When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (16 page)

“Magic,” the elf spat wetly out through the window. Thought, strangely, of Chukshene. The skinny warlock she'd long ago decided was definitely shark food. He had that kind of luck. The thought made her want to snigger. Instead, she scowled. “Fuck magic. More trouble than it's worth.”

“Not goblin magic. Eventide make goblin magic good. Work hard. It find special treasure. It say special treasure close. And we hunt special treasure. Find it quick.”

Lord Sharpe suddenly began snarling, first to Pad, who lumbered off to relay his orders to a small clutter of mercenaries positioned just near the large gates. She noticed Pryke was one of them. He didn't look too good, she noted with a certain amount of satisfaction.

The figures on the parapet spread out across the wall, each taking a crenel as their own.

She couldn't see the outside, but she could bet the Grey Jackets were out there. Close.

“Don't much care what your goblin god tells you,” she told Quietly. “I ain't got your shit. Told you that before. Ain't even seen it. So if that's what you came to find out, you've wasted your time and mine.”

The goblin's green eyes glowed brightly. He put his hand on her arm. Still raw from when Pryke touched her, the elf made to jerk her hand away, but found she couldn't move her arm.

Instead, she frowned as the familiar mist curled slowly around her brain. Thickening as the goblin's fingers wrapped around her wrist. It wasn't an affectionate touch. Nor an intimate one.

It felt like he was a blind man searching the features of her face.

Then he let her go and skipped back, smiling shyly as she lifted her arm to rub at her wrist.

“Me know you not have special treasure,” he said. “Know it when me see Bloodhand first time. But before, goblin magic said elf had it. But it not goblin magic which is wrong. It just not right.”

The fog lifted a little. But not much.

How had he touched her? What had he been doing to her?

“You ain't making much sense,” she growled, blinking. “And just so you know. If you touch me again, I'll slit your scrawny little throat.”

“Not me. Me not touch elf ever again,” he promised, a cheeky grin playing at his mouth. “Me just say hello. Say, me Quietly.”

Wincing, the elf touched her head as the headache returned on a dull wave. “So, that's it? You try killing me for weeks. And then you think a stupid story and some cryptic bullshit will erase it all? That I'll smile and take your hand? Skip off into the sunset? You know, you told me all this before. Out there in the forest. Why come here again? Why not leave me the fuck alone?”

“Me need tell elf it big mistake.”

“You're fucking right it was!” Nysta rounded on him, arm snaking out to grab his shirt. A shirt of rags and scraps of mail. He clinked as she pulled him close to snarl into his face. “Do you have any fucking idea what you've done to me? This past year has been shit enough without you and your kind on my tail. I buried my husband. Killed my brother. Been cursed to the fucking Shadowed Halls and back. My head is killing me, and my brain feels it's being squeezed to death. And then you fellers show up with your fucking goblinknives all thirsty for my blood. And you have me running around like a fucking idiot. My nerves at their fucking peak. I couldn't sleep properly. Couldn't even walk without feeling one of you motherfuckers would jump out of fucking nowhere and try to brain me. I'm tired, you little fuck. Sick and fucking tired of people trying to kill me. And the best you have for me, is you're sorry? Mistake? Give me one reason. One good reason not to open your belly and spill your guts out across the fucking room, because right now I can't think of one.”

“It not our fault,” the goblin insisted, squirming in the face of her sudden fury.

“Then whose fault is it?”

The goblin shrugged. “It his. One who kill Treasure Keeper. He here now. It why I here.”

“Who?” But she already knew.

“He called Storr. He out there. Outside wall. He coming here.” The goblin smiled, but this time the smile was a little crueller. His teeth glittered brightly. “We come kill him. Kill him good. But we only small number right now. More come soon. Make big call across Deadlands. Right now, we only nine, though. Not enough. He have too many Grey Jackets. And he have sword. Bad thing, that sword. It kill many goblins. But not you. You best there is. We need elf.” He licked his lips. “Need Bloodhand. Eventide said so. It why me come and tell more words.”

She couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. “You expect me to just forget you've been trying to kill me, just so you can get help killing the feller you should've been hunting all along?”

“You smart elf,” he said grudgingly. “That it.”

“The wagons,” she breathed, understanding. “He keeps your treasures in his wagons. That's why you attacked them.”

“How you know? Bloodhand know goblin magic?”

“You say you have more of you coming? When will they get here?”

“Me not know.” He looked thoughtful. “Five days?”

“They'll be here in time to bury us all, then.” Bitterly, she wiped sweat from her cheek. “So why come to me? Why not go to Sharpe? He runs this town.”

“Me not know Sharpe. He not know Quietly. But me know Bloodhand. And Bloodhand fight. Bloodhand have big heart. Bloodhand kill good.”

Her arms ached. Bruises swam beneath her flesh. Her nose hurt. She was sure her cheek was also swollen, even though it didn't feel it when she touched it. Leftovers of her recent battles with the Grey Jackets.

And, as she let the tiredness numb her hands and feet, she realised she was still hungry. Almost ravenous.

As though she hadn't eaten in days.

Shivering, she let the goblin go and turned away. “Yeah, feller,” she tapped the butt of
Kindness
, sheathed against her thigh. “I kill alright. Reckon it's all I was ever good at. Shit. My head hurts.”

He made to reach for her, but paused as he remembered her threat. His hand, however, hovered inches from her own. His fingers twitched for contact, but he kept still. “It not bad thing, Bloodhand. It good thing. You see.”

She grunted, thinking of the women she'd sometimes seen in the King's palace. The soft women. The women who spent their days thinking about domestic things. Who'd never needed to struggle to survive. Never felt the tang of violence in their mouths, or the shriek of death ringing in their ears.

How clean they'd been. Not just their bodies, but their lives. So empty of horror.

Empty of blood.

She still couldn't escape the feeling of inferiority. As though somehow she wasn't worth as much as they. As if they were made pure, while she was stained with the rot which polluted the streets.

She looked up toward the daggerlike mountains and thought again of crossing them. How every dream she'd ever had of crossing the Bloods had ended with her being reborn. Remade. Cleansed of the filth in her past. She dreamt of making it to Doom's Reach and starting again.

A new life without horror.

Without blood.

But for now, she was trapped. Pinned to a wall by a Caspiellan General with hate in his blood and a thirst to cleanse her in a more permanent way.

The goblin kept watching her, waiting for the words which would reassure him of her ability and perhaps motivate him to attacking a larger and more efficient army.

“Fuck,” was all she said.

Still hopeful, like a dog hungry for scraps, he looked up at her. “Then, you do it? You help kill thief?”

Thunder rolled heavily toward the town as the elf closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Reckon it might come to that,” she allowed. “Sooner than later.”

A flash of triumph lit the goblin's eyes. “I go. Tell Hatchets mob. We spread word fast. Bloodhand will help. We big friends now. You see. Quietly thank elf. Owe Bloodhand much treasure. Eventide make place in Hall for Bloodhand. You see. Best place. Right near fire. Lots of beer. It best place ever! Just for Bloodhand.”

But she was only half-listening to the goblin's words.

Was absorbed instead by the thunder which kept crawling over the walls.

Then sighed as she realised it wasn't natural. That it was instead the drumming of heavily-armoured men as their boots stamped across the ground. And the roar of defiance they delivered served to shake the hearts of the mercenaries poised along the wall.

Lord Sharpe's answering shouts called his orders in a brisk military fashion, and the elf felt the weariness of the past few months slowly lift as the promise of cold violence lapped at the ball of fear churning in her belly.

“You don't owe me, feller,” she said softly. Watched the archers prepare to draw strings. “Reckon it's them Caspiellans you owe.”

The goblin scratched his head. “What for owe them?”

The elf's lip curled grimly toward the fiery scar as she turned from the window and headed toward the door. “They're the ones applying the charge.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The elf knew enough about siege warfare to know the wall wasn't her place. She also knew enough to know she should be in her room. Waiting. Resting. Saving her energy for when it would be needed most.

But Storr was out there, and she wanted to see him. Wanted to see the man who'd been chasing her across the Deadlands.

She headed quickly across the street, the sound of clashing steel in her ears. She could hear Lord Sharpe's orders blasting over the noise and wasn't surprised by the authority he injected into his voice.

His was the voice of order.

But by the time she bounded up the ramp onto the wall, chaos reigned supreme.

Sharpe was screaming; “Kill them! Kill the bastards!”

And his small mob of defenders was doing their best to oblige.

Archers, positioned just behind a line of defenders, sent arrows spearing out into the enemy's ranks. An enemy quickly pressing hard against the walls, desperately positioning ladders and climbing fast.

Fast enough that a few made it through the narrow crenels and fought like demons.

Blood ran thick along the walkways. It dribbled off the edge, making the ground uncertain. Several mercenaries slipped, their curses ringing clear despite the battlecries roaring up from below.

The elf waited.

Her gaze travelled along the wall, studying those who tried their best to defend it.

She accepted the nod of a guard, whose name she knew was Tonks. A slim woman with an easy-going nature who carried a large-bladed axe in one hand and a heavy iron mallet in the other.

Beside her, almost hidden beneath a thick layer of grime and sweat, a man in worn mail and a rough woollen cloak. Hair long and silver to his shoulders. Thin of body. Almost waifish. A needlelike sword in his hand, which he slashed across throats with shocking ease. She knew his name was Dog.

He growled as he killed, which hinted at the origin of his name.

Among the archers, a mercenary in rich man's clothing long past its prime, but meticulously cared for. A dull brass ring in one ear. Called himself Count Steel, and claimed to have owned a castle far to the south in the heart of Cornelia. Said Rule himself had stripped him of his title.

No one believed him.

His partner, a squat fat man in an ugly yellow shirt. The Count called him Boe.

Boe sneaked a look at her and winked.

She turned away.

An ork glared over the wall at the gathering storm of steel. She knew his name was Redfist, but nothing else about him. And, looking at the deadly double-bladed axe in his hand, she didn't want to know anything more.

Other faces she recognised but not many by name. Most were strangers.

Strangers she was about to fight beside. Possibly to die with.

She hardly breathed. Stood still as a statue.

And watched the tide of movement. Tried to judge where to inject herself.

“They've got a cleric!” Pad shouted, pushing away from the wall where he'd been peering over the edge. “Bastard's healing the fuckers up!”

“Shit,” someone spat nearby. She was surprised to see it was Ffloyd. His fist tight around a mace dripping with gore. His fat face flushed with fear. “We are so fucked.”

“Break their heads!” Sharpe bellowed. “They can heal a man's wounds, but they can't heal his brain. Smash them! Break them! Let's see the inside of their skulls!”

The elf shuddered as she watched a young girl in ill-fitting mail claw at the helmet of a climbing Caspiellan soldier. He swung blindly at her, arm unable to build up decent power through the narrow crenel.

Then the helmet tore free and the girl raised a heavy club.

Brought it down.

Again.

And again.

The girl was almost sobbing in terror, but there was steel in her swing as she brought the club cracking down. Determination was smothering the girl's horror. The skull broke open like an egg and the elf turned away, absently reflecting on how easy it was for some to learn the skills of a killer.

The mercenaries were loosely packed along the wall, slightly right of the front gates. It was the easiest route for the Caspiellans to attack as the ground rose higher up the wall on this side. It was also more even than much of the surrounding land. Which meant they could rush in fast and climb fast.

Only a few of Sharpe's guards had positioned themselves around the rest of the fort, looking for any surprises the Grey Jackets might attempt.

But it seemed the Caspiellans weren't in the mood for anything creative.

Instead, they continued hard and fast up the wall like a furious wave of ants.

Townsfolk ducked behind the parapets, and among the mercenaries and guards. They carried buckets filled with ash and coals, which they tossed down onto climbing soldiers. Then, they'd run back down the ramps to refill the smoking buckets before returning.

The smell of scorched meat made her draw her lips back into a grimace.

She saw Pryke, too. Not on the wall. Instead, he was positioned below and to her left. Close to the gate, with a small cluster of heavily-armoured guards.

His expression was sour as he caught her eye. A stained bandage wrapped over his shirt. Pressing a rag to his cheek. He'd lost his jacket somewhere. A sword quivered in his other hand, but he didn't move.