by Lucas Thorn
Flin tried to gather her thoughts, not knowing what to do. Dozens of goblins were heading back to the trees, their battle done.
Bodies littered the ground, soon to be draped in snow as it began to fall in crisp dusty spots. And among them, two wagons smouldered.
The other, untouched by fire, waited to be explored. But the elf wasn't interested.
She turned her head toward the Bloods and her face tightened in determination. Finally, she was leaving the Deadlands.
Heading north.
Toward the Fnordic Lands.
Leaving everything behind. And for the first time, she didn't feel guilty. Told herself she wasn't leaving her husband. Just leaving the land. With A Flaw in the Glass at her side, and the small box in her pouch, she'd always have him with her.
“Nysta?” Flin's voice was like a bell vibrating in the air. The bravado had leaked away, replaced by something more uncertain. “What do I do now?”
The elf looked at the girl, who was staring at the blood leaking through her fingers. The blood of the men she'd killed. She felt a sting of pity in her heart as she remembered the first time she'd had blood on her hands.
The shock of it. The feeling of utter emptiness.
“Go home, kid,” she said.
Flin held out her hands, expression suddenly frantic. “Will they ever get clean?”
Shaking her head, the elf walked away. She had no answer to give the girl.
She remembered the ladies who haunted the Court of Lostlight. How spotless they were. And how they'd made her feel covered in gutter filth.
Still made her feel that way.
But, after a few steps, the elf paused.
Cocked her head slightly, and spoke over her shoulder. Her voice carried on the wind. “You're different now, Flin. Not because you killed a man. That ain't no great achievement. Anyone can kill. But because you know you can do what it takes to survive. That you've got the guts to do what needs to be done. You've looked the Old Skeleton in the face and lived. And that ain't no small thing. Tell you one thing I've learned, and it's all I've got for you. Don't go thinking this has stained your soul, or made you anything less than what you are. You ain't any dirtier than you were before. There ain't nothing about your soul which needs cleaning. It's that kind of thinking which'll lead you to a state you don't wanna be.” And when the girl looked confused, the elf showed her teeth as she drawled; “Washed out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The goblins watched her go.
Stormer moved up beside Bigshot. “Why elf so special? She elf. I not like elfs. Why she kill thief? Why not we? It our thief, not elf's thief.”
“I not like elfs, too,” Bigshot snorted. “But Eventide say elf Bloodhand. Named. He want her to kill thief. It enough.”
Stormer didn't argue, but she still kept her gaze on the slow-moving elf. She scratched her head, deciding it was too difficult to think about. Sat down on the General's body and began picking bits of meat out of the spikes on her goblinknife.
Nibbled on a few without relish, still locked in her own thoughts.
A goblin jumped out of the unburned wagon, a look of irritation on his face as he landed heavily in the mud and snow. “She not right in head,” he mumbled.
“Who not right?”
“She,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the wagon. “She say crazy things.”
Bigshot craned his neck to peer at the back of the wagon, but saw nothing of interest. Decided the goblin was a lunatic. That sounded much more likely. “You find it?”
Spoonfed nodded cheerfully. Held out his hand. “It right where Quietly say so.”
“He always right,” Bigshot said.
They looked down at Quietly's torn body.
“That look like it hurt,” Spoonfed said. “Why he do it? Why save elf? She not even goblin.”
“Because she Bloodhand,” Bigshot said, as though that explained everything.
Spoonfed didn't understand. But he didn't want to admit it. “Oh.”
“Hey, Spoonfed,” Stormer called, not looking up. Her lip twisted into a sneer. “Your girl go home.”
The goblin scowled, but couldn't stop his eyes from following where Flin, numbed by the battle, was walking numbly toward the fort.
Licking his lips, he showed his teeth in a wide grin to Bigshot. Squinted up at the goblin leader, nervousness making his brow tremble. “I go?”
“You fucked in head,” Bigshot sighed. “You go if want.”
“ You best there is,” Spoonfed cried over his shoulder. “I tell Eventide!”
He called Flin's name as he scampered after her like a dog.
“You right,” Stormer said, lifting her gaze as Bigshot knelt by the dead goblin. She watched the little goblin chase after the young human girl. “Spoonfed fucked in head. Real bad.”
Bigshot grunted, but said nothing. Instead, he put the goblin treasure onto Quietly's torn chest.
Held his gnarled fingers there for a moment, then pulled his hand away. Looked up at the steely grey clouds and tried not to think of how much snow might be coming.
A twinge, deep in his neck, made him drop his gaze and he rubbed at the swollen joints of his fingers.
In that moment, he felt very old.
“We find big treasure, Eventide,” he said into the wind. “Hatchetboys-”
“Hatchets,” Stormer cut in icily.
Bigshot gave her a withering look, but said; “Hatchets best there is.”
The air suddenly crackled with energy. Sparks fizzed and popped above the dead goblin, whose body shuddered. More black blood leaked into the snow.
Neither Bigshot nor Stormer looked surprised.
Then Quietly's eyes snapped open and his mouth screwed up into an expression of disgust. “Oh,” he spat black blood. “It always taste bad. So bad. Like old dead fish. Or Troll boots.”
“We sorry it take long time,” Bigshot said. “But you not want any to see, so we wait.”
Quietly nodded, taking Bigshot's hand and squeezing tightly as pain wracked his body.
The deep hole in his belly bubbled and an ocean of black worms slithered under his skin. They squirmed in angry hordes, lashing his muscles together. Knitting his flesh.
“I still not understand,” Stormer said, holding up her goblinknife and inspecting it. “What so special about elf?”
Quietly said nothing.
Instead, he looked down at the small black box Bigshot had placed on his chest. Dark runes skittered across its lid like spiders.
The goblin smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The young girl moved nervously through the dark. Her hair was ragged and tangled around her face.
Clothes stained by months of crawling across the Deadlands. Mouth a tight line.
Maybe only eight years old, there was something ageless about her features. Something not quite childlike.
She didn't want to make a sound.
Didn't want them to hear. They still frightened her. Their voices were too painful, and when they cried, her heart broke.
She made no sound as she climbed from the back of the wagon. Glanced at the three goblins gathered together nearby, but they didn't see her.
Her eyes hurt. She wasn't sure why the soldiers had put her inside, but it was dry and warm inside.
Quiet, even.
She looked over her shoulder and struggled against the impulse to climb back up. Because there was something she had to find, and it was close.
No.
Not something, she frowned. Someone.
The small girl moved away from the wagon, sniffing the air. But it wasn't the smoke which caused her to cover her nose with her hands. Instead, she was disturbed by the echoes of violence in the air.
Equally disturbed, the voices bubbled in the back of her mind, murmuring her name.
Suggesting things they could do to the survivors in the nearby fort.
Terrible things.
More voices rose
to the surface like bubbles from the deepest ocean. Wanting to know what was happening. Wanting to rise.
“No,” she breathed, breath leaving her lips like smoke in the bitter cold air. A flake of snow touched her cheek. There wasn't enough heat in her body to melt it. “Please. Go back to sleep. You're hurting my head.”
They protested. They didn't want to sleep.
They wanted to wake.
It was time, they moaned. Ghostly hands grasped weakly at the darkness in the back of her mind.
But she stayed where she was, unmoving. Trying not to breathe.
Until they settled reluctantly into the dark again. The whispers shuddered and died into a low murmur.
Her heart beat its slow shuddering rhythm.
More snow shushed around her.
She liked the snow.
It was clean.
Pure.
Her eyes, sunken pits with dark black shadows burning within, turned back to the mountains. Searching the jagged horizon until they found a black dot shimmering in the distance.
Her voice, when it came, was excited.
“Mother.”
EPILOGUE
The elf worked hard to make it up the steep path. Small rugged steps had been carved into the bleak stone, but they didn't serve to make the going any easier.
The wind scraped at her flesh, gnawed at her clothes, and teased the land around her. Whipped up the fallen snow and drove it at her legs, numbing her thighs.
Glancing upward, the elf scowled at the savage peaks of the Bloods.
Massive stone spires tearing at the sky. So many of them that they appeared to loom over her like row upon row of impossibly large vampiric fangs.
She could feel the hunger of the mountains to take their toll in blood. Knew there were many creatures haunting the dark paths looking to do just that.
The fear of Dhampirs, combined with the sluglike fog still curling through her brain, left her feeling a constant sense of overwhelming claustrophobia.
But she wouldn't give in.
Snarling wordlessly, she took another step.
Another.
Kept moving. Told herself she couldn't turn back. Had to keep going, or die alone in the mountains.
Another hour of climbing. Legs burning with effort.
Mouth dry to the point her gums started to itch.
She narrowed her eyes.
Then scratched the palm of her hand as she lifted her head again. Looked around, not sure what she was searching for.
The path ahead squeezed through a narrow gap between two large walls of stone. Deep fissures in the rock were being slowly worked open by ice. The snow around them base was scuffled. But not enough to make her think of Dhampirs.
Had to be something else. Something smaller.
“Huh.”
The elf stopped.
Waited.
Didn't move. Just stood like a statue, staring at the gap and listening to the wind drag itself across the mountains.
Cocked her head.
Made a slight coughing sound in the back of her throat. And allowed her lip to curl upward as Eli stepped into view, a rueful look plastered to his face.
“Ah, my friend,” he said, arms spread wide. Blood stained his shirt, and he tried to hide evidence of his wounds with the large coat he wore. “What gave me away?”
“I ain't much of a tracker, Eli. More a city person. But I ain't stupid. Should've worked your tracks a little better,” she said. “Looks like a herd of assholes went through there. And, as always, they left you behind.”
He reached into his coat to press a hand against the bloodied bandage across his ribs, but kept the pain from his voice. “You left quickly, Nysta. You know, I wanted to speak with you before you disappeared into the north. It was very rude of you to just walk away without even a farewell to your good friends.”
“I ain't one for goodbyes,” she said calmly, noting his knife was still tight in its sheath. “And I ain't got any friends.”
He followed her gaze, his smile coming slowly. Not so foolish this time. He patted the knife, and the elf's heart began to race.
“You want this, don't you?” He took a step forward, angling toward her left. His coat flapped in the wind, snapping at his heels. “I see the way you look at it. You know your knives, Nysta. This, like its twin, was made for me by a man who was a wizard with steel. They are beautiful weapons, and I deeply regret the loss of the other. That it broke in the armour of a Caspiellan is a comfort to me, though. If by some incredible chance you manage to kill me, you can have it.”
Shrugging, the elf slowly moved toward a flatter piece of ground. “You can keep it, Eli,” she said. “Ain't interested in it at all. Got all the knives I want.”
He looked surprised, but followed her toward the small patch of ground. His hand hovered closer to the handle. Fingertips touching the small clip which stopped the blade from sitting loose in its sheath.
She swallowed drily, waiting for him to go for it. To pull the blade clear and dart toward her.
Her hand snaked down, reaching around her side. Grabbed hold of the unnamed knife sheathed across her lower back.
Angled her body sideways to him. Trying for every advantage she could get and knowing she'd need them all.
“Ah, Nysta,” he said, joy and sorrow competing for space in his expression. “I see we finally come to the same understanding. This is a good thing. I think it is time, my friend, to see who of us is the best.”
“Feller back there already told me,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the town hidden beneath a fine layer of mist. “Said I was the best there was.”
Eli showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. “He was a goblin. What would he know?”
“Seemed to know what he was talking about.”
“Goblins are always full of shit. Trust me on this.” He looked around, keeping her in his gaze at all times. Sucked deeply at the crisp mountain air. “It is very nice here, don't you think? Quiet. A good place for a grave, I am thinking.”
“I'll dig it deep for you.”
He grinned his foolish grin. “Ah, my friend. This is why I like you so much. You believe always in miracles. But it is a shame that life is not a world in which such daydreams are real. I tell you this, because I do not want to fool you. You see, it is certain that Eli will be the one doing the digging today. And I am sorry to say, it will be a shallow grave, as I am not fond of digging. But I assure you for no one else would I even bother to make even the smallest of holes. You see, I am not a man who would never honour his friends. I will honour you. I will mark it with a stone. That one over there is almost as big as your fist. It would be enough, I am thinking. And all the world will know this stone as the place where a great fighter died. Maybe even the best I have ever known. But not better than me, of course. They will learn this, because I will tell them so.”
“You've always had a big mouth, Eli.”
He fastened his grip on the handle, ready to draw it free in an instant. “Tell me when you are ready, my friend. Let no one say I took advantage of you.”
A thousand insults poured into her mind. And a few expletives.
Instead, she gave a slight nod of her head. Said; “Goodbye, Eli.”
He paused, expression suddenly serious as he returned her nod. “Goodbye, my friend.”
Then he moved.
Blindingly fast. He speared toward her, body bending fluidly as he wrenched his knife clean from its sheath. The tails of his coat split and flapped in the wind like the wings of an overlarge bat. Feet hardly touched the ground.
Eyes glittered in triumph as he realised he'd drawn first and had sent her shuffling backward in defence. And in this game, playing defensive wasn't the wisest course. Most times, it revealed a hesitant state of mind.
Facing the kind of killer he was, she should have gone on the counter-attack. Should have met him as an equal. Stepped close. Tried to force him to hesitate.
There should have been a clash of bl
ades. The trading of deadly strikes was better than trying to retreat from the inevitable.
But she'd stepped back. Hadn't even drawn her knife from its sheath along her back.
A cautious move.
One which couldn't withstand the brutality of his incoming strike.
So he figured she was dead already.
He'd done this a thousand times before.
His arm could almost feel the sharp point of his knife sliding into her chest. He twisted his wrist to confuse her defence as he lunged in close, body wrenching suddenly as he changed the angle of his attack and sent her skipping sideways.
Right into the path of his snatching arm, which grabbed her chest and pulled her close.
He swung her around, only distantly aware of the fact she wasn't resisting or fighting back.
Aimed his knife squarely at her heart. Licked his lips with glee as he shot his arm toward her, knife plunging toward her chest.
Then almost dropped it in surprise.
Staggered to a halt, pushing her away as the shock flared up the back of his neck and across his skull like a swarm of spiders. His voice croaked through dry lips. “What the fuck?”
The elf's answering chuckle left him cold as his eyes, still caught by the knife in his hand, whose blade ended a mere inch and a half from the grip, widened.
Broken knife in hand, he fumbled forward one more step, fear consuming him as the confusion dropped like a curtain around his shoulders.
He didn't know what to do.
Then sucked a deep breath as the elf launched through the air like a vengeful ghost to press her newest blade hard against his cheek. A thin line of red bubbled out of his skin and drooled down his jaw.
His gaze shifted, looking down at his unbroken knife in her hand.
Then back up to her slitted eyes and the cruel grin on her face.
“When?” he asked.
“While you were stuffing your face this morning. Worried you'd check your knife before the fight, but I reckon I got lucky in that you ain't got any good habits, Eli.”
“You cheated,” he accused, stunned by the realisation she'd switched his knives.
“There are two kinds of people in this world, my friend,” she said sardonically. “Those with knives. And those without.”
