When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (13 page)

Fear.

Sharpe frowned at him. “Tak?”

“They're here,” Tak gasped. “My Lord, they're here.”

“How many?” Eli asked before Lord Sharpe could speak.

“Fifty. Maybe more,” the old mercenary blurted. “Maybe even a hundred. What are we gonna do?”

Lord Sharpe was still, implacable eyes staring at the man, though he saw nothing outside of his own thoughts. His arm twitched over the heavy sword at his waist and his frown deepened. “Do? We fight. We fight like the sonsofbitches we are. And send as many of those Grey Jacket bastards back to the arms of their pox-riddled god. That's what we'll do, Tak.”

“It is a miracle,
Lord
,” Eli said. His grin tightened and his eyes gleamed nastily. “You have said something intelligent. Even if I do not believe you will stand anywhere except behind the rest of us. And with your back to fighting. In fact, I think your legs will be running as fast as they can.”

“Fuck you, Eli,” Lord Sharpe snapped. Then strode out of the cantina with a determined gait. Tak stammered beside him, looking like he couldn't get any more frightened.

Pryke glanced back once, cheeks red as he swept his gaze over her.

Nysta ignored him.

Kept her eyes on her bowl, and the greasy beans left within.

When they were out of earshot, Eli slumped in his chair and scooped up his spoon. Scowled quickly before flashing the elf a frustrated grimace. “I hate that man, my friend. I hate him so much I would like to take him somewhere very quiet and let the mountains echo with the sound of his screams for many, many days. And this, I will do. He owes me much, that cowardly bastard.”

“Owes you?”

“He owes me his death.” She was surprised by the calmness of his voice. The utter certainty of it. And the coldness of his hatred. “Not just me. He owes many friends of mine. Friends I will see in the Shadowed Halls when I die. Owes us all. And one day, my friend. One day I will collect. And the Deadlands will hear his big mouth scream. This I swear. And all the world knows I always do what I say I will do.”

“Fifty,” Ffloyd echoed. Lifted the bottle to his lips and drank hard, shaking his head. Gasped as he took a breath, then looked over at Eli. His eyes were muted, glistening wetly as though tears were only seconds away from forming. “And not more than two dozen of us. And ain't many left who can fight. Fifty. Dark Lord save us. You hear that? Maybe even a hundred. Why not a thousand? We're dead, Eli. Fucking dead. No doubt this time. Ain't no one out here to come save us. We're fucking fucked.”

“Shut your mouth, Ffloyd,” Eli said casually. His grin returned as he watched the elf finish eating. “Now they are here, my friend. What will you do? Will you stay and fight with the rest of us? Or do the smart thing and jump the wall and head for the mountains?”

The elf shrugged. “Right now, I'll finish eating. Then look for a bed. After that? Reckon we'll see.”

“They could break through those gates at any second,” Ffloyd said, looking at her in disbelief. “And you're looking for somewhere to kip?”

“What else you want me to do, feller?”

“Fight! Look at you. I know your kind. Sure, I might have been that kind once, but not any more. Now, I'm just a cook. A fat old cook. Whose hands can't even hold a sword, let alone swing it. But, you? You're covered in knives, and I've seen you use them. So, help us. Don't let them get in here, Long-ear. Please. I beg you.” His face was pale, cheeks red with drink, and the whining tone set her teeth on edge. “Your kind lives to fight. So, go out there. Help Lord Sharpe. Fight to live for a change.”

“A pretty speech, my friend,” Eli patted the table mockingly. “But a pointless one, I am thinking. You see, you do not understand what is happening. There is an army outside these walls. Maybe not a big one, but it outnumbers us and is better equipped than the criminals which live here. And it will attack us, soon. Yet, we have archers. I see a few of them as I come inside. Clem and Dam are two of the best in the Deadlands. The thought of facing the skills of these men is enough to make those Caspiellan bastards nervous. For a few hours, at least. Then they will get brave. And our archers will shoot them from the walls. They will run away. Then return a few hours later. They will do this until we run out of arrows. This will take time. Until this time, what would you have us do? We are masters of the knife, my friend. What good are we until they are swarming over the wall like the rats they are? Sharpe, Grim curse his worthless hide, can easily look after the wall for some time. He does not need us yet. Or he would have dragged us away to die with him. No no, Ffloyd. We are the last line, Nysta and I. We are the ones who will stand when the walls have fallen. This you will see. Until then, I think my friend here has the right idea.”

The cook took another drink. He knew Eli was right, but the thought of two fighters doing nothing while others died still nagged at his drunken mind. Muttered; “Grim's teeth. You're both mad.”

“Reckon it's a case of takes one to know one, feller,” the elf returned lightly, dropping her spoon. She lifted herself from the stool and rubbed at the scar on her cheek. Headed toward the door, lip curling slightly as the cook swayed on his feet. “On account of you being the one who looks pissed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The elf had every intention of finding a quiet place to bed down for a while. Her arms ached, and the back of her neck pulsed pain like a steel fist was hammering her spine.

But as she stepped out into the relative brightness of the street, her violet eyes caught a shadow flickering in the mouth of an alley a little further into the town.

She paused in the doorway of Ffloyd's cantina and pursed her lips. She'd been here often enough to know Tannen's Run was the kind of town which had many haunted alleys. Haunted by cutpurses and worse. A few shadows drifting in the darkened lanes wouldn't normally get her attention.

There was a terrifying stillness to the air. A heady mix of fear and anticipation as most of the town's inhabitants converged along the walls, or worked in the shadows of the parapets to bring supplies to the mercenaries readying themselves for the onslaught of violence to come.

There was no need to haunt the alleys.

Yet, someone did. Someone who didn't want to be seen.

And the elf felt a creeping sensation between her shoulders as she began to suspect it was for her the shadows were waiting.

Her first instinct was to rush the alley. Kill everything in it.

Even the rats.

Let the blood wash the shadows clean.

But she recognised this for the stupid idea it was. Knew it was the product of months of pent-up grief and frustration as she battled with the aftermath of her husband's death and the nagging feeling she'd been cursed by his legacy.

Hand dropping to the empty sheath at her waist, the elf instead chose to move away from the alley toward the inn next to the cantina. Figured she'd find a room there.

Instead, she found two men seated inside the taproom. Lounging back in high-backed chairs. Feet up on the table. Beer in hand. Easy grins on their faces as she entered.

She recognised the men as those who'd been standing in front of the inn when she'd arrived. The pair were dressed for a fight. Hatchets slung low on their hips. A few knives.

Both waiting for the fighting to begin.

The oldest looked to be in his late twenties. He wore his hood up over his head and his eyes lacked humour despite his grin. The youngest had the face of an angel. Hardly touched by the harshness of the Deadlands.

His grin was more nervous, his grip on his mug a little less easy. He was still green. A little too raw for the Deadlands. So, unable to read a given situation, the muscles of his arms were bunched as he readied himself for anything she might throw at him.

All that kept him from reeling off his chair and rushing forward, was the laconic response of the man with the hood.

“Barkeep's headed to the wall,” the hooded man said, voice a lazy drawl. He lifted his mug toward the bar. “Don't reckon he'll mind you pouring your own, though. Got other things on his mind right now.”

The elf nodded in response and looked around at the otherwise empty taproom.

The ageing furniture and stained floor.

A small shield hung on the wall. Didn't look large enough for a man, and the elf had seen plenty like it. Some claimed them to be the shields of dwarfs. Most were obvious forgeries.

This one bore an odd glyph which made the elf itch to look at, though she couldn't explain why. Almost as though she'd seen it in her dreams. Or, she allowed silently, her nightmares.

She looked away, toward the bar. Stepped past the two men, ignoring their curious expressions.

The bar itself was old, the wood heavily stained and scratched. She moved behind it, looking around for a clean mug. Found one, and poured from the largest barrel. Then turned back to eye the two men as she lifted the mug to her lips.

The youngest still watched her, but the eldest had his gaze aimed at the door.

It didn't take long for the kid to blurt; “What're you doing in Tannen's Run, Long-ear?”

“Feller out there on the wall? One with the big sword and bad temper?”

“Lord Sharpe,” the youth supplied.

“That's the one. He asked the same question.”

“So?”

“Told him the same as I'll tell you. Ain't your business.”

The youth's face screwed up as he tried to decide if she was being deliberately offensive. Had almost decided she was, when his partner leaned over to place a hand on his wrist. “Easy, Hudson.”

“Aww, come on, Hicks. You heard the way she spoke to me.

“Just be easy.” Hicks dropped his hood to show off a tight crop of red hair. His pale skin dashed with freckles. And for a brief moment, the elf felt her heart bounce in her chest as she was reminded so quickly of her brother. The brother she'd killed. Whose head now lay on her husband's grave. “Hey, Long-ear? We don't mean no offence. Just asking because we ain't in the loop, so to speak. Ain't no one's saying what's happening. So, you think you might help out a little? Maybe tell us what you know about what's going on here?”

The beer was sour. Weak and flavoured with crushed apples. It tasted, she thought, like shit. But she drank it anyway. “Seems a small army's got us pinned down. Grey Jackets.”

“An army,” Hudson's eyes widened. “Man. A real army? Of Grey Jackets? Man, they're the worst. My pa told me they were crazier than fucking goblins. And they're right outside? You really think that's true?”

The elf resisted the urge to smile at the young man's obvious innocence. “Figure there's a reason the townfolk are all at the walls. Sounds like a good enough reason to me.”

“If you're so sure,” the youth sneered. “Then why ain't you up there fighting, too?”

“Ain't my fight,” she said.

Hicks nodded slowly. Despite the obvious excitement of his younger partner, said; “That's the way we figure it. So, you'll be looking for a way out of this deathtrap?”

“Nope. Just looking for a bed to lie down in.”

“You hear that?” Hudson half-rose from his seat, held only by Hicks' hand on his arm. “She wants to die in bed. Reckon she's got a fucking yellow stripe right down her back.”

The elf's violet eyes glittered, though her mind still struggled to pull her thoughts together. Should she fight them? Were they trying to rile her? Were they just afraid?

What did they want from her?

Would they attack first, or should she?

Smoke drifted across her mind, and clouded her eyes.

She put the old wooden mug down on the bar and stepped back around. Stood only a few paces from the two men. Noticed the way Hicks' hand tightened around Hudson's wrist. And caught the flicker of concern in the older man's eyes.

Concern not for himself. But for Hudson.

Considered throwing herself at them. Sending
Go With My Blessing
into Hudson's right eye. Could almost feel the satisfaction of the kill rippling through her arm.

Then she'd kill Hicks. Rip open his chest.

Hack at his heart as though trying to dig a grave in his spine.

But the lust passed as quickly as it came, and she stood there, face an impassive mask. And waited to see what Hicks would do.

As though aware of the elf's lethal thoughts, the red-haired man tightened his grip on Hudson. And said; “Tell you again. He meant no offence, Long-ear. We're just a bit jumpy is all. Ain't every day you're surrounded by an army of Grey Jackets.”

Hudson frowned, made to pull himself free, but trusted his partner enough to not try too hard. Instead scowled harder and accepted the excuses made on his behalf. “Shit,” he muttered. “What're you being like that for? I ain't scared of her. She's just a fucking Long-ear, man. We killed plenty of them before.”

“Trust me, partner. We ain't killed one like this,” Hicks said softly. Turned his attention back to her. “Ain't our business what you do, Long-ear. We'll keep out of your way. But don't be thinking just because I'm holding him from jumping you means he ain't good at what he does. He is. Like to think I am, too. And two of us against you? Well. I'll wager you know how that fight will go down. And Hudson's right. We killed a lot of your kind before.”

“You said it, feller.” The elf's lip curled slightly toward the scar on her cheek. “You ain't met my kind before. If you had, you'd be dead.”

Hudson snorted, but it was Hicks who answered; “Won't argue about it, Long-ear. Not here. Not now. Let's just keep it civil. Could be we'll need each other soon enough. Hate to think we couldn't put aside our differences long enough to survive this. There's more than enough folks outside that wall want us dead. I don't see why we should help them get what they want, right?”

Shrugging, the elf moved slowly toward the door. She knew Hicks was speaking more for Hudson's benefit, so felt no need to make any reply more than a grunt.

She leaned in the doorway and watched the townsfolk as they scurried around like insects beneath the walls. Saw the old man working to sharpen swords. An old lady bringing a basket of feathers to another old lady who was busy trying to make arrows.