Chapter 6: Slow Motion

Our only saving grace becomes the previously spoken and soon to be proven stupidity of hobgoblins. Because, as they spot us, they howl their fury at our escape and, without considering our position, leap at us with the intent to attack.

I stand frozen, head turning to one side, as the descending short sword plunges in slow motion toward my shoulder, stopping inches from slicing off my left arm. So close to me that when I turn my head I could kiss the rusting blade if I so chose.

The hobgoblin who attacked me grunts when it realizes its mistake, three companions all caught in the same position in varying degrees of rigid stillness.

"I guess once the trap is sprung, it's sprung." Vosh sounds far too calm about this whole thing for my liking.

"Apparently," Graldor says, just as clinically observant, enough I want to shout at both of them to shut up as my own tension won't allow such frivolity at the moment.

"I'll crush your bones and eat the marrow and make you drink the blood of your still- pumping heart!" The hobgoblin whose sword I face seems to think it can do something about its threat while the firm hold of fear gives way and I suddenly understand Vosh and Graldor's reactions. Whether it's the creature's lisping and slightly high-pitched voice or the fact that without a way to fight, with the threat looming but as trapped as we are, I have no other outlet, humor wins. A giddy sense of comedy almost chokes me.

"You do that," I say. Blossom snorts. "Any time now."

Even the paladin grins at that, though the hobgoblin just ahead of me doesn't seem to think this is funny.

"Now what?" The paladin glares at the frothing hobgoblin whose head thrashes back and forth while it tries to free itself from the spell keeping all of us contained. The remaining two, a little further away, look stunned and scared.

"There's only one way out of this," Graldor says. "They have to release the spell." "Never." The furious one stops fighting long enough to pant that word.

"Sir," the one in front of me says. "We can't just stay here."

"Or we could," I say. "Just wondering how long you're expecting to wait for replacements to come along and rescue you?"

From the sullen expression on the leader's face they're on their own for quite some time. Which is both reassuring and disconcerting, though once we're past them that means we have some breathing room.

"We have superior weapons," my attacker says, turning awkwardly to spit its words at its commander. "Release the spell and we'll cut them down and no one will be the wiser."

"But releasing the spell isn't instantaneous," the leader says.

"Thanks for that." I grin while Blossom giggles. Stupid hobgoblins indeed.

My attacker snarls in my face. "You just wait, you," it growls. "I'll be snacking on your liver before too long."

"Just go on the count of three," one of the others calls out. "Right, sir?" "Three, you got it," the leader says. "That's after four?"

My jaw aches from the absurdity and the need to laugh. "I believe three comes after six," I said.

"No, it's after four," the fourth guard says. "Isn't three first?" Blossom is oh, so helpful.

The hobgoblins mutter in their language a moment before the leader barks something and they all fall silent. In the moment it makes its decision, I see its eyes close, its lips move and know the end of the spell is coming. We all do, apparently, except for its three fellow guards who are fortunately a little slower to figure out what it's doing. That doesn't mean I'm in the clear when the sword threatening my throat starts to quiver and the shocked hobgoblin who attacked me realizes it's almost free. I'm highly motivated to move, twisting sideways when the blade begins to fall, the edge skimming past the curve

of my arm and missing by the width of a breath as I push off with the balls of my feet and force myself through the last of the heavy air and impact my opponent.

This hobgoblin isn't weighed down by buckets and nor is it as surprised as the last one I brought down when I tackle it, weapon already out and in full swing. But I'm heavier than it is, the guard's shorter stature if stockier body giving way under the force of my collision, my body suddenly freed from the spell hurtling faster and harder than I might have managed otherwise.

We crash to the floor, the sounds of shouting all around me, my embed flashing red as I stab with the bone knife I still hold. The hobgoblin twists out of the way, the blade pinning one of its ears to the ground for an instant, making it howl. But it's already twining its short, powerful legs around mine and with a heave flips me over onto my back, blood spurting from its torn flesh, leaving my bone knife behind.

Roles reversed, I'm suddenly fighting it off, the sword too long to make a blow count.

Its free hand catches me, the hook on its wrist slicing into my shoulder. It's my turn to use my legs, nailing it solidly between the thighs, its groan and sudden rigidity enough proof I hit where it counts. My hand finds its belt, the dagger carried there. I bury the blade up to the hilt in its side, twisting the metal as far as I can. It grates over the hobgoblin's ribs, blood gushing out over my stomach in a heated wash, the point digging around in the creature's vital organs enough that its agony of my low blow disappears. Its eyes roll back into its head and it collapses, dead weight and still oozing life blood, on top of me.

Panting, I shift it off, kicking free and leaping to my feet in time to bend and retrieve the fallen sword and swing it in the same motion, removing the head from the leader hobgoblin as it jerks Blossom forward in a two-handed grip, its gaping fangs going for her face. Its body topples to one side, away from me, the halfling jerking free of its grasping hands and ducking toward me while I spin and prepare to kill again.

I'm too late for that, though, two my final number. Vosh examines the face of one of the hobgoblins carefully before bashing its already bleeding and misshapen skull into the ground one last time. He lets it go, rubbing his hands on the rock wall as if to remove any evidence he's been in contact with the filthy thing. And the paladin rises, her hands

covered in blood, the last hobgoblin dead at her feet. From the look of things she's torn out its throat with her fingers.

"Might I suggest we refrain from our desire to congratulate each other," Vosh says, "gather what we can from these four and retire to a defensible position where we can exchange more thorough information?"

"Done," I say, kicking the dead hobgoblin at my feet. Blossom is already moving, darting here and there, tucking her little hands in pockets and under tunics while the rest of us step aside and let her do her job. While picking over a dead body might be something I should do, I can't bring myself to muster the energy to do it. And though the armor they wear is of similar style to the shirt I took from our guard, I don't see the paladin helping herself, though she does claim the leader's sword while I'm happy enough with the one I've used to kill its last owner.

I glance at my arm, happy to see everything seems well, including my HW number.

It's risen back to twenty-four, though why I don't know. I'm not complaining.

Graldor's possession of the rune stone is the final bone of contention. As I turn and gesture for the paladin to precede me-she's going to anyway so I might as well let her think I'm all right with it and salvage some pride at the same time-I hear Blossom complaining in the background.

"But, it's mine," she says while I move on, turning the stone corridor corner and checking out the long tunnel that stretches forward with more torches leading the way.

"You have no use for it," Graldor grunts. "But-"

"Enough." The paladin's barked command seems to be sufficient to silence Blossom, though when I glance back I see the dissatisfied pout on her face and the smirk Graldor gives her when he pockets the rune stone in a clear show of superiority. "Move on or stay here, I couldn't care which," the paladin speaks again, tone harsh, biting, full of anger. "But I'm leaving and your petty squabbles aren't going to hold me back from finishing my task." She's as good as her word, marching off without another sign or warning.

"Which is?" I stride beside her, the first few paces half a run to catch up, sword ready, eyebrow arched in question.

"Something we can talk about when we have a safe place to do so." She increases speed and takes the lead for real and I hang back, shaking my head, wondering why the EM on my arm shivers and goes red.

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