Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

by Lucas Thorn

  Her fingers tightened around the canvas. “I know what I’m doing,” she growled, more for herself than for him. Just saying it gave her a sense of assuredness.

  For about a second. Then the doubts whispered softly at the edge of her mind once more.

  “Alright, alright,” he grumbled, reluctantly easing out from under the blanket. He clung to his grimoire as though afraid it would leap from his hands. Let out a misty sigh.

  The elf dropped lightly to the snow and felt the cold immediately penetrate her boots to numb her toes. The wyrmskin leather wasn’t made for tramping across the blasted landscape of the Deadlands. They were city boots. Soft-soled and used to creep across rooftops and through the violent shadows of Lostlight’s many alleys.

  Her skin rippled as the cold snaked through the loosely tied bracer on her arm and she thought of tightening it, but she’d never felt comfortable with her right arm bound as tightly as her left. Couldn’t say why.

  Talek’s cloak provided some warmth, and the elf tried not to be swept away on the echo of his scent which clung to the fur. But it was a difficult struggle. Her knees felt weaker and her eyes threatened to let loose a torrent of tears as she approached the horses.

  She needed to control herself, she thought. Not let her emotions turn soft.

  Hold onto the thought of vengeance. Onto the anticipation of hearing their screams.

  Every scream, she told herself, would help fill the void left by Talek’s absence.

  But, for that to happen, she’d have to be tough. Harder than steel and colder than ice.

  Clamping her jaw firmly, the elf went through the process of freeing the animals from where they’d been tethered against an old log with old lengths of rope around their necks. They were compliant, and didn’t seem bothered by the sudden change of ownership.

  While there were no saddles, she found a pair of quilted blankets tucked inside a small compartment under the wagon and she tossed one over each back. She had nothing to use for reins, so figured she’d leave the tethers around their neck and haul on that if need be.

  Taking the bay mare, she swung up onto the horse and immediately felt out of her element.

  Horses weren’t her preferred mode of travel. In her life, she’d only used them maybe a dozen times, and each time she resented it more. She would have preferred to walk but in the freezing weather she figured anything which helped to catch up with Talek’s killers was tolerable, if not a good thing.

  The horse quivered beneath her. It wasn’t used to a rider, but seemed docile enough to accept her presence. She allowed it a few moments to adjust to her weight and used the time to button up her jacket and tie the cloak tightly around her chest.

  Chukshene emerged like a mole, squinting and shivering. He’d wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and over his head. Her first instinct was to flash him a wry grin. He looked like an old lady in his robes and old blanket.

  He tiptoed over the snow as if each step burnt his feet. “Grim’s mouldy balls,” he pulled the blanket tighter. “I thought Doom’s Reach was cold. But this is fucking evil! Cold goes right through your clothes and bites your skin.”

  “It’s the Deadlands,” shrugged the elf. “Live with it. Or die in it.”

  “Still full of cheer, aren’t you?” He rubbed at his face, trying to push some warmth into his cheeks. Then his eyes widened as she clicked her tongue to send the horse wheeling in direction of the path to Spikewrist. “Hey! Wait for me!”

  “Then move it, spellslinger,” she called back, not slowing.

  She heard him struggle to mount the smaller horse. He muttered about the lack of a saddle and gave a grunt of frustration as he tried to haul himself over the horse’s back. The animal snickered as it tested him by skipping in a semi-circle and then refusing to go where he wanted.

  Finally, he managed to assert control over what was, essentially, a rather docile gelding. Or, more likely, the animal was simply used to being beside the mare and decided to follow on its own. All the same, Chukshene was grinning triumphantly as the horse trotted eagerly after the elf.

  “It’s not so hard,” he bellowed into a sudden gust of wind. “I’m good with animals, you know. There’s a knack to it. A method. You’ve just got to let it know who’s boss!”

  He tugged on the tether, trying to nudge the gelding to the left of the elf, but it ignored the spellslinger. Flattening its ears, it headed right, obviously more used to being on the right side of the mare.

  Giving up, the mage tossed the tether aside in disgust and instead wrapped his arms around his chest to keep warm. The rope dangled uselessly from the horse’s long neck and eventually the knot tugged itself loose and it fell away.

  “Fuck you, then,” he said sourly, blowing into his fingers. “Piece of shit horse. Lucky I don’t fireball your head off. I could, you know. Melt it clean off.”

  “That’s the way, spellslinger,” she said with a lopsided smirk. “Make it an offer it can’t refuse.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The path to Spikewrist was as knotted and gnarled as the blistered trees which pressed against it.

  While she welcomed the thickening wall of trees for blocking much of the cold wind, there was an oppressiveness about them that made her stomach clench. As though they still carried the bitterness of having been destroyed by the fierce magics unleashed in the Godwars.

  Speckled with ice and their trunks ripped open, thoughts of death were unavoidable in this place and the elf soon found herself struggling to bottle up her feelings as she constantly thought about how she’d dug the hole in the ground in which Talek’s corpse lay.

  Shivering, Nysta nudged her horse forward despite its nervous whinny and kept her gaze firmly on the path ahead as she searched for any sign of Talek’s killers.

  The Deadlands was a place where the only law to be had was that of survival. It was for this reason that the elf kept a steady, but easy pace. She had no doubt the men she was pursuing would do the same.

  She figured they’d believe they had nothing to fear of retribution, so they wouldn’t be expecting anyone to follow. No law would hunt them down for the murder of a cripple.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits as she thought of her husband’s death and her knuckles whitened around the horse’s tether.

  “The trees,” the spellslinger said suddenly. His voice shocked her for a moment, and she realised she’d almost forgotten he was there. “You kind of expect them to come alive and start eating you. They’re so twisted and evil looking. Worse than trolls. I hate trolls.”

  “Magic,” Nysta said. She kneaded her eyes with her knuckles to ease the tension behind them. “Wasn’t just Rule and Grim who fought here. Rule’s clerics and Grim’s deathpriests fought here, too. This is what happens when you unleash your magic. You fuck everything up.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “Must have been a cunt of a fight,” he said. Paused, frowning at her back. “You don’t like mages, do you?”

  “Any reason I should?”

  “I guess not. We’re not the most adorable types, I guess. And I’ve gone through villages which would happily stone me if they thought they could get away with it. But you still sound more bitter than most. Sounds personal.”

  She rolled her shoulders and rubbed at the scar on her cheek. It felt like it was burning up and the elf wanted to tear at it with her nails and make it bleed.

  Instead, she forced herself to drop her hand to her thigh and kept her gaze sweeping across the path ahead. Felt numb as the memories returned from where they lay in a shallow pool under the surface of her mind.

  “Was a few years ago. We heard rumours,” she said dully. “Group of Grey Jackets had infiltrated the Inner City.”

  The spellslinger raised an eyebrow. The Grey Jackets were an army of Ruleist fanatics from the kingdom of Leibersland. More like cultists tha
n soldiers, but better equipped than most Caspiellan elite forces. “Grey Jackets in Lostlight? How is that even possible? It’s hard enough for a Fnord to get into the city, let alone a Caspiellan.”

  “Lostlight has changed, spellslinger,” she spat into the sluggish wind again. Thought her spit may have turned to ice before it touched earth. “With Grim fallen, the guilds have gotten more political. Everyone wants to rule. Some have even begun to openly eye the crown. They’re like ferrets in a sack these days. Some have it in their thick heads that Rule can give them what they want. Add to that, the Grey Jackets are recruiting. And they’re promising forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness?” Chukshene snorted. “Forgiveness for what?”

  “For being Tainted. Seems Rule might overlook the fact we’re not human, if we’re willing to submit. There’s more to it, of course. But we never found out what. Only that the Grey Jackets are preaching, and even some orks are listening.”

  “Orks?” his voice rose incredulously. “That’s got to be bullshit. Who’d believe anything Rule promised? He killed Grim. His own brother!”

  “And his sister,” she reminded him.

  At mention of the goddess who’d fallen centuries before Grim, the mage shrugged. The goddess Veil had always been closer to the elfs than the other races. It was her closeness to the elfs which Rule used as an excuse to kill her. That she herself was Tainted.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I always forget her.”

  “Lostlight was her city. It’s why we never retreated beyond the Great Wall. Too much pride? Or too fucking stupid to let things go? Doesn’t matter much now, I guess. Not many remember her name anymore outside an inn. And the tales they tell are usually of her lost armies. What happened to them when she fell. The story of The Seven Lords of Endless Dark. Gaket and the Lichspawn. The Man Called Mercy. How, one day, they’ll rise again and save us all from Rule. Just legends. Stories for children and drunks. In other words, bullshit. Doesn’t take a genius to see it’s too late now. Grim’s fall had nothing to do with it. Lostlight was lost a long time ago. We never cared as much about the Dark Lord. What did he ever give to us? He’s a Fnordic god. Besides, Grim and Rule always hated each other. One of them was bound to die in the end,” she said. “Only way it could go. I figure if Grim could have, he’d have killed Rule first. But that ain’t how it ended up. Now Rule wants to see us destroyed. It ain’t easy to fight a god. Some say we shouldn’t even try. But others say we have to because he promised the world to humans. To your kind. Far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”

  “My kind?” Chukshene growled. “Humans around these parts are hardly my kind. This far south, most of them are Caspiellans anyway. At best, they’re halfbreeds and bound to hold sympathies in a Ruleist direction. Like that guy back there whose chest you ripped open. But you come north, Long-ear. You come north and see what the Fnords think of Rule’s promise. Better still, write it on a fucking wall and watch us piss on it. We’ll never bend to Rule, no matter what forgiveness he offers. He’ll have to kill us all. And even then, we’ll keep fighting him.”

  “If you say so, spellslinger,” she ducked under an overhanging branch and waved a hand dismissively. “Any case, we heard the Tolmek’Jadean had made a deal. Didn’t believe it at first. Who’d think any guild would try assassinating the King himself? We could have gone in, of course. Taken out the Tolmek. Maybe got a few Grey Jackets as dessert. But Jutta’s a greedy old fuck. He wanted them all. So we let them enter the Inner City. Let them make it as far as the palace. Then, in one swoop, the Musa’Jadean took the Tolmek while we took the rest. Was a simple plan. Bound to fuck up when you think about it.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “The Grey Jackets split up. There’s three roads leading to the palace. Most of them took the middle, but they were just fodder. Bunch of cultists playing at soldier. Figuring their faith could make them invincible, they died quickly. But I was on the east wall. I saw the fifteen soldiers heading up the left path. And the mage forking off to the right. The soldiers were armed to the teeth. More mail than a dwarf stronghold. They’d dropped their cloaks to show off their colours. They knew they were going to their death, but they’d sworn to take Jutta with them. Reckon they were some of the best the Jackets had, so they had an even chance of doing it. There I was, up on the wall. A choice to make. Take the soldiers. Or the spellslinger. I had a choice. The easy or the hard,” she felt the shame bubbling in the back of her neck. Felt his eyes on her, but kept her face against the freezing wind scraping the heat from her cheeks. “I took the easy path.”

  “I wouldn’t agree. Attacking a mage is no easy thing.”

  “That’s why I took the soldiers.”

  He nearly fell off his horse. “You what? On your own? Fifteen?”

  “Was a tough fight,” she admitted grimly. Rubbed at the scar again, unable to leave it alone. “It’s where I got this. Last one stuck his sword in my face. Guess I was lucky. Nearly took my eye. I figured someone else would see the spellslinger and deal with him. Didn’t count on him getting all the way to the throne room. He must’ve been good. He went through four of Jutta’s mages and a deathpriest. Hardly broke a sweat.”

  “Shit.”

  “Talek was right there. Always at the King’s side. He stood in front of Jutta and faced the spellslinger. Was hit three times by magefire. But he ignored the pain and charged. Killed the bastard. Split him right up the middle.”

  “Fuck,” Chukshene’s fingers were white as he clutched his grimoire. “Three times? Grim’s balls, he must have been one tough son of a bitch.”

  She nodded. The pride she felt for her husband was tempered by the shame she felt for her failures. Her eyes burned but she clenched her jaw and felt her teeth grip each other hard. When she spoke, her voice was through tight lips. “When it was over, the mage was dead. Talek was burned. I heard his screams from the other side of the city. If I’d chosen to take the spellslinger as I should’ve…”

  “That’s stupid,” he said. “You did more than your fair part by the sound of it. And Talek was a guard. That’s his job. To protect the King. And he did it. Well, by your account. What could be more honourable than that? If you’d gone after the mage, there’s nothing saying he wouldn’t have melted your ass off and you’d have died and the same fucking thing would’ve happened to Talek anyway. Blaming yourself for it is ridiculous.”

  “It’s the truth,” she said simply. “I could have prevented it.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. But I know the reason I didn’t try.”

  “Why?”

  The elf looked at him. “I was afraid.”

  The words were colder in her ears than the breath of Winter whipping through the trees. She could feel echoed of the fear which had riveted her to the spot those years ago. Left her struggling to decide which path to take. And which, finally, led her away from the sight of the white-robed mage wading up the right path, his hands glowing brightly with power.

  “Afraid? Of a Ruleist mage and more than a dozen troops?” Chukshene swatted a few thin twigs hanging low as he passed, though his gaze firmly held hers. “Who the fuck wouldn’t be? If it were me, I’d have shat myself and run in the other fucking direction!”

  “But I’m not you,” she said, brushing her fingers against a few of the knotted rags in her hair. “I should’ve chewed that fucking spellslinger up and spat his fucking bones out on the courtyard for the dogs to fight over. It’s what I was trained to do.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” the spellslinger said. His shoulders slumped a little and he tapped his grimoire a few times before speaking again. “We’ve all had to make choices in the grip of fear. Me, I was at Ghostfear Keep nine years ago wh
en the Great Wall was breached. If you think I look stupid now, you should’ve seen me then. A pimple-faced apprentice clinging to my master’s dick like it was a fucking lifeline. The Dark Lord had fallen only a month before. Everyone was running in every which fucking direction. No one knew who to fight, or whether we should even try. The Black Blades broke through Doomgate and tried taking the Keep. We were surrounded for five days until orks from Brokebone arrived and took back the gate. Pushed them back through the wall. But we didn’t know at the time reinforcements were on their way. Didn’t know if we even had a reason for fighting other than survival. I guess, when it comes down to it, there aren’t many other reasons to fight. No reasons worth shit anyway. The Black Blades had three mages and a cleric. All we had were my master and me. And what good was I? I was still struggling to read a spell, let alone cast one. And there I was, the only fucking thing between three Ruleist mages and the men who depended on us.”

  “It’s not the same,” Nysta insisted. “You didn’t have to make a choice.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I didn’t. I had to make a million. Every fucking day. Choice after choice. Do I bother to put up a fucking ward here, or there? Or, because I’m too fucking tired, do I just forget one of them? And guess what, Long-ear? I forgot more than one. I forgot seventeen of the fuckers. I remember that exact number because every time I forgot, they cut through the walls and killed dozens of men. Others were horribly mutilated. The lucky ones died later. So, you could say I’m responsible for more than a few hundred deaths in one way or another. But I don’t sit around snivelling about it. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I did my fucking best. And that’s that. I’m not Grim. I’m not a fucking god. I did my best, and no amount of fucking crying in the wind is going to bring those soldiers back. They died, Long-ear. But without me, many more would have died. You reckon choosing to attack the soldiers was the weaker choice? Well, for me, it’s fucking impressive. Fifteen armed men? In armour? Fuck that shit. Even now, with what I know, they’d still probably cut me to ribbons. And I’m sure it wasn’t as easy as you make it sound,” he rubbed his hands together and struggled to keep his blanket from falling to the ground.