shit Caspiellans are coming to take it away from me. And no burned out raider, halfwit fucking mercenary, or smartass throatslitter's going to get in my way, neither. You'll help me keep what's mine. Or you're just another corpse on the battlefield. You hear me?”

“Half the Deadlands can hear you,
Lord
Sharpe.” Eli rubbed at his neck, where the red marks left from Lord Sharpe's fingers still throbbed. “It is as I said before. You have a very big mouth.”

Anything Lord Sharpe might have said was lost as a frantic series of blasts from a horn rang through the town. Heavy footsteps beat on the road outside the cantina.

And the door opened fast.

Sharpe snapped his gaze toward the grizzled old mercenary who pushed his way inside. And while every line on the newcomer's face preached a life of hardship and violence, his eyes were wide and showed only one emotion.