Talia was learning that while goblins were abhorrent creatures, tunnel drakes were absolutely terrifying. Three of the creatures had been released from their harnesses and directed towards the defensive line by a series of high-pitched whistles from the battlemaster. The scaled beasts treated the walls of the tunnel as if it were solid ground, climbing vertically along the sides of the cavern in near-silence before dropping down onto the oncoming swarm of grey-green ambushers. Once in the middle of the pack, the drakes became a whirlwind of slashing claws and flailing tail, bludgeoning and slashing their way clear until they reached the tunnel walls, where the stratagem began anew.

Talia shuddered, standing behind the defensive lines, sword in hand, her mother’s shield bracer hanging uselessly from her arm.

Thank the gods those things are on our side.

The drakes’ efforts were about all that was keeping the horde at bay, with the defensive line of delvers buckling beneath the concerted effort of three hulking hobgoblins, along with whichever of their smaller kin had made it past the scaled harbingers of death. The hobgolins were terrors, each standing three heads taller than their diminutive brethren, with the tallest swinging a stone club that was longer than she was tall. The two others wielded stone spears, one short and wiry, like an exceptionally big dwarf, and the other fatter than anything she’d ever seen, his grotesque green skin falling over in pustule-ridden flab.

The battle was not going well.

Every member of the crew not in the defensive line either held a weapon in hand or was hiding within the wagon train, waiting to see how the battle unfolded. The space was too cramped for them to do otherwise, the line of shield-bearers unable to fit more than the dozen that held on either side of wagon one, arrows and bolts flying above their shoulders from the bows of their comrades behind them.

Delvemaster Torval himself stood atop the command wagon, raining death down onto the attackers from a compact short bow he wielded with fatal accuracy.

As Talia watched, palms sweaty and legs shaking, a cry rang out from the line of shields, the first sound from sapient lips she’d heard in over a week. One of the delvers fell, with the fatter hobgoblin’s stone spear stuck in his gut. His fellows in the line tightened their ranks to no avail. One of the healer’s apprentices, a young dwarf, rushed forward to help pull the injured woman back from the fight as the clicker calls for ‘retreat’ rang out.

The delvers pulled back slowly, covering the rapidly growing number of wounded beneath their shields while other crew members peppered the grey swarm with arrows.

Panic flowed into Talia’s veins like molten silverite as she saw the direction the battle was heading. The coordination of the retreating delvers finally fractured, allowing the club-wielding hobgoblin through.

Shit shit shit—that’s it, we’re dead. Why did I think this was a good idea?!? I should’ve just stayed home and—

Talia gaped in amazement as the delvemaster silently leapt from his perch atop the command wagon, bow discarded and two long, serrated daggers clutched in each fist, which he plunged directly into the hobgoblin’s back with all his might.

The brute screamed, a guttural sound that echoed off the tunnel walls. Dropping his club, the grey skinned giant reached frantically for the human perched on his back to no avail. Torval pulled each dagger out in quick succession, stabbing the creature repeatedly as it windmilled frantically, until finally, with a fleshy tearing noise, something in the hobgoblin’s back gave. The delvemaster slid, knives still clutched in each hand, drawing two gaping gashes through the beast from its shoulders to its hips.

As if boneless, it fell to the floor with a great thud, confusion and impotent rage permanently etched onto its face.

For a surreal moment, everything stilled. Friend and foe alike stood in awe of the delvemaster’s feat.

Then the lardlike hobgoblin bellowed angrily at its companion’s death and swung its spear like a staff, knocking over the remnants of the shield wall and rushing Torval, who still had his back turned, breathing hard.

The behemoth charged, putting all of its muscle into building up momentum into its not inconsiderable mass, a wave of goblins following in its wake.

The fat hobgoblin hit an unprepared Torval with the force of a drop hammer, sending him flying past Talia where he smashed against the floor and fell, senseless, into a heap.

She turned towards him instinctively, hand outstretched, preparing to rush down to help him up, but then her senses screamed out at her, and she dashed to the ground.

Wind blew across the back of her neck as the hobgoblin’s spear whooshed above her.

Get up get up get up—

Talia rolled over just in time. Splinters of stone cut into her cheek as Fatty smashed his spear into the ground where her head had been, shattering the point of the weapon against the hard rock.

The young mage fought against the building sensation of pressure in her chest as her Gift seemed to sense the danger to her life and struggled to be let out.

Not now, everyone will see!

Talia begged for the power to still as she scrambled to her feet, sword clutched in her right hand with a death-grip.

With a gasp, she raised her left arm as the hobgoblin swung down at her.

Sensing an easier outlet for its potency, the mana accumulating in Talia’s chest slid past through her shoulder, down her arm, and into the inert artefact hanging loosely from her left wrist.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

In the time between seconds, intricate runes flashed a brief purple across the dark metal. The bands melted into a single smooth gauntlet faster than the eye could see.

The hobgoblin howled, voluminous jowls jiggling, as the haft of his spear rebounded a few centimetres off of her arm and hit him in the face.

Holy shit I’m alive.

Talia stood unharmed, staring in shock at the barely visible circle of force, about half a meter in diameter, which hovered a few centimetres above her now gauntleted forearm. In her mind, a connection to the artefact whispered that the form the shield took could be changed, desperate to share its function with her.

Talia ignored it.

With no time to marvel, she took the time to set herself into a half-remembered defensive stance, gauntlet held out before her and her mother’s arming sword held close to her body, feet set apart slightly.

The young woman took a deep breath, remembering Orvall’s Sunday training.

Left foot forward, right foot back. Swing with your hips and your weight, not with your back. Cut through the enemy, not at them. You can do this, Tals. Just survive until—

Fatty recovered, wiping blood from its gushing nose away from its eyes and swinging overhead at her with the spear haft as if it was a staff.

She swayed to the right, shield held close, schooling her fear and desperately pushing back against the raging ball of mana in her chest. The hobgoblin missed, stumbling and thrown off balance by the wild, rage-fuelled attack.

Talia sprang forward, slashing with her mother’s sword, intending to hamstring it and hamper its movement.

Instead, the power in her chest flowed once more towards the path of least resistance, escaping her center and surging up into her mother’s blade. Runes flashed once before fading. A click in her mind signaled a connection to the artefact, this one deeper, and yet more intangible.

The charred edge of the blade met putrid grey skin right as a fount of strength rippled across her small frame.

Talia cut straight through Fatty’s thigh, and nearly swept the blade around and across her own bent knee.

The hobgoblin mewed a pitiful, confused yowl as a gush of carmine spurted from severed arteries, splashing onto the floor and Talia’s arm.

Already off balance, the beast’s remaining leg buckled and sent the rest of his massive form tumbling to ground. Awkwardly, it tried to get its spear haft from under it for another strike, which the woman easily sidestepped.

Stifling her awe at the power of her mother’s blade, Talia seized the opportunity to sweep behind the downed brute, stabbing its jiggling form in the vague vicinity of its spine before slashing heavily across the fat across its neck.

The young mage panted, covered in blood from the still spewing arteries of the hobgoblin’s nearly severed neck.

Magic fizzed turbulently in ball inside her chest.

All around her, the battle raged, having turned into a slogging melee after the shield wall had fallen.

Talia spotted Zaric standing on the roof of wagon two, along with a slight, cloaked form, probably his apprentice, Osra.

All around them, the stone moved as if alive, erupting in short walls and sharp spikes that hampered the goblin’s movements. At a gesture of the Mage-Commandrum’s hand, stalactites fell from the ceiling with unnatural speed, impaling the last remaining hobgoblin looming over a bedraggled Darkclaw. The diminutive battlemaster turned and nodded his thanks before searching out a new enemy, clicker calls flowing insistently from behind his teeth.

I don’t get why they don’t just talk at this point…

Though Talia guessed that the resounding clacking noise directly in her ear was harder to miss than shouting would be in the chaotic mess of battle, so that might be it.

Even without the support of their larger kin, the goblins fought with feral ferocity, ganging up on delvers in groups of two and three. Stones thrown from primitive slings mingled with arrows from the defenders. But with the hobgoblins dead and the mages in the fight, the tide of battle seemed to be turning in their favour.

Feeling jittery and numb, Talia went to check that Torval was still breathing, only to realize that at some point in her fight—if you could call it that— someone had dragged him off, probably to wherever the healing station was.

Confidence bolstered by victory, Talia sped towards the nearest delver, intent on helping to end the battle.

A few well placed cuts took the unaware goblins by surprise, and soon she and the beastkin she’d helped were roving the tunnel, attacking from behind when they could and resorting to turning the goblin’s pack tactics against them when they couldn’t.

Eventually, nerves frayed and covered in a thick coat of drying goblin blood, Talia turned her head on a swivel, seeking out new targets. When it became clear that none were forthcoming, she sagged against the wheel of the nearest wagon as the fight left her.

The battle was a victory in every sense. Talia had survived, the expedition had survived, and most importantly, no visible magic had escaped her. People would expect an arcanist to fight with artefacts. There had been no indication that she had charged them herself apart from the brief glow of the runework that should have been impossible to spot in the chaos.

Talia sighed in weary contentedness.

I should probably go see if they need help at the healer’s.

The young woman was mustering the strength to get up and failing when Darkclaw sat down next to her.

The scarred beastkin turned his prosthetic eye on her and gave a nod.

She smiled back tiredly.

He pulled the clicker from his mouth, causing Talia to raise an eyebrow and do the same.

“You fight well. Sloppy. But good bones. Good training. Legion style. Artefacts help much, but training does most work,” Darkclaw said slowly.

Talia, in her addled state, could only focus on the odd contrast of the tone of his voice with his grizzled appearance.

It’s higher pitched than I thought. Almost a treble.

“Er- Thanks,” she replied, realizing she’d stayed silent for too long.

“My father was in the legion, he trained me. Said it was important for everyone to at least know how to handle themselves in a fight.”

The battlemaster nodded sagely, as if what she had said was incredibly wise.

“So why is it that it’s ok to take out the clickers now but not during the battle?” she ventured when he remained quiet.

“Hmm. Battle loud. Wounded louder. Too much noise. Clicker for orders and keep organised. Now battle over. Noise spread. We leave quickly. But until leaving, talk softly acceptable,” he replied.

When she nodded in understanding, he stood and immediately hissed in pain. Blood splattered to the floor at her feet. A gash was hidden beneath the fur of the lightly armored beastkin’s arm.

“Shit! You’re wounded!” Talia said.

Darkclaw grunted, applying pressure to the slowly bleeding wound.

“C’mon, I was just about to go help out with the healer, I’ll take a look when we get there.”

Darkclaw shook his head. Talia frowned.

“What do you mean, no? It’s not too deep, but you should still get that checked.”

He shook his head.

“You shower first. Then help,” the battlemaster grunted.

Talia looked down at the rapidly caking blood that soaked her armour, thanking the gods that her cloak obscured her embarrassed blush, before she remembered that night eye pills allowed Darkclaw to see through it.

“Right. I’ll drop you off and then head for a quick shower, then see where they need me,” she said sheepishly.

Darkclaw graced her with a smile from his crooked, yellow teeth.

The work was far from done, but at least she had an excuse to take a hot shower. Talia pitied the crew, who would have to content themselves with a cold rinse.