When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (15 page)

That he was warped by his own fears and wasn't thinking properly.

She turned to go back to her room, pushing at the hate. Trying to settle herself.

He was just a boy, she told herself.

“I'll kill you for this,” he said through gritted teeth. His spittle, stained pink with blood, dribbled down his chin as he spoke. “You Tainted cow. You'll see.”

Fulci's Last Joke
splashed into his shoulder, tearing a shriek from his lungs. And then he slipped on the stairs. Tumbled down, screaming.
 

She followed, a deep guttural snarl crawling across her lips. Could taste iron in her mouth. The glorious taste of violence. All forgiveness was disintegrated by needlepoints of hatred.

The thrill of killing him was too much to resist, and she raised
Excession
high above his head as she landed on top of him, legs pinning him to the ground. Could feel the screams of the young guard washing over her like a sonic wave.
 

All her fears.

All her doubts. Her pain.

Everything swept away in that single moment as she prepared to send his soul shrieking into the ever-hungry jaws of the Shadowed Halls.

“Stop!” Another voice roared from nearby. “Don't you dare kill him! I need him! I need every man who can hold a sword.”

Her violet eyes flashed toward Lord Sharpe, whose falchion was drawn. A brutal looking thing, held by a brutal man. A man whose own need to kill was laid bare on his face.

She looked down at Pryke, his face twisting between terror and hate.

“He ain't no man,” she said icily. Then reached down. Snatched Pryke's coat and lifted him up as she got to her feet. Flung the wounded guard toward Sharpe and aimed a kick at him as he sprawled before the self-proclaimed Lord. “But you want him alive? Then keep him the fuck away from me.”

Lord Sharpe's glanced at Pryke, eyes burning. “Get out of here, you stupid shit. Get Berek to see to your shoulder. Go on, fuck you. Move, before I finish what she started!”

“Wait,” the elf called as Pryke started to leave.

“What now?” Sharpe lifted his sword, ready to fight.

She held out her hand. “My knife. I want it back.”

Pryke whirled to face her. “Hey, fuck you-”

Then screamed again as Lord Sharpe moved with a speed which surprised the elf. He moved from his waist, reaching out to snap his fingers around the handle protruding from the young guard's shoulder. Then, in the same motion, wrenched the blade free before tossing it with a contemptuous snort at the elf's feet. “Happy now?”

She made no move to retrieve the blade. Instead rolled her shoulders and feigned boredom. “I'm working on it.”

“Ain't we all,” he muttered before turning his back on her. Glared at the young guard moaning on the ground. “Come on, you bastard. Move. I want you on the wall in five fucking minutes.”

“She cut me-”

But Sharpe wasn't interested anymore. His thoughts had clearly turned back to the more important task at hand. “Yeah? You're lucky she didn't kill you.”

The elf watched them leave until she was certain there would be no more violence. Then bent to retrieve her knife. Wiped it on a rag she took from one of her many pouches.

Dropped the sticky cloth on the floor, then headed back up the stairs.

Didn't sheath the blade.

Instead, still wary of shadows, the elf slid back into the room. Closed the door and headed toward the window again. Looked out.

Saw Sharpe pushing Pryke through the mud. Felt satisfied as she saw the young man's arm hung loose by his side. She was certain he'd die in the coming battle, and that was almost good enough for her.

Still couldn't see any sign of the goblin.

“Little bastard,” she mumbled. Turned back toward the door, and took a few steps toward the bed.

Used
Fulci's Last Joke
to scratch at the palm of her hand.
 

Sheathed the blade.

Said; “Fuck.”

And swung around with a savage growl, steel flashing in her hands as she drew
Kindness
and
Peace Makes Plenty
. The feel of the two handles in her fists helped ease the panic, but didn't do much to quell the rising dread as a muted crack sounded in her ears and the shadows exploded above her head, dropping the goblin down onto her shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

He landed with a gleeful squeak, small razor hissing through the air to nestle in the crook of her neck just below her ear.

The cold threat of the blade on her skin made her freeze and she let her breath squeeze through her teeth in frustration as the goblin giggled in her ear. A droplet of sweat squeezed from her pores and slithered down the edge of the blade.

“Bloodhand!” He cried with childish delight. “It Quietly here. You surprised? I bet you not see me up here.”

Unsure of the little creature's intentions, and deeply aware of the fickle nature of goblins, she didn't move. Managed to keep her voice even as she drawled; “Yeah, feller. You sure got the drop on me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Eyes squeezed into savage violet slits, she angled her head to look up at the goblin still perched on her shoulders.

And saw no anger there. Just feline amusement. All the same, he was dangerous. All goblins were.

They stayed there, locked in silent challenge for what felt like an age, but was probably less than a second. Given the smug expression on his face, the elf's reflex was to shove him hard in the throat. Send him wheeling off her back. Then ram
Kindness
deep into his belly and let his entrails ripple across the floor like glistening snakes.
 

But she knew she'd never make it.

Knew the razor at her neck, while small and seemingly insignificant, was honed to perfection. It would slide through her flesh as though through butter, spraying the goblin with her blood before she even had the chance to finish her first strike.

With a grunt, she allowed her body to relax, an acceptance of his victory.

Which he took with a respectful nod before flipping off her shoulder and landing without a sound on the old floorboards. Scurrying to the door, he whipped it open.

Peered out into the hall.

Giggled.

Shut the door with no attempt to be quiet and turned back to find her splayed in a defensive crouch, knives still in hand. Ready to fight. To kill. Or die trying.

Unconcerned, the little goblin stuck his razor back into his belt.

Smiled more broadly. Lifted both hands in a peaceful gesture, thin green fingers wide, and said; “Not be worried, Bloodhand. Me not come kill elf. We have agreement, remember? It all big mistake. Me come see elf. Just words.”

Still fuelled on fear, the elf resisted the urge to spit at him. Was frozen in place by the intensity of his gaze. Large coal pits surrounded by luminescent green irises. Something inside them tugged at her heart, leaving a whirling clash of emotions bound by shadows.

Shadows which touched her ribs with cold fingers.

She could feel those fingers as though they were real. Feel them brushing against her bones. Sliding through the meat of her chest. Coiling around her heart. And, within the shadow's fist, she felt her heart hum.

Like an army of insects, the cold crawled outward along her skin.

A sea of cold bodies squirming up her side.

Shuddering, the elf sheathed her blades and scrubbed at the source. Fingers reaching under her shirt to scratch at her ribs.

She hoped it was lice. Or a rash from the venomous thorns she'd been crawling through. Something banal like that.

Begged silently it was so.

And tried her best to ignore the look on the goblin's face. A look which shifted from shy humour to something more confused. As though he'd expected a different greeting. As though he was surprised by her indifference.

“You jump out of nowhere on me again,” she said tightly. “And you better be fast. Better kill me quick. Because next time, I'll be doing my best to kill you.”

“Me let elf live,” Quietly protested, still looking confused.

“They say life is all about learning from your mistakes.”

The confusion deepened. “You make mistake?”

“Letting me live was your mistake, feller. Not mine.” She lifted herself to her full height. And while she wasn't tall, she towered over the small goblin. Deliberately, she turned her back on him and moved toward the window. Looked out to see the guards and mercenaries scurrying along the walls like rats.

Deadly rats, bristling with steel spears and arms loaded with arrows. So there were more weapon supplies than just those being cobbled together by a few townsfolk. It seemed Sharpe had kept a good store.

She continued to ignore the goblin, who was busy scratching his head trying to work out what she'd been talking about. And seemed to be coming to a few conclusions.

The elf nudged the window open. Allowed the air to gnash into the room on chilled teeth. She felt more interested in the noise the men weren't making, because there was no chatter.

No banter.

Just a hollow silence which beckoned to an incoming storm. Not of weather, but of iron. And blood.

She figured the Caspiellans must be close. Must be forming themselves up in front of the old fort. Preparing to assault what they figured would be an easy target.

The walls, Storr no doubt presumed, were held by a ragged bunch of untrained mercenaries. Killers who preyed on unwary victims and could never hope to stand before a well-fitted army. Even a small one. The fort would crumble as the men realised their hopeless position and began to run.

Or died on their feet.

The walls, he'd believe, would fall quickly.

And then they'd be inside. Grey Jackets flooding the town like a swarm of ants. Tearing everything apart. Ripping up every floorboard in search of what they'd come for.

Revenge for another town filled with death.

Death she'd delivered on the edge of her blades.

But now, as with then, she didn't even consider surrender. Never gave even a single thought to offering herself for the lives of those who lived in the town. Not just because she didn't care for anyone here. But because she knew it would make no difference.

To the Grey Jackets, all who lived without accepting Rule were Tainted. And, as the most fanatical of Rule's people, they would slaughter the town down to the last soul.

So much death in her wake, she thought. All for the murder of her husband.

She wondered if it was worth it.

Wondered if he even knew what she'd done in his name.

And how many would now die for him.

Her jaw hardened as she ground her teeth together to keep from spilling more tears. She hated how easy it was to cry when she thought of him.

“Me know,” Quietly said suddenly. “You broken.”

She frowned, unaware her grief had shown so clearly. “Victims,” she sighed. “Ain't we all? But that ain't nothing to crow about right now. Besides, your shoulder ain't big enough to cry on.”

“You no worry, Bloodhand. Heart heal you fast. You see.”

She kept her eyes on the wall. Watched Lord Sharpe's rigid stance as he stood there, facing out across the snow-gripped plain. Waited for a sign.

“Sure, feller. You gonna say what you came to say?”

“Me talk Bigshot. After elf leave. Tell him we follow elf. I want tell elf story.”

“You reckon we've got time?”

“It not big story.” He grinned happily, hopping onto the bed beside the window. He peeked out, ducking his head as though trying to find something. What he was searching for, she couldn't guess. Because instead of looking toward the front of the town where the battle would begin, he squinted down the street toward the rear.

“Didn't figure it would be,” she said easily. “Seeing as there ain't nothing big about you.”

“It begin with Cathead. She Treasure Keeper for Hatchets mob. They big mob.” He held up all six fingers, keeping his thumbs tucked away. “There nine of them. Big goblins. Big goblinknives. They best there is.”

“Wouldn't count on it,” she muttered.

“Cathead travel far. She carry treasure all way from Southspite. It far away. You know it?”

“Heard of it. A city up past the Great Wall?”

Beaming at her, Quietly nodded enthusiastically. “Many months of running. Cathead carry big treasures. Special treasures.”

The elf had met few goblins.

Had seen only a few more than that. But she knew all about the kinds of things goblins thought were treasures. Bits of bones. Wyrmscales. Feathers. Teeth taken from the bodies of those they killed.

Mostly items a goblin might use to create crude charms or to decorate their precious goblinknives with.

She grunted, unimpressed. “Still ain't seeing what that's got to do with me. Or what's happening here.”

“We come over Bloods. Kill a Dhampir, too. It die hard. We take fang as treasure. Good treasure. But need to break up. Need to send some Hatchets east. Some west. Must be done. No choice. We meet up at tree near Grimwood Creek, say.” He sighed. “But it bad decision. We get to tree. No Treasure Keeper. Wait, but no Treasure Keeper come.”

“Figure she stole it, uh?”

Quietly shook his head. “Treasure Keeper never steal. Never. Treasure Keeper only keep treasure. If Treasure Keeper steal, Eventide curse. Forever.”

The elf looked down at the serious-faced goblin. “So, you figured I stole it?”

“We think so. But later. Not first.” He said. His eyes flickered as sorrow skipped through his expression. “First we find Cathead's body. It cut up bad. She look bad. Skin broken and black. Blood cold as ice. You see this before?”

“Reckon so.”

“It bad thing.” He shook his head sadly. “She die bad way, Bloodhand. Cathead too good for that way. But she in Hall now. With Eventide. She warm now. Happy.”

“Lucky her,” the elf murmured.

“Lucky for Eventide, too,” Quietly grinned. “But we not just find Cathead. We find treasure. But some missing. Some gone. Special treasure, too. It gone. We not know who take treasure, so we do goblin magic. We find Special treasure.”