Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8)

by Lucas Thorn

  “You know what you did!”

  “Sure do, feller.”

  “Is this a game? You’re trying to confuse me.”

  “Reckon we’re both confused, feller. But let’s clear the air.” She nodded. More out of respect for the skill she was guessing he possessed. “I killed her. Killed him. Few others. Whole lot more in the passages back there. Guards, mostly. And a bunch of Bonebreakers who’ve been up my ass all night. Figured I’d sort them out when I’m done here. Some place quiet. Those who’re left, anyways. Now, you’re saying between all that, I’ve been sitting around playing with my targets. Taking trophies? Well, bodyparts ain’t something I can carry around with me. For starters, they stink after a while. This blood’s bad enough.”

  “You threw them away,” he accused. But he was thinking. “In the Halls. Somewhere.”

  The elf shrugged. “What’s the point of that?”

  “He told you to. My father.”

  “So, you’d be Anglek, right?”

  “You know who I am! You came to kill me.”

  The elf pointed to the orange thread she knew he couldn’t see. “Sure. Ain’t denying I’m here to cut you down. And you ain’t the first tonight to think it was your father who sent me.” She let her lip curl a little. Wouldn’t hurt to try getting under his skin. “Fact is, it weren’t him.”

  “Vor? That doesn’t make sense. He was closer to Aegir than I was.”

  “Try again.”

  “No. You’re lying. It was him. My father. It had to be. He’s the only one who gains anything. He knows I’m almost ready to make my move. Almost ready to take the seat he can hardly fucking hold onto anymore. With merchants bleeding him dry, he’s practically selling off the castle. All that to entertain a few old nobles too stupid to see the Emperor won’t allow him to proclaim himself a king. This is his work. It stinks of him. Unless Tara… No. It’s not her way.”

  The elf shrugged. “I don’t know who that is, feller. Ain’t killed her yet. Still a few more to go, though. Maybe she’s next?”

  Finally his hands moved. To wrap hard fists around the handles.

  His eyes went blank as his military training kicked in.

  “You’re fucking with me. It won’t work. You’ll tell me before you die, though. Tell me who sent you.” Slowly lifted himself. Nudged the chair out of the way before stretching his neck. “Come on, then, guttertrash. Let’s find out if your arm is as fast as your mouth.”

  “Faster.”

  She moved.

  Hand blurred in one smooth motion. Freed, aimed, and threw Go With My Blessing at his chest. Left of centre. It loped through air, confident of scoring a hit.

  And was easily batted aside as he smashed it away with the flat of his hatchet.

  “I’ve trained with the best,” he said. Casual. Confident. “Trained with Crossbone raiders. Icereach pirates. Imperial soldiers. Orks. Trolls. And yeah, elfs. Been beaten in training a few times, sure. But I’ve never lost a real fight yet.”

  “Yet,” she said.

  And drove forward.

  Feet sliding graceless. Preferring power.

  Needing it.

  Met with a clash of steel as The Ugly and A Flaw in the Glass clanged off the heavier hatchets. If they’d been cheaper blades, or if she hadn’t twisted her hand to deflect the chopping force, they’d have shattered. As it was, she felt the vibration of impact deep inside her wrists.

  Was forced to move at her fastest to avoid being disembowelled by his returned strikes. Six of them. Made her work, though he looked like it took no effort.

  The elf clicked her tongue.

  Sucked a breath and arched back.

  Could feel the blade chop air only millimetres from her abdomen.

  His heel stomped into her thigh as he drove forward. Making to roll right over her, blades chopping relentless. Grunting with each precise swing. Working with mechanical efficiency.

  A soldier’s skill.

  She ducked. Swept sideways, coat flapping.

  Said; “Shit.”

  He watched her retreat, lips curling down.

  “Not sure what I expected. But I’m disappointed. If you’ve killed as many guards as you made out, I’d say Bran was more full of shit than Vor said he was. Bastards must be close to useless. I hear he’s even started pulling weight from the stableboys. It was a mistake letting him down there. He couldn’t guard a fucking courtyard with only one way in. Should’ve left the Halls for Hideg and his slime to skulk through.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “It’s him, isn’t it? He hired you, didn’t he? It’s that fucking Hideg. Somehow, it’s him. What the fuck is he thinking?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Her mind was a maelstrom of memory.

  Times she’d sparred with Talek. Him with strong military strikes. Powerful and precise. Muscle trained to movement. Just like Anglek.

  Her, balancing speed and impatient brutality.

  She’d lost more than she’d won. She couldn’t compete with automatic reflexes. Soldiers were used to fighting defensively. Could hold out until she lost patience and lunged into a trap. Good ones had quick eyes and quicker arms.

  The Jukkala were ruthless, but relied on taking out targets within the first few exchanges of blade. Assassination wasn’t combat unless it had to be.

  A hard voice echoed in her ears. Fowla. Mistress of Knives.

  “If you’re sent after one of the Kulsa’Jadean, don’t fight them. They’re too tough for that. They can fight for days. Use poison. It’s easier.”

  She had no poison. She’d need to do something about that.

  Talek.

  Grin sheathed in sweat. Arms moving without losing mechanical ease.

  Same calculated strikes as Anglek, who’d recovered from his surprise and was wading closer. Each step like an advance of the forward line.

  He’d learned the value of every step gained.

  Learned it and respected it.

  He pushed her. Back against the wall. To a place she could be pinned like an insect.

  There to hack her to pieces.

  Fear churned in her belly, the icy ball spinning fast as her body began to work harder to defend. Something she’d never been very good at.

  She didn’t have the patience for it.

  “It’s your biggest weakness,” Fowla said. Amused. “And your greatest strength.”

  Patience was a cold hard thing. Flat. A barrier holding her in place. Imprisoning hatred. Stifling rage.

  A pane of glass.

  Hatchet missed her ear.

  Growl formed in the back of her throat.

  Hatchet slapped the flat of A Flaw in the Glass and she nearly lost control of the knife. Nearly let it spin from her grasp.

  Eyes slitted.

  Itched.

  Burned so bright, the world washed with red.

  Red.

  His body was big.

  Muscle so tough.

  Full.

  Of.

  Blood.

  The glass shattered. Growl exploded across her lips. Animal fury launched her into his arms.

  Both hands thrusting blades at his face. Right knee coming up hard.

  Again.

  Again.

  Knee stabbing into his body like a blade. Hammering soft tissue.

  Surprise made him stagger sideways and, while he blocked the knives, he accepted her knee. Which powered into his thigh with vicious delight. Same spot. Over and over.

  Both hands, still gripping knives, bunched into his shirt and she came in as close as she could. Smell of his sweat.

  Each impact of her knee felt a shuddering roll of his hip.

  Finally, he roared. Shoved blindly.

  Sent her twisting away.

  Where she swivelled on heel and came rushing in for a second try. Violet eyes focused and hard.

  A frenzy of slashing cuts, most of which he managed to avoid.

  Most.

  He took three to his forearm. And a kick to his thigh. A kic
k as strong as she could deliver without the worms flooding her leg and adding to her strength.

  Where were they?

  Threw that thought aside. No time to think.

  Swelling thick, his leg was no doubt bruised and red beneath his pants. The joint pained, had already given him a hesitant limp.

  Aware of what she was trying to do, but pressed to treat her blades as the priority. He’d tried lifting his leg to block. Tried angling his body. But she kept coming.

  Kept pummelling that same spot. With shocking speed.

  “Bitch!”

  “Fuck you. Die.”

  Sacrificed The Ugly to the ground to draw A Drift in Moonlight. Threw the small throwing knife. This time hit his shoulder. Had been aiming for his throat.

  First real gush of blood, and Anglek suddenly looked panicked toward the door.

  His bodyguards on the other side.

  Were already bashing on it.

  But the bar would hold long enough.

  Long enough for him to live or die.

  And he had no wish to die.

  He jerked the knife free and tossed it back at her. Had tried to do so without dropping the hatchet. His arm, burdened by two weapons, loosed the knife in an awkward throw easy to avoid.

  She twirled around the flying blade, a complete turn, feeling it sing past her ear.

  As she faced him again, saw the glitter of steel.

  He was striking again with mechanical precision. Brow tight with concentration as he followed the forms of his training, forcing her to weave against the sudden flurry.

  The elf sneered.

  Swooped low, hatchet cruising where her chest had been. Worms inside shivered in the shadow of the terrible blade, but refused to work the magic which had both terrified and excited her.

  Her left hand blurred to her thigh.

  Right: Uppercut in green.

  A Flaw in the Glass, enchanted edge honed to perfection, sheared up hungrily for his belly.

  A yelp escaped his lips as he sucked a deep breath and hopped back.

  No doubt felt a moment’s relief when the venomous blade barely sliced his shirt.

  A moment within which resolve hardened.

  Within which he felt the need for survival and adrenaline washed veins clean.

  He lifted both axes.

  Eyes widening as her left arm swept into view.

  And punched him in the thigh. Just below his groin.

  Red.

  Everywhere.

  Stared at the handle buried in his flesh. Lurched sideways. Hobbled two steps back, and fell into the chair, leg sticking out. Spraying blood.

  Horror churning his face to cream. His eyes into ashes.

  “Quick,” he said at last. Pressed a hand to the wound, but it was useless, and he knew it. “You were quicker than I expected.”

  The elf spat, chest heaving as lungs sucked air. Wiped sweat from cheek. Grinned, feeling the thrill of having cheated the Old Skeleton’s reaching grip. “You were slower.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mind dying,” he said. “Don’t mind being beaten, either. I’ve always said it’s a privilege to be beaten by the best. But to be killed by an honourless assassin? And a belligerent one? How … disappointing.”

  She squatted in front of him. Someone outside had found an axe. They were chopping at the door. Wouldn’t take long to get inside.

  She needed to leave. But also needed a moment to recover. Her body was still swamped with adrenaline and panic. He’d been good. Could have killed her if she hadn’t taken him by surprise with speed.

  “You practiced a lot, I take it?”

  He nodded. “Every day.” Strength was leaving him, but she didn’t want to risk getting her knife from his leg just yet. “Trained with the best.”

  “Ain’t no such thing,” she said. “They trained you to be predictable. That’s all. You work like a fucking cook. Chop chop. We had fellers like you in Lostlight. They’d challenge each other for duels. Used to watch when I was a kid. They moved like water. Beautiful. Like dancers. Sure, they were fast. And they could stick a knife where it was meant to be stuck. But, for them, it wasn’t real. It was a show. An exhibition. They never knew what it felt like to need to survive. I beat you, Anglek. Not because I’m a better fighter. I just wanted to survive more than you did. Every fucking second, from beginning to end, I was afraid. And I didn’t want to die. All you wanted to do was win. Win, like it was a fucking game. That’s why you’re dead now. Because you see fighting as a privilege. As a code. You’re a fucking idiot. But rich fellers like you, they’re all the same. You had the time to entertain yourself with dreams of honour and glory while the rest of us worked alleys for a few crumbs from your plate.”

  “That’s what he said,” Anglek breathed. Hoarse. “The other one from Lostlight. He said the same. Funny. Are they all like you there?”

  Her heart stuttered. “What other feller?”

  “The one I fought a few months ago. I lost to him, too. But he was a soldier. A man of war.” Slumped, slack smile on his face. “He had a code.”

  “Name.”

  “His name? Would it mean anything to you?”

  “It might.”

  “Good.” He slid from the chair into a thick pool of his blood. Looked up at her with one last glare of defiance. “Then go fuck yourself.”

  The elf started forward, relishing the sudden fear in his eyes as he slipped helpless in his own gore. She lifted A Flaw in the Glass and peered at him down the hideous point. “If it’s all the same to you, feller, I’d rather see you get fucked first.”

  The blade rang as it plunged through his head to pin his skull to the floor.

  The finality of the strike thundered across the floorboards and there was hesitation from the guards outside.

  Hesitation she took advantage of as she recovered her blades.

  Cleaned them on his shirt.

  Headed back toward the secret passages riddling through the castle’s walls.

  A desperate voice called through the door; “Anglek? Anglek, open up!”

  She glanced at the mess on the floor. Rubbed the scar on her cheek as she stepped into the red-drenched dark.

  “Reckon he already did that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The elf edged through the narrow archway. Slow drip of water from calcified claw above.

  Splash.

  Splash.

  No other sound outside her heartbeat.

  A body rested against the wall, lit by a single shaft of moonlight spearing through a crack in the ceiling. Pale beam explored the chin and bottom lip.

  Showed a ragged hole in his chest. Another slicing cut across his throat.

  Throat had been first.

  Chest was just to be sure.

  Necklace of broken bones dangled through the wreckage of his neck.

  How many had followed? It showed unusual dedication to keep coming.

  She didn’t know anything about Bonebreakers outside a reputation for trading with slavers and wearing bone fetishes.

  The elf knelt. Tested skin.

  Still warm.

  Turned on her toes. The orange thread slithered into the hushed dark.

  Two more to go.

  Then, gold?

  More than enough, Hideg had promised.

  Two things bothered her, though. Anglek had been sure Hari had been mutilated. Aegir, too. And the others?

  Something wasn’t right.

  If the Order had access to the tunnels, why didn’t they just send a team? The Jukkala often worked in teams if there was more than one target. Taking out pockets of Caspiellan spies might take up to fifteen Jukkala at a time.

  Surely the Order could muster more than a handful. Would’ve made this whole thing quicker.

  Easier.

  There would’ve been more time for planning.

  More thought.

  The dead body stared back with glass eyes. Whatever spark which had powered his mind had been
extinguished. Yet, the expression seemed to mock with cold certainty.

  Death was close.

  Inching toward her.

  Fangs ready. Jaws slavering.

  Hairs on the back of her neck fingered crisp air.

  “Shit,” she murmured. “I don’t need this.”

  To her feet, then looked away from the orange thread to the nearest stairs leading down. She could follow them. Find a way out, even if she had to take a guard. Cut him a bit and he’d lead her out. She was sure of it.

  But there was still a chance for gold.

  Still a chance he’d keep his word.

  A chance.

  Better than no chance. Which is what she’d have if she left without finishing the job.

  As she crept onward, she turned Anglek’s words over and over. His tone.

  He’d seen the bodies.

  Ripped and torn.

  Shredded.

  And every new step grew more tense.

  So, when voices penetrated the thrumming silence, her heart almost exploded inside its bone cage.

  “-fucking killed Anglek. Anglek! Who the fuck could do that?”

  “Someone I ain’t gonna stand in front of. I see ‘em, I’m the fuck out of here. Swear.”

  “Me too.” Pause. “This job ain’t worth it.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m fucking leaving. Soon as we get out, I’m gone. Fucking gone. Anj said it was gonna be easy, y’know. And Caz said it was a piece of piss. Told me they’d get some fuckers fresh off the boat to do the work. All I’d have to do is teach ‘em to salute and not trip over their fucking feet. Didn’t say nothin’ about hunting for some fucking insane killer in a shithole like this. You even know where we are?”

  “Kinda. Top level. East side. Turrets up ahead. Figured we could stop out there. Have a smoke, maybe?”

  “You got some?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit, man. I’m in. Fucking place gives me the creeps. Suck of batcha should fix me up. Yeah, sure will.” A few heavy steps. “How’s your vest? Mine itches like fuck.”

  “Same. Piece of shit. Couldn’t stop a fucking breeze.”

  “That’s what scares the shit out of me.”

  “Cheap. Brax gets it through his cousin.”

  “Ain’t no way to run a guard business, man.”

  “Nope. Should have decent kit at least.”

  She was tucked into an alcove when they walked past.