"The spear is not about strength, boy. It’s about timing. Wait for the mont when your enemy thinks they’ve won. Then take it from them."
***
The wounded hobgoblin chose that mont to attack.
Rhys threw himself sideways.
The massive blade whistled past his ear. Close enough that he could sll the rancid oil coating its edge. Close enough that he felt individual hairs on his head shift from the passage of steel.
That sound. That whooshing split of air.
His father had taught him to listen for it when he was barely tall enough to hold a spear properly. "Hear that whistle, boy? That’s the song the reaper sings before he takes you. Learn it well, so you know when to duck."
Good advice.
The kind that kept you breathing in Blackwood Glade.
He thrust with the spear before his feet had even settled. Acting on instinct more than thought. The bloodied point found the sa gap in the creature’s ribs he’d exploited before.
The wound was still leaking that viscous black blood. The edges of torn flesh glistened wetly in the dim light.
His father’s spear slid into it like it belonged there.
This ti he twisted the blade.
He felt it grate against bone as it carved deeper into the monster’s vitals. Felt the resistance of muscle and sinew giving way to good Blackwood steel. The kind of steel his father had traded three months of pelts to acquire from a traveling smith.
The sound was sickening. Like a knife scraping across wet stone.
His stomach lurched.
But he kept twisting. Kept driving the point deeper.
You didn’t stop halfway through a killing stroke. That was how hunters died. That was how his uncle had died. Showing rcy to a wounded warg that still had enough fight left in it to take his throat out.
The hobgoblin roared.
The sound was a guttural bellow that echoed through the tunnel and bounced off the walls until it seed to co from everywhere at once. The stone itself seed to vibrate with the creature’s fury. Loose pebbles danced on the floor from the sheer volu of it.
Hot, foul-slling spittle showered Rhys’s face. He could taste it on his lips. Salt and rot and sothing that burned faintly.
Up close, he could see the yellowed tusks jutting from its lower jaw. Could count the scars crisscrossing its leathery green hide. Each one a testant to battles this creature had survived.
There were dozens of them.
This thing had been killing for years.
Its massive hand shot out.
Yellowed claws, each one as long as Rhys’s finger and curved like fish hooks, dug into the spear shaft. Into the wood his father had carved and polished years ago.
He could hear the wood groan under the pressure. Could see the pale furrows the claws carved into the dark ashwood.
The hobgoblin pulled.
The sudden force nearly lifted Rhys off his feet.
His shoulders scread in protest. For one horrible mont he was airborne. His boots leaving the ground entirely as the creature’s raw physical power overwheld every ounce of resistance he could muster.
The tunnel spun around him.
His stomach dropped.
But he clenched his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache.
And held on.
His fingers went white around the shaft. His arms felt like they might tear free from his body entirely. The muscles in his back were screaming.
But he would not let go.
He would not surrender his father’s weapon to this monster.
Not while he still had breath in his lungs and strength in his arms.
He planted his feet firmly on the stone floor as soon as they touched down. Channeled a flicker of earth magic to anchor himself. Just enough to make his boots feel like they’d grown roots into the granite. Just enough to give him purchase against the creature’s overwhelming strength.
The magic cost him sothing. A warmth in his core that he couldn’t afford to spend.
He spent it anyway.
Because the alternative was losing his weapon and dying with nothing but his bare hands.
He pulled back.
Let the hobgoblin believe it was winning the tug-of-war. Let it think this scrawny human was at the end of his strength. That victory was inevitable.
The creature’s lips peeled back from its tusks in sothing that might have been a smile. A triumphant expression that showed far too many teeth.
It pulled harder. Its massive legs braced against the stone.
Then Rhys felt it.
That mont. That slight relaxation of the creature’s grip. That instant of overconfidence that always ca right before a killing blow.
Now.
He reversed direction.
Drove forward with everything he had.
All his weight. All his desperation. All his training condensed into one brutal thrust.
His father’s voice echoed in his mory. "Wait for the mont when your enemy thinks they’ve won. Then take it from them."
The spearpoint punched through the creature’s chest with a wet, tearing sound.
It went through leather armor that should have stopped it. Through layers of muscle thicker than his arm. Through ribs that cracked and splintered around the steel like dry branches.
The point erged from the hobgoblin’s back in a spray of viscous black blood.
The hobgoblin froze.
Its yellow eyes widened. The vertical pupils dilated. It looked down at the steel protruding from its body. At the ashwood shaft that now connected them.
Its expression shifted. Changed. Beca sothing that might have been surprise.
Perhaps even a grudging respect.
Its mouth opened as if to speak.
But only blood ca out. A dark torrent that ran down its chin and dripped onto Rhys’s hands.
The light in those predatory eyes dimd.
The hobgoblin toppled backward with the spear still embedded in its chest. Its massive fra made the ground tremble one final ti as it crashed onto the stone floor.
The creature’s limbs twitched once.
Twice.
Then it lay still. Its eyes staring sightlessly at the tunnel ceiling.
Rhys stood there for a mont. Breathing hard. Blood dripping from his hands. His father’s spear buried in the chest of a monster that had killed more humans than he could probably count.
One down.
One to go.
Plus whatever that thing with the staff was.
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