by Lucas Thorn
“Shit.”
“Fellers?” The elf pushed heat into her voice. “I’m getting pissed off.”
Shatterspine snorted. “Not half as pissed off as I am, I promise you.” He handed the papers back to Bor. Glowered at her. “Go on, then. Move your skinny ass. Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The elf moved past slowly.
Knives at the ready.
The ork watched eagerly. Waiting.
Hopeful.
Then sighed as she moved past.
Heard him say; “This is bullshit, Bor. What kind of patrolling is it if we can’t beat the snot out of intruders? Makes no sense.”
“Not my contract, Shatterspine. I didn’t write it. I just accepted the fee.”
“Wasn’t enough.”
“No. No, it wasn’t. But it’s enough to get us home. We can put up with it for one more week.”
“Home.” The ork kicked a pebble, which skittered away. “Can’t wait to get home. This fucking city makes my balls itch. And not in a nice way.”
Their voices faded as she slithered further into the dark. Eyes itching like the ork’s balls.
She rubbed at them.
Rubbed at her cheek.
Rubbed at her palm.
Waited.
Then flew forward as a handful of Bonebreakers rushed from a passageway to her left.
They’d been waiting in an alcove. Huddled tight together.
Hoping the big ork didn’t hear, she tightened her lips and accepted the first thrust aimed at her belly. Accepted it by slicing through the lunging forearm with The Ugly. The offending limb dropped to the ground and she stood on it as she plunged A Flaw in the Glass into throat to the hilt.
Used the knife in his neck as a handle to spin his sagging body and toss it into his friends. First two tumbled with the body, scrambling as blood slid between the knot of limbs.
She pounced, knives carving flesh.
A slaughtered scream gurgled in her ears as blood warmed her fists.
There was no finesse in her movements. No art to the kill. There never would be. Art was for those who dreamed of philosophy to justify the dealing of death. Who worked their bodies with a dancer’s appetite for perfection.
But the elf had a single goal.
To survive.
With long raking strikes, she shredded torso. Ripped at limbs which tried to counter the frenzy. Gouged gushing holes in throats beneath heads flung back to stare in open-mouthed awe at the dark ceiling. As though, within the shadows of the stone, the Old Skeleton was reaching forth with grinning skull to take what belonged to him.
The last to die let out a fragile mew.
Like a bell in Nysta’s ear, it served to shock her into sudden motionless as she stood above the bodes. Blood wet down her coat and pants.
None of it her own.
A thin spray formed a line across her face. She wiped it with the back of her fist.
Felt the worms gliding through warm muscle. Flexing writhing bodies against her bones. They still felt different in a way she was finding difficult to accept.
Lethargic. Like they were moving through her wounds but unable to help them heal as they had before. Was it permanent?
Would they revive when the alchemist’s brew wore off, or had they been poisoned?
Was she free of the curse?
Wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
She rubbed the back of her neck. Felt something slide beneath fingertips.
Shuddered.
Spun on heel with hollow gasp. Sucked air as though for the first time.
Smell of meat and madness overriding the coppery stink of blood.
Her eyes blurred as they followed the orange glow. She rubbed them, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.
A magelight snuffed into darkness up ahead as though the violence had drained its energy. And the unsettling red glow was made more powerful. As if the whole world was washed in blood.
So much blood.
She pushed the feelings aside. There was no time for doubt. No time for introspection.
She had to fight.
Kill.
There were still more. And guards were coming from one stairwell. Bonebreakers hiding in the shadows somewhere close.
Who else?
Treading soft, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being followed.
“Too many followers down here,” she mumbled. “But nothing to like.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
His name was Jorg.
He knelt beneath the magelight and rummaged through his pack. Muttering.
Pulled out a few scrolls. Looked through one.
Then another.
Threw them down in disgust.
The magelight flickered. It should’ve been blue, but it was flickering white. Bright white light. And exhaling bitter grey smoke. Smoke which made him wince.
It shouldn’t do that.
The enchantment was obviously failing.
He could lift it and reapply it. He had enough skill for that.
But what he didn’t have was a record of the original enchantment. And Sagg hadn’t yet provided him with an outline of what he wanted from the new one. Without the original, he’d have to fill in the gaps where some of the enchantment’s runes had worn away.
What if he chose the wrong ones? If the runes weren’t in tune enough with each other, the entire construct would overload. Blow up in his face.
He had to pick carefully.
But which ones?
What did Sagg want it to do? Should the magelight be always shining? Shine only at night? Only when someone was close?
Frustration bit him in the gut.
He’d been working for United Bodyguards for only five days, but already he hated it. Knew he’d made a mistake. They’d taken the contract to patrol the Halls, this afternoon but the Halls were decrepit.
Some of the ceilings leaked.
Stairs were missing.
Rats scurried everywhere. Cockroaches.
Spiders.
Some as big as his hand.
Shuddered. He hated spiders.
Rumours of worse in the sewers. He’d have to go down there eventually.
Anj had given him a note on a piece of cloth. He found it scrunched in the bottom of his pack. Hadn’t thought he’d needed it at the time. Unballing it, he studied the words with an increasing expression of loathing and contempt.
Anj had outlined a process for Jorg to follow.
First, he’d need to find and identify the faulty magelights.
Then, he’d need to record their locations and work needed to get them working.
Record the enchantments so an enchanter could provide advice.
“I’m a fucking enchanter,” Jorg muttered, eyes squinting through the smoke. “I don’t need no one else’s fucking advice. I can do it my fucking self.”
Finally, in contradiction to the previous instructions, he was to ensure the lights worked.
Worked.
Just that.
“How?” Jorg wanted to tear the cloth to pieces. Frustration washed through his chest like a wave of needles cutting deep. “You didn’t fucking say how you want them to work! Fucking useless dumb motherfuckers.”
The magelight gave another flicker. Made him squint.
Looked up at it.
The enchantment was there. He could see it.
But it meant nothing to him.
It was too old. The language of its creation was from the God Wars. Everything had changed since then.
He stared at the intricate runes.
Cocked his head.
Few circles here.
Circles were good.
Couple looked demonic, though. At least, he thought they did. His teacher had once shown him a few demonic runes. They kind of looked like this.
These ones flickered as latent energy crackled beneath each rune.
Like something wanted out.
Enchantments, he thought suddenly, were j
ust cages to contain magic.
He’d never thought about it like that before. The idea was tantalizing and he leaned closer. Squinted to see if he could-
“Jorg? You about done?”
Looked up with a scowl. “I look like I’m done, Forehead?”
Forehead, whose name wasn’t Forehead, scowled right back. “Fuck you, asshole. I was just asking.”
“If I was done, would I be squatting here like I’m taking a shit?”
“How the fuck-”
“Why are you even here? They don’t trust me to do my job?”
“Don’t ask me. Ain’t like I want to be here. Fucking place gives me the creeps.” He winced as the magelight pulsed bright again. “Can’t you at least fucking stop it doing that?”
“Piss off.” Contempt turned the air sour, and Jorg turned back to the unfamiliar scrawl of runes. How the fuck should he fix this?
He lifted his hand toward the enchantment. Then stopped.
Hesitation filled his brain.
If he did this for them, what else would they want?
Enchantments on their pathetic new tunics?
Enchantments on their swords?
Their fucking drinking cups?
And what for?
They were paying him shit. Treated him like shit, too. Just because he wasn’t from Dragonclaw and had never finished his apprenticeship with the mages of Godsfall.
What did that even mean, anyway?
So, he couldn’t cast spells. He could still apply enchantments. Not everyone could do that. And he was good at it. Better than most who’d gotten the Mage Tower’s approval. What was their approval anyway other than a piece of cheap paper and a dribble of wax?
Forehead was watching.
Bit too closely.
Like he was trying to pick up the trick.
Wasn’t Forehead friends with Anj?
Anj had dumped Forehead on him only a few minutes before his shift. Hadn’t said a word why to Jorg. Why should he? Jorg didn’t drink in their new tavern.
Jorg preferred to drink with his own friends.
“Well?” Forehead leaned closer.
“Quit breathing on me,” Jorg said. Suddenly sure the other man was trying to learn. Did Forehead have some magical skill? Seemed unbelievable. There was a look of utter stupidity in the other man’s eyes which seemed to forbid such talents. He doubted the stupid was an act, but maybe Forehead had a touch of talent. Enough to fix a few lights. And, being next to useless, Forehead would be cheaper.
Would they really do this to him? Replace him with this idiot? Yeah. It was exactly the kind of thing those three weasel bastards would do. Anger lit his heart hot. He stood. Fists at his side. Suddenly sure of himself. “That’s it. I can’t do this with you around.”
“Anj won’t like that.”
Jorg shrugged. “Then he can fucking come down here and do it himself. Or get someone else.”
Forehead’s hand wrapped around Jorg’s wrist. The bigger man stared down with rising malevolence. “You’d best do what you’re fucking told, you little piece of shit.”
Jorg started to pull free. Felt a brief moment of panic as he realised Forehead wasn’t going to let go.
He looked up.
Opened his mouth to say something.
But then something hit him in the back.
Something hard.
The bright pain of it slid right into him. Deep.
And he couldn’t breathe.
He crumpled, legs giving way. Tried to stand, but couldn’t. Shoulder planted against the wall. Legs twitching. Sliding out from under him.
What was happening?
He hadn’t seen Forehead hit him.
Looked up through blurred vision.
Forehead was fighting.
Fighting an elf. An elf whose knives were dicing chunks of the bigger man free.
A piece of Forehead’s arm dropped between Jorg’s knees. He stared at it.
Skin. Meat. Blood.
Wet.
Looked up.
Forehead’s face was a mask of fear. Fear because, though he was happy to bully Jorg, he wasn’t made for fighting. He was a friend of Anj’s. Just a friend. Before joining United Bodyguards, he’d worked in a bakery.
His biggest confrontation had been with angry customers. He’d always felt safe with a big counter between him and their rage.
And a heavy mallet in hand.
He’d joined United because he’d hated baking. Hadn’t tried hard.
But now he was trying. Trying to stay alive.
And failing.
Jorg remembered the intimidating look on that face only moments before. Remembered the flash of terror he’d felt.
And he began to laugh.
A wet chuckle which tasted of blood.
Forehead howled as the elf chopped into his arm again. Nearly severed it at the elbow. Blade caught on splintered bone.
Jorg choked.
Coughed blood.
Couldn’t stop laughing.
Laughing as Forehead dropped to his knees and lifted undamaged arm to shield himself from the elf’s merciless attack. An arm into which she plunged an enchanted knife right through.
Jorg, blinked through the haze at the enchantment.
Green.
Like venom.
The runes swirled inside the steel. Such a work. Like nothing he’d ever seen.
Beautiful, even, in a horrifying way.
Then he let his body relax. Felt lassitude work through tired muscle. Hadn’t realised how tired he was until he could no longer lift his arms.
Five days.
How much had he slept in five days?
And did they give a shit?
Just kept him working. Put their little spy on his ass like a flea. Suck up all his knowledge.
“Motherfuckers,” Jorg said through drool and blood.
The elf had finished with Forehead.
Knelt in front of Jorg, violet eyes studying the dying man with a puzzled expression. Smoke from the dying magelight sliding around her shoulders.
In her eyes, he saw all kinds of cruelty. He saw hate.
Saw murderous satisfaction.
What he didn’t see was something he saw in the eyes of everyone he’d ever worked with.
Acceptance. Submission.
A desire to simply exist. To crawl from pointless day to pointless day with slow aching steps.
He stretched lips into a grimace.
Said, wonder in each stolen word; “You don’t know what it’s like, do you?”
Nysta eyed the dying man with crooked frown.
“Know what, feller?”
But he was gone. Whatever was left of him went on a rattled final breath which teased hidden secrets to questions she hadn’t bothered to ask before shoving a knife into his back.
She reached. Took his chin in her hand and lifted his head. Maybe to see if there was any trace in lifeless eyes.
Saw nothing.
Grunted.
Let his head droop, then turned him onto his side to pluck the knife free. Hesitated before cutting a strip of cloth from his pale blue collar.
Wound it into her hair, thoughtful.
Cleaned blades on Forehead’s jacket.
“Crazy bastard.” Strode away, still frowning. Looked over her shoulder once at the crumpled body pressed against the wall beneath the smoking magelight. Muttered; “Should’ve quit ages ago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“So. You’re the one.” The room was wide. No ornaments on the walls. Plain wooden floor.
A chair, in the middle. Nothing ornate about it.
Seated in it, a man almost as big as an ork.
Face chiselled into the bone. Solid. Crooked nose.
Few scars. Mostly on his bare arms.
Big arms. Muscle built on muscle.
Long brown hair tied tight.
Dressed in loose pants and tight shirt. Clean clothes. Neat. Simple. Almost military.
Seated
with legs apart. Across his knees, two heavy hatchets. Hands resting comfortably over the crescent blades.
He looked calm.
Looked relaxed.
It was a facade and she knew it. Inside, he was coiled like a snake. Ready to move with sickening speed.
But, for now, he reserved his energy.
Waiting.
Waiting, she realised with a scowl, for her.
He looked her up and down, deep brown eyes growing unimpressed by the lengthened silence. “Well, I have to say, long-ear. You don’t look like much.”
“Heard it ain’t what’s on the outside which counts,” the elf said. Padded carefully into the room. Wary of any guards who might rush inside.
“And you’re more interested in what’s on the inside,” he said. Disgusted. “Yeah, I saw what you did to the others. Tore them to fucking pieces. Weren’t no call for that.”
The elf shrugged.
Had nothing to say.
He watched her, not moving. “If you’re looking for my bodyguards, they ain’t here.” He jerked a head toward the door. “And that’s locked. Barred, too. This is personal for me, so I didn’t want them in here. Wanted it to be like this. Just me and you. See, I liked Hari. One of my father’s more pleasant visitors. I spent time in Moontide a few years back and she showed me around. She didn’t deserve what you did to her. Cutting out her tongue? And taking Aegir’s liver? Was that my father’s idea? Or that just part of your service?”
The elf’s eyes slitted.
“I don’t get what you’re talking about feller.”
He barked a laugh. Contempt choking it off quick. “You dare to stand in front of me covered in her blood and say that?”
Nysta looked down at her jacket.
Absently wiped a stain.
“Ain’t hers,” she said. “Well. Most of it ain’t.”
“So, you did kill her.” Satisfied.
“Ain’t arguing that.”
“And Aegir?”
“That the feller trying to take a piss?”
Scowl. “He was a good man.”
“They all are.”
“And you killed him!”
“Reckon so.” Circling to his right. She switched A Flaw in the Glass to her left. He didn’t seem bothered by the move.
“Then why deny it?”
“You said I cut her tongue out? And his liver?”
