novelraw Chapter 165: [3.38] This Is How I Die
Chapter 165: [3.38] This Is How I Die
"The earth is your birthright. It will answer when nothing else will."
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Seeking the gap beneath its arm where the crude armor didn’t quite meet. The armpit. The soft flesh where all those important blood vessels ran close to the surface. The same weakness that every set of armor had, no matter how well made.
But the hobgoblin was faster than its size suggested.
It dropped its axe.
Let the heavy weapon fall with a clatter that echoed through the tunnel. Its massive hands shot out and grabbed the spear shaft with terrifying strength. Its claws dug deep grooves in the ashwood. Carved furrows that would never heal.
More damage to his father’s weapon.
More scars it would carry if either of them survived this.
For a moment, they were locked together in a test of strength.
Rhys pulling back. The hobgoblin pushing forward. Two wills grinding against each other. Neither willing to give ground.
He could feel the creature’s hot breath on his face. Could see the individual scales on its leathery skin. Could count the hairs bristling from its snout.
The creature was stronger.
Much stronger.
It began to force the spear around. Turning the point toward Rhys’s own chest. His feet slipped on the blood-slick stone as he fought to maintain his grip.
The point inched closer.
Closer.
He could see his own reflection in the bloodied steel. His face pale and strained and desperate.
The hobgoblin grinned.
Revealing rows of broken, yellowed teeth. Each one filed to a point. Each one designed for tearing flesh from bone. It said something in its guttural language. Probably gloating about his impending death.
That was when Rhys realized the creature had made a mistake.
In grabbing the spear, it had left itself completely open. No defense. No guard. Just two hands wrapped around a wooden shaft. All its attention focused on the contest of strength.
And Rhys still had his earth magic.
Weak though it was. Depleted though it was.
He reached out with his senses.
Felt for the stone beneath their feet. The tunnel floor was old granite. Worn smooth by countless years of water and footsteps. But granite was still stone.
And stone would answer his call.
It always had. Even when he was too tired to stand. Even when his mana reserves were scraped down to nothing. The earth was his birthright. The one advantage being born in Blackwood Glade had ever given him.
The spell took almost everything he had left.
A sharp spike of rock erupted from the floor directly beneath the hobgoblin’s feet.
It punched through the sole of its boot. Through the tough hide of its foot. Through muscle and tendon and bone.
The creature howled.
A sound of pure, animal agony that bounced off the tunnel walls and came back multiplied.
Its grip on the spear loosened for just an instant.
Just an instant was all Rhys needed.
He yanked the weapon free.
Drove it forward with every ounce of strength in his body. Every ounce of desperation. Every ounce of love for a little sister waiting for him in a cottage on the edge of the Whisperwood.
The spearpoint punched through the hobgoblin’s leather armor. Sank deep into its chest. Grated against ribs as it found its way to the heart.
The creature’s eyes widened in shock.
It looked down at the steel protruding from its body. At the ashwood shaft connecting them. At the blood, its own blood, running down the wood in dark rivers.
Then it looked back at Rhys.
Its mouth opened as if to speak.
Only blood came out.
A dark torrent that splashed across the tunnel floor and spattered his boots.
The creature’s legs buckled. It toppled backward. The spear still embedded in its chest.
Rhys tried to pull the weapon free. But the dying hobgoblin’s weight had driven it too deep. The ashwood shaft groaned under the strain as he tugged at it. Threatened to snap if he pulled any harder.
Behind him, the shaman’s chanting grew louder.
More urgent. More desperate. The green light from its staff pulsed like a diseased heartbeat. Like something alive and malevolent. Something that knew its protectors had fallen and was preparing to defend itself.
Rhys could feel the creature’s rage pressing against his mind like a boulder sitting on his thoughts.
He gave the spear one final, desperate pull.
The weapon came free with a wet, sucking sound.
But the effort sent him stumbling backward. His foot caught on a loose stone.
He went down hard.
His back hit the tunnel floor with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. The spear clattered from his grasp. Spun across the blood-slick stone until it came to rest several feet away.
No.
The shaman stepped forward.
Its bone-decorated robes rustled with each movement. A dry, papery sound like dead leaves in autumn wind. Up close, Rhys could see details he’d missed before.
The skulls hanging from its staff weren’t just goblin remains.
Some were human.
Adult humans.
Child humans.
Their empty sockets seemed to stare at him with accusation. Seemed to ask why he was still alive when they were dead. Seemed to promise that he would soon join them.
The creature raised its staff high above its head.
The fetishes spun faster and faster until they became a blur of bone and sinew. The chanting reached a crescendo. Each syllable hammered against Rhys’s skull like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.
Like someone was inside his head with a chisel. Trying to crack him open from within.
This is it.
He couldn’t reach his spear. His body wouldn’t move. The shaman’s magic had him pinned to the floor like a butterfly on a collector’s board.
This is how I die.
He thought of Elara. Waiting for him in their cottage. Waiting for a brother who would never come home.
He thought of his father’s spear. Lying just out of reach. The weapon that had protected their family for generations. About to be taken by a monster that wore human children’s skulls as jewelry.
He thought of his mother. How she would cry when she learned what had happened. How she would have to tell Elara that her big brother wasn’t coming back.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.