by Lucas Thorn
“No chance of that,” she growled. “Ain't got one to give away.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
For a long time after, the elf's thoughts were on an old legend one of the priestesses had told her when she was still new to the Jukkala'Jadean.
The story was older than time, claimed the priestess. In hushed tones, she'd claimed the legend to be older than not just Grim and Rule, but even older than her own goddess, Veil.
“How old, then?” Nysta had asked.
“Almost as old as the world's bones.”
It began as most stories of the time before Veil did. In a world which was as black as night. Where the sun couldn't penetrate the heavy clouds. Where ice covered the land like frozen flesh.
It was a dead land, where only dead things hunted the living. Things such as the Draug. And the Dhampir. And, above them all, the dreaded Vampire Lords who fed on the blood of the living.
It was a time when the elfs lived in the darkest caves, hiding from the world. When humans gathered in small pockets to defend themselves from the evils which roamed the world. And goblins scurried in the dark like spiders, preying on the weak. A godless and barbaric time where currency was measured in blood.
All of which changed when the skies were turned to fire. A fire which boiled the land and created the same mountains which ripped up from the ground to the north. The Bloods.
In most stories, it was from this fire that the gods were birthed. Veil and her eleven siblings.
But that wasn't the story the priestess told. Instead, she claimed the fire heralded the arrival of a single Goddess who rode a dragon to conquer the world and would drive the Vampire Lords back into their fortresses where they remained until the coming of Grim and Rule.
She would rule over the world for a thousand years, a creature of fury who brought the sun to the land and enriched the lives of the elfs, the orks, and even humans.
Her gift to the world was the tools from which civilisation would birth. From her, and not Veil's siblings, the seed of life spewed across the land.
It wasn't the crude legend itself which began to haunt the elf's mind. But, in the echoes of the goblin's last words, it was the finale which crept around her brain like a secret she shouldn't know.
Because the twelve children of the goddess grew tired of being ruled. And, as is the nature of those who lust for power, they struggled against her. Eventually, they trapped her. Bound her in chains she could not break.
Then they tore out her heart and carved it into twelve pieces, one for each to eat.
But one of the children refused their portion. Instead, a piece of the goddess' heart was saved. Kept hidden from the world, the priestess said, until it was needed. And it was the strongest part, because it contained all the rage the goddess had buried deep within her heart.
The murderous children became the new gods, and would revel in their powers until the coming of Grim and Rule, who slayed them all.
Afterwards, the priestess refused to even talk about it. Had claimed she'd said nothing of the kind and knew no stories other than the ones which spoke of Veil and her siblings creating the world.
The priestess snorted at the story Nysta recounted back to her in hope of hearing more. A frightened expression hidden deep within her old eyes. “A mother to the gods? What a foolish notion, child. Get such things out of your head.”
Her reaction had confused the young Nysta. So she'd turned her thoughts away from old stories and back to the deadly arts the Jukkala were determined to teach.
She couldn't say why this story suddenly rose in her consciousness. But it suddenly sounded like a lesson she should heed. Never trust, it seemed to say. Not even your blood.
Which naturally brought an unbidden image of her half-brother, Raste.
Grimacing, the elf noted she already didn't trust her family.
Still, the image stuck in her head of the mother of twelve gods lying arched across a large rock somewhere. Heart still beating as it was torn from her chest.
Blood steaming in the frozen wind.
And twelve siblings gathered like wolves to the lamb.
To dip their fingers in maternal blood.
Shuddering as she wove through the thorns, the elf could almost feel the pain of the dying goddess. The wrenching agony not so much of the wound she'd suffered, but more the knowledge of her own children turning on her.
Consuming her.
A terrifying end.
She pushed through more walls of thorn, and was beginning to feel the thudding beat of despair in her chest. Began to suspect she was lost.
Or going in circles despite trying to aim for the mountains she could sometimes make out above the thick canopy.
Battling claustrophobia as she squeezed between the flow of trees too close together, the elf also found the pressure of trying to remain silent, while listening hard for even the slightest sound, to be almost too much to bear. The constant fear kept her teeth on edge and the muscles across her shoulders were tighter than steel cables.
Her breath, misted with cold, the only real sound other than the constant thrumming of her heartbeat.
She'd paused many times to calm herself. To stop from screaming just to break the awful controlled silence.
Adding to her feeling of being close to the brink of insanity was the realisation it would be night soon. She must have been unconscious for longer than she'd thought.
At this time of year, it grew dark quickly. And, with the clouds rolling thick overhead, she didn't feel any surprise as a few dusty flakes of snow managed to penetrate the knotted branches from above. She watched one such pale sliver as it drifted in front of her, and wondered at the noiseless motion.
How soft it seemed.
How perfectly harmless and beautiful.
Yet it heralded more danger than most would realise, so her expression was sour as she used her knives to pry apart a thin curtain of thorny brush.
With the snow came the brutal biting cold. And although her body was able to handle more extreme temperatures than most humans, she was hungry.
And tired.
Felt weaker with every step. Which made her feel the cold even more.
She needed shelter.
Not just from the weather, but from the possibility there were still Grey Jackets on her trail. Or goblins. She still didn't trust they'd leave her alone.
Reminded herself again that goblins weren't known for keeping truces.
She cursed loudly as her jacket caught on more thorns. Had to tug hard to pull herself free.
And caught movement deep within the trees.
Froze. Wanted to slap herself for having broken her silence.
Trapped her breath and held it, feeling only the sharp whisper of cold air on her cheek as her eyes drilled into the shadows.
Ears strained for sound, but she hadn't heard anything the first time.
Slowly, her hand dropped close to the butt of Entrance Exam. Fingers rubbed the hilt and her tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip.
Violet eyes glittering in the dim light.
She waited.
Watching.
Gaze flicking from trunk to trunk. Studying the thorned brush carefully.
And found nothing.
Maybe, she thought doubtfully, she'd imagined it.
Or, maybe the goblins were back.
Maybe they'd only let her go to provide more sport. Could be they were stalking her even now. She could imagine their sharklike grins gleaming in the dark.
Pale glowing green eyes so alien and hungry to kill.
“Shit.” She let the word skitter from her mouth like a rat in the dark.
And slid forward. Slowly. Eyes still raking the shadows.
Could it be possible one of the Grey Jackets had made it this far?
Could one of them be this good to sneak so close without her knowing?
She wanted it to be unlikely, but truth be told she was still more at home in the alleys of a city than the decaying forests of the norther
n Deadlands. She couldn't read the forest floor like she could an alley.
It was chaos.
Deceptively peaceful chaos.
So if it wasn't a Grey Jacket, and it wasn't a goblin, then that left things which could prove more dangerous. Including one she didn't want to face.
Dhampir.
That it had caught her scent and was now hunting her.
Seeking the warm fountain of her blood.
Entrance Exam slid free of its sheath with the barest hush. She held the knife in a reverse grip, angling the blade back down her forearm, and keeping her arm down at her side. Didn't want the blade to reflect light. Didn't want to draw more attention.
Instead, she kept it hidden.
Felt the comfort of the flat of the blade against her bracer.
And crept forward, angling toward where she'd seen the movement. Sweat dribbled down the nape of her neck. Soaked into her shirt.
“Come on out, you bastard,” she breathed, loud enough only for her to hear. Boots making no sound as she moved among the thick brush. “I know you're there.”
Was slowed as more thorns grasped her jacket.
Considered letting the trapped jacket drop, but didn't want to risk more bloody wounds to the needlelike thorns. Already the back of her hands and her face were covered in thin irritating scratches and occasional deep gouges.
She slowly prised herself loose, keeping her eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
Did she hear an intake of breath?
Or was it the wind picking between the trees?
She paused at the edge of a ragged wall of scraggy brush. Peered through the mesh of thorns. Poked around for a way through, and then bellied slowly into the clearing beyond.
Nothing.
She searched quickly, looking for telltale prints and found nothing. Just some scuff marks which could've been caused by a small animal.
Or someone trying to hide their trail, she added glumly as she rose slowly to her feet to look around.
Saw nothing more to give evidence anyone had been here.
Maybe it really was her imagination.
She took a step further into the clearing.
Something cracked underfoot.
And the shadows exploded, a rush of white and tawny brown. A shriek as the creature spewed itself at her face.
Scared almost witless, she brought the blade up, slashing fast and quick. Red sprayed across the ground. Another shriek, this time of pain as the creature dropped to her feet, still screaming as the elf howled her own fear before bringing the blade splashing down into the struggling body.
And only when it stopped moving did she realise how small it was. It had seemed huge when it had been in her face.
An owl.
More frightened than she had been, perhaps. Wings fluttering as death scoured it clean of life.
Staggering away so her back pressed against a vine-wrapped trunk, she found she couldn't breathe for the panic which still constricted her throat.
She stared down at the bloodied knife in her hand and saw thick gashes in her bracer. Caused by the owl's lethal talons as it sought to drive her from its nesting place.
A little further toward her hand, and it would've opened a vein in her wrist. The elf almost gagged on the fear still pounding in her chest.
The movement she'd seen must've been he owl returning from hunting. She must've caught a glimpse of it and mistook it for a hundred other dangers which lurked in the forests of the Deadlands.
She wondered at how such a small and seemingly insignificant creature could wire her so full of fear she would lose her mind at the surprise of its flight.
How the Deadlands could lure her into fearing the worst at every second. And it was then she knew she wanted more than anything else to be far from this cursed place.
As far as she could go.
Maybe even as north as Icereach. Up where the snow never melted. And into the arms of the city which was rumoured to be so beautiful it would break your heart to see it.
She could use more beauty in her life.
“Bastard,” she choked at last, breath coming in gulps. “Fucking bastard owl.”
Her eyes flickered toward the shadows, noticing how dark it was getting. And then she caught a smudge of light. She cocked her head, peering intently. Definitely light.
Not her imagination this time.
And light, she thought, meant food. It had to.
Sure, it meant people, too. But she would respond to those however they chose to deal with her.
All she wanted was the food.
And then sleep.
She pressed onward, leaving the owl behind. Kept her gait determined. Almost desperate to reach the light.
So, when she finally managed to squeeze from the clutches of the last of the thorns and found herself on a path leading toward a large fort in the distance, she almost wept with relief. Saw the lights came from the watchtowers positioned at each corner, and headed as quickly as she could down the path.
Felt herself stumble more than once, but her mouth kept its grim line and her violet eyes never moved from the fort's gates as she forced each step.
She knew where she was now. Knew she'd made it to Tannen's Run at last.
Knew beyond the fort was the path through the mountains. Through the Bloods.
She was nearly there. So close she could taste it.
The snow fell more thickly, each flake gleaming like deflated stars. Soon, her boots were wet and ice crunched with each step. The darkness bled across the sky, muffling the landscape and leaving her eyes burning as they stared only at the lights flooding the area around the fort.
Could see a few black shapes scurrying about along the walls. Walls with crenels through which a few guards were peering out. She noticed some had bows already notched, but they hadn't fired at her.
Heard a few shouts.
Exhaustion lapped at her bones. A part of her began to wonder if she could make it.
But the other part. The part which had grown up on the cruellest streets in the world. Which had once gutted a nobleman and thus given birth to one of the coldest killers ever trained by the Jukkala'Jadean. That part refused to give in.
It clenched her jaw and gave her expression something of a snarl as the air misted through her teeth. Her fists balled at her side.
Fuelling herself on a rising tide of hate. Hate which had no focus. No direction. Just a swirling hot vortex which grew in heat as she finally drew so close she could make out the little details. The walls stained with old blood and mould.
The gates, reinforced and recently patched with timber from the forest. Steel scrap.
A handful of men at the tower closest to her approach, peering down at her in surprise. Pointing. Mail shirts freshly cleaned and glittering.
Spears bright.
A guard high on the walls called down to the gate; “Open the gates. Fast! It's an elf! Open up. An elf can't be one of them! Quickly, lads! Let her in!”
The gates moaned terrifically as they opened, but only wide enough to allow her passage.
Shivering, she pushed past a few grasping hands and fell to her knees in the mud beneath the shadows of the walkway above. Stayed there, hunched over. Tightly gripped her knees with her fingers and let the shivering slowly subside as the satisfaction of having survived washed her clean.
One of the guards knelt beside her. A big man, with broad shoulders and a kind face. Thrust a small flask at her hands. “Here, lass. Take a swig of this. Brandy. All the way from Vantro Deep. It'll warm you up.”
She nodded, taking the flask with shaking fingers. Sucked deep, feeling the liquid go down her throat like molten metal.
Coughed, even as the big guard slapped her hard on the back with a throaty chuckle.
“Got a hearty kick, it does,” he said.
“Grim's teeth,” one of the others said, leaning close. “Look at her face. It's all beaten up. Look like she's been kissing trolls.”
“Get
her inside,” a raw voice growled. “And get back to the fucking walls, you lot! It's not like you've never seen an elf before.”
The young soldier licked his lips. Made to reach for her. “I'll take her.”
But the big guard pushed in front. “Don't worry yourself, lad,” he said. “I'll do it.”
“But-”
The raw voice snapped again. “Pryke! Get up here!”
“Yes, My Lord.”
She heard the young man's boots pound away.
The guard beside her clicked his teeth. “Little asshole,” he muttered. Thickly muscled arms lifted her to her feet. Numb with cold, she allowed herself to be led into the town. “Come on, lass. I know a place where we can get you warm again. Maybe not the best place in the world, but it's warmer than anywhere else round here.”
Her thoughts were still numb. Frozen in the pale arms of shadow. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and she had to struggle to focus on the crude street. She was, she realised dumbly, worse than she'd thought.
Unconsciously took in the hard shadows pressed against feeble shacks. Shacks which served as home to the kind of people who'd find a town of mercenaries a suitable place to settle. Criminals all, of one kind or another.
Their weatherbeaten walls were coated in thick paints of darker hues. Heavy sloping roofs slapped with snow. Icicles clawed at the eaves as the oppressive cold continued to gnaw on the town.
Everything looked wet. Cold. Shivering. Even the massive stone blocks of the surrounding wall seemed frozen in place.
The icy slush and muck of the road slid beneath her feet and the man supporting her let out a muffled curse as his own boots slipped in the smooth mud.
A curtain shut fast as they passed.
A cat paused in the mouth of an alley, whiskers twitching as a flake of snow drifted past its calico ear.
Cold animal eyes, staring intently. Tail flicking.
A couple of men, leaning against a porch in front of the inn. Beers in hand. Breath misting their features. One hooded, one not.
Hatches slung from belts.
A door opened to her left. An old man stepped into the frozen air, cursing bitterly. Caught her dazed look and quickly turned away. He shuffled down the street toward the gates.
“Not much farther, lass,” the big man said. “You'll soon be warm again.”
