When Goblins Rage (Book 3) Page 10

  “One day is the same as the next,” Eli shrugged.

  “Pryke said you came in from the south.”

  Eli shot the named guard a withering look. “Pryke has a big mouth. No wonder you two are very good friends.”

  “You reckon everyone has a big mouth,” Nysta pointed out.

  Eli nodded with mock seriousness. “This is true. It is because there are too many dicks here which need constant attention by the town's guards. Especially their Lord.”

  Sharpe's heavy hand reached out and gripped Eli by the throat. He pushed, rather than shoved, the mercenary against the wall.

  He was a big man. Bigger than Eli. But rather than look afraid, the weasel-faced man simply accepted the display of brute force and returned Sharpe's glare with a cheerful grin. His eyes, however, shivered with the need to kill.

  His fingers twitched.

  “Go for it,” Sharpe snarled. “See if you can draw before I snap your neck like a fucking twig, Eli. Go on. Take a chance. Maybe you're fast enough to stick me. But you'll never be quick enough to kill me before I kill you.”

  Bill licked his lips and flicked his snot away. It spattered into the wall beside Eli's head.

  Pryke looked away, his eyes tugged toward the elf.

  “Has anyone ever told you, Sharpe,” Eli choked out. “That you are a very violent man?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “How can I?” Eli mockingly threw him a puzzled expression despite struggling to breathe. “When you did not ask a question.”

  “You know what I'm asking.”

  Eli's gaze slid across to her as Sharpe's grip tightened. He showed a nervous smile. “A little help, my friend?”

  Nysta shrugged. “I'm eating.”

  Sharpe's voice was clipped. “Tell me.”

  “Nothing,” Eli at last moved, bringing his hands up to grip the captain's wrists. Rage crackled in his voice. “I saw fucking nothing, you piece of stinking dog shit.”

  There was a sliver of time where the two men were suddenly consumed by their hate for each other. When it looked as though Sharpe would tear Eli's throat out.

  And Eli would go for his knives.

  And blood would spray across the cantina's stained walls.

  Ffloyd inhaled loudly. “Please, Lord,” he said nervously. “Not inside. Take him outside if you want to kill him.”

  Eli rolled his eyes. “I will kill you, Sharpe. Or you will kill me. This is a sure thing. But not today, I am thinking. You will need me. You know this. You kill me now, and you will die. Grey Jackets are coming. An army of them. And you have, what? Twenty men on the walls? You need every one of us. Now, you let me go, you dirty sonofabitch. You let me go. Or I will kill you now. Make no mistake. I will kill you. Because you need me more than I ever needed you.”

  Lord Sharpe released him with a furious growl. “It's true I need you, Eli. But maybe not as much as you fucking think. Maybe I just want someone to clean out the shit buckets.”

  “How long do we have?” Ffloyd asked from behind the counter. He'd pulled the cork from another bottle and already half-drained its contents. “Your Lordship? How long until they get here?”

  “Hours. Fucking minutes. Seconds.” Lord Sharpe's fists clenched and unclenched. “How the fuck should I know? But they were seen this morning. They're coming here.”

  “We could run?”

  “Run?” He sneered. “The Shadowed Halls will freeze before I run from Caspiellan bastards. I don't give a shit how many there are. No. We fight. And anyone who tries to leave, I'll gut like a fish. You'll fight, too, you yellow sonofabitch.”

  “Me?” Ffloyd squeaked. “I can't-”

  “Don't piss me off,” Lord Sharpe said, voice suddenly quiet. “I know what you used to be, Ffloyd. The kind of bastard you were. You don't just lose it. It's there. Maybe buried so deep you think you can't drag it out of the stinking depths where you hid it. But it's there. Always.”

  The cook blinked, then turned away to stare down at the empty bottles behind the counter.

  “Don't bet on it, feller,” the elf said.

  Lord Sharpe turned, slowly. His hard face unreadable. “And who are you, Long-ear? Some stinkweed blown in on the breeze? I saw you squeeze inside before Eli. Turds always comes in twos, I figure. Pad said you'd seen something of these Caspiellans. Well, what about you? You really see them?”

  “I saw them,” she said easily. “Grey Jackets. Well-armed. Some of them looked pretty good at what they do. As for who I am? Well. That ain't any of your business.”

  “You wanna know what's my business around here, Long-ear?” He waited for her to reply, and continued when he realised he was getting nothing from her except an impassive stare; “Everything. That's what. I'm the Lord, here. As close to a king as this shithole's ever going to get. Now that maybe don't mean too much to someone like you. Maybe you ain't never thought of putting down roots. But this shithole's all I got. I worked fucking hard to get it. And I wanna keep it. No fucking piece of shit Caspiellans are coming to take it away from me. And no burned out raider, halfwit fucking mercenary, or smartass throatslitter's going to get in my way, neither. You'll help me keep what's mine. Or you're just another corpse on the battlefield. You hear me?”

  “Half the Deadlands can hear you, Lord Sharpe.” Eli rubbed at his neck, where the red marks left from Lord Sharpe's fingers still throbbed. “It is as I said before. You have a very big mouth.”

  Anything Lord Sharpe might have said was lost as a frantic series of blasts from a horn rang through the town. Heavy footsteps beat on the road outside the cantina.

  And the door opened fast.

  Sharpe snapped his gaze toward the grizzled old mercenary who pushed his way inside. And while every line on the newcomer's face preached a life of hardship and violence, his eyes were wide and showed only one emotion.

  Fear.

  Sharpe frowned at him. “Tak?”

  “They're here,” Tak gasped. “My Lord, they're here.”

  “How many?” Eli asked before Lord Sharpe could speak.

  “Fifty. Maybe more,” the old mercenary blurted. “Maybe even a hundred. What are we gonna do?”

  Lord Sharpe was still, implacable eyes staring at the man, though he saw nothing outside of his own thoughts. His arm twitched over the heavy sword at his waist and his frown deepened. “Do? We fight. We fight like the sonsofbitches we are. And send as many of those Grey Jacket bastards back to the arms of their pox-riddled god. That's what we'll do, Tak.”

  “It is a miracle, Lord,” Eli said. His grin tightened and his eyes gleamed nastily. “You have said something intelligent. Even if I do not believe you will stand anywhere except behind the rest of us. And with your back to fighting. In fact, I think your legs will be running as fast as they can.”

  “Fuck you, Eli,” Lord Sharpe snapped. Then strode out of the cantina with a determined gait. Tak stammered beside him, looking like he couldn't get any more frightened.

  Pryke glanced back once, cheeks red as he swept his gaze over her.

  Nysta ignored him.

  Kept her eyes on her bowl, and the greasy beans left within.

  When they were out of earshot, Eli slumped in his chair and scooped up his spoon. Scowled quickly before flashing the elf a frustrated grimace. “I hate that man, my friend. I hate him so much I would like to take him somewhere very quiet and let the mountains echo with the sound of his screams for many, many days. And this, I will do. He owes me much, that cowardly bastard.”

  “Owes you?”

  “He owes me his death.” She was surprised by the calmness of his voice. The utter certainty of it. And the coldness of his hatred. “Not just me. He owes many friends of mine. Friends I will see in the Shadowed Halls when I die. Owes us all. And one day, my friend. One day I will collect. And the Deadlands will hear his big mouth scream. This I swear. And all the world knows I always do what I say I will do.”

  “Fifty,” Ffloyd echoed. Lifted the bottle to his lips a
nd drank hard, shaking his head. Gasped as he took a breath, then looked over at Eli. His eyes were muted, glistening wetly as though tears were only seconds away from forming. “And not more than two dozen of us. And ain't many left who can fight. Fifty. Dark Lord save us. You hear that? Maybe even a hundred. Why not a thousand? We're dead, Eli. Fucking dead. No doubt this time. Ain't no one out here to come save us. We're fucking fucked.”

  “Shut your mouth, Ffloyd,” Eli said casually. His grin returned as he watched the elf finish eating. “Now they are here, my friend. What will you do? Will you stay and fight with the rest of us? Or do the smart thing and jump the wall and head for the mountains?”

  The elf shrugged. “Right now, I'll finish eating. Then look for a bed. After that? Reckon we'll see.”

  “They could break through those gates at any second,” Ffloyd said, looking at her in disbelief. “And you're looking for somewhere to kip?”

  “What else you want me to do, feller?”

  “Fight! Look at you. I know your kind. Sure, I might have been that kind once, but not any more. Now, I'm just a cook. A fat old cook. Whose hands can't even hold a sword, let alone swing it. But, you? You're covered in knives, and I've seen you use them. So, help us. Don't let them get in here, Long-ear. Please. I beg you.” His face was pale, cheeks red with drink, and the whining tone set her teeth on edge. “Your kind lives to fight. So, go out there. Help Lord Sharpe. Fight to live for a change.”

  “A pretty speech, my friend,” Eli patted the table mockingly. “But a pointless one, I am thinking. You see, you do not understand what is happening. There is an army outside these walls. Maybe not a big one, but it outnumbers us and is better equipped than the criminals which live here. And it will attack us, soon. Yet, we have archers. I see a few of them as I come inside. Clem and Dam are two of the best in the Deadlands. The thought of facing the skills of these men is enough to make those Caspiellan bastards nervous. For a few hours, at least. Then they will get brave. And our archers will shoot them from the walls. They will run away. Then return a few hours later. They will do this until we run out of arrows. This will take time. Until this time, what would you have us do? We are masters of the knife, my friend. What good are we until they are swarming over the wall like the rats they are? Sharpe, Grim curse his worthless hide, can easily look after the wall for some time. He does not need us yet. Or he would have dragged us away to die with him. No no, Ffloyd. We are the last line, Nysta and I. We are the ones who will stand when the walls have fallen. This you will see. Until then, I think my friend here has the right idea.”

  The cook took another drink. He knew Eli was right, but the thought of two fighters doing nothing while others died still nagged at his drunken mind. Muttered; “Grim's teeth. You're both mad.”

  “Reckon it's a case of takes one to know one, feller,” the elf returned lightly, dropping her spoon. She lifted herself from the stool and rubbed at the scar on her cheek. Headed toward the door, lip curling slightly as the cook swayed on his feet. “On account of you being the one who looks pissed.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The elf had every intention of finding a quiet place to bed down for a while. Her arms ached, and the back of her neck pulsed pain like a steel fist was hammering her spine.

  But as she stepped out into the relative brightness of the street, her violet eyes caught a shadow flickering in the mouth of an alley a little further into the town.

  She paused in the doorway of Ffloyd's cantina and pursed her lips. She'd been here often enough to know Tannen's Run was the kind of town which had many haunted alleys. Haunted by cutpurses and worse. A few shadows drifting in the darkened lanes wouldn't normally get her attention.

  There was a terrifying stillness to the air. A heady mix of fear and anticipation as most of the town's inhabitants converged along the walls, or worked in the shadows of the parapets to bring supplies to the mercenaries readying themselves for the onslaught of violence to come.

  There was no need to haunt the alleys.

  Yet, someone did. Someone who didn't want to be seen.

  And the elf felt a creeping sensation between her shoulders as she began to suspect it was for her the shadows were waiting.

  Her first instinct was to rush the alley. Kill everything in it.

  Even the rats.

  Let the blood wash the shadows clean.

  But she recognised this for the stupid idea it was. Knew it was the product of months of pent-up grief and frustration as she battled with the aftermath of her husband's death and the nagging feeling she'd been cursed by his legacy.

  Hand dropping to the empty sheath at her waist, the elf instead chose to move away from the alley toward the inn next to the cantina. Figured she'd find a room there.

  Instead, she found two men seated inside the taproom. Lounging back in high-backed chairs. Feet up on the table. Beer in hand. Easy grins on their faces as she entered.

  She recognised the men as those who'd been standing in front of the inn when she'd arrived. The pair were dressed for a fight. Hatchets slung low on their hips. A few knives.

  Both waiting for the fighting to begin.

  The oldest looked to be in his late twenties. He wore his hood up over his head and his eyes lacked humour despite his grin. The youngest had the face of an angel. Hardly touched by the harshness of the Deadlands.

  His grin was more nervous, his grip on his mug a little less easy. He was still green. A little too raw for the Deadlands. So, unable to read a given situation, the muscles of his arms were bunched as he readied himself for anything she might throw at him.

  All that kept him from reeling off his chair and rushing forward, was the laconic response of the man with the hood.

  “Barkeep's headed to the wall,” the hooded man said, voice a lazy drawl. He lifted his mug toward the bar. “Don't reckon he'll mind you pouring your own, though. Got other things on his mind right now.”

  The elf nodded in response and looked around at the otherwise empty taproom.

  The ageing furniture and stained floor.

  A small shield hung on the wall. Didn't look large enough for a man, and the elf had seen plenty like it. Some claimed them to be the shields of dwarfs. Most were obvious forgeries.

  This one bore an odd glyph which made the elf itch to look at, though she couldn't explain why. Almost as though she'd seen it in her dreams. Or, she allowed silently, her nightmares.

  She looked away, toward the bar. Stepped past the two men, ignoring their curious expressions.

  The bar itself was old, the wood heavily stained and scratched. She moved behind it, looking around for a clean mug. Found one, and poured from the largest barrel. Then turned back to eye the two men as she lifted the mug to her lips.

  The youngest still watched her, but the eldest had his gaze aimed at the door.

  It didn't take long for the kid to blurt; “What're you doing in Tannen's Run, Long-ear?”

  “Feller out there on the wall? One with the big sword and bad temper?”

  “Lord Sharpe,” the youth supplied.

  “That's the one. He asked the same question.”

  “So?”

  “Told him the same as I'll tell you. Ain't your business.”

  The youth's face screwed up as he tried to decide if she was being deliberately offensive. Had almost decided she was, when his partner leaned over to place a hand on his wrist. “Easy, Hudson.”

  “Aww, come on, Hicks. You heard the way she spoke to me.

  “Just be easy.” Hicks dropped his hood to show off a tight crop of red hair. His pale skin dashed with freckles. And for a brief moment, the elf felt her heart bounce in her chest as she was reminded so quickly of her brother. The brother she'd killed. Whose head now lay on her husband's grave. “Hey, Long-ear? We don't mean no offence. Just asking because we ain't in the loop, so to speak. Ain't no one's saying what's happening. So, you think you might help out a little? Maybe tell us what you know about what's going on here?”

>   The beer was sour. Weak and flavoured with crushed apples. It tasted, she thought, like shit. But she drank it anyway. “Seems a small army's got us pinned down. Grey Jackets.”

  “An army,” Hudson's eyes widened. “Man. A real army? Of Grey Jackets? Man, they're the worst. My pa told me they were crazier than fucking goblins. And they're right outside? You really think that's true?”

  The elf resisted the urge to smile at the young man's obvious innocence. “Figure there's a reason the townfolk are all at the walls. Sounds like a good enough reason to me.”

  “If you're so sure,” the youth sneered. “Then why ain't you up there fighting, too?”

  “Ain't my fight,” she said.

  Hicks nodded slowly. Despite the obvious excitement of his younger partner, said; “That's the way we figure it. So, you'll be looking for a way out of this deathtrap?”

  “Nope. Just looking for a bed to lie down in.”

  “You hear that?” Hudson half-rose from his seat, held only by Hicks' hand on his arm. “She wants to die in bed. Reckon she's got a fucking yellow stripe right down her back.”

  The elf's violet eyes glittered, though her mind still struggled to pull her thoughts together. Should she fight them? Were they trying to rile her? Were they just afraid?

  What did they want from her?

  Would they attack first, or should she?

  Smoke drifted across her mind, and clouded her eyes.

  She put the old wooden mug down on the bar and stepped back around. Stood only a few paces from the two men. Noticed the way Hicks' hand tightened around Hudson's wrist. And caught the flicker of concern in the older man's eyes.

  Concern not for himself. But for Hudson.

  Considered throwing herself at them. Sending Go With My Blessing into Hudson's right eye. Could almost feel the satisfaction of the kill rippling through her arm.

  Then she'd kill Hicks. Rip open his chest.

  Hack at his heart as though trying to dig a grave in his spine.

  But the lust passed as quickly as it came, and she stood there, face an impassive mask. And waited to see what Hicks would do.