When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (8 page)

Slowly, her hand dropped close to the butt of
Entrance Exam
. Fingers rubbed the hilt and her tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip.
 

Violet eyes glittering in the dim light.

She waited.

Watching.

Gaze flicking from trunk to trunk. Studying the thorned brush carefully.

And found nothing.

Maybe, she thought doubtfully, she'd imagined it.

Or, maybe the goblins were back.

Maybe they'd only let her go to provide more sport. Could be they were stalking her even now. She could imagine their sharklike grins gleaming in the dark.

Pale glowing green eyes so alien and hungry to kill.

“Shit.” She let the word skitter from her mouth like a rat in the dark.

And slid forward. Slowly. Eyes still raking the shadows.

Could it be possible one of the Grey Jackets had made it this far?

Could one of them be this good to sneak so close without her knowing?

She wanted it to be unlikely, but truth be told she was still more at home in the alleys of a city than the decaying forests of the northern Deadlands. She couldn't read the forest floor like she could an alley.

It was chaos.

Deceptively peaceful chaos.

So if it wasn't a Grey Jacket, and it wasn't a goblin, then that left things which could prove more dangerous. Including one she didn't want to face.

Dhampir.

That it had caught her scent and was now hunting her.

Seeking the warm fountain of her blood.

Entrance Exam
slid free of its sheath with the barest hush. She held the knife in a reverse grip, angling the blade back down her forearm, and keeping her arm down at her side. Didn't want the blade to reflect light. Didn't want to draw more attention.
 

Instead, she kept it hidden.

Felt the comfort of the flat of the blade against her bracer.

And crept forward, angling toward where she'd seen the movement. Sweat dribbled down the nape of her neck. Soaked into her shirt.

“Come on out, you bastard,” she breathed, loud enough only for her to hear. Boots making no sound as she moved among the thick brush. “I know you're there.”

Was slowed as more thorns grasped her jacket.

Considered letting the trapped jacket drop, but didn't want to risk more bloody wounds to the needlelike thorns. Already the back of her hands and her face were covered in thin irritating scratches and occasional deep gouges.

She slowly prised herself loose, keeping her eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Did she hear an intake of breath?

Or was it the wind picking between the trees?

She paused at the edge of a ragged wall of scraggy brush. Peered through the mesh of thorns. Poked around for a way through, and then bellied slowly into the clearing beyond.

Nothing.

She searched quickly, looking for telltale prints and found nothing. Just some scuff marks which could've been caused by a small animal.

Or someone trying to hide their trail, she added glumly as she rose slowly to her feet to look around.

Saw nothing more to give evidence anyone had been here.

Maybe it really was her imagination.

She took a step further into the clearing.

Something cracked underfoot.

And the shadows exploded, a rush of white and tawny brown. A shriek as the creature spewed itself at her face.

Scared almost witless, she brought the blade up, slashing fast and quick. Red sprayed across the ground. Another shriek, this time of pain as the creature dropped to her feet, still screaming as the elf howled her own fear before bringing the blade splashing down into the struggling body.

And only when it stopped moving did she realise how small it was. It had seemed huge when it had been in her face.

An owl.

More frightened than she had been, perhaps. Wings fluttering as death scoured it clean of life.

Staggering away so her back pressed against a vine-wrapped trunk, she found she couldn't breathe for the panic which still constricted her throat.

She stared down at the bloodied knife in her hand and saw thick gashes in her bracer. Caused by the owl's lethal talons as it sought to drive her from its nesting place.

A little further toward her hand, and it would've opened a vein in her wrist. The elf almost gagged on the fear still pounding in her chest.

The movement she'd seen must've been he owl returning from hunting. She must've caught a glimpse of it and mistook it for a hundred other dangers which lurked in the forests of the Deadlands.

She wondered at how such a small and seemingly insignificant creature could wire her so full of fear she would lose her mind at the surprise of its flight.

How the Deadlands could lure her into fearing the worst at every second. And it was then she knew she wanted more than anything else to be far from this cursed place.

As far as she could go.

Maybe even as north as Icereach. Up where the snow never melted. And into the arms of the city which was rumoured to be so beautiful it would break your heart to see it.

She could use more beauty in her life.

“Bastard,” she choked at last, breath coming in gulps. “Fucking bastard owl.”

Her eyes flickered toward the shadows, noticing how dark it was getting. And then she caught a smudge of light. She cocked her head, peering intently. Definitely light.

Not her imagination this time.

And light, she thought, meant food. It had to.

Sure, it meant people, too. But she would respond to those however they chose to deal with her.
 

All she wanted was the food.

And then sleep.

She pressed onward, leaving the owl behind. Kept her gait determined. Almost desperate to reach the light.

So, when she finally managed to squeeze from the clutches of the last of the thorns and found herself on a path leading toward a large fort in the distance, she almost wept with relief. Saw the lights came from the watchtowers positioned at each corner, and headed as quickly as she could down the path.

Felt herself stumble more than once, but her mouth kept its grim line and her violet eyes never moved from the fort's gates as she forced each step.

She knew where she was now. Knew she'd made it to Tannen's Run at last.

Knew beyond the fort was the path through the mountains. Through the Bloods.

She was nearly there. So close she could taste it.

The snow fell more thickly, each flake gleaming like deflated stars. Soon, her boots were wet and ice crunched with each step. The darkness bled across the sky, muffling the landscape and leaving her eyes burning as they stared only at the lights flooding the area around the fort.

Could see a few black shapes scurrying about along the walls. Walls with crenels through which a few guards were peering out. She noticed some had bows already notched, but they hadn't fired at her.

Heard a few shouts.

Exhaustion lapped at her bones. A part of her began to wonder if she could make it.

But the other part. The part which had grown up on the cruellest streets in the world. Which had once gutted a nobleman and thus given birth to one of the coldest killers ever trained by the Jukkala'Jadean. That part refused to give in.

It clenched her jaw and gave her expression something of a snarl as the air misted through her teeth. Her fists balled at her side.

Fuelling herself on a rising tide of hate. Hate which had no focus. No direction. Just a swirling hot vortex which grew in heat as she finally drew so close she could make out the little details. The walls stained with old blood and mould.

The gates, reinforced and recently patched with timber from the forest. Steel scrap.

A handful of men at the tower closest to her approach, peering down at her in surprise. Pointing. Mail shirts freshly cleaned and glittering.

Spears bright.

A guard high on the walls called down to the gate; “Open the gates. Fast! It's an elf! Open up. An elf can't be one of them! Quickly, lads! Let her in!”

The gates moaned terrifically as they opened, but only wide enough to allow her passage.

Shivering, she pushed past a few grasping hands and fell to her knees in the mud beneath the shadows of the walkway above. Stayed there, hunched over. Tightly gripped her knees with her fingers and let the shivering slowly subside as the satisfaction of having survived washed her clean.

One of the guards knelt beside her. A big man, with broad shoulders and a kind face. Thrust a small flask at her hands. “Here, lass. Take a swig of this. Brandy. All the way from Vantro Deep. It'll warm you up.”

She nodded, taking the flask with shaking fingers. Sucked deep, feeling the liquid go down her throat like molten metal.

Coughed, even as the big guard slapped her hard on the back with a throaty chuckle.

“Got a hearty kick, it does,” he said.

“Grim's teeth,” one of the others said, leaning close. “Look at her face. It's all beaten up. Look like she's been kissing trolls.”

“Get her inside,” a raw voice growled. “And get back to the fucking walls, you lot! It's not like you've never seen an elf before.”

The young soldier licked his lips. Made to reach for her. “I'll take her.”

But the big guard pushed in front. “Don't worry yourself, lad,” he said. “I'll do it.”

“But-”

The raw voice snapped again. “Pryke! Get up here!”

“Yes, My Lord.”

She heard the young man's boots pound away.

The guard beside her clicked his teeth. “Little asshole,” he muttered. Thickly muscled arms lifted her to her feet. Numb with cold, she allowed herself to be led into the town. “Come on, lass. I know a place where we can get you warm again. Maybe not the best place in the world, but it's warmer than anywhere else round here.”

Her thoughts were still numb. Frozen in the pale arms of shadow. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and she had to struggle to focus on the crude street. She was, she realised dumbly, worse than she'd thought.

Unconsciously took in the hard shadows pressed against feeble shacks. Shacks which served as home to the kind of people who'd find a town of mercenaries a suitable place to settle. Criminals all, of one kind or another.

Their weatherbeaten walls were coated in thick paints of darker hues. Heavy sloping roofs slapped with snow. Icicles clawed at the eaves as the oppressive cold continued to gnaw on the town.

Everything looked wet. Cold. Shivering. Even the massive stone blocks of the surrounding wall seemed frozen in place.

The icy slush and muck of the road slid beneath her feet and the man supporting her let out a muffled curse as his own boots slipped in the smooth mud.

A curtain shut fast as they passed.

A cat paused in the mouth of an alley, whiskers twitching as a flake of snow drifted past its calico ear.

Cold animal eyes, staring intently. Tail flicking.

A couple of men, leaning against a porch in front of the inn. Beers in hand. Breath misting their features. One hooded, one not.

Hatches slung from belts.

A door opened to her left. An old man stepped into the frozen air, cursing bitterly. Caught her dazed look and quickly turned away. He shuffled down the street toward the gates.

“Not much farther, lass,” the big man said. “You'll soon be warm again.”

Her mind couldn't focus on a single thought. Instead, the fog which had been lingering around her brain for months seemed to come back in force as though wakened by the cold. Absently, she made to hand the flask back to him.

“Don't fret about it,” the large mercenary said, waving the flask away. “I'll let you buy me another some time. Right now I think it's you that needs it more.”

“Obliged,” she said, and felt surprised to find she meant it.

“Well, let's not be so formal. My name's Padric. You can call me Pad if you're of a mind to. It's what my pa used to call me. I'm from Ravensholme if you've heard of it.” He aimed her toward a small cantina to the left of the large building she knew to be the inn. “You got a name?”

“Nysta.”

“Well, Nysta. You picked a terrible time to be visiting us here at Tannen's Run. Didn't you know there's a great army of Caspiellan bastards out there come to knock our walls down and have their wicked way with us? Our Lord Sharpe has a tough job ahead of him in keeping them out.”

“Met them,” she said through chattering teeth.

“Did that, did you? Well.” He sounded impressed. “That explains what happened to your face. Reckon it was mighty lucky of you to get away. Now, I'm taking you to old Ffloyd's. Not too sure I'm doing you a favour, mind. But the food's better than the swill you'd get at the poxy excuse we've got for an inn. There many of them? The bastards, I mean.”

He was fishing for information, she knew. Trying to be gentle about it. And she couldn't see the point of not telling him anything. All the same, her head was spinning. The past day was quickly becoming a blur of flashing moments. So she kept her answer curt. A little more abrupt than she meant. “Fifty.”

“Only fifty?”

“Could be more. Only saw fifty, I think.” She couldn't get the strength to shake her head. A feverish shudder ran down her body. “I'm not sure.”

“Don't push yourself, lass,” he said kindly. “You've had a long walk by looks of you. Though, if you could tell if they're on their way here or not, it'd be doing us all a big favour. Can you say which way they were headed?”

“Camped south. Half a day, maybe.”

“Then they'll be here tomorrow. I should tell his lordship. Some of the fellows were hoping they'd not pass this way, but it looks like we'll get our scrap after all.” His big hands held her fast as she stumbled again in the street. He didn't seem to notice her weight. “Not that I'm looking forward to it, mind. But it does help to ease the uncertainty, if you take my meaning?”

“Prefer to ease my hunger right now, Padric.”

“Padric, is it? Right you are then, Nysta. We're nearly there. As I warned you, though, in the state you're in it's highly probable that Ffloyd's food will kill you.”