When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (4 page)

A moment she needed so she could force her way past the swordsman.

And escape.

Into the shadows which would always welcome her.

The sword snaked out at her.

She felt the thrill of contact as her hand, fisted around
Attitude Adjuster
, tensed for impact. Blade streaking toward his face.

But again, he proved his quickness. A mailed fist shot out to seize her wrist and he showed another skill. Strength.

Strength she'd never known a human could possess.

He swung her around like she weighed nothing. She had no time to lash out with her foot. Or to slash at his arm with
Fulci's Last Joke
. She had time only to widen her eyes as she caught sight of the thick trunk rearing out of the snow studded earth.

No time to even brace herself.

She hit it hard, smashed like an insect.

Felt a rib crunch under the sudden pressure, and then her cheek as her face cracked into the wood.

Stunned, she dropped heavily even as he let her arm go. He took the knife from her unresponsive grip and used his boot to roll her onto her back.

Blinking, the elf groaned. Managed to think about moving, but stopped as four sword points were stuck firmly in front of her eyes. The sharp blades glittered with a finality that shocked her almost as much as the impact.

She was going to die, she realised.

Finally.

After all the battles. All the fights. The scrambling struggles to survive in back alleys.

The creatures of the Deadlands.

None of them had been able to kill her.

But one man. One Caspiellan soldier who she'd grossly underestimated.

Her mouth split into a bloody grin as she realised the cruel joke played on her.

The soldier pushed gently past the others. Leaned over her with a calm look of satisfaction.

“Don't say I didn't warn you, Tainted One,” he said. “I told you it'd be hard if you wanted it. Now. We'll take you to see the General. You struggle, and it'll hurt even more. It's up to you what happens next. Answer his questions, and it'll be quick. Don't, and you'll learn more about pain than you want to. Do you understand? It's for your own good, after all.”

She looked up at him, still dazed and overwhelmed by the agony. But the icy ball in her guts rolled hard. Like a rough stone, scraping at her organs. Frozen now with more hate than fear.

She spat at him with the last of her strength. Grinned through bloody teeth as the red-stained spit splashed across his eyes and nose. “Fuck you,” she hissed as one of the other soldiers aimed a kick at her head which would send her into the arms of oblivion. “Generally speaking.”

CHAPTER FOUR

When she woke, her head felt like it was submerged in mud. The pain rang through her bones and even into the cores of her teeth.

Her head lolled to one side and she tried to roll with it, but couldn't move.

Was tied to something. Wrists bound behind her.

She was in a sitting position. They'd taken her jacket. Her knives.

It was hard to breathe. Hard to think.

And she could taste blood. Thick in her mouth. She spat it out, but didn't have the strength to do it properly. It ran out of her mouth and down her chin instead.

Her nose was numb, too. Last time she'd felt it like that, it'd been broken by another Jukkala. Who was it?

Genta.

That was her name.

What had happened to her? Something. The clouds wrestled with her consciousness, trying to drag her back down into the black.

“You are awake.” It was not a question.

She ignored the voice. The way it tumbled into her brain through her ears. It was too smooth. Too greasy. It made her want to throw up.

A hand took hold of her chin. Lifted her head.

Bright blue eyes like cold stones studied her. The face was that of a young Caspiellan. Similar coffee skin, unusual for Caspiellans, but normal in Grey Jackets. It was said the Leiberslanders had once lived further north and had migrated south to be with their beloved god. Still, he didn't quite look Fnordic.

His expression was one of disgust, as though he couldn't bear to touch her.

“Your ears,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “They mark you for what you are. Tainted. Evil. The child of a demonic god and his cursed whore. There is no redemption to be found in your kind. No goodness. All you know is violence. And hate. And murder. But the day has come, Tainted One. When Rule has at last blessed our purpose. We shall cleanse the world of you, and others like you. The ones you call Orks. Goblins. Trolls. We shall bring peace at last to this cursed land, and the light of Rule will send the darkness once more scurrying into the deepest shadows of the earth. Where it belongs. Salvation comes, Tainted One. Rejoice in it.”

She struggled to find the strength to pull her head free of his grasp, but couldn't. The fog weaving across her brain was thicker. More determined to keep her from moving.

She couldn't lift her arm.

Couldn't even feel it.

“Piss on you,” she said through swollen lips. “And your fucking salvation.”

He gave her a look which looked almost sad. “There were some who would speak against ridding this world of your kind. Who would see you enslaved. Or sent across the sea. Who see the destruction of your people as a crime. They are simple folk. They have no understanding of the evil you embrace. Nor the corruption you spread like a disease.” He stared deep into her eyes. “But you can't hide your nature from me. You are Tainted. No chance of redemption. Rule knows this. It is why he gave the order. No Tainted shall live. We will hunt you down until none remain.”

The elf was finally able to move her thumb and two fingers on her right hand. It wasn't much, but it was a victory to her.

She returned his stare with one made cold by the hatred still surging through her blood past the pain wracking her body.

His speech hadn't impressed her. She'd heard it many times, in many ways. By dozens of Grey Jackets before.

“Spare me the bullshit,” she mumbled. “Kill me if you like. But get the fuck out of my face.”

He let her go and rose to his feet. He wore a robe, she noticed dully. A thick woollen robe. Plain and unadorned by any design. Held at his waist by a thick black cord.

An involuntary shudder swept down her spine.

A robe meant he was a cleric.

“I think she is ready now,” the cleric said abruptly. “You can question her.”

She hadn't noticed the old man. Thickset and with tight-cropped grey beard clinging to his jaw. Mostly bald. Just a clutch of grey raking the sides of his head.

Deep lines edged across his face and his amber-coloured eyes drilled into her with frightening emptiness. As though his emotions had been scraped from his soul.

Caspiellan armies had flamboyant armour. But the Grey Jackets were curiously indifferent to any form for decoration. Instead, they focussed on simplicity, as though any attempt to appear more than mundane might offend Rule.

Only a few strips of dark cloth across his shoulders marked his rank.

Something about him made her think of the kind of men who needed to be right. The rigidity of his stare only served to send a shudder down her spine. There would be no reasoning with him. No connecting.

And, as their gazes met, she realised here was a man who would order her torture as easily as he would order his meal. She also knew his name.

Storr.

He could be no other.

He sat in a backless chair, arm resting on a small table beside him. Papers lay sprawled across the top. An inkpot. Small quill.

A couple of candles, burnt low.

Right now, though, the light was streaming through the tent's wide opening. Bright light. A glimpse of fragmented blue sky from between the opened flaps. A couple of men guarded the opening.

A few chests rested near the doorway and a wooden crates, nailed shut, loomed beside her in heavy stacks.

She felt a warm trickle of blood slide down her cheek from her forehead.

And the ropes bit into her chest and arms.

Her right hand formed a fist.

As though aware of her thoughts, the General nodded slightly and his eyes followed her gaze. “There is no escape for you, elf,” he said. “You were alone. And it strikes me that this cursed land is not the place where heroes walk. So there will be no rescue. Instead, there will be a giving of information. By you. To me. And then you will be allowed to walk from this place into the sunlight, which is today a gift from Rule to us. A reward for your capture, I am told. You will walk outside. Three, maybe four paces. And then you will be cut down by Alek Storrson, who has asked for the pleasure of killing you. I have granted his request. I tell you this so you know who it is who will send you to Hell.”

She frowned. “Hell?”

“It is where you go when you die. Where your soul will lie in torment for all time. That you do not even know the name of your final destination only shows the depths of your condemnation. Rule has revealed this. His wisdom is a gift to the world.”

The elf sighed. “You call us Tainted, Caspiellan. But it's your twisted god who tainted in the head.”

The cleric moved fast. A blur of grey. His fist struck her mouth, snapping her head back into the heavy pole she was tied to.

“Hyrax!” Storr snapped. “Leave her!”

Spitting fresh blood, she glowered at the cleric. “Hit me again, you fucking piece of trollshit, and I'll cut your balls off before shoving them up your ass.”

Unimpressed, the cleric rubbed at his knuckles before bowing toward the General. “I apologise, sir,” he said insincerely. Almost belligerently. “But I'll not listen to blasphemy.”

Storr gave a light shrug. “Next time hit her somewhere else. I need her mouth so she can speak.”

“Of course.”

“What is your name, elf?”

“Fuck you.”

“You do know I don't much care if you live or die? You also realise I don't care if you suffer or not? I simply wish this to be over with as soon as possible. You'll tell me your name. You'll tell me anything I want to know. All you should care about is whether you will do it willingly, or have it extracted from you in a manner which you would find extremely unpleasant.”

And, because he was right, she grunted; “Nysta.”

“You see? Not very difficult. So, Nysta. I would like to tell you a story. When I was a child, I would listen for hours while my mother told me stories. Are you fond of stories?”

She licked blood from the edge of her mouth. Spat it out at his feet before speaking. “I grew up on streets where other fellers would slit your throat out of boredom, old man. Stories don't interest me. And you ain't got anything I really want to hear except your death rattle. Sick of listening to you, to tell the truth. So if you're gonna kill me, I'd be obliged if you'd get on with it.”

“Of course,” he sighed mockingly. “The Tainted respect nothing but death. Nevertheless, because it amuses me, I will tell you a story. You will forgive me for boring you and do me the honour of remaining silent while I speak? It would be easier on you than a gag.”

She looked out through the open flaps of the tent. How close her freedom appeared. Yet, those few feet to the doorway might well have been a chasm. The elf shifted her weight, trying to test her bonds.

Would have shrugged, but she couldn't move her shoulders. “Ain't my tongue which is tied right now, so I reckon you've got the advantage over me. Sure, feller. You flap your jaw if it makes you feel any better. Reckon in turn you'll forgive me if I don't listen.”

“It concerns a mage,” he said. “A mage with incredible power. But not the kind of power Rule can allow. It is power tainted by your kind. A fel power Rule has fought to keep buried in the mists of time. Unfortunately, it has been found again. We cannot let its corruption spread.”

“He must be found,” Hyrax murmured. “And brought to kneel before Rule.”

Storr ignored the cleric. His eyes burned as he stared at the elf. “His father was trusted by the King of Cornelia. A great man.”

“A traitor,” Hyrax injected.

“Perhaps,” Storr shrugged. “It is said he married a Fnordic woman. But no one is sure of her origin. Out of their union, the child was born.”

“Heretic.”

“Despite the rumours,” Storr said patiently. “The King showed his generosity when he brought the boy into his household following the tragic death of both his parents. He raised him as his own. A wonderful gift.”

“A gift he spat upon,” Hyrax folded his arms. Almost petulantly.

“Possibly. What is known, elf, is the boy has grown into the mage we feared. He has discovered magics long buried. And he has unleashed them at Grimwood Creek. This is just the beginning.”

Hyrax snarled like an animal. “He must be found!”

“The story has no real ending, yet.” Storr edged forward on his seat. “We now live in the middle of it. We must see it end. Soon. He travels the Deadlands even now, leaving a trail of death and destruction. He was seen with a woman. Does this mean anything to you?”

The elf's heart thudded in her chest and her tongue moved slowly over the back of her swollen lip. She gave the barest shake of her head.

Eyeing her closely, Storr leaned further forward before continuing. “He has raised the dead, elf. Even you should be able to see the horror of that. The unspeakable evil he summons from beyond the grave could doom us all.” His face was intense. Almost as though he was desperate to have her believe him. “You are Tainted. We both know this. Your soul is bound for Hell. But that was the fault of your god, Grim. Your Dark Lord. He cursed you. Allowed you to spawn, when he should never have let you exist. It is not your fault. But this is a different kind of evil. It chooses to be evil. It embraces it wholly! It must be stopped. There was a time when the Dark God made a pact with Rule. A pact to destroy such evils. This is how important it is. How truly the world teeters on the edge of destruction!”

The cleric shuddered. “And if Grim hadn't so foully betrayed his brother. If he hadn't been so corrupted by your people, then he may have finished what he started. May have destroyed the Dhampirs when Rule killed the last of the Vampire Lords.”