When Goblins Rage (Book 3)

by Lucas Thorn

  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.

  And his gaze never moved from her back. She could feel his hatred burning into her skin.

  But
chose to ignore him.

  Hicks positioned himself to one side of a Caspiellan ladder and was gleefully hacking at helmeted heads as they appeared. His hatchet, clutching gore, glinted in the frosty light. Expression crazed and joyous with the heat of killing.

  “You want some?” he screamed. “Here! Have it! Take it! Die, you motherfucker! Who's next? Huh? Who's fucking next? Oh! You want some? Here it is! Come and get it. Come on!”

  Sharpe's heavy falchion cleaved into a Grey Jacket's shoulder, nearly splitting him down to his guts. The elf raised an eyebrow at the man's brutal strength and held her breath as he used his boot to push the soldier off the wall.

  Another soldier squealed. A high and tinny sound. He staggered over the wall, a spear embedded low in his belly.

  A few mercenaries grabbed him by his arms and threw him down into the street below, where an old woman calmly slit the man's throat with a fishing knife before rummaging through his pockets.

  “Shoot, damn you, shoot!” Sharpe raged at the archers, who'd paused to glance at the soldier's gruesome death.

  Tak, positioned close to the elf, crumpled with a startled groan as a sword flicked up over the wall to slither through the crenel and into his throat.

  He gurgled for breath, bubbles of red dribbling down his chin.

  She waited.

  Redfist let loose a bestial roar, the axe making an awful sound as it sheared clean through a mail-draped torso.

  Someone cursed beside him as they were showered in blood and gore.

  Tak finally dropped his spear and twitched on his side, fingers trying to stem the gushing wound in his throat. The old mercenary's gaze fastened on hers, almost pleadingly.

  She returned his look with an impassive stare which told him everything he needed to know. He died with an agonised shudder.

  A gloved hand grabbed at the heavy stone as the Grey Jacket who'd killed Tak scrambled to get inside. His face, alive with fear and desperation, thrust into view.

  His eyes caught hers and a look of shock made him pause.

  Long enough for her to move.

  She kicked hard, toe of her boot cracking into his jaw. And as he reared up and backward, he flailed with his sword while his other hand scrambled for a tighter hold.

  For balance.

  But before he could recover, State of the Art slid between his ribs to pierce his lung. She twisted hard and jerked the blade free. Blood showered the men still trying to surge up behind him.

  His eyes showed their whites and his mouth went slack.

  But he swayed there, at the top of the ladder. Held upright by the strength of his disbelief while she watched him realise he was already dead.

  Then he slumped outward.

  Fell without a scream.

  More came then. In a savage rush of shouts and steel.

  A barrel-chested man with wiry black beard.

  Then two more, slim enough to try pushing over the wall together. They died together, choking on blood.

  More soldiers.

  Each fighting desperately to get over the wall. To be the one to break the spirits of the defenders. Weapons bright and lethal. But she saw just faces.

  Their expressions.

  Each man a pocket of red, spilling gory contents at her feet.

  Spraying her face.

  Screaming.

  Crying.

  Shouting defiantly as she cut through their rushed attacks. Attacks which had no time to rely on skill or precision. Just brutality and the need to survive felt on both sides of the wall.

  Soon, her right hand felt numb from the constant jarring as her blades powered through armour and bone. Her shoulders ached.

  A sword opened flesh just under her shoulder, and she bled freely.

  Ignored the pain. Instead embraced the flood of killing. A flood she was drowning in as she realised this was the first time she'd stood before an army.

  In Grimwood Creek, there'd been no cohesion to the Grey Jackets. They'd been spread across the town in small groups. And the men she'd killed in the inn had been cramped and unprepared. Many were unarmed.

  But here, they were a horde. And, surrounded by the stink of loosened bowels and fresh blood, she came to know the terror of an endless wave of swords and hate.

  Hudson rushed past, flashing a grin. Arm wet with blood up past his elbow.

  She saw Eli, further along the wall. The impish grin was gone from his face, replaced by something more grim. He was looking down at one of his knives, which had broken about an inch and a half from the guard.

  With a sigh, he tossed the broken knife over his shoulder, where it spun like a wounded steel bird down onto the muddy street below. The elf's eyes followed the glittering trail and her eyes narrowed.

  He caught her gaze and offered a nod which conveyed the depth of his fear.

  He had the experience to know what Hudson had yet to fathom.

  That they could not hold the wall forever.

  The Grey Jackets would prove too strong. Too many.

  Already, the mercenaries were tiring. And some were dead or dying. They didn't have the numbers to hold the wall much longer.

  “I see you decided to fight on the wall too, my friend,” he called, injecting a little too much cheer into his voice. “It is a good thing we came. Without us, the bastards would be all over the town. We would never get any sleep.”

  “Screw you, Eli,” Tonks shouted over the noise. “We didn't need you. You're useless, anyway. All mouth and no bollocks, you are!”

  He barked a laugh, gouging out the eye of Grey Jacket scrambling to back away from his frenzied attacks. “I will show you my bollocks any time,” he called back to her. “But I am here, now. And if I leave, I will be bored. And Eli does not like to be bored. I am sure my good friend, Nysta, feels the same. After all, right now, what else is there to do in this town?”

  She answered his grin with one of her own. A mirthless grin. Nodded. “Reckon I had some time to kill.”

  Dog silenced them with a pain-scorched scream as a Caspiellan sword ripped into his shoulder, nearly severing the arm. The blade glistened, drunk on blood, as it pierced clean through his body.

  As he staggered back and fell, he took the sword from the grasp of the soldier trying to climb over the wall.

  Eli scrambled to fill the gap he left behind. His knife flicked with deadly precision.

  Dog kept screaming.

  Nysta tore her gaze away. Toward the young girl beside her who looked to be barely fifteen years old. She'd lost her club and was now using a spear to slash and stab at a Caspiellan twice her size. Without finesse, she used it like a skewer, but the long narrow blade would bite deep if she aimed it right.

  She didn't.

  The Grey Jacket howled as he snatched the shaft, trapping it between his arm and torso. Held it fast. Grinned at her.

  Made to reach out. To get a handful of the girl's hair inside his fist.

  Serious Callers Only left the elf's hand without her needing to think about the throw. Rammed deep into his throat and sent him cartwheeling backward, spear wrenched from the girl's grip to fall with him.

  Snarling, the girl snatched another spear from an old man running along the walkway who was carrying an armful for those who'd lost them. He struggled not to drop a small bucket he was also carrying.

  With a grateful, but slightly irritated, glance toward the elf, the girl struck to disembowel the next soldier who'd managed to make it almost over the wall. She used the butt to smash a hole in his skull before pushing him over. Worked hard to try not to touch the corpse with her hands.

  Nysta, faintly amused at the girl's ability to gleefully shred a man's belly before crushing his skull only to feel disgust at the thought of getting more gore on her hands, absently wondered how long before the girl's inexperience got her killed.

  Then the elf spun, ears catching the sound of someone else scrambling to mount her area of the wall.

  Her fist slammed into a youthful face. Took a few t
eeth, but the kid held to the ladder and wall. Lunged at her with his sword.

  A short wide-bladed sword. It went close to driving into her ribs, but the elf was still quick despite the maddening fog lurking in her brain. Raking at his forearm with The Grey Area, she staggered back to avoid the slashing blade.

  Nearly knocked an archer off the walkway. Then sent The Grey Area spinning through the air. It disappeared between the folds of the soldier's cloak and he slumped forward, blocking the crenel with his corpse.

  “His head, Long-ear!” Sharpe's voice made her flinch. His outrage was worse than a slap in the face. “Don't go for his guts, damn you! Go for his fucking head! That's for the lot of you. Get their heads, you bastards! Or you'll only be fighting them again when their fucking cleric sends them back!”

  Face flushing, she wanted to snap back at him, but knew he was right. She'd already sent men back down the wall with wounds any healer would find no challenge.

  How many had she not dealt with properly?

  She should have known better. So, why didn't she?

  What was stopping her from thinking?

  “Fuck,” she growled, bringing State of the Art down into the corpse's head. The blade split his skull and wormed into his brain as she lent it a spiteful twist to ensure he wasn't coming back. Yanked the knife free, spilling gore at her feet. Then used her boot to push him back so he fell on top of those still climbing.

  Heard a few more shouts of dismay and a shriek of pain.

  She never saw The Grey Area again.

  Sucking air, she waited for the next attacker to show his face.

  And it felt like she'd been there for hours. Days, even. But it could only have been minutes. Sparse minutes, too. Long enough to lose herself in the thrill of battle, but not long enough to drive the heavy fog from her mind.

  What the Caspiellans thought they could achieve with such a bold attack, she couldn't guess. It was a ridiculous waste of life, and she wondered at the cruelty of the General who'd sent the boys to their deaths along the wall.

  How cold his heart might be.

  And she wondered where Daved was. Was he already lying dead at the base of the wall?