Sea of Revenants (Nysta Book 6)

by Lucas Thorn

  “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “Not who,” he rasped. “What.”

  “What? Huh. Reckon I ain’t liking the sound of that,” she said. “But you’re a deathpriest. You stopped that fucker from killing me. Could’ve killed him.”

  “Yes, I could have.”

  “So why do you need me to kill for you? You want something dead? Kill it yourself. Melt its fucking head off or whatever it is you fellers do.”

  The deathpriest leaned forward, skeletal hand wrapping around the long staff. “You would appreciate more than anyone else, Nysta, that some things die harder than others.”

  “Does it breathe?”

  He frowned, dry skin rustling his forehead. “What?”

  “This thing you want me to kill? Does it breathe?”

  “It dreams. Which suggests it sleeps. So, I suppose it does, in a way. Sometimes. Maybe.” He sat back, turning the question over in his mind. “You know, suddenly I don’t know if it does. Why? Is that important?”

  “If it breathes, I can kill it.”

  “Oh, have no fear, Nysta. You can kill anything with the right tool.” He grinned widely. “And that’s what you are to me, Child of Veil.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Call me that again and, debt or no debt, I’ll find out how hard you are to kill.”

  The deathpriest bared his teeth and chomped on each word. “If you seek to survive the Fnordic Lands, Nysta, you should learn who you can threaten and who you should not.” He stood coldly, using his staff to probe his way through the junk. Moved more smoothly than she expected. “I am definitely one of the latter. It is convenient to me for you to be alive right now, but you are not as vital as you think. For you to kill me, it would take luck. Strength. And dedication. At the very least, a formidable amount of time. For me to kill you, it would take just one whispered word. Think about that next time you want to test my patience.”

  “It weren’t a threat,” she said through her teeth. Worms rushed through her shoulders as her anger flared in response to his tone. He made to move around her, but she blocked his path. “And I ain’t afraid to die trying to kill you. Now, you saved my life. Reckon that means I’m obliged. So I’ll pay that debt, like I always pay what I owe. But it’ll be my way, not yours. And if that ain’t good enough for you, then you start whispering. See if you finish the word before I take your tongue and nail it to the fucking wall.”

  He looked for a moment like he was going to do it.

  His fingers danced down the side of his staff, brushing lightly against small ridges and bumps carved into the wood.

  But then he stopped. And the thunderous expression on his face eased to be replaced by a grin. The kind of grin which belonged to a wolf.

  “So,” he said. “We know where we stand. Very well. I don’t need a slave, if that comforts you. Or a servant. I don’t need you to agree with everything I say. I can’t stand stupidity or those who would fawn at my feet. All I need you to do is fight when I require it. Fight the one thing I tell you to fight. Kill it if you can. Until then, we travel together? It seemed you were heading to Cold. Perhaps to the temple there? That is where this Maks person is going with your friend. And that is where I am going.”

  “Deal,” she said, still not trusting his intentions. He’d let Halvir die. Let Stern die. Given the chance, she had no doubt he’d let her die, too. She’d have to be careful, she thought. Her eyes narrowed. “Seems everyone’s trying to see this temple. Kind of made me curious now. So, let’s go see this Ihan feller and get it over with.”

  “Excellent idea,” he said. Then seemed to remember something. He dipped his hands into one of his pockets and pulled out a thick leather thong strung with coloured beads and long enough to loop over her neck. Knotted to it was a delicate silver bell. He balanced it in his palm for a moment before tossing it to her. “Wear this. All the time. And before you bare your claws and take it as an insult, remember I am blind. When I cast, I am somewhat destructive and lack the finesse of one who can see to better channel their effects. If you wear this, I will know where you are should we be surrounded. I’ll know in which direction to avoid. It will keep you alive.”

  “Could be an easy way to kill me, too.”

  “That’s a risk for you to take.”

  “Huh.” She studied the small bell. Didn’t like the idea of wearing a collar, but admitted it was better than being cut in half by any explosive energies the deathpriest might cast. Unable to consider hanging it around her neck, she began wrapping it around her wrist. Muttered; “I’m already beginning to regret this.”

  “Don’t remove it,” he said intently. “My aim is indiscriminate. If you take it off, I can’t be blamed for what my spells might do. Are we clear on this?”

  The elf nodded.

  Held up her hand and listened to the soft chime.

  It wasn’t as loud as she’d expected and she figured she might even be able to sneak without having it cause too many problems. “As a bell.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  They passed a few farmsteads before coming to the town called Cold.

  One farmer, working his field, looked up as they passed. Didn’t move away or draw close. Just watched, eyes hooded under a wide-brimmed hat. Hand fisted around a long-handled shovel.

  Stood that way like a scarecrow until they were out of sight.

  The elf rolled her shoulders, feeling uncomfortable by the farmer’s utter motionlessness, but unable to say why. She hadn’t sensed curiosity from him. Or threat. Just attention. Cold and silent attention.

  Which she quickly forgot as they made the top of a hill and looked down on the town which had been coughed onto the edge of a deep inlet. Squeezed between two high hills which cut up out of the island like jagged fins.

  Further out, more islands. Countless islands. A maze of ferried canals and inlets weaving through them. Endless coves. Quiet and hidden. Staring back at her with all the innocence of a steel-jawed trap.

  A perfect place for raiders, smugglers, and mercenaries on the run.

  Cold’s small buildings cramped together nervously, diluted by a network of twisting alleys and shrouded streets. A few stood higher than the others and promised a taste of attempted grandeur, but most of the structures inside the town looked to be little more than makeshift shacks.

  Thrusting from the town’s jaws, narrow piers clung to boats with threaded fingers of rope. The lights of the town and the beaming lanterns along the harbour was shattered and broken on the dark waves pressing against the wharf.

  On the hill to their left, a blunt stone fortress overlooked the inlet. Not large. Just heavy.

  Its walls built from the same volcanic stone which formed the island.

  Lit by multiple fires, it glowed in the dusky evening light.

  She stood for a while, looking down at the town holding its breath against the sea, and wiped her face. It was slick with sweat and dirt from moving through narrow trails among the ferns. Looking to Lux, she noted the deathpriest’s apparent ease.

  An ease which she translated as smug and resisted the urge to hit him.

  Again.

  Sighed instead and began the long walk down. Careful because the trail was mostly loose stone carpeted by the needle-thin leaves from surrounding trees. And cautious because her palm had been itching since she’d seen the farmer standing in his field.

  Her thoughts since leaving Stern’s waystation that morning had been simmering.

  Reeling in her head without resolution.

  Halvir, loyal to his crew and blind to their faults and divides. Clinging desperately to loyalty for his crew. A loyalty which hadn’t been returned and was finally betrayed so ultimately by the one-eyed raider.

  Maks and his knife. The knife he probably used to kill Halvir and carve up Stern. Maybe to try killing her as she lay inert within the deathpriest’s illusion.

  Saja, lost and afraid. Captive now to Maks’ obfuscated purpose.

  The small town called Flowing Tears
, burnt flat. Wretched stink of scorched meat. Blackened wood.

  The draug, chasing them through the forest. Barking hoots letting loose their savage hunger.

  Further back, fighting on the Blue Ox, desperate for survival.

  The captain, claimed by the Shadowed Halls within sight of his beloved islands.

  Nemo, hatred laid bare across his face. Turning and diving to safety with no care as to how she’d reach shore. Knowing she couldn’t swim.

  Expecting her to drown.

  And now Lux. Cold-blooded and reptilian. Pretending humanity. Impatient and obsessed with a mysterious cause of his own. A cause he’d refused to share even as she’d pressed him for answers.

  “You have your secrets,” he’d growled. “I have mine.”

  All too often, she felt she was a cork in the ocean. Floating on the whim of an unseen hand. Since returning to find Talek murdered, she’d had no control.

  No direction.

  Frustration dribbled across the icy ball in her guts. Made her want to grab her knives and lash out. At Lux. At the town. At everything. To kill it all and stop the doubts and suspicions from eating her insides.

  She forced patience to emerge.

  Like a shark from murky waters it came to frighten everything to stillness. In the quiet dark, she felt her lungs expand and deflate, sending the weight of her worry free as she began the slow process of forcing calm. Of scanning the approaching buildings.

  Looking for a different kind of shark.

  A different kind of violence. An external one. One which needed to be countered.

  “Welcome to Cold,” Lux said sourly as they made it to the first line of shacks. Feeble and held together with bark rope and a few wooden pegs. Little more than tents made from wood instead of canvas. Windows dark and featureless. Empty eyes staring dull at the intruders.

  She spat at the house.

  Watched her spit hit the side and dribble down. “Looks like a shithole.”

  “Oh, it is,” the deathpriest said. Not quite with humour. He shuffled forward, tracing the ground ahead with his staff. “It is.”

  For the past few weeks there were many times the elf had thought she’d never see a town again. And while her stomach roiled at the stench being exhaled outward, her heart felt secretly gladdened to see the winding cluttered streets and ruthless-looking alleys. Ropes slung across the roads were draped with clothing being aired. Small bridges and walkways promised multiple levels to explore.

  Chimneys delivered thin plumes of smoke to the sky.

  Lanterns lit their way. Some hung from cords strapped across the street. Others slung beneath the eaves on hooks.

  A few clutters of people moved through the town, proving it wasn’t as empty as it had seemed from a distance. It was still early in the evening, so the townsfolk were either heading home for their meal, or enjoying themselves in front of the few stalls spread wide to display a variety of foods the locals probably considered delicacies. Mostly fish, she noticed with distaste.

  Dried fish. Smoked fish. Raw fish.

  Fish soup. Fish stew.

  Fried.

  Fish.

  Signs, brightly coloured and written in common Fnordic hung in front of some of large stalls and shops. Further into the town, the main street was more populated and the elf grunted, finally beginning to feel a little more comfortable in what resembled an urban environment.

  More than a few times, the deathpriest had to use his staff to full effect. Slapped an ankle or knee to clear anyone in his way. Those who thought to turn and bark at him were quickly cowed by his hooded figure.

  Whispers soon danced ahead of them.

  “Deathpriest!”

  She was also aware of more than a few sideways glances aimed at herself by the mostly-drab locals. Heard someone spit in her path once she’d walked past. Considered turning around and burying A Flaw in the Glass in his guts, but figured murder was better left to darker streets.

  On the main street, there were inns. Gambling dens.

  A Blacksmith finishing up for the night, forge still glowing bright.

  Hawkers cawing from their carts. Last minute sales.

  More fish.

  An old lady cooking noodles. Face looking like a withered strap of leather glued to a solid piece of rough granite. Granite which scowled.

  Cooking with deft twists of too-thin arms, she rapped the copper pan with a heavy ladle and screeched something too quick for the elf to catch. But there was no mistaking their meaning as steam wafted in front of Nysta’s nose. More smells which warred inside her nostrils as her stomach announced its hunger with sharp stabbing pains.

  Unsure of what she was looking for, she continued down the street, heading toward the docks. When she made the wharf, she looked out at the spiderweb of piers and wondered at the number of ships caught in its grip like brightly-coloured flies. It had looked unreal from high on the hill, but close-up, it was chaos.

  Men worked to load and unload cargo, bare backs gleaming with sweat as they worked in the fading light.

  A couple of guards eyed her from the edge of the crowd but seemed unwilling to approach.

  She paused there, looking out at a longboat sliding into the small cove. Black sails streaked with yellow stripes. Dragon on its prow glinting as it caught the harbour lights on the steel beaten across its wooden skull.

  Listened to the fluttering waves.

  Chatter of people

  Clatter of cargo.

  Dog barking.

  “What now?” Lux asked at last.

  “Fucked if I know,” she said. “You tell me. You’ve been here before. You wanted to come here.”

  “I didn’t like it the first time,” he growled. Then moved his head, listening carefully. Pointed to their left to a small row of buildings lining the wharf. “There’s a tavern down that way. A man is laughing in front of it. He sounds like a donkey.”

  She saw him. He was clutching his round belly as he laughed, stretching the grey fabric of his vest tight. Nodding, the elf said; “I see it.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he said. “But I can smell it. Their fish is good. Spiced and seasoned with particular skill. We can eat there. Drink, too. Perhaps they have somewhere you can rest. Then we can go to the temple. It’s on the other side of the hill near the fortress, I’m told. But the paths are treacherous and many lead nowhere. We may need a guide.”

  The small tavern was called The Cat’s Dinner. Painted on the sign, an elegant cat curled up against a plate with fishbones on it.

  The elf grunted, and pushed past the portly drunk and went inside.

  A few tables pressed against the right wall. The left side was a long extended bar stretching down the entirety of the narrow room. A handful of men gathered close at the end of it, nursing warm beers and sharing stories which had no doubt lost their polish a long time ago but no one was rude enough to say so.

  Dressed in the same drab shades of grey as most of the town, they were a selection of old sailors, or veteran raiders. Gnarled faces, weathered bones, and the odd missing limb.

  An ork also at the back, though he was set aside to a table of his own and hadn’t looked up.

  Heavy head resting across massive forearms. He snored in his sleep, mug set to his left and forgotten. Now and then, he flexed his fingers before bunching them into fists as though his dreams were filled bloody memories.

  The heavyset man behind the counter looked up as they entered.

  Scowled first at her, then widened his eyes at the blind deathpriest. Tugged his long black beard and ran fingers through greasy strands of what was left of his hair. Settled his features into an expression of deep resentment before calling; “Eatin’ or drinkin’?”

  “Both,” the deathpriest replied, managing to inject a brittle edge of contempt into his voice which wasn’t lost on the room.

  A few of the old timers shared nervous glances. One of the regulars quickly finished his drink before heading out the back door and into the eve
ning dark.

  “Go on, then. Pick a table,” the owner said. Tossed a rag sourly at the counter and turned to a sharp-faced young woman. Young enough to maybe be his daughter, though their resemblance was only slight. Her downturned mouth hardened as he spoke. “Trude. Get ‘em what they want.”

  “I ain’t servin’ her,” the woman said. “You do it yourself, Jakob.”

  “Well, I ain’t fuckin’ doin’ it.” He hissed, trying to keep from being heard. “And last time I looked, I fuckin’ owned this place.”

  “I don’t think they like you,” Lux said, finally putting some amusement into his voice. “That makes a change. Usually it’s me they’re trying to keep out. I’m bad for business, looking like I do. Being what I am. But they’re usually not stupid enough to say so.”

  “I’m worse for their business,” the elf said as she used her foot to move a seat into place and sat down. “Especially when I’m hungry.”

  “Are you hungry now?”

  “Fucking famished.” Turned her head slightly. Curled lip toward the scar on her cheek and slid Entrance Exam free. Dropped the slim throwing knife on the table in front of her. Raised her voice. “Reckon if I ain’t served soon, I might take it personal and start killing somebody.”

  “I’m fuckin’ comin’,” Trude snarled.

  Threw Jakob a look of disgust and headed toward the table. Muttered to herself, and the elf only caught one word. But it was enough to ignite a flash of hate in her belly.

  Hate which prickled the skin on the back of her neck as the worms slithered through her flesh in anticipation of violence.

  “We’ve got fish,” Trude snapped. Dumped a fork and spoon down for each of them. “Don’t be askin’ for anythin’ else, because that’s all we do. You want somethin’ else? Plenty of other places to eat hereabouts.”

  “I’ll take the fish,” the deathpriest said.

  “Fish, huh?” The elf raised an eyebrow. “It ain’t trout is it?”

  The woman looked like she wanted to spit. “No. We’re out of that. It’ll be salmon you’ll be havin’. Salmon. You want trout, you go somewhere else. What’s it to be, then?”

  “Fish.”