When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (29 page)

“Reckon it's time.”

“Good luck to you, then,” Sharpe said, obviously disappointed. Then seemed to remember something. “Eli? What about you?”

The old mercenary showed his cheeky grin as he eyed his former leader. “I will think about this, old friend. Maybe Eli made a mistake. Maybe. But there is much bad blood still between us, I am thinking. We shall see if Eli stays around to help you. But at least now you don't need to worry about a knife in your guts while you are sleeping.”

“Never had any trouble sleeping before,” Sharpe said drily before turning away. He strode quickly back to the fort, taking his guards with him.

A few goblins followed him, swapping items stolen from the dead.

The elf crouched beside Quietly. She wanted to touch his face, but she kept her hands across her knees, fists curling tight as she struggled with emotions she couldn't comprehend.

Bigshot smiled. “It okay,” he said awkwardly. “Eventide keep warm.”

“Sure.”

“He say elf treasure inside wagon. We look. Goblin magic find it.”

“Goblin magic?” The elf prepared to scoff, her lip forming a wry grin. Then Bigshot handed her the item he'd taken from one of the burning wagons.

Slightly scorched, the sheath wasn't made for the blade. Storr must have found it and decided to keep it. How he'd found something she'd searched so desperately for, she couldn't say.

But there it was, and her eyes widened as she reached for the blade she'd thought lost to her.

A Flaw in the Glass
. She drew the knife and almost cried out as the familiar venomous green enchantment lit up the area.
 

“Thankyou,” she said to the goblin leader, who looked more than a little uncomfortable at her unrestrained gratitude. “I owe you more than you know, Bigshot.”

“It Quietly's magic,” he said gruffly. “He say Bloodhand want it.”

Stormer sniffed. “I not see why it special. Just glowing knife. Pretty, maybe. But not have big spikes. Not a good knife. Good for wearing round neck only.”

“Talek gave it to me. It's my heart,” Nysta said. And she felt warmth flood her body as she sheathed the blade in its rightful place against her hip. Turned her gaze back to the dead goblin's twisted body. “I was wrong. Wrong about your goblin magic. It's the best there is.” The elf ran her hand across his scalp. Patted his dead cheek. Her fingertips tingled. “Be warm, feller. I won't forget what you did.”

Bigshot nodded. “Wise. Remember Quietly. He see elf again.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” she muttered, getting to her feet.

She took one last look around. Saw Eli heading back to the fort, clutching at his chest. She had the feeling she'd see him again, and the grin she aimed at his back was nasty as her hand moved toward the handle of her unnamed blade.

She imagined chasing him down and killing him with it. The thought made her smile even crueller.

Flin tried to gather her thoughts, not knowing what to do. Dozens of goblins were heading back to the trees, their battle done.

Bodies littered the ground, soon to be draped in snow as it began to fall in crisp dusty spots. And among them, two wagons smouldered.

The other, untouched by fire, waited to be explored. But the elf wasn't interested.

She turned her head toward the Bloods and her face tightened in determination. Finally, she was leaving the Deadlands.

Heading north.

Toward the Fnordic Lands.

Leaving everything behind. And for the first time, she didn't feel guilty. Told herself she wasn't leaving her husband. Just leaving the land. With
A Flaw in the Glass
at her side, and the small box in her pouch, she'd always have him with her.
 

“Nysta?” Flin's voice was like a bell vibrating in the air. The bravado had leaked away, replaced by something more uncertain. “What do I do now?”

The elf looked at the girl, who was staring at the blood leaking through her fingers. The blood of the men she'd killed. She felt a sting of pity in her heart as she remembered the first time she'd had blood on her hands.

The shock of it. The feeling of utter emptiness.

“Go home, kid,” she said.

Flin held out her hands, expression suddenly frantic. “Will they ever get clean?”

Shaking her head, the elf walked away. She had no answer to give the girl.

She remembered the ladies who haunted the Court of Lostlight. How spotless they were. And how they'd made her feel covered in gutter filth.

Still made her feel that way.

But, after a few steps, the elf paused.

Cocked her head slightly, and spoke over her shoulder. Her voice carried on the wind. “You're different now, Flin. Not because you killed a man. That ain't no great achievement. Anyone can kill. But because you know you can do what it takes to survive. That you've got the guts to do what needs to be done. You've looked the Old Skeleton in the face and lived. And that ain't no small thing. Tell you one thing I've learned, and it's all I've got for you. Don't go thinking this has stained your soul, or made you anything less than what you are. You ain't any dirtier than you were before. There ain't nothing about your soul which needs cleaning. It's that kind of thinking which'll lead you to a state you don't wanna be.” And when the girl looked confused, the elf showed her teeth as she drawled; “Washed out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The goblins watched her go.

Stormer moved up beside Bigshot. “Why elf so special? She elf. I not like elfs. Why she kill thief? Why not we? It our thief, not elf's thief.”

“I not like elfs, too,” Bigshot snorted. “But Eventide say elf Bloodhand. Named. He want her to kill thief. It enough.”

Stormer didn't argue, but she still kept her gaze on the slow-moving elf. She scratched her head, deciding it was too difficult to think about. Sat down on the General's body and began picking bits of meat out of the spikes on her goblinknife.

Nibbled on a few without relish, still locked in her own thoughts.

A goblin jumped out of the unburned wagon, a look of irritation on his face as he landed heavily in the mud and snow. “She not right in head,” he mumbled.

“Who not right?”

“She,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the wagon. “She say crazy things.”

Bigshot craned his neck to peer at the back of the wagon, but saw nothing of interest. Decided the goblin was a lunatic. That sounded much more likely. “You find it?”

Spoonfed nodded cheerfully. Held out his hand. “It right where Quietly say so.”

“He always right,” Bigshot said.

They looked down at Quietly's torn body.

“That look like it hurt,” Spoonfed said. “Why he do it? Why save elf? She not even goblin.”

“Because she Bloodhand,” Bigshot said, as though that explained everything.

Spoonfed didn't understand. But he didn't want to admit it. “Oh.”

“Hey, Spoonfed,” Stormer called, not looking up. Her lip twisted into a sneer. “Your girl go home.”

The goblin scowled, but couldn't stop his eyes from following where Flin, numbed by the battle, was walking numbly toward the fort.

Licking his lips, he showed his teeth in a wide grin to Bigshot. Squinted up at the goblin leader, nervousness making his brow tremble. “I go?”

“You fucked in head,” Bigshot sighed. “You go if want.”

“ You best there is,” Spoonfed cried over his shoulder. “I tell Eventide!”

He called Flin's name as he scampered after her like a dog.

“You right,” Stormer said, lifting her gaze as Bigshot knelt by the dead goblin. She watched the little goblin chase after the young human girl. “Spoonfed fucked in head. Real bad.”

Bigshot grunted, but said nothing. Instead, he put the goblin treasure onto Quietly's torn chest.

Held his gnarled fingers there for a moment, then pulled his hand away. Looked up at the steely grey clouds and tried not to think of how much snow might be coming.

A twinge, deep in his neck, made him drop his gaze and he rubbed at the swollen joints of his fingers.

In that moment, he felt very old.

“We find big treasure, Eventide,” he said into the wind. “Hatchetboys-”

“Hatchets,” Stormer cut in icily.

Bigshot gave her a withering look, but said; “
Hatchets
best there is.”
 

The air suddenly crackled with energy. Sparks fizzed and popped above the dead goblin, whose body shuddered. More black blood leaked into the snow.

Neither Bigshot nor Stormer looked surprised.

Then Quietly's eyes snapped open and his mouth screwed up into an expression of disgust. “Oh,” he spat black blood. “It always taste bad. So bad. Like old dead fish. Or Troll boots.”

“We sorry it take long time,” Bigshot said. “But you not want any to see, so we wait.”

Quietly nodded, taking Bigshot's hand and squeezing tightly as pain wracked his body.

The deep hole in his belly bubbled and an ocean of black worms slithered under his skin. They squirmed in angry hordes, lashing his muscles together. Knitting his flesh.

“I still not understand,” Stormer said, holding up her goblinknife and inspecting it. “What so special about elf?”

Quietly said nothing.

Instead, he looked down at the small black box Bigshot had placed on his chest. Dark runes skittered across its lid like spiders.

The goblin smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The young girl moved nervously through the dark. Her hair was ragged and tangled around her face.

Clothes stained by months of crawling across the Deadlands. Mouth a tight line.

Maybe only eight years old, there was something ageless about her features. Something not quite childlike.

She didn't want to make a sound.

Didn't want
them
to hear. They still frightened her. Their voices were too painful, and when they cried, her heart broke.
 

She made no sound as she climbed from the back of the wagon. Glanced at the three goblins gathered together nearby, but they didn't see her.

Her eyes hurt. She wasn't sure why the soldiers had put her inside, but it was dry and warm inside.

Quiet, even.

She looked over her shoulder and struggled against the impulse to climb back up. Because there was something she had to find, and it was close.

No.

Not something, she frowned. Someone.

The small girl moved away from the wagon, sniffing the air. But it wasn't the smoke which caused her to cover her nose with her hands. Instead, she was disturbed by the echoes of violence in the air.

Equally disturbed, the voices bubbled in the back of her mind, murmuring her name.

Suggesting things they could do to the survivors in the nearby fort.

Terrible things.

More voices rose to the surface like bubbles from the deepest ocean. Wanting to know what was happening. Wanting to rise.

“No,” she breathed, breath leaving her lips like smoke in the bitter cold air. A flake of snow touched her cheek. There wasn't enough heat in her body to melt it. “Please. Go back to sleep. You're hurting my head.”

They protested. They didn't want to sleep.

They wanted to wake.

It was time, they moaned. Ghostly hands grasped weakly at the darkness in the back of her mind.

But she stayed where she was, unmoving. Trying not to breathe.

Until they settled reluctantly into the dark again. The whispers shuddered and died into a low murmur.

Her heart beat its slow shuddering rhythm.

More snow shushed around her.

She liked the snow.

It was clean.

Pure.

Her eyes, sunken pits with dark black shadows burning within, turned back to the mountains. Searching the jagged horizon until they found a black dot shimmering in the distance.

Her voice, when it came, was excited.

“Mother.”

EPILOGUE

The elf worked hard to make it up the steep path. Small rugged steps had been carved into the bleak stone, but they didn't serve to make the going any easier.

The wind scraped at her flesh, gnawed at her clothes, and teased the land around her. Whipped up the fallen snow and drove it at her legs, numbing her thighs.

Glancing upward, the elf scowled at the savage peaks of the Bloods.

Massive stone spires tearing at the sky. So many of them that they appeared to loom over her like row upon row of impossibly large vampiric fangs.

She could feel the hunger of the mountains to take their toll in blood. Knew there were many creatures haunting the dark paths looking to do just that.

The fear of Dhampirs, combined with the sluglike fog still curling through her brain, left her feeling a constant sense of overwhelming claustrophobia.

But she wouldn't give in.

Snarling wordlessly, she took another step.

Another.

Kept moving. Told herself she couldn't turn back. Had to keep going, or die alone in the mountains.

Another hour of climbing. Legs burning with effort.

Mouth dry to the point her gums started to itch.

She narrowed her eyes.

Then scratched the palm of her hand as she lifted her head again. Looked around, not sure what she was searching for.

The path ahead squeezed through a narrow gap between two large walls of stone. Deep fissures in the rock were being slowly worked open by ice. The snow around them base was scuffled. But not enough to make her think of Dhampirs.

Had to be something else. Something smaller.

“Huh.”

The elf stopped.

Waited.

Didn't move. Just stood like a statue, staring at the gap and listening to the wind drag itself across the mountains.

Cocked her head.

Made a slight coughing sound in the back of her throat. And allowed her lip to curl upward as Eli stepped into view, a rueful look plastered to his face.

“Ah, my friend,” he said, arms spread wide. Blood stained his shirt, and he tried to hide evidence of his wounds with the large coat he wore. “What gave me away?”

“I ain't much of a tracker, Eli. More a city person. But I ain't stupid. Should've worked your tracks a little better,” she said. “Looks like a herd of assholes went through there. And, as always, they left you behind.”