When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (26 page)

“Bill? All ready?” Sharpe called over his shoulder without looking.

“Sir!”

“Pad? Sound it out.”

Pad pulled his own sword. Looked around. Grinned. “Alright. You think you've had it hard so far? Well, that's nothing to what we're about to do. I know not many of you are trained to this kind of thing. But you're all hard bastards, to be sure. You fight like snakes, you do. I know, because I've seen you. Now, there's a wee smattering of Grey Jacket bastards out there who haven't quite been taking us seriously. They think we needed a few little goblins to come along and get our knickers out of the fire. Well, we ain't about to take that, are we?”

“No fucking way, we ain't,” Flin growled, her voice ringing out clearly.  She blushed brightly when all eyes turned toward her.

Grinning, Pad winked at her. “That's the spirit, Flin. Now. Keep together then, lads. Lasses. Look to each other's backs, and we'll be fine.”

“And someone kill that fucking cleric,” Sharpe said. “I'll give ten gold to whoever brings me his fucking guts.”

“That's no fair reward,” Count Steel put in. “I know this man. He has none to bring you.”

Laughter cracked the fear, and Sharpe gave the Count a nod as he recognised the man's motivation was to help calm the nerves of those who were now feeling the need not to run toward the fighting, but away from it. “Then, bring me his head.”

“All ready?” Pad called.

No one needed to say anything.

Hicks gave Hudson a quick embrace, his face determined. “I'll be back in a minute,” he said.

“You better.” Hudson squeezed his words between his teeth, still pressing against his side. The old woman was there, threading a needle and grinning wickedly in preparation for what was going to be an uncomfortable moment for the young mercenary.

“Ready, dearie?” She asked.

“Get on with it, you old witch,” Hudson scowled.

Flin limped closer to the elf, deftly spinning the spear in her hands. She seemed to like the weapon now.

And Nysta waited, watching goblins and Grey Jackets slaughter each other.

Eli shot her a look filled with humour. “I'll race you, my friend,” he said. “We shall see who kills this man who leads them.”

“Move out!” Sharpe roared, setting the pace forward. Easy, at first.

Slow, building both strength and determination.

Then, as they drew closer, he quickened. A jog.

A run.

Then charging in full sprint, sword high, screaming wordlessly as they smashed into the rear of the Grey Jackets. The line melted in front of them on a wave of steel and crimson.

Swords were everywhere. And as many snarling goblins as Caspiellans.

The elf's eyes flicked this way and that. Her ears practically shut out all sound, and instead a low ringing filled her brain with noise.

Too much, she thought. Heart hammering in her chest. There was too much chaos.

She'd never fought like this. She was made for alleys. For inns.

For stealth kills in the dead of night.

Not fighting for her life against an army.

“Shit,” she spat, killing a shrieking soldier with a half dozen quick strikes to his chest.
Break Even
, a slender blade, punched through the mail rings and pierced cartilage, bone and heart.

Quietly slid along beside her, his small knife used with surgical precision. He slashed at the backs of knees and then across throats as his victims stumbled to the ground. Giggling loudly, the goblin weaved through the mess of desperation, calling out the names of other goblins. Urging them forward.

“It Bloodhand!” He shouted. “Bloodhand fight for Eventide! Kill thief!”

And the goblins took up the cry. “Kill thief! Bloodhand fight!”

The swollen cries disoriented her almost as much as the actual battle. She reeled this way and that, almost drunkenly. Hands moving with instinct.

Ripping. Stabbing. Slicing. Tearing.

She lost
Break Even
to an axeman, the blade jerked from her grasp as he writhed to the ground.

Feeling lost within a storm, she drew
Ethics Gradient
. The blade was broader, longer, and heavier. She used it like a machete, chopping through outstretched arms and into exposed cheeks.

Blood and magic. The acrid stink washed over her, causing her to gag.

“The cleric!” Sharpe pushed forward. “Kill the bastard! Bring me his fucking head! Come on, you useless pieces of shit! Kill them! Kill them all!”

Pad shoved a soldier in the chest, sending the Caspiellan cartwheeling aside to where a few goblins eagerly pounced and began sawing off his arms. They cackled as they worked him over, with two of them fighting over who could take the ears.

Bigshot wobbled into view, a deep gash above his eye dribbling blood down his cheek. He saw her and grunted. Nodded at Quietly, who slashed the legs out from under a grizzled-looking Caspiellan.

The man struggled to skewer the little goblin as he fell, but Stormer appeared out of nowhere with a ferocious screech and brought her heavy goblinknife down with such force it split his helm and went clean through his skull.

She used her foot to hold the head in place so she could wrench the horrid blade free.

Brains and gore slopped at her feet like offal from a bucket.

She didn't notice. Just stood there, a feral grin wide on her face.

“Stormer!” Quietly cried gleefully. “You best there is!”

Beaming, the female goblin hefted her goblinknife proudly. Looked at Bigshot and lifted her head as though she'd won something deeply significant. “I best there is.”

“Yeah,” Bigshot scowled. “Now be best there is somewhere else.”

He snatched at Quietly, leading the little goblin deeper into chaos.

Nysta followed, though she didn't know why. She felt drawn to the little goblin as if an invisible chain bound them together. He looked back once and flashed her a smile, but otherwise spoke quickly to the goblin leader.

She didn't smile back.

Eli was ahead of her. She could see him swinging the axe of his. Heard him shouting at Sharpe. “Come on,
Lord
! Don't want to be left behind again, do you?”

“Fuck you, Eli,” Sharpe struggled against two soldiers. Buried his sword in one's guts while his long arm desperately seized the throat of the other. He squeezed, his powerful grip twisting hard. The elf didn't hear the neck snap, but the soldier dropped quickly.

Flin skirted her position, spear flashing out. For some reason, Spoonfed fought in her wake. The goblin's face was serious. His mouth a flat line. As someone reared up behind the girl in an attempt to drive his sword into her back, the goblin leapt fast.

Goblinknife met mail armour. And chomped through without effort.

Flin twisted around, sensing what was happening behind her.

Dragging the heavy weapon free, Spoonfed whirled away, allowing Flin the room to drive the spear through the screaming face.

The Count, surrounded on all sides, suddenly shrieked above the rushing sound of chaos. Nysta saw him rise above them all, held aloft by the plunging swords which ripped up through his torso. Seven of them. His eyes searched the heavens for something only he could see, then settled oddly on hers.

He seemed to nod before his body went limp. Tears of pain and loss streaming down her face. What he was trying to say, she couldn't guess. But her heart froze for just a second.

Flin caught the moment and glanced at the elf. “You knew him?”

 “Didn't know him from Adam,” she said, shaking her head. Then looked around. She'd lost Quietly. “Shit.”

Three goblins, streaked in blood and wearing matching grins, exploded from the ragged line of Grey Jackets. For a moment, the elf could see the narrow path of bodies they'd left behind.

The middle goblin held a saw-toothed goblinknife whose teeth clung to strips of flesh like grotesque ribbons.

His face looked different to the other goblins, thanks to a series of scars which made it look like his skin had been melted to wax before being stretched back over his skull.

In the distance, one of the wagons was burning. Smoke billowing and the crackle of wood roaring above the noise.

The three goblins lashed out, forming a small circle into which the Grey Jackets didn't want to press. More goblins broke through the Caspiellans to join them. “Bloodhand!”

The strange-faced goblin walked up to her as if there was no fighting around him. As if the whole world belonged to him. When he spoke, he stuttered erratically.

“I He-He-Headroom. Looseto-t-toof Mob. Quietly say you g-go that w-way.” He pointed off to his left. Scratched his head. Changed his mind and pointed right. “N-n-no. Th-th-that way.”

“You sure?”

“Uhhh, I sh-sure.” Headroom's grin didn't make her feel any easier.

“You better be, feller,” she said, the icy ball in her belly shuddered. The chaos was overwhelming her senses. “Or you'll be seeing me twenty minutes into your future.”

She couldn't see a way to get through the fighting. But she bared her teeth and moved fluidly. Knives bringing death to the first few Caspiellans in her path. Then Headroom shouted from behind her; “B-b-b-bloodhand! Bloodhand ki-ki-kill thieves!”

“Bloodhand!” The shout echoed in her ears as more goblins hooted cheerfully, their voices a shrill chorus lapping at the mad screams of the dying.

Boe staggered in front of her, a broken swordblade sticking through his throat. He looked at her, not recognising her. Reeled in a circle, his own sword still in his fist.

Then dropped at her feet, dead before he hit earth.

She stepped over him and kept moving.

A wart-covered goblin lifted the eyelid of a fallen soldier. Peered critically into the glistening orb before raising his goblinknife and bringing it down hard to split the soldier's skull. Blood sprayed.

Satisfied, the goblin jumped off the body and caught her gaze. He waved her further into the fight. Glanced at the corpse twitching behind him. “He faking,” the goblin explained as though she'd given him sign she was interested. “Eventide have him now. He make good target for goblinknife throwing.”

Blood and violence made the air thick with its putrid stink. A stink which churned the worst of mortal nature. Hate. Fear. Pain.

Her mind felt raw with it.

Nostrils filled with smoke and death.

“This way!” Stormer rushed out of nowhere, snatching at the elf's leg. She pointed with her gore-drenched goblinknife. Began tugging the elf through the chaos. “Hurry, Bloodhand. Kill thief!”

She allowed herself to be led, deviating only once when she was forced to dodge the fumbled attack of a young soldier who looked surprised to see her push through a few soldiers battling a handful of howling goblins.

So young, he reminded her of Daved. And she wondered where he was. If he was still alive.

Remembered she still owed him.

Though, perhaps it was a debt she'd not be able to repay. The chances of him, or any of them, surviving this slaughter were slim to none.

The young soldier died, choking on
Ethics Gradient
. She hadn't even felt herself move.

“Bloodhand!” Stormer called, voice shrill. “Move out of way, stupid trollshits!”

More goblins answered shrilly. “Bloodhand!”

Stormer stopped with a suddenness that made the elf almost walk right over her.

Looking up at the dazed elf, Stormer's face was bright. Almost envious. She held her Goblinknife with both hands. Searched for anyone getting too close, and was ready to kill. “Almost time you fight, Bloodhand,” she said. “Quietly be here soon. He say we wait.”

And then a small tide of cackling goblins rushed up behind her, leaping at the elf's back to send her sprawling through the last wall of Grey Jackets, who they pounced on in a shrieking mass of teeth and brutal goblinknives.

Blood gushed volcanic.

“Wait!” Stormer yelled, swallowed by more soldiers and goblins. “We not ready yet. Quietly not here. Bloodhand! Wait!”

“Bloodhand!” came the answering cheers, mindless of Stormer's desperation. “Kill!”

The elf sprawled across the slush, losing
Kindness
.

Looked up, startled by the experience of being shoved through the line, and saw Storr sitting tall on his horse.

Too far away to rush him unprepared.

The massive sword rippled in his fist. Enchanted cold enveloped its blade. The kind of cold she could feel in her bones even though she was out of range of the awful sword.

Her mind flashed to the body she'd found inside the farmyard only a few days before.

The strange cracking of flesh. The frozen meat.

Grimacing, she skittered away as he edged his horse toward her. It was bred for war. The animal snorted, pawing at the earth with heavy hooves and the elf could sense impatience in the animal.

He wheeled his mount around, giving himself room as the soldiers made way. A few goblins lay dead, their bodies cracked and split open. Wisps of cold air curled upward from their frozen bodies, giving sign as to the hideous manner of their death.

They were in a clearing, the last untouched wagon at the General's back. The rest were burning like bonfires, sending smoke raging across the battleground.

Enough Grey Jackets packed tight around the wagon in a circle, but their attention was less on her and more on the goblins attacking in a frenzy of hate and desperation as they pursued their own aims to get to the wagon's contents.

Which left her to face the General alone.

She grunted, aware the goblins had been afraid of his sword. Maybe they'd seen it in action more than she had. Maybe, given the bodies at the General's feet, they had every right to be afraid.

Which was why they were using her.

The thought should have made her even more angry. It should have made her hate the goblins as much as the Caspiellans. But something about Quietly's attitude made her feel the situation was the most natural in the world.

As if, in the sea of death which surrounded them, this was where she belonged.

She bared her teeth at the General and her violet eyes glittered as she relished the thought of shoving knives into his face. One at a time.