The Cursed Extra

Chapter 159: [3.32] Faster Than They Look

"The problem with hobgoblins isn’t that they’re strong. It’s that they’re strong AND fast. Nobody ever mentions the fast part until it’s too late."

***

The tunnel floor was slick with goblin blood and he almost slipped. But his legs found purchase on the stone and he pushed harder.

The hobgoblins reacted instantly. Their axes came up to block his path.

Rhys had been fighting goblins since he was old enough to hold a weapon. He knew their patterns. Their reflexes. He knew how they telegraphed their attacks with their shoulders. How they favored their right sides. How they would always go for the killing blow rather than the smart one.

What he didn’t know was that hobgoblins were faster.

The first hobgoblin’s roar hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. The sound bounced off the tunnel walls and made his teeth ache. The creature charged. Its massive frame filled the narrow passage as it brought its axe down in a devastating overhead swing that would have split him from crown to groin.

Rhys didn’t try to meet the blow.

He couldn’t. The thing outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds of pure muscle. The axe probably added another fifty. Meeting force with force against an opponent like this was suicide. His father had taught him that lesson with bruises that lasted for weeks.

Instead, he planted the butt of his father’s spear against the stone rampart he’d built. Angled the tip upward at the last possible second.

The spear became a fixed point. A barrier that couldn’t be moved.

The hobgoblin, too committed to its charge and too large to change direction in the confined space, drove itself onto the spearhead with its own momentum.

The blade bit deep into the thick muscle of its shoulder. Black blood sprayed across the tunnel wall in a fan of ichor that steamed in the cold air. Not a killing blow. The creature’s hide was too thick. Its bones too dense. But enough to throw it off balance.

The hobgoblin stumbled. Its roar turned into something between rage and surprise as it crashed into the stone wall with enough force to crack the rock.

Rhys yanked the spear free and spun to face the second attacker. His ribs screamed in protest from an injury he didn’t remember receiving.

The other hobgoblin moved like liquid death. Its axe whistled through the air in a horizontal arc aimed at his midsection. The blade caught the dying torchlight and glinted like a crescent moon.

Rhys dropped to one knee. Felt the wind from the blade ruffle his hair as it passed overhead.

Close.

Too close.

If he’d been a finger’s width taller, he’d be in two pieces right now.

He thrust upward with the spear. Targeted the creature’s exposed armpit where the muscle was thinner and the blood vessels closer to the surface. But the hobgoblin twisted away with reflexes that shouldn’t have belonged to something so large.

The spearpoint scraped harmlessly off its thick hide. Left only a shallow scratch that welled with black blood.

The injured hobgoblin had already recovered. Its yellow eyes blazed with fury as it hefted its axe again. Black blood dripped from its shoulder wound. Spattered on the stone floor in a steady rhythm. But it moved as if the injury meant nothing.

These weren’t the crude goblins Rhys had grown up fighting.

These were apex predators. Built for war. These were the nightmares that smaller goblins told stories about.

For the next few minutes, the fight became a nightmare of steel and stone.

Rhys wasn’t attacking anymore. He was purely reacting. His body moved in patterns drilled into him by countless hours on the village wall. Every motion was instinct. Burned into his muscles by repetition until he didn’t have to think about it.

His father’s voice echoed in his head. A constant stream of instruction and correction from training sessions that had left him bruised and bleeding but alive.

Block. Parry. Deflect. Step back. Reset. Do it again.

Don’t think about the pain. Don’t think about the fear.

Just move. Just survive.

He used the spear’s length to keep them at bay. The ash shaft sang as it deflected axe blades that could cleave through oak. Each impact sent shockwaves up his arms. Threatened to numb his hands. But he adjusted his grip and kept going.

The wood creaked with each blow. Tiny cracks spread through the grain. But it held.

His father had made this spear to last. Made it for a life of fighting in the dark places where monsters bred.

The wounded hobgoblin lunged forward. Its axe came down in a brutal overhand chop. Rhys caught the handle on his spear shaft. The impact sent vibrations up his arms that made his teeth rattle.

For a moment they were locked together. His strength against the creature’s mass.

He could feel himself losing.

He twisted. Used the creature’s own strength to redirect the blow into the tunnel wall. A technique his father had taught him for dealing with opponents too strong to block directly.

Use their power against them. Make their strength work for you instead of against you.

Stone chips exploded outward as the axe head buried itself an inch deep in solid rock. The hobgoblin snarled in frustration as it tried to free its weapon.

The second hobgoblin attacked while its partner struggled. Its axe swept in from the side. No hesitation. No pause to check on its ally.

These creatures didn’t fight as individuals. They fought as a unit. One keeping him busy while the other set up the kill.

Rhys dropped under the swing and thrust upward. The spearpoint found the gap between the creature’s ribs. The blade sank in three inches before striking bone.

The hobgoblin roared in pain.

Then it backhanded him across the face.

The blow sent him stumbling backward into his own stone rampart. Stars exploded across his vision. His back hit the barrier with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.

For a moment he couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but try to stay on his feet.

Blood filled his mouth where his teeth had cut his tongue. The metallic taste mixed with the dust and smoke.

Behind him, Jorik’s screams had stopped.

The silence was somehow worse than the sound had been.

At least the screams had meant he was still alive.

"Rhys!" Petra’s voice cracked like a whip. Raw with terror. "Whatever you’re doing, do it faster!"

He spat blood onto the stone floor.

Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

And raised his father’s spear again.