The Cursed Extra

Chapter 162: [3.35] A Weapon You Can’t Use Is Just Dead Weight

"Let it go. Find something else. Stay alive."

***

Rhys tried to pull the spear free.

It was stuck fast in the creature’s ribcage. The point had caught on something. Probably one of the broken ribs. No amount of tugging would dislodge it.

He put his foot on the hobgoblin’s chest. Felt the dying heat of its body through the sole of his boot. Yanked with both hands. Threw his whole weight into the effort.

The weapon wouldn’t budge.

The ashwood creaked ominously under the strain. Threatening to snap if he pulled any harder.

The second hobgoblin saw his predicament.

It smiled.

The expression was horrible. Made even more horrible by the needle-sharp teeth that filled its mouth from corner to corner. Row after row of them like a shark’s maw rendered in yellowed ivory.

Its eyes gleamed with malicious intelligence. The kind of look a cat gave a mouse it had cornered against a wall.

It knew he was defenseless.

Knew his weapon was trapped.

Knew that all it had to do was walk over and finish him off at its leisure.

It raised its axe and stepped forward.

Taking its time now. Savoring the moment.

Why rush when your prey was disarmed and exhausted? Why not enjoy the fear in their eyes? The desperation in their movements?

The creature said something in its guttural language. The words sounded like rocks being ground together. Probably commenting on how pathetic he looked. Probably telling him exactly how it planned to kill him.

Rhys released the spear.

His fingers didn’t want to let go. Every instinct screamed at him to keep trying. To pull harder. To do something other than abandon his only real weapon.

But his father’s voice cut through the panic like it always did.

"A weapon you can’t use is just dead weight, boy. Let it go. Find something else. Stay alive."

Good advice.

He grabbed a chunk of fallen stone from the tunnel floor.

It was roughly the size of his fist. Jagged edges that bit into his palm hard enough to draw blood. Not much of a weapon against an armored giant that stood two heads taller than him and probably weighed three times as much.

But it was what he had.

It was all he had.

And in the borderlands, you used what you had or you died wishing you’d been more creative.

The hobgoblin laughed.

The sound was like grinding millstones. It echoed off the tunnel walls and seemed to come from the darkness itself. Mocking him. Belittling him.

The creature said something else in its language. The words dripped with contempt. Probably asking what he thought a chunk of rock was going to do against a warrior who’d killed hundreds of prey far more dangerous than him.

Then it raised its axe for the killing blow.

The weapon rose above the hobgoblin’s head. The crude steel caught what little light remained in the tunnel. Rhys could see the notches in the blade. Could count the chips and scratches that spoke of countless battles. Countless kills.

This axe had drunk deeply of blood over the years.

It was about to drink again.

Rhys hurled the stone as hard as he could.

He aimed for the creature’s face. For those gleaming yellow eyes that watched him with such predatory hunger. The stone flew true. Spinning end over end as it crossed the distance between them.

For one hopeful moment, he thought it might actually connect.

The hobgoblin batted it aside contemptuously.

Its massive hand moved almost lazily. Swatted the rock out of the air like a man brushing away an annoying fly. The stone clattered against the tunnel wall and fell into darkness.

The creature’s smile widened.

Its eyes gleamed brighter.

It thought the game was over.

But the distraction gave Rhys the split second he needed.

He dove for his father’s spear.

Threw himself across the body of the fallen hobgoblin. Not caring about the blood that soaked into his clothes or the stench that filled his nostrils. His hand found the familiar wood of the shaft. His fingers closed around it with desperate strength.

He wrenched the weapon free from the dead creature’s chest. Felt something tear inside the corpse as the blade finally came loose.

He rolled away.

The other hobgoblin’s axe crashed into the stone floor exactly where he’d been lying.

Sparks flew as steel met rock. The impact sent chips of granite flying in all directions. One of them opened a shallow cut on Rhys’s cheek. The hobgoblin snarled in frustration. Struggled to free its weapon from where it had bitten deep into the floor.

The stone had cracked around the blade. Trapped it momentarily.

Now.

Rhys came up in a fighting stance.

The spear held ready. The bloodied point level with the hobgoblin’s chest.

His whole body ached. Every muscle screamed in protest. His shoulder throbbed where he’d landed on it. His hands were slick with blood. Both the creature’s and his own.

He could feel more blood running down his leg where the first hobgoblin’s claws had raked him earlier. A warm trickle slowly soaking through his trouser leg. The wound burned with every movement.

Probably already getting infected. The borderlands bred resilient infections just like it bred resilient monsters.

But he was still alive.

Still fighting.

Still standing.

The hobgoblin pulled its axe free and turned to face him. Its yellow eyes burned with renewed fury. The earlier contempt replaced by something that looked almost like respect.

Or at least acknowledgment.

It had expected an easy kill after its partner fell. Had expected this scrawny human to simply lie down and die like prey was supposed to.

But Rhys was proving harder to put down than anticipated.

Proving that he hadn’t survived eighteen years in Blackwood Glade by being easy to kill.

The hobgoblin raised its axe again.

Rhys tightened his grip on the spear.

One of them was about to die.

That was when the shaman decided to end things.