Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8)

by Lucas Thorn

  Had fingers wrapped around handle when the icy prick of steel touched his neck. Just under ear.

  Pressed hard.

  “Too cold for that kind of action, feller. So, let it go.”

  The words whispered into his ear. He could feel the breath which carried them.

  Feel it brushing skin.

  Making his flesh creep.

  Calculated his chances with pursed lips and frown.

  Then said, tongue rasping dry; “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’re just a thief?”

  “Chance is something you ain’t got. But, as I’ve already said more than once lately, there’s two chances to how this goes. Hard, or easy. I’d prefer it easy. But you keep that knife in your hand, I’ll consider you want it hard. Happy to oblige.”

  He didn’t move. Wasn’t sure he could.

  But he did shiver at the utter coldness in her voice.

  The cruelty, latent beneath the murky water of impassive words. A cruelty he knew well from a career spent crawling through the Duke’s torture chambers extracting confessions through any means.

  “It’s hard to know what I want right now,” he said. Ass cheeks felt squeezed tight in fear “Hard? Easy? That’s not really a choice. I’d rather have neither. You’re right I don’t have a chance. But maybe I have a chance to kill you with me. There’s that. And that’s not a small thing if you want to meet the Old Skeleton proud.”

  “Sure,” she said. Almost amused. “Always a chance you could make it. Want to try?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “What’s your name, feller?”

  “Tellirend.”

  “Tellirend?”

  “My father had a strange sense of humour.” Sigh. Mind racing down paths they’d never had to race before. What could he do? For now, talk. “He named me after an old wizard of legend. My friends call me Telli. Everyone else calls me the Gimp. I have a limp, you see. My leg. It doesn’t work properly.”

  “I saw.”

  “Ah. You were watching from the Halls, then. Not many know how to get around inside there. Maps are very well guarded. So, I’m to assume this is an official assassination?”

  “The Halls?”

  “The passageways. Leftovers from when ruling Dragonclaw was even more ruthless than now. Before the Dark Lord united the Fnordic Lands. Back then, even a good King needed a quick escape sometimes. This was the capital, once. Did you know that? There’s history in the bones of these walls. Blood, too. More than you’ll ever know. Or care about, I guess.”

  “Yeah?”

  The cold point never moved. He could feel a trickle of warm blood sliding from where it had cut a shallow hole in his skin.

  Uncomfortable silence.

  Shivered again.

  “I’m loyal,” he said. Croaked it. “Doesn’t that make a difference?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Can’t you go back to him? Can’t you tell him…” He broke off. Even to him, it sounded lame. A petulant whine. He coughed lightly. Brought his normal voice back with a cough. “No. Of course you can’t.”

  “You’ve still got your hand on the knife.”

  “I’m still thinking.”

  “Not for long.”

  The threat made him giggle.

  There had been, even in her voice, a note of detached humour.

  “That’s funny,” he said. A glimmer of an idea broke through his awareness while sweat oozed through his pores. “You know, four years ago, I had a young Caspiellan in one of the dungeons. A spy. My assistant, Severian, broke most of the bones in his body before I went to him. I told him he had the same choice you’re giving me. More pain, or a quick death. He didn’t answer. Which was strange, because we hadn’t taken his tongue out at that stage. That came later. When I asked him why he wasn’t answering, he said he was thinking. Know what I told him? I said; Not for long. There you go. Life is a cycle. Maybe in a few years, it’ll be you with a knife to your neck hearing this same conversation?”

  “Could be.” Pause. “I’m nearly done here, feller. Been catching my breath is all. Had a long run up some stairs.”

  “There’s a lot of stairs in this place,” he said. Repressed the urge to rub his aching leg. Wondered how much time he had left. Was it time for the guard change, yet? The bell had to ring soon. “I’m sure they put me up here just to irritate me.”

  “Maybe irritate us both?”

  Snort. “You won’t mind if I hope you fall down and break your neck on your way down, of course?”

  “Always reckoned a dying man needs hope.”

  Then, as if by magic, it tolled. The first bell!

  “You know what gives me hope?” Heart racing. Cheeks flushing as he repressed the urge to howl a cheer. “Brandy. Every night, before bed. I have a warm brandy. Just to calm my nerves. When I drink it, my leg feels more relaxed. It stops twitching inside long enough for me to fall asleep. I have another two bells after midnight. And a third at five. Every three hours. And every time I drink, the pain fades. And I hope it never comes back. Every time. I know it’s a pointless hope, but I hope it anyway.”

  “Had your brandy yet, feller?”

  “No,” he said.

  “That’s the eleventh bell.”

  “Yes.” Couldn’t stop the malicious grin. “It is.”

  “Reckon you’re due one now.”

  “Every night.”

  “Who delivers? Servant?”

  The eleventh bell struck and, on time, a knock on the door.

  “If you put your knife down, you might survive.” He finally released grip on the knife and pulled his hands out. Triumph. “Kill me or not, they’ll kill you. Doesn’t matter if he sent you. You’ve just gotten caught. He won’t protect you.”

  Another knock. Muffled voice. “Telli?”

  He kept his voice low. “Well? What will it be? Hard, or easy?”

  Humour in her voice. “I’m thinking.”

  “Not for long…”

  The door opened.

  And Telli died, a chuckle on the edge of his lips.

  Fulci’s Last Joke speared into his ear. Rammed with such force it cut through meat and bone before the perfect tip emerged with an enigmatic twinkle through his eyeball.

  And the elf whirled off the corpse. Yanking blade free with a savage wrench which shattered skull and sent both bone and blood spraying across the wall.

  She snarled a curse.

  Raced toward the open door and lunged at the guard who was trying to shuffle into the room with a tray balanced in one hand and the other coiled around the hilt of his sword.

  He took Fulci’s Last Joke with his right eye. The blade sinking deep enough to scatter his last thoughts into an explosive puff of red.

  Second guard, looking bored, quickly roused himself and shoved inside.

  Gauntlet fist blurring.

  Hit the elf hard on her shoulder. Second punch took her cheek. She felt the impact rattle her brain. Swiped weakly. The blade skipped off his metal-clad forearm.

  “Bitch,” he hissed. “You fucked with the wrong-”

  The Ugly rammed into his side.

  “Forget it, feller,” she snarled. Twisted the blade. Brought knee up into his groin. Slammed his head against the corner of the door and felt the satisfaction of skull popping beneath her hand. “I ain’t interested in adds when I’m in front of Telli.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Bonebreaker ate The Ugly to its hilt. Wide steel blade speared out the back of his head and stuck fast. Teeth clamped around steel, but it was the clench of dying muscle and not life which determined the corpse’s actions.

  She let the handle go.

  Brought her arm up to deflect a punch aimed at her head.

  “Go down, you bitch!”

  Another punch. Explosive blast to her ear.

  “Just did,” she rasped. “Gave your friend the head job of his life.”

  “Fuck you.” He showed some skill by backing off. Giving himself room t
o tug the hatchet from his belt. Hefted it. Faced off with venom in his eyes. “You fuckin’ jumped us. A fucking coward’s fight.”

  “There were four of you,” she reminded him. Spat on the ground between them. Switched A Flaw in the Glass to her right. Reverse grip. Considered a second blade, but wanted her hand free. Just in case. “Evened the odds is all. Tried to. But looks like you’re still here. That’s odd.”

  His eyes flicked to the bodies around them. One lay on top of another. Pressed against a wall.

  First two to die.

  “She’s Jools. And his name was Bootjack. They were getting’ married this week. That mean anything to you?”

  “Nope.”

  He twirled the hatchet in his hand. An expert with it.

  Few notches up the blade.

  Hazy eyes followed her step as she shuffled a little to his left.

  “Me and you now,” he said. “Boss wants you alive. Wants to cut your fingers off. Send you south like we do with everyone who fucks with us. On a slave ship. Ain’t no one ever comes back. But I liked Jools. First time I saw her, I wanted her. But I weren’t her type. Bootjack was. Still. There’s something about a woman like that which keeps a man hoping. Hoping one day-”

  “You’re making me want to throw up, feller,” she said. “Mind if we get on with this? I’ve still got a few others left on my list. My presence ain’t for you.”

  “Heartless bitch.”

  She shrugged. “Reckon that means I just don’t give a shit who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.”

  He took a half-step forward. Heat blazing in his eyes. “Talked because I wanted you to know why you’re about to die real slow. So, when you get to the Shadowed Halls, you’ll know who’s laughing at you. Jools, long-ear. Her name was Jools.”

  The elf’s patience cracked.

  She came in low, wary of the hatchet.

  Stabbed at his belly, the flaring light of her knife making her eyes itch.

  She blinked.

  Enough for him to bring the axe across her arm with a defensive swipe. The flat of the blade bounced off the wyrmskin bracer.

  He grunted. Satisfied.

  Then whipped the hatchet back toward her head. Hoping to cleave forehead.

  Bury itself between her eyes and deep into brain.

  She flipped away, nearly dropping A Flaw in the Glass from fingers still numb with impact. As she arched her back, she brought her foot up. Hard.

  Caught him on the chin. Sent him wheeling his own way, eyes closing in pain. Slashing blindly with his hatchet in case she was close.

  Clatter of armour in the distance.

  Guards.

  She had to hurry. Spun to face the Bonebreaker.

  His skills had been honed on the streets. He knew enough to know what the sound of armour meant. And, like her, he felt the urge to run. Gang members always ran from the guard.

  Panic made him swallow.

  And desperation to end it quick made him wade toward her, boots splatting in the cold blood of his friends.

  He didn’t notice.

  Intent on braining the elf.

  Who threw herself at him. Left arm a blur as it reached to catch his wrist. Missed, but linked with his elbow. Fingers pinned into flesh. Could feel the joint bend.

  Skidded against his waist, shoulder slamming into his abdomen. Whoosh of air punched out of his lungs by impact. Together, they spun a full circle. Locked in private battle. A battle already determined.

  He knew what was coming next.

  Knew with a rush of regret deep inside his frozen core.

  But Jools was on his mind. A woman whose impact on his life had stamped deep into his soul. Desperation to avenge her made him wrench his arm. Put all his weight on the move.

  He was strong. Wheeled her around like she weighed nothing.

  Slammed into the wall, the elf felt her head hit. The vibration tasted of bitter iron between teeth.

  Vision sparkled.

  He lifted the hatchet, eager to cover it in gore.

  But her arm worked on reflex. About the only reflex she’d kept from her time with the Jukkala.

  A deadly one.

  Green light left a glowing trail as the knife slid smooth into his chest.

  She held it there.

  Still and silent.

  Staring into his eyes. Eyes which blinked. Sweat grazed his lashes to fall down cheeks like tears he’d not had time to shed.

  Her lip curled.

  They both looked down as one.

  At her fist. Wrapped tight around the handle. Knuckles white as she strengthened her grip.

  Savage twist and the blade cracked ribs.

  He drooled a hoarse whine.

  Dropped.

  Th elf spluttered a cough, rubbing the back of her head. Not finding blood. But feeling it should’ve been there.

  Lucky.

  Moved almost drunkenly as she worked The Ugly free from the other Bootjack’s head. Then turned back to where A Flaw in the Glass bubbled inside dying chest.

  “You told me theirs, but didn’t tell me your name, feller.”

  He opened his mouth. Blood dribbled across teeth and lips.

  He choked wet, spattering jacket with blood.

  “Forget about it,” she said. Grabbed the knife’s hilt. Felt him tremble. Fear and pain. “I’ll just call you Thomas.”

  Jerked the blade free. He died hissing blood.

  Turning quick, she ran.

  Guards were getting closer. Could hear muffled voices at her back. The orange trail led onward, coiling up a narrow staircase off to the side. Up she went, cursing as she went. Blood dripping from blades.

  At the top, turned to her right and sprinted.

  Was halfway down a narrow corridor when two figures emerged at the end.

  One short and thin. The other loomed like an ogre. Muscles bulging, the ork flexed his fingers and grinned at her.

  “Look at that, Bor,” he said. Pointed at the elf like she was a gift from the Dark Lord. “A rumble! About fucking time.”

  The gigantic ork took three steps, sending the elf’s pulse racing. Her belly was a solid block of frozen ice. He was huge. And didn’t seem bothered by the lack of space to swing his arms as he cracked his knuckles.

  Which meant he was used to fighting in cramped corridors.

  She tensed, flattening her body low. Arms out. Knives at ready.

  Was about to throw The Ugly when Bor stopped the ork with a hiss. “Shatterspine! Stop.”

  “What the fuck for?” Regret soured his grin. “Look at her. Looks like she can really fight, this one. She’s got knives and everything. It’ll be fun.”

  “Yes, but look.” The little man showed a handful of papers. “Our contract with United Bodyguards is strict. Not very well-written, of course. A bit too amateur for us. But, in its simplicity, it’s very strict.”

  “What do you mean?” The ork scratched his head. Looked at the elf. Shrugged apologetically. Almost looked like he was about to blush. “One second, lass. I’ll be right with you. I swear, he does this all the fucking time.”

  Bor ran a finger along the lines of text. “Says here that we’re contracted to patrol the secret corridors called The Halls.”

  “Yeah. And that’s what we’re doing. Patrolling. See? Look at me. I’m patrolling.” Shatterspine pointed a big hand in the elf’s direction. “Now, let me patrol the shit out of her.”

  “Doesn’t say we’re to interfere with anyone conducting business within the Hall. In fact, it seems to point to the opposite. Intruder or otherwise, interfering with their business doesn’t seem to be part of our contract. I do assume, ma’am, that you are conducting, shall we say for sake of argument, business?”

  The elf looked from one to the other.

  Nodded slowly. “Sounds like a fair assumption, feller.”

  “Fine. Business it is.” The little man probed a few papers in the dim magelight. Turned a page over as if expecting more, and looked vaguely surp
rised to find it blank. “Well, then. That’s it, I guess. We’ve fulfilled our function, Shatterspine. We’ve patrolled. We’ve determined the nature of the intruder is business-related. Doesn’t say anything here about restraining them or stopping them from passing through. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s all here in the contract. And you and I always go by the contract. That’s how we’ve made it this far.”

  “Bullshit.” The ork stomped toward the little man. Grabbed the papers. “Lemme see that.”

  The elf looked over her shoulder. “You fellers mind if I move on?”

  The ork held up a hand. “Wait. You just wait right there. And if you think about running, I’m sure there’s something in here about resisting or something. Am I right, Bor?”

  “Sort of. We can stop her if she attempts to flee the Duke’s Guard. Says so right there. At the bottom. But if she’s not fleeing, then there’s no point. Doesn’t say we’re to interfere otherwise. We’re essentially contracted observers unless requested to assist the Duke’s guard.”

  The ork squinted at the papers.

  Growled.

  Looked back at the elf. Tried to look casual. “So. Long’ear. You, uh, fleeing?”

  Nysta cocked her head. “Nope. Just trying to get around.”

  “Why?” He looked down at Bor. “I’m allowed to ask, right?”

  “Section fifteen, yes. We may query the comings and goings of visitors.”

  “She’s not a visitor. She’s an intruder.”

  “Then, I don’t think she has to answer. That clause relates to interfering with the Duke’s visitors. It’s very clear. We’re not supposed to upset guests, visitors, or tradespersons. She looks dressed for an official trade, wouldn’t you say? Assassin, by the looks. Place like this is bound to have its fair share. Politics and all that. How are we to know if she’s officially sanctioned or not? And there’s no clauses in here relating to assassins or their treatment. We could treat her as an intruder, of course, but there’s nothing in our contract which requires us to interfere with intruders unless specifically requested to by one of the Duke’s Guards.”

  “If you hold her here, I can go find one.”

  “I can’t. Restraining her would pretty much be covered under the clause relating to non-interference.” Bor nodded sagely. “I say we go by the contract. Wouldn’t want to upset anybody. And, more importantly, we don’t do extra work for free. Right?”