Free When Goblins Rage (Book 3) by Lucas Thorn Page A

her. A big man, with broad shoulders and a kind face. Thrust a small flask at her hands. “Here, lass. Take a swig of this. Brandy. All the way from Vantro Deep. It'll warm you up.”
    She nodded, taking the flask with shaking fingers. Sucked deep, feeling the liquid go down her throat like molten metal.
    Coughed, even as the big guard slapped her hard on the back with a throaty chuckle.
    “Got a hearty kick, it does,” he said.
    “Grim's teeth,” one of the others said, leaning close. “Look at her face. It's all beaten up. Look like she's been kissing trolls.”
    “Get her inside,” a raw voice growled. “And get back to the fucking walls, you lot! It's not like you've never seen an elf before.”
    The young soldier licked his lips. Made to reach for her. “I'll take her.”
    But the big guard pushed in front. “Don't worry yourself, lad,” he said. “I'll do it.”
    “But-”
    The raw voice snapped again. “Pryke! Get up here!”
    “Yes, My Lord.”
    She heard the young man's boots pound away.
    The guard beside her clicked his teeth. “Little asshole,” he muttered. Thickly muscled arms lifted her to her feet. Numb with cold, she allowed herself to be led into the town. “Come on, lass. I know a place where we can get you warm again. Maybe not the best place in the world, but it's warmer than anywhere else round here.”
    Her thoughts were still numb. Frozen in the pale arms of shadow. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and she had to struggle to focus on the crude street. She was, she realised dumbly, worse than she'd thought.
    Unconsciously took in the hard shadows pressed against feeble shacks. Shacks which served as home to the kind of people who'd find a town of mercenaries a suitable place to settle. Criminals all, of one kind or another.
    Their weatherbeaten walls were coated in thick paints of darker hues. Heavy sloping roofs slapped with snow. Icicles clawed at the eaves as the oppressive cold continued to gnaw on the town.
    Everything looked wet. Cold. Shivering. Even the massive stone blocks of the surrounding wall seemed frozen in place.
    The icy slush and muck of the road slid beneath her feet and the man supporting her let out a muffled curse as his own boots slipped in the smooth mud.
    A curtain shut fast as they passed.
    A cat paused in the mouth of an alley, whiskers twitching as a flake of snow drifted past its calico ear.
    Cold animal eyes, staring intently. Tail flicking.
    A couple of men, leaning against a porch in front of the inn. Beers in hand. Breath misting their features. One hooded, one not.
    Hatches slung from belts.
    A door opened to her left. An old man stepped into the frozen air, cursing bitterly. Caught her dazed look and quickly turned away. He shuffled down the street toward the gates.
    “Not much farther, lass,” the big man said. “You'll soon be warm again.”
    Her mind couldn't focus on a single thought. Instead, the fog which had been lingering around her brain for months seemed to come back in force as though wakened by the cold. Absently, she made to hand the flask back to him.
    “Don't fret about it,” the large mercenary said, waving the flask away. “I'll let you buy me another some time. Right now I think it's you that needs it more.”
    “Obliged,” she said, and felt surprised to find she meant it.
    “Well, let's not be so formal. My name's Padric. You can call me Pad if you're of a mind to. It's what my pa used to call me. I'm from Ravensholme if you've heard of it.” He aimed her toward a small cantina to the left of the large building she knew to be the inn. “You got a name?”
    “Nysta.”
    “Well, Nysta. You picked a terrible time to be visiting us here at Tannen's Run. Didn't you know there's a great army of Caspiellan bastards out there come to knock our walls down and have their wicked way with us? Our Lord Sharpe has a tough job ahead of him in keeping them out.”
    “Met them,” she said through chattering teeth.
    “Did that, did