When Goblins Rage (Book 3)

by Lucas Thorn

  He couldn't hide his confusion. “What is that?”

  The elf's lip curled dangerously. “Not to cross me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Ah, my friend. Again you misunderstand.” Eli wagged his finger and smiled. But his eyes were cold. Searching. Looking for something in her own. “Let us not move this conversation backwards. We already did the threats at the beginning. I am sure you remember them. We will just call this a passing curiosity, yes?”

  The elf felt the skin between her shoulders ripple and a surge of hot anger bubbled in her belly. “Ain't sure I can see why anything I do is any of your business, Eli.”

  “I assure you, my friend, it is not my business.” The manic grin was beginning to really irritate her. Which was probably why he kept it on his face. “Not at all. Kill anyone you like. But a few weeks ago, I come to a farm. And there is a goblin there. Dead, of course. He is pinned to the wall on a spike. And in the house is a young man. His throat cut open from ear to ear. A messy thing to see so soon in the morning, I assure you. I had to work very hard not to lose my breakfast. I spend some time looking at the body of that young man, and soon I notice something which maybe is not so strange. He has lost something of great value. I can see this clearly. Someone has removed this thing from him. He must have worn it around his neck, because the mark is left on his throat where the young man's killer tore it free. I am moved by his loss. And I say to myself, I will find what is taken from him. And I will have it returned.”

  She looked up at him. Saw something in his eyes she couldn't quite place.

  But whatever it might have hinted, was quickly smothered as he pulled the grin tighter.

  “Doesn't sound like you, Eli,” she said softly. “Figured you more for the kind who'd be taking the belongings of a dead man. Not giving them back. Sounds like you're getting too close to all these dead bodies. Maybe too close, uh?”

  “What?” He forced surprise into his voice. “You don't think a man like Eli can be honourable? I tell you, Nysta, I am the most honourable man in the whole of the Deadlands. You ask anybody. I challenge you to find one single person out there who would say different. And if that person does, you can be sure I will open their bellies and stuff their guts down their lying throats!”

  “Then you'd wear out those knives of yours.” The elf snorted. “Anyone I ask would tell me you were a liar. And a thief. An insane fucking killer with the heart of a Draug. And the appetite to match. And they'd only say that because they'd be too polite to call you what you really are.”

  “That is not a very nice thing to say about a man, Nysta.”

  “Ain't talking about a man, Eli. We're talking about you.”

  He scowled. “You know me better than that.”

  “Eli. I can't say I know you very fucking well at all. And to be honest, I can't say I really give a shit. You can be honourable if you want. Be a fucking dirt farmer for all I care. But your hand ain't moving far from your knife while you talk shit about some feller who died out in the Deadlands. Well, from where I sit, that means nothing to me.”

  “He did not deserve to die worse than a dog.”

  “Who does? Eli, this is the fucking Deadlands. It's a mean place. Meaner than the streets of Lostlight, by all accounts. And if he lived out here in the middle of it, then he knew what he was risking. If he didn't, then he was too stupid to live out here anyway.” She pointed her spoon at his nose. “But you know what? I don't think any of that even matters. I think you're pushing me. Pushing for something. And I don't much like being pushed. Reckon you know that much about me. So I'm only gonna tell you just the once. Don't push me. Because I ain't like the rest of them out there. I won't put up with your shit just because of your reputation. Sure, I know you're good, Eli. But I ain't the kind to just roll over and give you what you want. I'll push back. And push back hard. You won't like it. So, you either go for those knives at your waist and give it your best shot. Or shut the fuck up. Eat your beans. And then get the fuck out of my face.”

  He froze.

  Eyes narrowed and rage burned bright in the coal pits. She could see the tension in his face as he weighed his chances.

  And she wondered if he'd do it. If he'd try to kill her.

  All the people she'd met in the Deadlands. The mercenaries. The soldiers. Guards and hunters. Natural born killers all of them. And of them all, only Eli had impressed her.

  Because he could do it.

  Without seeing him in action, she realised he matched her speed. Her skill. If she was just a fraction of a second too slow to pull her blade, he could kill her.

  And when Eli looked at her, she knew he saw the very same thing. Someone who'd have just as much chance to kill him.

  So she knew without doubt that the fear which burned in her guts also infected his veins. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His left eye twitched.

  And, slowly, he relaxed.

  Picked up the spoon he'd discretely set aside.

  Dipped it into the cooling stew.

  And shook his head. “You know, Nysta. You say I am pushing you. But most of the time it is you who does the pushing. And we say these things to each other every time we meet. We trade our threats. We make our insults. And yes, my friend, we trade out jokes. Almost a tradition, yes? But one day, the laughing must stop. The words must no longer be spoken. And all we will have is the sound of our blades. On that day, I wonder which of us will be alive to speak of it.” His grin was slow to form. Deliberate and wolfish. But his eyes still carried the feral echo of his rage. “But you are lucky, my friend. Because today is not that day. Today you are lucky to witness Eli's generosity. Today you will not die on the floor of Ffloyd's.”

  “Sure, Eli,” she said lightly, pushing at the oppressive weight of their shared distrust. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  “It is the truth. You know it is so.”

  “All I know is you want something, Eli. Ain't sure what it is. But if what you said is the truth, and you're looking for some trinket taken from some dead farmboy? Then I ain't got it. If I did, I'd tell you. Because I ain't ashamed of anything I do. Not anymore. I lost that part of me a long time ago.”

  His gaze remained hard for a moment. Then softened. “Maybe I did not believe you had anything to do with the death, Nysta. Maybe I just wanted to be sure. But we will speak no more of it. Not yet. Instead, we will speak of other things.”

  “We got anything more to talk about, Eli?”

  He continued smoothly. “You know I hear the Grey Jackets came to Grimwood Creek. First slaughtered every Fnord in the town they could find. At least, those who could not run away. Every ork. It is said they killed even the children. But then someone else came. Killed all the soldiers. A mage, they say. Who shot lightning from his fingers and summoned an army of undead demons to eat every Caspiellan in the place. I like him already. But he wasn't alone. It is said he was with a woman. A beautiful woman with an enchanted weapon. A woman who fought like the Shadowed Gates were opening on her heel.”

  “Army of demons.” The elf snorted, refusing to meet his eye. “Sounds like bullshit.”

  “I went there,” he said. “I saw what remained. It is not bullshit. There is no town at Grimwood Creek anymore. It is just rubble. And the bodies of the dead still litter the ground. Even the Grey Jackets have not stayed to bury their own. The Draug will have full bellies this Winter.”

  Again she snorted. She'd been unable to get back into the town to retrieve A Flaw in the Glass. Had been pushed back by the arrival of more soldiers than she could count as an army of Grey Jackets had swarmed up from the south.

  Still bitter at leaving without her knife, she remembered her last look at the town. The heavy walls had still been standing. She figured Eli was fishing for something. Didn't believe for a second he'd gone to Grimwood Creek.

  “Coming from your mouth, it still sounds like bullshit to me, Eli.”

  “But Highwall is not bullshit,” he said, leaning forward intently.
Eyes studying every twitch in her expression. “Just three weeks ago, it was turned to dust. And Ragefire, too. Dust. Again, I have been there. Not a stone is standing. And no survivors, Nysta. Not one. But I read the signs. An army of Grey Jackets is loose in the Deadlands. A rabid army drunk on the blood of those they destroy. And many claim to have seen it. Can you explain these things, my friend? They must be related, I am thinking. The Grey Jackets hunt. They are Rule's hounds. His dogs. They search for something here. That much even a fool can see. And what do they search for? Revenge. I think they want this mage very much. And the woman who was with him. I think they will kill every living thing here to get them. And not much motivates a Grey Jacket better than chasing after someone they think is Tainted.”

  “Could be Grey Jackets made it to Grimwood Creek,” she allowed. “Could be there was fighting. But you really think they'd chase someone all over the Deadlands in this weather? For what?”

  He shook his head. “The town was destroyed, Nysta.”

  “If it was destroyed, then they destroyed it.”

  “It is not what is said,” he argued. “It is said the mage was a very powerful bastard. I know if I was a Grey Jacket, I would want to see him dead. I would want her dead, too. I would want it very much indeed.”

  “But you ain't a Grey Jacket,” she countered. “So someone got into Grimwood Creek after they took it. So someone killed a bunch of fellers there. It ain't reason enough to tear up the Deadlands. You don't march an army across this doomed shithole for two people. That's overkill. Stupid. If they're here, it's just war finally coming. Plain and fucking simple. Could be Rule finally decided it was time to make his move. I mean, nothing's stopping him. Grim's deep in the ground.”

  He nodded, still watching her carefully. “Maybe it is as you say, Nysta. Maybe this is just a story. But I still think they come here for the mage. And if I were the woman who was at Grimwood Creek? I would leave this place. I would head north through the Bloods. I would leave now. Right now. I would not even finish my beans. Especially not with the news which arrived this morning. News which has our good Lord Sharpe shitting himself.”

  The elf's lip twitched irritably. “What's that?”

  “They were seen south of here, just an hour before now. Not just one or two scouts. But the whole cursed lot of them. And they are coming here.” Eli looked away as Ffloyd shuffled back into the cantina, struggling to contain more than a few bottles in his arms.

  The cook muttered beneath his breath as he fumbled one onto their table.

  Didn't wait around for gratitude he knew he wouldn't receive. Just headed right back to his place behind the counter, where he took to drinking his newly acquired stock.

  Neither Nysta nor Eli made a move toward the bottle.

  Just kept holding onto the silence.

  She remembered what she'd told Storr just before he'd left the tent. Remembered his words. And knew he was coming here for her.

  She hadn't believed they would. Hadn't really accepted the General's line of questioning as the reason they were rampaging through the Deadlands. She still thought there had to be something else. But if Eli was right about them being just outside the town, then she was trapped like a mouse.

  Finally, the weasel-faced man nodded as he saw the hint of understanding flicker across her expression. His grin rippled across his face. A lighter grin. The kind of grin he'd been wearing the first time she'd seen him. One which made most people think he was stupid.

  Most people. But not her.

  Because he couldn't hide the coldness in his eyes.

  She spoke first. Soft enough for Ffloyd not to hear. “Why are you telling me this? You could make a lot of gold by handing me over to them.”

  His voice matched hers for volume. “This town is full of men who would want to trade a skinny little elf for a purse of gold, my friend. But I am not one of those men. Who knows why Eli does anything? It could be I am mad. Over the moon like the drunken cow. Could be I don't like Caspiellans. Southern scum and their fucking treacherous bastard god. Could be all these things, my friend. And it could be none. Maybe I think you are beautiful, after all, and do not deserve such a death as this man would give.”

  The elf grunted as she snatched the bottle. Tugged the cork free and tossed it over her shoulder. It bounced away beneath the few other tables and was lost in the shadows. Took a deep swallow before passing it to the man.

  A peace offering, perhaps. She was still so muddled up inside she couldn't tell what she was thinking.

  Hoped she wasn't warming to him.

  He accepted with a shrug.

  Drank from the bottle just as deeply.

  Belched.

  “And I am thinking, while I do not believe you were not at Grimwood Creek,” he added casually. “I believe you did not kill this man and steal his treasure. And to Eli, this is all that matters today. Because I know this man very well. He is my brother. And I loved him. He was a better man than I. And it is as I said, he did not deserve to be murdered like a dog.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Eli.” She rubbed at her forehead, feeling the ache move around behind her eyes. “But I still don't much give a shit if you believe me or not.”

  “I know this,” he said impishly. “Which is why I always liked you, Nysta. You know, I tell everyone I meet. I say, I like the elf called Nysta. She is not like other elfs. She is not like anyone I meet at all. And I tell them you are my friend. And there are not many in the Deadlands Eli thinks of as a friend. It is why I would truly hate to have to kill you. Still, one day Eli would like to find out who would win such a fight. It would be a magnificent battle, I am thinking.”

  “Wouldn't be a fair fight. You'd cheat.”

  “How can you say that?” He managed to look genuinely hurt. “Eli never cheats in a duel!”

  She swallowed her last mouthful of beans. Grabbed the bottle and lifted it in mock salute. Drawled; “I reckon any fight with you would never be even. You've always got a third person.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The self-styled Lord Sharpe had been an outlaw for most of his life in the eastern forests of the Fnordic Lands. He'd led a gang of mercenaries worse than any who passed through Tannen's Run. Led them well, too.

  But he had dreams. Grand dreams of a life far above that which he'd been born to. Dreams the Emperor disapproved of.

  And what the Emperor of the Fnordic Lands disapproved of, he destroyed.

  For Sharpe, it was the end of his life north of the Wall. He'd run south in hope of finding the seed to his dreams in the Deadlands.

  A vain hope, as he soon realised.

  But what he lacked in luck, he made up for in initiative and the dream of being something so much more than the simple outlaw he'd grown into. So when he found the town of Tannen's Run, he saw an opportunity.

  He joined the local guards. Worked hard.

  And it didn't take long for him to murder his way to the top. And even less time to convince the locals to accept calling him by the title he claimed for his own. A title he'd always dreamed of having as he'd pillaged his way down the south-eastern coast of the Fnordic Lands.

  A man of respectability. Of power.

  By this time, as he recognised the dream as a child's one, but it didn't stop him from working to make it a reality.

  A strong man, whose tall body was only just beginning to give way to the signs of ageing, Sharpe carried himself well. Long brown hair flecked with grey. Face frozen into an expression of bitter distaste only seconds from scowling. Eyes constantly squinted. A few thick scars raked his face across the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks.

  He wore a heavy falchion at his waist. Heavy enough to cleave a skull clean through. A long knife strapped to his thigh had also killed more men than he could count.

  He hadn't given himself the title of Lord for the riches, however. Which was a lucky thing, because Tannen's Run had no riches. So the uniform he wore had been taken from the body of the previous captain of the guard
and still had the ugly stain ripping down the back. Stitched together with a scrap of leather thong.

  His boots were mismatched, but he didn't care. They were comfortable, and didn't pinch his toes.

  He clicked his tongue in disgust as he entered the small eatery.

  He was flanked by two guards. Bill and Pryke. Bill, elder of the two, looked bored and uninterested in anything except the dry snot he was rolling between his fingers. There was something simple about his expression, but nothing simple about the sword at his waist.

  Sharpe's grey eyes searched the gloom. Ignored the cook, whom he'd never liked. And found Eli's back.

  The elf, studying the man, could read his sudden desire to plunge his sword into Eli's back as clearly as if he'd screamed his intent.

  Eli, still grinning at the elf's joke, didn't even turn. But his glittering eyes narrowed slightly as the door opened, and the elf recognised the oil-thin ribbon of hate simmering beneath the mercenary's skin.

  He sucked a lungful of air and said; “Did I ever tell you, Nysta, about the Lord of this hovel? He is a big man. A big man with a big mouth. I swear you can hear him all the way across the Deadlands when he whispers. Many people are afraid of him. They say many things about him. But you should never be afraid of him, no matter what you hear. Do you know why? Two things, mostly. One, he's a coward. He will run from trouble, leaving you to die in his place. So you are safe. But also because he is so loud you will always know he is coming. Even if you don't hear him, you can smell him. Smell him like an ork's fart! Isn't this so, Lord Sharpe of Tannen's Muck?”

  Lord Sharpe's lip twisted into a snarl, but he kept his anger in check. Instead, he kicked a stool out of his path and loomed over the table. His gaze flicked toward her, then quickly looked away.

  He'd come for Eli.

  “You're a pain the ass, but I don't have time to deal with your shit, Eli, you old fuck. But one day, I will.” His voice was the raw voice she remembered from the wall. Dry and tough.