When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (27 page)

“It's you,” he said, displeasure making his words blunt. “So, you are the one who leads this Tainted rabble? I should have suspected it. Your foulness infects this land like a disease.”

“Let me guess,” she muttered,
Recent Convert
fresh in her fist. “You reckon you're the cure?”

His gaze pierced her soul. Despite his odd tactical decisions, she didn't doubt this man wouldn't hesitate to kill her. And knew his reputation for cruelty was well-deserved. Also knew the sword in his hand wasn't like a normal blade. She figured one cut from that thing would be worse than a thousand cuts from a normal one.

“Nothing can cure you,” he said at last. “And only death will cleanse this land of your cursed existence. Make it easy on yourself, Tainted one. Kneel. And allow Hell to claim you. Struggle, and it only extends your pain.”

A thick ribbon of smoke from the burning wagons coiled around them, brought on an icy wind. His eyes squinted toward the fires. A look of irritation spoiled his face as his precious treasures, looted from all over the Deadlands, were turned to ashes.

She pulled herself to her feet.

Dragged the back of her hand across her brow to wipe the sweat away. Spat a bloodied stream onto the rocks at her feet. “Ain't one to choose the easy way,” she said. “But I ain't seeing your tame spellslinger anywhere close. So I figure we're in a situation where one of us will be doing the curing. The other will be doing the dying. Reckon I appreciate the simplicity of that.”

“Before coming here, I had my doubts,” he said. Eyes rabid, and spittle drooling from his mouth like a madman. She wondered what had driven him to the edge of sanity. “It is only natural. I believed Rule might be wrong. I believed Lostlight could be redeemed. Accepted. But now? Now I believe all elfs are Tainted to the core. You make me certain of this. You are a destroyer of peace. A breaker of truth. And a killer of the worst kind. I thank you. For giving to me a purpose. When we have cleansed this place, we will return to Leibersland. I will raise an army the size of which you cannot begin to dream. And I will return here to claim this land for the Lord of Light himself. We will march on your Lostlight. We will reduce it to ash! I will rake your cancerous Taint from the very bones of the earth itself!” He flung his arms wide, the sword's enchantment shimmering in the air. His gaze swept over the goblins. “You hear me? Destroy the Tainted!”

A few soldiers, closest to him, echoed the cry. But mostly they kept to their curses and their screams as the goblins surged in increasing numbers.

It seemed there was no end to the feral tide.

“I hear you, feller. And now you've told me your operation, is this where you get someone else to kill me? Or you gonna show some guts and try doing it yourself?”

He pointed the sword at her, the tip crackling with energy. “You will feel pain, elf,” he hissed. “More pain than you can endure. This sword will turn your blood to ice and freeze your very bones.”

 Without warning, he kicked his heels into his mount's side. The horse screamed and lunged forward, the animal's eyes boring into her.

“Ain't sure I like the sound of that,” she spat as she drew, aimed and threw
Fulci's Last Joke
with all her strength. Her arm felt sheathed in ice as it left her fingers.

The knife entered the beast's brain through its eye. The dying horse managed two more steps, then dropped. Forelegs skating across the ground before it crumpled to a stop only centimetres in front of her.

Blood and snow spattered her boots.

Her eyes glinted like thin strips of light. She powered forward,
Recent Convert
hungry for his flesh. Finished; “So best I put you under first.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

For a man who looked past his prime, he moved fast. Unlike the men around him, Storr appeared to have more training. At least, with the sword.

It blurred toward her as he tried to pull himself free from his dead horse. The blade catching the light only millimetres from her face.

The air between the sword and her flesh sparked with frozen energy, and her skin blistered in the cold rush.

“Fuck,” she growled as his heavy foot smashed into her gut to send her wheeling back. Her breath, torn from her lungs, whooshed out and she gasped hard as she tried to recover quickly.

Storr climbed to his feet and turned on her. “You killed my horse.” His voice was almost as cold as the enchantment swirling around his sword. “I liked that horse.”

“Explains a lot,” she choked, forcing herself to stand straight. Her lower back throbbed as spikes of pain sparked up her spine.

Her words weren't lost on him. “Bitch!”

And he came at her, a flurry of sword and armour which she managed to avoid only because he was consumed by rage.

She recognised some of his forms. The way his feet shifted in the mud. The way he held the sword in both hands. Something about the grip.

It reminded her of the
Musa'Jadean
, and she wondered if Raste and his small band were the only ones who'd turned to the god of Light. How many had gone before to teach the Grey Jackets their skills?

But he was still old, and rusty. Hadn't had to use his weapon in combat for a long time. And this showed in the effort it took for him to swing the big blade.

So she skipped aside, rolling over the steaming corpse of his mount, and forced him to follow her. To do the work. Wearing him down. Not wanting to let that sword's enchanted blade touch her skin.

Her cheek throbbed, a numb drumbeat against her face. The cheekbone ached with cold. But it didn't seem to be spreading.

Not yet.

She kept her eyes focussed on his hands and feet. Her heart thudded firm in her chest.

Finally, he managed to pull his thoughts together and understand what she was doing. He sneered at her. “After all your talk,” he said. “All your mockery. You're just a coward, afraid of an old man.”

“Ain't afraid of you, old man,” she said calmly. “Just the sword.”

“You should be,” he said. Held the sword between them like a precious thing. “It's unique. I love enchanted things, elf. And this is weapon is more powerful than any other I have seen. One cut from it will kill you. Just one cut. It is a weapon from the dawn of time, it is said. Made for a cursed Vampire Lord. Once an unholy relic, but now blessed by Rule. My family is honoured above all to wield it. It's beautiful, isn't it? The runes are icy to the touch. Look closely, elf. And see your death in them.”

He lunged across the carcass, the sword striking for her belly.

She easily dodged it, though, and felt a twinge of impatience. She wanted him dead. But she'd seen what happened to those who'd gotten too close to the sword. Fear kept her cautious.

Around her, Grey Jackets were slowly succumbing to the overpowering strength of numbers. The goblins were screaming murder as they hacked and slashed.

But within the circle, as in the eye of a storm, the battle was slower.

Now a battle of who would crack first.

“You bore me,” the General growled. “Come. Let's get this over with.”

“I look like I'm in a hurry, old man?” She drifted around him like a shark, hungry for an opening. But patient. “I reckon your men are dying faster now. Won't be long and it'll be just you and me. And about a hundred angry goblins all waiting a piece of you to take home in one of their pouches. You've lost, Storr.”

Instead of getting angry, he laughed at her. “You're a fool, elf. Do you really think a handful of pests could kill Rule's favoured Grey Jackets? No. Not in your lifetime. Already my son and Hyrax prepare to sweep across the battlefield. They'll shred your precious goblins to mincemeat. It is Rule's desire to see you all dead, and dead you will be. No one can stand before us. No one!”

The elf licked her lips, wondering who was right. Carefully, her eyes flicked sideways. Saw more goblins than Grey Jackets, but felt a jagged icicle of doubt form in her heart.

A small group of Goblins, including Headroom, had dragged a corpse into the small clearing around Storr and herself. They sat on it like it was a log, clapping their hands at her.

“Bloodhand!” they cheered as one. “Bloodhand kill thief!”

And she couldn't help but grin at the madness of it.

But the General wasn't grinning. He was scowling. He lifted the sword high above his head. “Grey Jackets! To me! Vanquish the Tainted!”

A few soldiers, heavily wounded, staggered toward him. One was trying to tug a familiar  goblinknife from his back. The weapon had chewed deep into his armour. Hadn't gotten deep enough into his shoulder, but it was enough that one arm hung limp at his side and blood dripped its crazed patterns from his nerveless fingers.

A sorry group.

Who knew they were dead, but couldn't resist the call of their commander.

Stormer strutted up. Kicked the wounded soldier from behind, grabbed hold of the brutal goblinknife sticking out of his shoulder as he fell and wrenched it free with a bloodthirsty howl.

The Grey Jacket writhed in agony, but only as long as it took her to bring her reclaimed weapon down onto his head. The wet thunk had a finality to it which couldn't be denied.

Shuddering, the elf kept her eyes on Storr as he gathered the handful of men to himself. Spoke in rapid barks. None of which made any more sense to them than it did to her, but Storr looked grimly confident.

He waited.

Aimed the sword at her.

Cried; “Now!”

And they all rushed forward.

She blinked, still unable to decide what he was trying to do. He alone hadn't charged. Instead seemed to believe the few ragged men could achieve what his army so far had not.

The elf moved.

And she was not alone.

Goblins swarmed the men, chittering and screeching. Trading insults as they bickered amongst themselves more than they fought the Grey Jackets.

Arguing over who was killing the men faster.

Wading through them, the elf shoved
Reverse Psychology
into the belly of the oldest soldier. Avoided his gaze as his eyes moistened with tears. Didn't even think about what he might be thinking as she tore his guts out with a savage jerk of her arm.

Stormer cackled like a witch, hacking at the man she'd killed. Cutting off his ears. Holding the bloody trophies high above her head. Shrieked; “I best there is!”

“No,” another goblin mumbled. “I best there is. Eventi-”

He snapped his mouth shut as Stormer rounded on him, green eyes bristling with fury. Her fist shattered his long nose and he staggered back with a startled cry before dropping onto his ass in the bloodstained snow.

Stormer sneered down at him. “If you best there is, how come I break nose?”

The elf hadn't stopped to watch.

She slid between the remaining two soldiers who were fighting to stay alive. They were forced back, leaving a small pile of goblin bodies as their swords cleaved with enough skill to make the goblins wary.

The little creatures looked uncertain of the two men. They glanced at each other with frowns wrinkling their brows.

One of the goblins elbowed his nearest companion. Jerked his head to the elf. “It Bloodhand,” he whispered. “Let Bloodhand kill.”

Which she did. Eyes filled with the sparks of hate, she sent
Whispers of Home
gleaming through the air. While it missed the throat she was aiming for, it splashed hard a few inches below, just above the lip of his chainmail. She was satisfied to see him drop, vomiting blood.

“No-” the other managed to strangle between his teeth before the elf's fury was delivered in the form of
Reverse Psychology
in his side.
Bamboo Bones
sighed as she drew and brought it up crisply into his outstretched hand. The blade slid through his palm easily, her momentum hardly slowed as the blade continued to punch into the crook of his neck, pinning his hand to his throat like a butterfly.

She twisted the blade, snarling like a wolf as she used her weight to send him screaming to the ground.

Left him there, twitching in front of a bunch of wide-eyed goblins who took a few steps back to avoid the elf.

“Bloodhand!” Stormer shouted in delight.

Ears burning, the elf rounded on the old General, who'd finally realised the desperate situation he was in.

“Alek,” he croaked. Half-turned from her, sword shivering in his hand. Called louder; “Alek! My son! Where are you?”

“Dead,” the elf spat, taking one step closer. “Or dying. Wherever your pup is, Storr, he'll do you no good today.”

He yelped, making to run, but found there were no more Caspiellans anywhere close. Only a circle of goblins grinning at him.

The pinpoints of fear in her guts had dissipated, boiled away on a river of rage.

She didn't see the fragile man made powerful by enchanted weaponry and armour. Here was a man who'd had her tied in his tent. Who'd threatened her with a long and painful death. Who'd enjoyed killing her kind many times before.

So, she saw a man who needed to die.

And something cold inside her heart moved to oblige. She charged, a howl spewing from her lungs like acid.

The sword whipped at her face. A strike which might have killed someone slower than her. But her torso twisted. She wrenched her head to one side. Felt the roar of his enchanted blade as it slid through her hair.

And heard his shriek ring in her ear as her newest blade, as yet unnamed, drove hard up under his ribs to deliver death with a cruelty mirrored in her eyes.

He flung his arms wide, the sword leaving his grasp to spin end over end as it flew over the circle of goblins and skittered along the ground.

His eyes, which had once impressed her with their intellect, dimmed. His mouth, slack, loosed a string of bloodstained saliva which dripped onto his arm. The arm which clutched her own, trying to pull the source of his pain from his body.

“You can't kill me,” he whispered. “I am Rule's chosen. I am Accepted. You're Tainted. You can't do this. I'm not ready to die.”

She held the knife inside him, face impassive as she watched him die. Could almost feel his pulse through the handle. “You shouldn't have followed me, then,” she told him. “Should have let Grimwood Creek go. I was only after Raste. Didn't give a shit about you until you followed me.”