Tears of Liscor, page 68
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
And a bounding red wolf leapt and bit the Eater Goat, snatching it out of the air. The massive wolf, Thunderfur, worried the goat and threw it to one side. On its back, Redscar turned, his blade flashing. He leaned down and sliced an Eater Goat across the neck, killing it instantly, then turned and stabbed a leaping goat through the mouth. Redfangs bounded past him, screaming war cries and attacking the goats from the side.
“Pyrite!”
Redscar bellowed. Pyrite stood up and raised his axe. He swung it wide, and the goats in front of him vanished. Redscar blinked as Pyrite pointed.
“Attack! Don’t stop attacking!”
He charged forwards, and Redscar and the Redfangs were with him. The Hobs could barely keep up as they scythed through the Eater Goats. Pyrite kept running, swinging the heavy axe though his arms burned and his chest hurt. He only stopped when he looked around and realized there was nothing ahead of him. He looked back and saw the last of the Eater Goats being finished off behind him.
A red trail marked his passage through the monsters. Pyrite leaned on his axe, gasping, then remembered. He stood up straight as Redscar rode back towards him. The [Raid Leader] had an odd look in his eyes as he fished something from his belt and tossed it at Pyrite.
“Here.”
Pyrite caught it and blinked down at the green healing potion. He looked down and realized the goats had torn chunks out of his arms, shoulders, and legs. Absently, he drank the potion and tossed the bottle down.
“How many lost?”
“Few. Eater Goats got surprised. No good when defending. Think they started to run.”
Redscar grinned. He patted Thunderfur and let the Carn Wolf begin to eat one of the goat corpses in front of him. But he was still looking at Pyrite. He wiped his blade with one hand.
“That was—good. Impressive. Not like you.”
He nodded to Pyrite. The Hob silently wiped blood from his arms and chest. He was drenched in it. Pyrite nodded shortly.
“I know. Had to do.”
“Why?”
“To show them.”
Pyrite pointed. The Hobs were panting while the Redfang warriors of Rags’ tribe were cleaning their weapons or letting their Carn Wolves eat, tending to their injuries. But the Goblins behind them—the Hobs from Tremborag’s tribe—they were all staring at Pyrite. At the Hob who’d just cut a hole through a thousand Eater Goats by himself.
Redscar grinned at Pyrite. He understood. It was only Rags who didn’t. She rode up to Pyrite, swearing and looking ready to murder him.
“What that? That was not plan! Why attack?”
“Pyrite showing off, Chieftain.”
Redscar grinned and saluted Rags with his sword. She gave him an evil look and then looked at Pyrite.
“Why?”
Pyrite shrugged tiredly. His arms hurt.
“Have to show them, Chieftain. Show them you are smart, but also strong. I am second-in-command. Have to be strong. Show them—and show others.”
“Others?”
Rags looked around blankly. Then she noticed the other tribes.
The Eater Goats had split up in their attack. Most had gone for Rags’ tribe, but two groups had split off and attacked the other two tribes. The last of them were dying on Reiss’ side now.
The Goblin Lord’s troops had fought the Eater Goats well, although without half as much flashy tactics or aggression as Rags’ tribe. Eater of Spears was pounding the Eater Goats flat while the warriors in black armor supported him. On the other side, Garen’s warriors were already dissecting the Eater Goats that had attacked them.
“Fast.”
Pyrite murmured. He hadn’t even seen Garen’s tribe fight. Redscar shook his head.
“They didn’t attack. Garen attacked them when he saw you—”
He mimed Pyrite swinging his axe. Rags and Pyrite both looked confused.
“Why not attack?”
Redscar looked a bit sad. He glanced over at Garen then tapped a streak of red on his green skin. He had a slash of crimson paint running down his left cheek.
“Warpaint. Garen tribe has it. Mark of Redfangs. Eater Goats see, they don’t attack. Know it means death.”
“Really?”
Rags blinked. Pyrite saw Redscar was right—every Goblin in Garen’s tribe was wearing their signature war paint. Rags frowned, musing.
“Good to know. Could use, maybe.”
Then she looked over at Pyrite and scowled again. She poked one of his healing wounds, and he winced. Redscar chortled as he left them alone to order the Goblins to butcher the dead goats for food. Rags and Pyrite looked at each other.
“Took big risk.”
“Yes, Chieftain. But did show them. I think.”
Pyrite felt at his shoulder, pulled out a tooth so the flesh could regrow. He flicked it to the ground and looked at her.
“Did it work? Did it seem strong?”
He hoped it had or else he’d taken a big risk for nothing. Rags hesitated, then smiled.
“Looked like scary monster to me. Scary, big, fat Hob.”
“But not smelly.”
“But not smelly.”
They laughed. Pyrite walked back, noting the difference in the way the Goblins looked at him. One of the Hobs he recognized, a lieutenant of Tremborag’s, had been part of the fighting. Pyrite slowed and stared at him. What was his name?
“Hammersteel?”
The Hob blinked. He nodded slowly. He had a wicked maul and steel cuirass on his front as well as a reputation for picking fights.
“Pyrite. Good fight. Knew Flooded Waters tribe was right choice.”
“You think so?”
Pyrite tilted his head quizzically. Hammersteel grinned and spat.
“Think so! Garen not smart, but Chieftain Rags is. Better than traitor lord. And has strong second! Pyrite with the axe!”
He pointed to the axe and cackled. Pyrite smiled a bit. Hammersteel looked envious. He made a circumspect gesture.
“I hold?”
Pyrite nodded. Hammersteel approached—and was promptly shoved out of the way. Ulvama appeared, smiling widely. Pyrite blinked. The [Shaman] of Tremborag’s tribe wore very little in the way of clothing and instead had colorful paint on her skin. She smiled seductively at Pyrite as she kicked Hammersteel, forcing him back.
“Strong Hob. Didn’t know so strong! Good second for Chieftain Rags. I am Ulvama. You are Pyrite? We should talk. Meet each other.”
She laid a hand on Pyrite’s arm, brushing at the blood and ignoring the flies buzzing around Pyrite. He noticed the flies though and resolved to wash himself as soon as possible. He hated being dirty. Pyrite stared at Ulvama’s soft touch and grunted.
“We have met before. Long time ago.”
Ulvama’s smile slipped.
“We have?”
“Mhm. Back in Tremborag tribe. I was Goblin. Small. You were small Goblin too. Apprentice to Chief Shaman. Remember you getting in trouble for using paints.”
Ulvama’s jaw dropped. Hammersteel cackled with laughter. She turned and pointed a finger at his groin, and he yelped as the air grew subzero rapidly and fled. Ulvama turned back to Pyrite. She tilted her head.
“You were Tremborag’s?”
“Yes.”
Pyrite met her eyes. Ulvama hesitated. He could see her thinking. Her gambit to tie herself to the highest-ranked Goblin in Rags’ tribe wasn’t going well. But she didn’t give up—mainly because she had no choice. Noears had been in Tremborag’s tribe, so he was well aware of Ulvama’s ways—and he didn’t get along with Tremborag’s Goblins to begin with. It was why he’d left and why he was called Noears to begin with. Poisonbite was female, as was Rags, and neither of them were interested in other females in a way that would help Ulvama. And Redscar liked male Goblins. So Ulvama tried again.
“You want sex?”
Goblins didn’t do much subtlety. Ulvama’s first attempt had been as subtle as it got. Pyrite shook his head.
“No.”
“Why not?”
She stared at Pyrite suspiciously. He shrugged.
“Too busy. And don’t like you. You go back to wagons now. We keep moving.”
He shooed Ulvama away, ignoring her hissing and threats. Pyrite walked back to the front of his tribe. Eater of Spears was there, rubbing at a chunk taken out of one bicep. Pyrite nodded and began walking. The tribe marched after him, hurriedly packing away the meat from the dead goats. It was just one thing in a day.
But it mattered. Pyrite could sense Eater of Spears looking at him. The Hob absently swatted a fly trying to lick blood from his skin.
“What?”
“Never saw that before. Strong. Cut goats apart so quick even Garen Redfang looked scared. Why do it?”
Pyrite paused. He looked around and saw Garen Redfang was staring at him. He shrugged and looked ahead.
“It was a warning.”
“To Garen? To Tremborag Goblins?”
“To everyone.”
Pyrite looked up at Eater of Spears. The Hob paused. Then he nodded. The two walked on. Pyrite found his waterskin and tried to wipe off the blood with a little bit of water. Eater of Spears silently offered him his waterskin, and Pyrite grunted in thanks. He noticed Eater of Spears hadn’t healed the bites he’d taken—not that the Eater Goats had been able to do much damage to his skin.
“Need potion?”
“No. Have, but not waste. Will heal quick.”
The Hob shook his head and tapped a bottle on his belt. He had three potions, actually. A sign of how important he was. For the first time, Pyrite noticed that Eater of Spears had a number of objects on his belt. A little band of feathers, a token of some sort, his own belt pouches, the waterskin—and two glittering hatchets.
“What are those?”
Eater of Spears blinked down at his belt. Then he grinned.
“Throwing axes. Weak enchanted. Sharp. Reiss gave as reward.”
“Any good with axes?”
Pyrite was intrigued. He glanced back at Reiss, then at Garen and had another thought. Another bad idea or, perhaps, a good one. He raised his eyebrows, and Eater of Spears grinned.
“Have Skill. And class! Was a [Thrower] before. Can hit flying Wyverns with rocks. Don’t level class much anymore, though. But this good for [Mages]. Threw at fast-fast flying pink thing, but missed.”
Flying pink what? Pyrite decided to ignore that. He pursed his lips and then spoke casually.
“I have another class. [Blademaster]. Only Level 3, though.”
“[Blademaster]?”
Eater of Spears’ brows shot up. He looked impressed, as anyone might. Pyrite shrugged.
“Was taught by Greydath of Blades. You know?”
“I do. He taught you?”
“Yes. But no good with sword. Axes better.”
Pyrite sighed. No matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to get past Greydath’s ‘basic’ training. Which was still something. He looked speculatively at Eater of Spears and decided to tell him another secret.
“Trained a bit. Didn’t learn much, but…in fight. I can see when someone is going to hit. And where, sometimes. Not a Skill. I learned it from Greydath.”
“Really?”
Eater of Spears was fascinated. His eyes flickered, and Pyrite was sure that information was going straight to Reiss later. Not necessarily maliciously—but it was definitely important. The big Hob looked at Pyrite, and the Hob waited. Wait—wait—
He saw the movement and raised a fist to block as Eater of Spears threw a fist. The Hob stopped before he hit Pyrite, which was a relief. Pyrite had known the punch was coming, but blocking it—
Eater of Spears blinked, and some of the Goblins who’d been watching and listening murmured in awe. No doubt they’d pass this on as well. That was how the Goblin social network functioned. But Pyrite didn’t care about them. He focused on Eater of Spears and smiled.
“Told you.”
The Hob grinned, delighted. He nearly forgot to keep walking as he stared at Pyrite.
“How? Can teach?”
“Very hard. Took long time to master, even with Greydath show. All about muscles. Arm position. Stance. Easy on Eater of Spears because muscles are easy to see.”
Pyrite smiled, and Eater of Spears laughed. The Hob laughed too. And in his mind, from his glittering treasury of secrets, Pyrite plucked a pair of gems and offered them up. Two secrets he’d given. And in return, he gained something back, invisible though it might be.
Trust. Eater of Spears quizzed Pyrite on how the trick worked and about Greydath. Pyrite answered politely without going into details and then casually pointed at Eater of Spears’ axes when he found a break in the conversation.
“Greydath taught more than just sword. Like axes. Not Skill, but can throw. Let me try?”
Eater of Spears hesitated, but then he willingly unhooked an axe and handed it to Pyrite. The Hob grunted as he lifted the throwing axe. It was superbly balanced, and it felt sharp enough to cut through anything. A gift indeed. He looked around, spotted a target, and then turned and hurled the axe. Eater of Spears roared in surprise, and Goblins looked up and threw themselves flat.
Ulvama was sitting in her wagon, growling to herself, when the blade of the axe embedded itself into the wooden frame next to her. Pyrite winced—he hadn’t meant to throw it that close. He saw the [Shaman]’s eyes go wide.
Ulvama screeched, leapt away from the quivering axe, and then stared across the heads of Goblins at Pyrite. She started screaming insults at him. Pyrite ignored her as he lowered his hand. He looked around and saw that every Goblin around him, Reiss’ Goblins and Rags’ tribe, were staring at him with open mouths. He looked up at Eater of Spears, who was gaping at him.
“Good at throwing things too. Want to play game?”
The Hob blinked, then he bellowed with laughter and slapped Pyrite on the back, nearly knocking him over. The axe was returned, and Eater of Spears handed it to Pyrite. The two began throwing at objects ahead of them, aiming at birds, rocks, any target that came to mind.
Pyrite threw economically, Eater of Spears with less accuracy but enough force to split almost any object in two or shatter stone. It was just as well the axes were enchanted. So the two Hobs walked together, and Pyrite knew he was at the center of attention. He’d done all he could. He’d prepared and sent…a warning. As clear as he could make it.
He just hoped it would be enough.
——
“[Deathbolt].”
The black light had struck Osthia. She had fallen as it sapped the life, the very core of energy from her. She lay on the ground, motionless, breathless, eyes still open wide and mouth slightly agape. The Necromancer studied her for a moment, then walked off.
It took a while for the Goblins to dare retrieve her body. When they did, she was loaded onto a wagon with other dead Goblins and animals, to be made into food for later. After all, they couldn’t waste food. There Osthia lay as night passed to day until the wagon was bumping and threatening to knock her onto the ground.
The Goblin driver was dozing until Snapjaw rode over and snapped an order. The Hob leapt onto the wagon and found Osthia’s corpse. She eyed the black ring on Osthia’s claws, bent, tugged it off, and waited.
Nothing happened. Snapjaw scratched her head anxiously. She bent to listen by Osthia’s mouth and heard no intake of breath. She poked Osthia in the chest, then poked her in the cheek. Snapjaw gulped, then saw one eye swivel towards her.
“Do you mind?”
The Hob nearly leapt off the wagon. She lurched back as Osthia sat up, gasping and coughing. The Drake spat—several dead flies shot out of her mouth. She looked around, blinked at the sunlight streaming down, and then turned to Snapjaw.
“What in the name of the Ancestors—how long was I out?”
“Half day.”
Snapjaw shrugged. Osthia gaped.
“Half a day? Your leader told me I’d be recovered in minutes! Do you know how dangerous it is to keep someone under the [False Death] spell that long? Why the hell—”
“I forgot.”
The female Hob picked at her teeth with one claw, looking embarrassed. Osthia inhaled and spat another fly out.
“You forgot? You forg—”
“Necromancer took long time to go. Long time. So forgot. Remembered before you got eaten.”
Snapjaw said it as if that righted all wrongs. Osthia balled her claws into a fist, then looked around.
“He’s gone? Then where’s Reiss?”
The Hob glared at the Drake. She enunciated her words carefully.
“Goblin Lord Reiss is busy. Big thinking after plan.”
“Plan? What plan?”
Osthia looked at Snapjaw. The Hob closed her mouth. Osthia tried to sit up, but her body refused to obey her.
“What plan? What are the Humans going to do? What is the Necromancer doing? What is Reiss—”
She was trying to get up. Snapjaw scratched her head and then brightened.
“Oh! Remember the second thing I was supposed to do.”
“What?”
Osthia turned to glare at her. Snapjaw scooted forwards. She picked up the black ring, its charge exhausted, and then looked at Osthia. Reiss had come up with the ring after worrying she might be killed. He was reasonably certain she could survive a single [Deathbolt]—it killed all those under Level 30 when Az’kerash used it, and all those under Level 15 when he used it—which meant it would take multiple casts to kill Osthia. But he hadn’t wanted to risk it. She didn’t know why he liked the Drake so much, but orders were orders.
“What second thing?”
The Drake glared at Snapjaw. The Hobgoblin shrugged.
“This.”
She brought her head forwards and head-butted Osthia. The Drake’s head snapped back, and she reeled.
“You—”
She tried to spit acid, but Snapjaw struck her in the face with a second head-butt, then a third. She shook her head as Osthia fell back, unconscious. Snapjaw looked down at the prone Drake and sighed.
“Reiss says sorry.”
Then she turned to the Goblin driver.
“Put in chains. Hands, feet, mouth. Hobs guard. Don’t let run.”
She hopped off the wagon and onto the back of her waiting horse. Snapjaw rode away, rubbing her aching head. She headed straight for Reiss, visible on the back of his shield spider. Snapjaw couldn’t wait for him to tell the others, so she could tell Poisonbite. It was time. It was finally time. She grinned, showing all of her metallic, enhanced teeth.
