As long as no one ever found out, he would be safe. Certainly, it would never cross the minds of either his master or most of his subordinates that Akraz hid a secret sentimental side. In battle, he neither gave quarter nor asked it. Against armed opponents, Akraz was as ruthless in fact as in the nightmares of his foes.
For instance, he thought grimly, let him but once meet the elven warrior Nemesis, and what a great reckoning there would be. Nemesis had handed Akraz some humiliating defeats in the past, and Akraz burned to avenge them.
As if summoned out of the smoking darkness by his thoughts, a ram’s horn pierced the night. Instantly, Akraz knew the trap was sprung, and that Nemesis was behind it.
With a roar of rage, he drew the mighty iron sword across his back and charged back toward the village, and the sudden sounds of battle.
Something was wrong. Akraz had sensed the trap before it had been sprung, and hadn’t dallied with his female captives after all.
No matter. The Goblin General stormed right into the range of Laya’s arrows. One, two, three, four arrows left her bow. So perfect was her aim and timing that she hit him exactly as she planned, in each arm and each leg. That should prove enough to incapacitate him without killing him in order for her to capture him.
He tumbled to the ground. Satisfied, Laya ventured closer.
Akraz the Terrible leaped up. His fall had been staged, to lure her near. He shrugged off the prick of arrows that spiked into his armor as if they were of no consequence and commenced to bear down on Laya with great two-fisted swipes of his immense sword.
Fortunately, this time Laya had not underestimated her enemy. She had anticipated both his stamina and strength. Pulling the arrow the Seeress had given her, Sleepmaker, from her quiver, Laya notched her bow and let it fly. The golden arrow soared true, and hit Akraz right in the heart, piercing his armor as the Seeress had promised. The masked goblin lord staggered toward Laya in disbelief.
Though she expected him to collapse any moment, she drew her own sword and faced off with him.
What a sight they must have made, circling one another in the smoldering ruins. He was a figure of towering darkness, his steel and black leather armor further blackened by smoke and ash, his face masked with an iron-horned helm. She was a slender figure in shining leaf-shaped plates of gold, her face also hidden behind a masked helmet of matching gold filigree. She wore the green and white sigil of the True King of Chavana on a snowy white surcoat over her armor, whilst his armor was graven with the twisted runes of the dark wizard Zathstragomal.
“You must be Nemesis,” he gasped. His voice, even rough with pain, was deep and powerful. Laya was amazed he could still stand, never mind talk.
“I am,” she said.
“How fitting we should die by each other’s hands!” he cried, lifting his sword. It had twice the reach of her own slim blade. Her blade rose to meet his, and deflected his blow, but only barely. Laya was an unparalleled archer, and an excellent swordswoman, but she knew that in hand-to-hand combat, he outmatched her.
Oh gods. Despite everything, she had underestimated him. Though he bristled with her arrows, including the Seeress’ enchanted arrow, he harried her to exhaustion with relentless strokes of his sword. The stubborn bastard obviously refused to collapse until he killed her.
Finally, she tripped and stumbled to her knees. Her helm of golden leaf tumbled to the ground, revealing her heart-shaped face and braided hair of palest gold.
“By the Dark God!” He stopped short the killing stroke that would have decapitated her and just stared.
“You—Nemesis—you’re a—”
Then Akraz the Terrible, servitor of the evil wizard, bane of elves and men, commanding general of the goblin horde, collapsed backward with a resounding thud.
Hours later, Laya retired to the private tent she had sequestered away from the rest of the camp. She helped her companions who were wounded, gone to the aid of the human villagers as they finished routing the goblins, most of whom had fled like cowards when their commander disappeared, and spent time soothing the frightened women who had served as bait for the successful trap.
She had held aloft his sword to the gathered elven and human warriors, and announced in ringing tones, “Akraz the Terrible is dead!” She drank in their cheers.
However, Akraz the Terrible was not dead. The enchanted arrow, Sleepmaker, had only cast him into a deep and dreamless state that mimicked death. At Laya’s request, several human males had helped her carry the “corpse” to the place of her choosing, an isolated grotto dominated by a huge, twisted tree. She had them place his body on a flat rock at the base of the tree. If they thought her request strange, they did not question the mysterious elf woman who had led them to victory.
After the humans departed, Laya addressed the tree in the Ancient Words of Making, the language of gods and wizards. “Friend! Awaken from your sleep and come to my aid. Bind my enemy in your branches!”
The tree groaned into animation. The tangle of branches and roots came alive and wrapped around Akraz’s arms and legs. Soon the rope of living wood pinned him spread-eagle on the rock.
She would have to wrestle alone with removing his helm and his armor and his clothing. She wanted him to awaken naked, bound and helpless. However, she was exhausted, and as she stared at his ugly masked helmet and filthy armor, she wondered if she could go through with her plan after all. No matter how splendid his body, he still had the heart of a monster. And, like all goblins, he would have a bestial face, with bulging purple eyes, an over-wide fleshy mouth full of toothy fangs, rough skin covered with warts and crags, and on top of all that, a misshapen lump where a nose should be. Laya did not know why all goblins were ugly, but they were, and the more powerful they were, the uglier they were.
Perhaps she should remove all his clothing except his helmet. After all, he was to be her sex toy, she might take him any way she pleased. What did she need his face for? The thought made her giggle.
With a sigh, she bent over her unconscious captive and removed the helmet masking his face.
Oh. Gods of the Five Lands.
He was beautiful.
This, this goblin, this creature of darkness, had a face as fair and symmetrical and smooth as any elf lord or human prince. His skin was quite pale, his hair quite dark, his features quite perfect. It was more than unexpected, it was unfathomable.
Perhaps the rest of him was ugly?
His armor certainly stank. The metal plates reeked of foul magicks, while the leather pieces were wet with blood. Even his undertunic had been soaked with blood and dirt and sweat. Once all of that was pulled away, though, the body beneath rippled with muscle and masculine perfection.
And as for the essentials…Laya drew in a little breath. The attacker who had impressed her in her youth, before forever dousing her self-confidence in her sexual choices by his brutality, had nothing on Akraz the Terrible. The sword of Akraz was mighty indeed.
Indeed.
Laya was so busy staring at his nether region that she paid no attention to the fluttering of his eyelashes.
Too late, she felt a fist encircle her slim wrist in an angry clench.
“What in the name of the Thirteen Hells have you done to me, elf wench?”