by Lucas Thorn
NYSTA #8:
SCION OF DRAGONCLAW
For Tony, Jorge, and Fiona.
We’re the Survivors.
LATERAL BOOKS
First Digital Edition Revised
published in January 2018
Copyright © Lucas Thorn 2018
ASIN: B077LFBXRP
www.lucasthorn.com
INTRODUCTION
Nysta is a wonderful character to write. She essentially writes her own stories. She’s stubborn, grumpy, observant only some of the time, and prone to resolving frustration with knives.
This makes for a more interesting character to write than you’d expect.
Going into her 8th book, I found myself wanting to try something different. I imagine her as an assassin with tenacity unlike any other. You are supposed to be dead? Fine. She will make you dead. She’ll tear your home down around your ears to do it.
Kill the entire city to get to you.
She’s like Jason, Michael, and Freddy in one ball of seething rage.
I found that angle interesting and wondered what it must be like for those who ran from her. To feel like victims in a horror movie.
This pleased me to think about and I hoped to deliver in this book my own little homage to such scenes of splashy relentlessness. A killer walking forever in shadows and popping up in front of you to murderize you.
Also influencing this book was the old movie (not the travesty remake), Gone in 60 Seconds. There’s a short opening sequence, then the main character pulls on his gloves. Revs engine. And boom. The rest of the film is a car chase sequence which doesn’t let up. I wanted something like that.
Having said that, a novel is very difficult to maintain action without it getting boring. I have done my best. I hope you approve.
Other minor influences on this book include old 1980s action films. I loved them when I was 12. I had a friend of mine who used to watch them with me. We’d get all the old R-Rated films out from our local video library. The Warriors. Raiders of Atlantis. That kind of thing.
I hope to flesh this influence a bit more for you soon.
Also John Carpenter’s inimitable Escape from New York was high in my mind.
You have now read 7 Nysta books before this. You’ve been waiting for characters to return and arcs to be tied up. Well, I’m not really the kind who leaves frayed ends without knotting a few along the way, so I’m hoping you’ll see this book as a promise of delivery on a few things you’ve been waiting for.
So, tuck yourself in.
Grab yourself a coke.
Some of your spiciest corn chips.
Some chocolate.
Turn the page. And get ready for Nysta’s most brutal adventure yet!
PROLOGUE
The door crashed open, almost wrenched clean off its hinges.
As one, patrons of The Rat’s Last Laugh turned to peer with incredulous gaze at the weasel-faced man slouching in the doorway. His dark brown eyes slid this way and that and narrow lips moved as he spoke without sound.
Counting.
Nod and shrug when satisfied he’d got an accurate count of heads.
Moved into the light.
Long red woollen hood draped down his back. Tattered grey coat. Stained with mud. Gaping hole in the back caked in old dry blood. Scar of a fatal wound to someone else’s back.
Flecks of trash clung to the arms like he’d been crawling through the belongings of an Alley Rat. Pale shirt which might once have been white. Was now just a mix of browns and greys.
Pants, patched heavily, wet with fresher blood. Still whispering a few warm ghosts of steam. Not his own.
He rolled his shoulders as he stepped inside, running one hand across the back of his grime-stained neck. Rolled the dull-coloured beads threaded on a leather thong around his throat between his fingers before pulling his hand away.
An odd decoration for an odd kind of man.
He paused, two steps inside the taproom.
Then, moving only one lean leg, kicked the door shut behind him.
The sound of it crashing shut made more than one patron tense in their seat.
Spread lips into a smile which showed a large gap between front teeth. A gap through which he pushed a low whistle before striding deliberately toward the bar.
As he approached, the bartender glanced sideways.
To a heavyset ork lounging on a stool. The ork’s red eyes burned as he studied the drifter. A long pause which made the bartender sweat.
Then the ork nodded his big green head.
Real slow.
And the bartender coughed a small cough. “Fair enough. What’ll it be, stranger?”
The gap-toothed man kept smiling.
Didn’t say a word.
Just pointed to a bottle of rum and tossed a single coin.
Slid onto a stool. Crossed arms on the bar. Eyes drilling into the bartender’s own with an intense humour which was nothing short of devilish.
Unsure how to react, the bartender fell back on what he knew. Scuttled toward the bottle.
Uncorked it.
Set a small wooden cup in front of the drifter.
Poured.
With trembling hands and glances which snapped to the ork and back more than once.
All while the drifter whistled.
Tuneless and low.
Into the silence of the taproom.
Every eye in the place aimed at his back as he reached with both hands.
One took the cup. Slid it across the bar closer to himself.
The other took the bottle, which he prised loose of the nervous bartender’s fingers.
Raised it in salute.
Then drank from the slender neck.
Slow gulps.
One.
Two.
Three.
And the room waited for the gap-toothed drifter to breathe.
Four.
Five.
On the sixth, he lowered the bottle. Wiped mouth with the back of a gloved fist.
Let out a raucous burp.
Thrust the empty bottle back into the bartender’s trembling hands.
Sighed in contentment.
Swivelled on the stool. Nodded at attention received.
Sucked bottom teeth.
Then let out another long ghostly whistle as he tugged tattered gloves from his hands. Balled and buried them within pockets.
As he did, the front of his coat fell open to reveal two heavy knives. One on either hip. Sheaths laced around thighs.
Still whistling, he allowed one hand to drop to the hilt on his right. Thumbed the butt before flicking scored wood with his nail. Sound of the click seemed to echo through the room.
A challenge.
A threat.
Promise of violence.
Head aiming from one side of the room to the other.
Eyes scanning each face. Taking in all features. Noting scars. Wry grin tugging the corner of his mouth.
A grin he turned against the ork like a sword to thick green throat.
Who sat up straight, jaw crooked in thought.
“Feller,” the ork said. “I don’t think you know where you are. And if you do, you ain’t right in the head for acting up like that. So, do you? Do you know where in the fuck you are?”
The whistle cut off into silence.
Grin widened.
Then he whistled again. Not moving.
Letting his eyes drift across the ork’s battered armor. Taking in the dozens of bone fetishes dangling from his body on threads of catgut twine. The slave chains hung from thick leather belt.
Following the drifter’s gaze, the ork returned his smile with a mean one of his own.
> Calloused green fingers brushed the fetishes down his chest. “You want to know how I got these, right? Well, I’ll tell you. I got them off punks like you. Punks with attitude, who came in here all ready to rumble. Thinking they’ll make a name for themselves. Instead, I beat the snot out of them. Cut off their fingers. Then we ship what’s left of ‘em out on a slave ship. I always believed a feller deserves to profit from a fight.” The ork wet his bottom lip with his tongue. “What d’you say about that, punk? You gonna stop whistling? Or your fingers gonna fucking dangle on my string? Decide quick, because you’re beginning to get on my nerves.”
The drifter stopped whistling.
Reached and lifted his cup.
Sipped.
“Yeah,” the ork said. Grunted. “Figured you for a yellow cunt. Bet those stickers of yours are just for show. Where’d you get ‘em, anyways? Off your pa? They look too big for your little hands. Maybe I’ll take one for myself?”
The drifter finished his drink.
Set it down calmly on the bar and nodded to the bartender.
A discrete nod of thanks for the drink.
Aimed his gaze back to the ork.
Drew lips back into foolish grin.
And let out another long low whistle.
Kind of whistle which made some men feel a chill down their spines.
The ork half-rose from his seat.
Eyes red slits.
“Now you’re really pissing me off, punk. You come in here, and I show patience with you. Give you a real chance to walk out alive. But you keep hacking at my patience. Hacking at my good fucking will. That ain’t friendly. So, I figure you ain’t here for good reason. Ain’t here for a drink. You’re here to kick up some shit. Well, punk. You’re in the wrong fucking part of Dragonclaw. This here turf belongs to us. We’re the Bonebreakers, right? And you’re about to get broke.”
The gap-toothed man leaned back, elbows on the bar. Unmoved as a few Bonebreakers tittered a few cheers from the back. Clink of slave chains as some gave them a shake.
Foolish grin slapped wide across the drifter’s face. Tongue pushing through the gap as he allowed the tone of his whistle to rise and fall without semblance of any real tune.
Tidal mockery for wave upon wave of the ork’s fury to beat upon.
Eyes shining as he stared at the ork without blinking.
Still said nothing.
Not even when the ork pushed himself from his stool and loped across the room. Bare green arms bulging as he flexed and squeezed fists so tight the knuckles popped.
Ground his teeth.
Snarled at the gap-toothed man with every step. Jaw rolling around his tongue.
A predator homing in on smaller prey.
And the whistling didn’t stop.
Huge shadow fell across the drifter. Covered his weasel face in darkness.
“I’m gonna fuck you up bad, little man.”
The ork reached.
Not fast.
He didn’t expect resistance. Fingers trembling rage, they sought to grab the whistler by his throat.
But the drifter moved as the whistling stopped.
Off the stool like grease. Slid under the ork’s heavy arm. A blur of catlike energy. Had drawn both knives in the same movement.
Coat flapped in his wake.
Twin flashes of light like ribbons of steel.
Blur of coat.
Darted around the ork’s second swing and slid smoothly across the floor to end up just out of reach.
Crouched. Head down. Eyes half-closed.
Hands low.
Knives in fists.
A fighter’s stance. Still and unmoving. Bold and bursting with unspent power.
Solid.
Unbroken.
Wet knives drooled carnage to the floor.
The ork glanced to the knives.
Then down at his guts.
“Aww, shit.”
Took a tumble toward the waiting drifter.
Still reaching for the drifter, the ork’s fingers met a laconic swipe of blade.
Four heavy digits dropped to the ground, and the big ork dropped with them. Wormed onto his back. Tried to hold his belly on the inside. A futile dream he’d never grasp.
He knew it.
Slick red fluid hissed from twin cuts racing across his abdomen.
The gap-toothed drifter looked around the room, grinning at stunned expressions. Like he expected applause.
No one had ever had to help defend the ork before.
They didn’t know what to do.
Mesmerised, they watched the gap-toothed man drag a chair. Scrape of wood across floor like the echo of a scream. Set it beside the dying ork.
Slumped into it.
Squirmed to get comfortable.
Then lifted booted feet to place them on the ork’s shuddering chest.
“And now, my friends,” he said at last. Voice cheerful and bright. “It is time we get to know each other very well, I am thinking. You know, my sister used to say it is good for strangers to meet. I know she would be very proud of me now for making such friends as you. Yes, I feel this is true. Come. Drink. Drink and share everything you know about these good streets of yours. Who is in charge of all the gangs? Are the Shivs still toughest? Which guards will take bribes. Which will not, and where are their families living? Where is a good bakery? A good bakery is a sign of great civilisation. I tell you this, and it is true. Especially when that bakery is one which sells spiced rolls and has a beautiful girl to serve them with sweet sugar-dusted fingers. Also, where to get a good coat. One without a hole in it or blood on its back. And a pair of new boots. And why is there no drink in my hands when you have been told to drink? But, most of all, and this is very important to Eli, he wants to know who has seen an elf. An elf with a scar right here on her mangy twisted face…”
CHAPTER ONE
In the twisted alleys of Dragonclaw, the Old Skeleton frequently gorged.
Souls, blasted from their bodies, swept into the Shadowed Halls on a torrential wind which never seemed to cease. Confused souls. Frightened souls. Screaming souls.
Many with a single name on ghostly lips.
A name used by an elf whose knives knew no mercy.
One such soul belonged to a former Red Claw. Born with the name Keld. At fifteen, he’d found his place in the gang. A bruiser with fists of solid stone, he’d beat and battered more jaws than he could recall. Six foot tall. Wide at the shoulders.
Thoughts bred in muscle instead of brain.
A trait which made others think him lacking in worldly knowledge. But, when it came to fighting, hard experience ensured he wasn’t stupid.
He’d seen her coming. Saw her carve through three young Raglighters. Wasn’t dumb enough to stand his ground. Knew enough to turn and run.
They hadn’t expected any Shivs to be in the warehouse, let alone her.
Why was she even here?
She was supposed to be on the docks.
They’d planned it out so she wouldn’t even be in Shiv territory. It’d taken weeks to nail down the right time. Get in quick. Loot the fuck out of everything. Get out quicker.
But there she was. Bringing death like a storm brings rain.
Blood everywhere.
Keld could hear Journer’s blood splatter across the wall behind him. Heard every drop as though each was made of precious glass. Shattering. Spitting to the ground.
A puddle of excess through which her boots splashed without care.
He’d seen her eyes. Fierce and violet.
Craving violence.
He dove through the exit, smashing the door to pieces. Pieces which snapped and snagged flesh. He didn’t care if the warehouse took a share of his blood.
So long as she didn’t take hers.
The back of his brain hurt as synapses not used to firing exploded and sparked. Which way to run?
Had to be a way to get away from her.
Sure, everyone said once she had your scen
t you were dead. But there had to be a way. He’d find it. Just needed to run faster! Faster!
Keld crashed through a fragile wooden fence. Spinning with force of impact, he caught a brief glimpse of her leaning against the shredded doorframe behind him.
Calm.
Like the Old Skeleton himself possessed her body.
She used a knife to push splintered wood on rusted hinge out of her way.
Saw him.
Grinned. Cruelty oozing.
Then he twisted back into the alley. Running hard.
Shoved past a small man trying to arrange his stock.
Knocked two crates, spilling a flood of glittering fish. A couple flapped fins. Scales glittered. Old blood choked loose. He didn’t look.
Didn’t dare to stop.
The little man’s shouts were never processed.
All he could hear was his own heart. Pounding. Thrashing in his chest.
And the soft thud of her boots behind him.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Faster as he sprinted toward the light at the far end of the crooked narrow alley. A light which promised an open street. Room to move. A passage to safety.
Escape.
A noise in his ears. A roar which rose in pitch to blot out even the sound of her boots.
A noise he recognised as his own scream.
Reached out with a thick muscled arm and grabbed a drainpipe as he ran past. Wrenched it loose and shoved it behind him. A knot of rusted steel. Hoped it would slow her down.
Knew it wouldn’t.
But he had to try!
Thick puddle of grease drenched his boot to the ankle, but he kept moving. Nevermind the awkwardness of it. No time. No time.
Young woman. Long blonde hair knotted back. Pale yellow dress. Stained. Made to step out of her doorway in front of him.
He bellowed something.
Didn’t know what.
But it was enough to send her flying back inside, skirt swishing as she brought her arms up to defend against an attack he had no intention of delivering.
He lifted a hand to show he meant nothing.
Angled away from her doorway, right shoulder scraping the furthest wall and coming away wet with mould.
His sudden turn saved his life and the knife meant for his back flew past to sink deep into wood where the woman’s face had been. The force of the throw revealed in how the knife didn’t even shudder. Just seemed to pop into existence right in front of him.
