Chapter Forty-Eight - Shaman

The mecha’s pilot was a big fidiot, tall and broad-shouldered, with a few scars running across his arms and uncovered torso.

No, I realized. Not just scars, tattoos.

The goblin stumbled a little, blood seeping from a dozen cuts around its shaven head where it had torn off the control system for its mech.

It spat into the sand, then rubbed the back of a hand across its mouth before screaming. It was a good scream, a deep, bellowing yowl that spoke of pain buried under a lot of anger.

Then his tattoos started to glow and I felt a lot less comfortable about the whole thing.

It wasn’t a secret that goblin mech pilots were nearly all shamans, storm-touched who had rudimentary control over some kind of magical force. I’d seen their sort do some crazy things, and I wasn’t keen on seeing it again.

So I shot it in the back until my revolver clicked empty.

I was pretty smug as I shoved my gun into its sheath and started to look for a way to come down.

Then the goblin turned around and glared up at me past the fading beams of magic that had connected the end of my gun to its back.

I saw squished bullets plop onto the sand.

“Ah, shi--”

The goblin threw an arm up and I felt something like a plank smack me across the face. It wasn’t the hardest hit I’d taken, far from it, but it was surprising and took me entirely off-guard. The heavy shove didn’t help any.

My hands scrambled for purchase against the mech’s back, then my foot slipped.

I realized I was falling at about the same time as my back struck the ground a couple of meters below.

The impact drove the air out of my lungs and made my hat flop back.

I groaned, reached up, and pulled my hat back on with one hand while I worked on rolling onto all fours. “Alright, that kind of hurt,” I admitted.

The crunch of feet on the ground next to me had me turning to take in the shaman’s form as he walked over to me. The goblin was grinning, the expression made horrific by the blood clinging to its face.

“Did anyone ever tell you,” I said. “That you’re one ugly fidiot?”

The goblin growled.

I whipped my revolver out while rolling back and away from it, then pointed it at the goblin’s face.

The goblin’s eyes widened and the air between us snapped and hissed. Its tattoos glowed. So, no mistake, he was some sort of magic-user and he could both create barriers and push things from afar.

It didn’t help that he was a tall bastard, and had probably eaten more than his fair share of whatever the goblins scrounged up, judging by the mass on him.

He glared at me when I didn’t fire.

“What?” I asked as I got to my feet. “Not going to waste rounds when I know it won’t work.” Also, I had to reload my revolver.

I was hoping I could run off, get to cover and then take him out from afar.

He had other plans.

The goblin charged, screaming and shaking his head like some sort of storm-maddened berserk. I swore and jumped to my feet, but I was too damned slow.

The goblin slapped my revolver aside, then swung a fist at my face.

I stumbled back, trying to regain some balance even as I ignored the sting in my arm from where I’d parried. Bastard was as strong as he looked.

I reached for my knife and tugged it out, but before I could get into any sort of stance the goblin barreled into me.

My back hit the ground again, and I knew that I’d have a hell of a bruise the next morning.

It was still focused on my revolver—smart, for a goblin. It pinned my arm down and pried the gun out of my hand with big rough fingers.

That meant it wasn’t paying attention to my other hand.

I flipped my knife around in an ice-pick grip and stabbed down, aiming for the goblin’s thigh where he straddled my chest.

The knife bounced off nothing.

“What the,” I said.

The goblin picked my revolver up, then laughed as he pointed it down and at my face.

His laugh cut off when it clicked empty.

I, meanwhile, was thinking fast.

Bullets and fast strikes bounced off some sort of magic shield. I didn't know enough about magic to tell if that was impressive or not, but it was certainly annoying. But he could grab onto me, and judging by the way his knees dug into my side, he could still touch.

I brought my knife down slowly, feeling only a bit of resistance before it was pressed against his flesh.

Better.

The tip dug into skin and through muscle, spilling blood as it went in deeper.

The goblin screamed and flung my revolver aside before raising a fist above his head. He brought it down, hard, and it was all I could do to parry it with a forearm while wiggling my knife deeper into his thigh.

His free hand came down and grabbed me by the face while he tried to pummel me.

I’d had enough of this.

Bending my legs up to throw the goblin forward, I shifted my hips to the side and threw him off me.

He got a good punch in, right against my jaw, but I’d been in a brawl or two, and I could fight past the little stars filling my vision.

As soon as I was freed from the goblin, I rolled back and got to my knees, then pulled my second knife free.

I could cut him; the knife still jabbed in his thigh was proof of that. And he could bleed. Which meant he could die.

That’s all I needed.

The goblin tore the knife out from his leg, and in doing so he forgot to pay attention to me.

He might have been big, and magical, but that didn’t mean he was smart.

When he looked back up, it was in time for me to plant my boot in his chest, slowly, then shove him back as hard as I could.

He fell, then spun to get back onto his feet.

So I wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him back. The bastard struggled, head whipping back and into my face, but I turned away and grit my teeth against it. No letting go now, even as he grabbed my arm and tried to pry me off him.

His tattoos were all intricate patterns with crude symbols. That’s how he was directing his magic, which meant... I placed my knife against one--the largest, which covered most of his back and shoulders--and cut across it, skin slicing.

The goblin went nuts and brought a hand up over his shoulder and pointed it palm-first towards my face.

It was like getting hit with a sandbag.

I fell back, nose twinging and eyes feeling as if someone had just jabbed them into my skull. I blinked, my vision clearing even as I found myself on the ground again.

My hat was missing.

“Bastard,” I growled.

Another blow, this time against my chest. Weaker, but strong enough to throw me down.

The goblin stood above me, just out of kicking reach, with his arm stretched out towards me, tattoos glowing. He started laughing again.

The tattoos’ glow brightened a moment before I was punched in the gut by another blast of invisible magic.

He laughed harder and approached a bit more while I curled in on myself, hands cradling my stomach. Another blast hit my side, right over my ribs.

They were like weak punches, but I couldn’t see them coming, and they still hurt. I had to get closer, I had to lure him in so that I could stab the bastard some more.

Then a shotgun blast sounded out and the goblin flew off to the side, trailing green fumes from a dozen pin-prick holes in his side.

I blinked.

Looking over at the goblin, I saw him climbing to his feet, his back a mess of buckshot wounds.

Another shot, and the goblin fell back down, new wounds added atop the old, and no magic stopping the shot from digging in.

Clin walked past me, his gun broken open and fresh shells in hand. He snapped it shut, then aimed down at the shaman who was turning around and bringing his arm up. “Just die, please,” Clin said.

He used both barrels at once.

The goblin’s upper body turned into so much paste.

“Are you okay?” Clin asked.

I gave up, flopping back down and not caring that I probably looked weak. “Yeah,” I said. “Just dandy.”