When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (19 page)

The elf couldn't help but laugh. “And that's gonna be you? Eli, whenever you're around, I always expect a knife in the back.”

“You hurt my feelings when you say such things. I am not like this.”

“You're slime, Eli. You'd cut me down without a thought if you thought you'd get what you want.”

“How little you know me, my friend. Sure, I would kill a man from behind. It's easier, and I do not have to look at his stupid expression as he dies. But you, you are different. You are a friend. You will see me coming, Nysta. I will give you warning. We are fighters, you and I. The same. I would not insult you by killing you from behind. How would I meet you in the Shadowed Halls if I did that? No no no. When I kill you, it will be a duel which has been fought for many hours, I am sure.”

He hesitated as they reached the inn.

Reached for her, but stopped short of touching. “Look, Nysta. I am serious this one time with you. I am not your enemy. When I think of fighting you, it is because I want to see who is the best of us. But when that bastard looks at you, his thoughts are not so honourable. And I know he has a silver tongue for a man who looks so stupid. You would not be the first to listen to that tongue. To believe what he tells you. I once believed him. And paid the price. I would need many more bottles of wine to tell you the whole story. But for now, my friend. For now, do not trust him. Do not turn your back on him. I tell you this because I like you.”

“And because you want to be the one to kill me?”

He shrugged, and the wide grin was back. “Why not? Who better to kill you than a friend? At least I would not kill you slowly. You would die quick. And then I would take your favourite knives for my own.”

“Or I might take yours, Eli.” She glanced down at the remaining knife on his hip. “Ever think of that?”

“It will be a fight worthy of the worship of gods. I tell you, if Grim were not rotting in the frozen ground of Godsfall, he would witness our fight and make us both immortal for it.” He followed her inside, but where she headed toward the stairs, he aimed for the bar where Hicks and Hudson were already helping themselves. Called; “But who knows, my friend? Before the Dark Lord and his bastard brother came to this land, there were many gods. Maybe one will rise from the shadows to embrace the winner!”

She pushed open the door of the room she'd decided to take for her own to find the goblin had gone. Nudging the door closed behind her, she crossed to the window and looked out at the street.

Saw nothing in the shadows of the alley. No sign of Quietly.

Just shadows frozen and expectant.

Pursed her lip in irritation and dropped onto the bed. It had the smell of those who'd slept there before. A sour, yet dusty fragrance.

It wasn't comfortable, but she'd slept on worse more often than not.

Crossed her legs and looked up at the ceiling.

A spider made its web in the corner above her head. She watched it as it crept slowly in circles.

Long black legs picking at its web.

Each leg a sword. A sword like the one carried by General Storr. Shivering in the dull light squeezing into the room.

Calm horror settled over her like a blanket. Touched her mind with drifting tendrils.

Probing.

Seeking.

Her thoughts, fragmented and uneasy, turned inward.

And her eyes closed, swallowing the light without a sound.

Her dreams, when they came, were strange. Surreal.

Images flickering awkwardly against each other.

Shadows, surrounded by stars, folding in on themselves. A roaring violent creasing of the darkness to create something utterly devoid of light.

A metallic wall.

She touched the wall, and it was cold. A burning red light hovered above her. Turning the wall the colour of blood.

Hands, wrapped in shadow-wreathed gauntlets.

And the world tilted.

More images flickering. A hand, twisted and burning, reaching for the sky.

A sudden screeching scream which dragged her through a million sketched memories until she was home. In Lostlight.

An alley, battling against shadows of its own.

And she was inside the alley's mouth. Feeling it clamp around her like the fanged jaws of a wyrm.

He was there. Mocking her. Storr. Sword in hand, pointing it at her heart.

Laughing.

And that shiv. The crude weapon she'd sharpened on the stone floor of a dozen alleyways. In her hand.

She ran at him, driving the shiv toward his guts.

Wanting to tear him open.

But the sword slid through her ribs. Angled up to burst through her heart and erupt in a fountain of gore through her back. Her blood, sprayed across the alley wall. A red alien scrawl.

And the light, shining above her. Blinking on and off.

On and off.

She howled, dying on that blade. But couldn't stop swinging her arm. Trying to bury the shiv in his face. Swinging it back and forth.

Back and forth.

But he kept moving away. Kept laughing. Eyes shining like two coals in the heart of flame.

Tears, wrenched from her eyes, shattering in the flashing red light. Just two more glistening drops to mingle with the ocean of red already spreading across the filth-stained floor.

And then the rats were coming.

To feed on her flesh as he slid the sword free. Smoking, the heavy blade turned the air to frost as it crackled with energy between them.

And the Grey Jacket General walked away. Paused for a moment in the alley's closing mouth, and nodded once. Said nothing before disappearing into the shadows.

Her arm kept moving, flailing as she fell to her knees. Like a beached fish, she flopped onto her back, kicking and arching her back. Something was pressing on top of her chest. Holding her down. Pushing her onto the foul alley floor.

Where she was going to die, drowning in her own blood.

Breath coming in ragged gasps.

She still swung the shiv.

Still sought blood which wasn't her own.

Choking.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't get air into her lungs.

Losing her mind as spots of light speckled the night like exploding stars.

A voice, brushing against her ears.

Soft.

Yet, raw with murderous need. Hollow and ugly.

“Told you I'd kill you, Tainted blood.”

Her fingers wrapped around the hard edge of the handle. And the shiv found flesh. It bit deep. The weight lifted suddenly.

And the elf screamed as she woke.
Not Invented Here
was in her hand, though how it got there she couldn't say. Blood creamed the blade and spattered the wall.

Confusion made her roll off the bed. She landed on her belly and lifted herself slowly, rubbing her neck and sucking air. Heard dull sobbing from behind. Flooded with weakness, the elf slumped on her knees.

Turned her head.

And saw Pryke, clutching at his side. Blood glistened.

Violet eyes slitted, the elf looked down at
Not Invented Here
and frowned at the straight blade. Had her arm moved on its own? Or had she moved in her dreams?

Her bicep hurt. A sharp pain. As though the muscle was stretched across a ball of ice which kept expanding. Something slithered down her shoulder, a cold worm blindly coiling around her arm.

Could also feel fresh bruises blooming under her skin around her neck, and it horrified her to know she'd come so close to dying.

Ignoring the pain, the elf forced herself to grip the handle harder as Pryke backed away.

“Still alive, feller?” Her voice was quiet in the room, dry from where his hands had squeezed her throat. She beckoned with the blade. The shadows grew more oppressive and Pryke babbled incoherently as she finished; “Come closer. We'll soon fix that.”

“No!” he cried. “It's not fair. I killed you. I did, I know it. You should be dead!” Then he lurched to his feet and staggered away. Desperation making him squeal as he fell out through the doorway, leaving a trail of crimson splashing across the floor. His shoulder slammed into the wall and he used it to keep himself upright as he fled.

She would have followed him.

Wanted to.

But her legs were too weak. They refused to bear her weight, and her chest felt fully expanded even though her lungs were empty. It was getting harder to breathe.

Nysta felt an icy cold touch wriggling around her heart. Like small hands pawing at her ribcage from the inside. Icy prisoners keen to escape.

For a moment, she thought her wounds were worse. That maybe he'd stabbed her. Cut her deep across the ribs. It certainly felt like it. Afraid of seeing her own blood, the elf looked down hesitantly at her chest.

And saw nothing. Everything intact.

No new wounds. Nothing to show he'd even touched her, if he had.

But still her legs wouldn't respond.

It was as if they were made of rubber. Dead weight beneath her waist.

Fear rising in her guts, she remained where she was, gulping air. Kneeling beside the bed. Too numb and too exhausted to move. Listening to Pryke's shrieks as he carried himself from the inn and out into the street.

And then Eli was in the doorway, knives in hand. “Nysta!” he cried, rushing into the room. He looked around quickly, searching for sign of what had happened. “Are you okay, my friend? The blood, is it yours? No. It is not yours. A good thing. You are lucky.”

She allowed him to lift her by her arms.

Moaned as he placed her back on the bed. Could smell the stale stink of beer on his breath. It made her stomach recoil.

“Those bastards,” he muttered, a look of genuine concern touching his eyes. He shot a venomous look toward the doorway. “Filthy sonsofbitches, all of them. But I told you they would come when you were not ready for them. I told you, my friend. But you do not listen. You think you can do everything on your own. Now, look at you. Look at what happened when you do not listen to Eli. You nearly get yourself killed. Why would you do this to yourself? Why would you not listen to good advice from those who count you their friend? You are as stubborn and stupid as an ork!”

She sighed.

Looked back up at the spider nestled in the heart of its web. Thought of Talek and the box. Let a weak smile play at her mouth. “I know, Eli,” she said. “It's a curse.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She woke to find night had stolen the day.

It'd left behind a sullen glow boiling through the slits in the curtains. A glow let loose across the town by the many fires placed along the wall to provide fair warning against any sudden attacks by the Caspiellans camped around the town.

Though they kept mostly to the south of the heavy gates, the Grey Jackets had scouts constantly circling the town like sharks. The few who'd tried escaping the doomed town had been cut down, their screams serving to whittle at the remaining hope the townsfolk may have held that they might survive the siege.

But Storr hadn't counted on one thing.

He'd come from a place where towns were places of order. Of peace. Where the mere hint of violence might reduce citizens to crumbling wrecks.

The Deadlands, however, was a place of constant violence and fear. The mercenaries who watched from the walls failed to be dismayed as the soldiers slaughtered those who'd tried to run. Their eyes remained bleak and untouched by the echoes of torture.

Violent death was something which came to all in the Deadlands. It was expected.

Sometimes embraced.

Instead, the screams served to reinforce the determination of men who'd honed their skills on the worst creatures in an evil land. To make them more hungry for the battle to begin again. Not for revenge, or any other romantic notion. But so they could kill again. And, in the act of killing, ensure their own survival for even a little time.

So they wouldn't be the ones screaming.

The elf, too, felt no great fear of the soldiers. Only a dull sense of her own doom lying heavy across her shoulders. She accepted her death. Knew it was overdue.

And so she took each minute as it was given and expected no miracles.

But she wouldn't make it easy. She would die wading in the blood of her enemies.

This was what she'd been taught by the Jukkala'Jadean. And it was what the Deadlands demanded of its inhabitants.

A long rasping snore made her flinch and she lifted herself into a sitting position. Looked toward the closed door and shook her head in surprise.

Eli, back to the door and knees up against his chest, slept loudly.

A flash of anger lashed through her guts as he snored again. At first, angry at him for being there. For presuming she needed a guard. Then at herself, because she could feel the exhaustion leaking from her bones.

Knew that she'd indeed needed someone.

And now she owed him. Getting into debt was becoming a habit, she reflected sourly.

Her shoulders were tight, as though something was squeezing across the bones, wriggling beneath the muscle. She pressed at it, massaging swollen tissue. Wishing she could reach back in time to the point where Talek's Cage had opened. To when the box had opened its frozen mouth to unleash a roar of darkness into her life.

A darkness with no name, no purpose, and no substance.

Hard to believe it was anything more than her imagination, but she knew what was happening to her mind was not a dream. It was real.

And she didn't know how to fight it, so she wished she could go back and stop it from having opened.

Carefully, she slid off the bed and moved again to the window, eager to see what had happened while she slept and in this way try to forget what was happening inside her skull.

Eli snorted, mumbling darkly to someone who haunted his dreams.

She glanced at him before prying open one of the curtains and looked out at the pale street. Pale because the walls which had been covered in gore and blood had been cleansed by a thin layer of fresh snow. Purified, almost.

The guards huddled around fires and a few townsfolk wandered among them, bringing hot mugs of tea. Laced, no doubt, with rum.