Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8)

by Lucas Thorn

  Almost deep enough to see right through him.

  A few minutes after that, they killed another small clutch of Bonebreakers. A ragged bunch who died with pitiful squeals and a lack of fight.

  “Disappointing,” Klista said, cleaning her sword on the last body.

  “They’re confused,” the elf said. “Don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. Them and the Unified lot.”

  “I don’t get it. I mean, the Bonebreakers followed you in, so I get why they’re here. They’re too stupid to stay out. But what was the Duke thinking, letting this pathetic lot into the Halls? You know, Filth could’ve organised better defence in just a few hours.” Sneered. “This lot couldn’t even organise a piss-up in a fucking brewery.”

  “Already saw their drinking hole downstairs,” the elf said. “Reckon you’re right.”

  She’d been thinking about it, too.

  Thinking about Boreguard’s last words.

  About Hideg and his ancient rituals to old gods. Remembered his talk to her the last time they’d spoken. Not long after the Red Claws were destroyed. He’d talked about old gods then. But she didn’t expect to be part of a magical ritual to wake them.

  Add to that the betrayal of his family. What did he really want from all this? Was it all to protect the Fnordic Lands as he’d claimed? Or did he want the Ducal seat? Was it just a mad rush for power?

  Either way, what was the role he’d planned for her? Was the Duke right about Hideg’s version of the book? Maybe in Hideg’s version, he wouldn’t need the last component. Wouldn’t know about it.

  Maybe he had the gold ready and waiting.

  How could she be sure? She hadn’t known Hideg for long. Barely even spoke to him.

  The Duke played a game with her before he died.

  Hideg was still playing.

  But whose side was she on?

  There was something she missed in Dragonclaw which she hadn’t realised she’d had on the streets of Lostlight. A pulse of the city. A feel for the city’s hierarchy.

  Of its power plays.

  Here, she was still a child.

  And, like that, she realised Dragonclaw wasn’t her home. It never would be. She couldn’t see any way out of the mess she’d gotten herself into. Filth had been right.

  She’d soared too high. Too fast. Her wings were on fire.

  Should’ve walked away from Hideg when she had the chance.

  Ignored his promises of gold. Gold there was little chance of her seeing.

  Music.

  She ducked into a cramped passage and moved her head left and right. Closed eyes to a bright magelight’s static bursts.

  Pinpointing the origin of the music.

  Pointed with bloodslick knife. “This way.”

  “I hear it,” the Shiv said. “Sounds like shit. I’m telling you, Filth’d really like it. I kinda wish he was here…”

  They moved quick. Two shadows dancing between stutters of magelight. Ducking beneath ornate archways and crumbling masonry. Growing more aware of the emptiness as they went.

  Even risked running without attempt at stealth for a while.

  And heard nothing more than the lure of faraway music and soft drip of water filtered through stone.

  “How many are waiting for us?” Klista panted as they paused inside a small alcove.

  The elf wiped sweat from her face. Rubbed the scar on her cheek and shrugged. “A lot.”

  “Guards?”

  “Could be.”

  “They weren’t so tough.”

  “These’ll be real ones, I’m thinking.”

  “Ah.” Breath huffed out. “Shit. You gonna tell me what it’s all about. Or leaving me to figure it out?”

  Genuinely curious, the elf grinned. “What’ve you figured?”

  Klista leaned against the wall, cane at her side. Said, thoughtful; “You took a job which smelled real good. Only, the feller you took it from ain’t who you thought he was. And now the shit’s falling around our ears and you ain’t got shelter yet. It’s an even break as to whether he wants you dead or not, but chances are he’d be happy to see you with your throat slit. I’m also guessing he ain’t no street chump. Filth said it was Hideg. And that’s a name I know. He’s a weasel. One of the duke’s bastard sons. Most of them have been quietly dying over the past few months. I’d say we found who’s been dumping them in the bay.”

  The elf’s face soured. “Yeah. Sounds right so far.”

  “But there’s more.”

  Curt nod. “Found out I was being trailed. Not by Bonebreakers. Figured it was you. But it wasn’t. Was someone else.” The elf tucked bottom lip between teeth. Chewed. Then sighed. Didn’t see any point in hiding it. “Hideg’s in charge of the Order.”

  “Order of the Iron Day?” Klista whistled between her teeth. “Well, fuck, sister. You didn’t just fall under some shit. You fell under a shitload of shit.”

  “He had one of his fellers follow me. To cut pieces out of those I killed.”

  “Pieces?”

  “Yeah. Tongue. Hand. Eye. Brain. Pieces they need for some bullshit sacrifice. All this, for a ritual he’s probably fucked up already.”

  “Magic? Ugh.”

  “He wants to wake some old gods. Figures they’ll give him the power to topple Rule.”

  Klista shook her head. “If there’s one thing we should’ve learnt by now, it’s that gods are a pain in the ass.” Squinted at the elf. “But why get you to kill them? Seems a lot of trouble. Just slip a few of the Order in here and they could’ve killed everyone in a few minutes.”

  “It’s all in the book.” The elf looked down the passage. Searching. Saw nothing. The purple glow was almost faded from her eyesight. And the itch was almost gone. “Hideg’s got a different copy to the one I’ve seen, though. But I’m guessing it ends the same way. Has to be the same hand which does the killing. To spill the blood. Had to be an elf’s hand. Reckon he didn’t trust me enough to take the pieces. Maybe guessed I’d figure something about the whole thing stank. Could be he didn’t trust I’d go through with it if I knew.”

  “He’d be right.”

  The elf nodded. “But the copy I got is supposed to be the real deal. And it says I had to spill the blood and cut up the corpses. Was supposed to be me who places them on the altars. Fresh kills. Me who had to speak the words, too. Right before letting him cut me up. But he’s got the ritual all wrong.”

  “Altars?”

  “Yeah. They’re in the ziggurats. One for each.” She lifted her hand and held it out. Palm steady. “At the end, he’s supposed to cut this from my arm. Fancies himself the High Priest. Reckons he can just take my hand, and the gods wake. No doubt shower him in gratitude.”

  “Told you,” Klista said. “He’s a real bastard.”

  “Whatever he is, I’m worse.”

  “Well, that clears a few things up. Filth reckoned Hideg was just gonna push his brothers about a bit. Rattle their cages, and maybe turn the Four into Five. Don’t think he expected this.” She looked down at her sword. “Well, I guess the game ain’t over yet.”

  “And I still have an ace or two up my sleeve,” the elf said.

  “Hope there’s an invitation to the Ball up there, too.”

  “Nope.” Bared teeth in grin.

  “Oh, this is sounding more and more like my kind of party.”

  “With Hideg’s plans for sleeping gods, and our killing, I don’t figure it’s much of a party,” the elf said. “More like a wake.”

  “Works for me.” The Shiv held out her hand. “However this goes down, I’ll be right beside you. Until the end. We’re family.”

  Nysta took the offered hand.

  The word, though awkward on her tongue, came freely; “Family.”

  “Nice to see you really accept it,” Klista said. Lifted the cane sword with a grim smirk. “Well, then. Let’s go find the bastard who thinks he can fuck with the Shivs.”

  They found where the music felt loudest and t
he elf searched for the trigger mechanism.

  Thought at first the empty sconce, but in the end it was just another fake piece of masonry. She pushed. Grunted at the click of gears.

  And stepped back to let the doorway slide open.

  Revealed a pane of hazy glass in front of them. Beyond that, dancers.

  Dancers in intricate masks. Some elaborate. Some absurd. Some made of paper. Other feathers. Most glinted with flashes of gold and exotic gems.

  Dressed in finery mined from the bowels of depraved wealth. Glittering jewellery. Silks. Lace. Bright colours made more exuberant by the glowing magelights twinkling along the ceiling in intricate patterns.

  Laughter and the bubble of excited conversation was muffled by the glass.

  To their left, a raised platform bore a handful of musicians thrumming away on stringed instruments. One pounded a small drum. Another pursed lips around a thin tin whistle.

  The music kept a cocky tune, spinning dancers swiftly around the room.

  Along the edge of the ballroom, exhausted figures lounged in cushioned chairs. Some deep in conversation. Others nursing glasses of wine or tumblers of expensive liquors no doubt from places with exotic names and high reputations.

  Carnality tumbled through the crowd, exchanged in expressions quickly traded and touches which melted into the movement of dance. Though it was late in the evening, base appetites never faded amid shared understanding of the privilege of wealth.

  Those with colder intentions gathered in small groups. Delivering stroke and parry of deals which could be as effective as a sword to the face if wielded with deft tongue. False laugh and knowing nod.

  Shake of hand.

  Clink of glasses.

  Calls for more wine.

  Lives were traded while a city slept in ignorance.

  It was disorienting.

  Watching the room spin and turn while the two Shivs remained hidden behind glass. Could see similar mirrors on the other side at regular intervals. Wondered how many veiled entrances to the Halls.

  “Now what?” Klista asked. Voice low.

  The elf shrugged.

  Looked around.

  Found a loose piece of rock and picked it up.

  Bounced it in the palm of her hand.

  Exchanged a wicked look.

  “Only thing you can do when you’re on the wrong side of a party,” she said. Let the rock sail from her hand. “Crash it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Mirror shards burst and scattered.

  Rich men.

  Rich women.

  A handful not sure, but still rich.

  All turned as one on a wave of startled gasps. Jovial music smouldered in the thunderous silence.

  The elf kicked her way through broken glass, knives in fists.

  Aware of her scuffed boots and patched uniform. Aware of the stink of old blood and sweat. Stink of sewage and death. Clinging to her body like plague.

  Aware of the grubby stains across her cheek. The scar which announced a life far from privilege.

  Aware of the power these people held in their thin spotless fists. Power they used to turn Dragonclaw into their playground. Unchallenged, their lives had been spent exhausting themselves in hedonistic excess. This night was just another in an endless stream of joyous moments stolen from those whose days were spent in ruthless alleys and streets with no hope of rising.

  As her violet gaze travelled across their finery, she thought of the Alley Rats.

  Their sickly skin and ragged clothes. Houses made of trash.

  She thought of the docks, where work carved deep lines into hard flesh.

  Thought of gangs, like the Shivs, engaged in endless wars of attrition for the scraps these perfect people tossed to the ground.

  Perfect people. Perfect hair.

  Sculpted faces draped in masks.

  Faces only just beginning to recover from shock.

  Moving to outrage.

  Then fear as she crushed glass under her heel and took another step toward them. Motioned Klista to her right with a flick of her knife.

  The Shiv showed teeth as she slid the cane sword free and gave the blade a loose swing. Slicing air. Wrists loose, stretched neck. Cutting deep cuts in the rising horror.

  “Looking for a feller who calls himself Hideg,” the elf said as she closed the gap between herself and the retreating throng.

  Her voice carried through the ballroom. Leaden and hard.

  An older man was the first to speak.

  Moustache neatly waxed and gleaming in the magelight. He shuffled forward. Maybe a long time ago he’d led soldiers to their deaths. Which would explain the medals he’d pinned to his coat.

  Led them, the elf thought sourly.

  Was it really leading when you cowered at the rear? Far from the blood. The torn flesh. Crushed bones. Ears deaf to the screams.

  Or was it just butchery?

  She watched, impassive, as he lifted his mask and glowered. A man used to obedience.

  Opened his mouth full of perfect teeth. “Who do you think you are? This is the Ducal Keep, not some bawdy little inn. You clearly don’t belong here, and I suggest you drop your weapons and submit immediately before the Guard get here. This way you just might get to keep your head. But if you try to interfere with what has been a very marvellous event hosted by Duke Boreguard himself, I assure you, you will feel the full weight of my displeasure!”

  “Hear hear,” someone called. “You tell her, Freddy.”

  From the back.

  The elf looked to Klista, whose smile widened.

  Then back to the old man.

  Her arm didn’t appear to move.

  But the blade left her fingers with a power made inhuman by the rage she was feeling. Rage which had grown even as the perfect people grew in confidence with every word the old man had uttered.

  They’d understood his tone.

  Had expected her to fall to her knees. That was, after all, what poor folk did.

  Not this one, she thought.

  Go With My Blessing dived perfect into the skin of his upper lip.

  Splintered teeth.

  Pierced tongue.

  Buried tip in the back of his throat.

  But he didn’t die straight away.

  Wheeled a lunatic circle, arms flapping like a wounded bird. Hands spinning around the blade’s handle in disbelief. Unsure whether to pluck it free or take hold of it.

  A decision taken from him as the elf cruised in close. Plunged A Flaw in the Glass into side. Wrenched sideways. Shredded flesh.

  Blood sprayed across the perfect floor.

  Stained gleaming wood bright red.

  A puddle which became a pool as he collapsed to the ground at her feet. A shivering body soon made still.

  And the elf’s violet eyes drank the terror of the perfect people. Perfect people whose pure clothes and exotic masks couldn’t hide their reptile eyes.

  “Ask you all again. Just one more time. Then we start killing. Where’s Hideg?”

  “Guards,” someone gasped. Then shrieked; “Guards!”

  The elf sighed.

  Klista’s throaty chuckle bubbled through the ballroom as guards tried to open the doors. But with the crowd was pressed too close. A horde of frightened perfect people trying to be the first to leave. Each shuffling for dominance in escape. Pushing social status like a spear.

  Which left the guards shouting to be let in.

  Perfect people shouting to be let out.

  And the doors shivering between them all.

  The Shiv lifted her sword to rest the blade across her shoulder. “Well,” she said. “That didn’t work out too well. What do you reckon now?”

  A tall guard managed to shove himself inside. Thrust his head above the bleating crowd. “You! Stay where you are!”

  “What the fuck are you waiting for? She killed Sir Fredendall! She can’t fight us all. You young fellows there. All of you. To me!” A man in the back bellowed; “
Everyone attack!”

  “You heard the feller,” the elf said. Drew lips into a grin. “Time for a ballroom blitz.”

  And she moved.

  One month before Talek took a fireball to his body, the elf called Nysta had been in a room like this. Not as richly decorated.

  But clean.

  Bright.

  Filled with men and women whose skin had never earned a single scar.

  Enemies of the King. Caspiellan spies and collaborators.

  A Hand of the Jukkala had entered from the rear.

  There’d been fifty socialites. Nobles and assorted merchants of high regard.

  A small army of passionate militants nested in the courtyard. Had come running with the first scream. Steeled up and more comfortable with a fight than the lush confines of a rich man’s house.

  Five Jukkala.

  “If you ain’t enough, then you fuckers are too wet behind the ears to be here,” Tarni had said, her brows meeting in a raw frown. “Now get in there. Don’t come out until they’re dead. I want to see your boots wet to the ankles.”

  On a cold night in Lostlight, the steam from so much blood had warmed the elf as she’d fought.

  No. Not fought. There’d been no real fighting.

  It was butchery.

  The guards had come from the front.

  The Jukkala were at the rear.

  And the weak were pinned between like lambs surrounded by wolves.

  She’d learnt a lesson that night. Learnt that a panicked crowd was an advantage.

  Learnt how to draw primal terror from their collective heart until it burst.

  And so, with Klista by her side, it began how it would always end.

  With blood.

  Terminal Oddities in Blue speared from her hand and found the quaking chest of a young woman in tight yellow dress. Red flashed. Arced across those who’d only minutes before been sharing her laughter.

  And screams filled the ballroom.

  Screams the elf invited with blood.

  Blood.

  And more blood.

  Klista, instinctively understanding, waded in with abandon, sword slicing with effortless power. She killed, like the elf, with cold brutality. Often leaving the mortally wounded to shriek their agony and add to the cacophony of chaos.