Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) Page 10

by Lucas Thorn

  She toyed with one of the strips of cloth in her hair. Looked at it. The fragment had a small spot of blood on the corner. She remembered the feel of the sword ripping into her cheek.

  At the time it went in, she thought she was dead.

  Thought the blade had gone through her mouth and into her brain.

  But she was lucky. He’d slipped in a sodden patch of gore and died hard, choking on A Flaw in the Glass. The joy she’d felt coursing cleanly through her veins as his life fled was swiftly erased when she heard the first scream.

  Talek’s scream.

  And she’d run. So fast. But she couldn’t run fast enough. Leaping the small courtyard wall. Sliding through the shattered remains of the palace’s gates.

  Seeing the bodies of Talek’s men sprawled like roasted pigs.

  Blood everywhere.

  Stepping on something wet. Looking down in horror at strips of melted flesh flayed from his body.

  Talek. Writhing as magefire consumed him.

  Still screaming.

  And at his feet, the mage she’d figured someone else would kill. Well, now they’d killed him. Only, the wounds left would scar not only her husband, but her soul.

  Time and time again she dreamt the dream of running that race. Running until she woke, lungs seared and throat raw from screaming.

  Angrily, the elf scrubbed at the fresh tears threatening to burn the corners of her eyes. “You don’t know shit,” she growled.

  “Actually,” he leaned back, balancing lazily on the horse. “I know shit when I smell it. And it smells pretty fucking bad coming from you. You’re feeling sorry for yourself. Now, I understand you feeling like shit because your husband was cut down by a bunch of assholes. Understand you want revenge and all that. But this self pity? I don’t get it. It isn’t you. Or is it? I misjudge you, Long-ear? That tough exterior of yours, is it all for show? You actually all gooey in the middle? A whining emotional – dare I say it? - little girl pretending to be something she’s not?”

  Her hand trembled in fury, hovering over Go With My Blessing. An inch away from tearing it free and sending the blade streaking through the air to ventilate his head.

  “Reckon you should quit flapping your mouth now,” she said, her voice dropping through the air like chips of glass.

  “You do, do you?” the spellslinger sat straighter, grabbing a fistful of mane to keep from falling. “Truth is always hard to swallow, right? You thought you’d get pity from me? Maybe I’d see you as a damaged little waif just trying to make her way? Well. I’ve got news for you, Long-ear. You’re not the only one who had a shit life and got fucked for it. You’re not the only one who lost someone. But seems to me you’ve two choices in life. You can either swallow that self pity, or keep spitting at yourself in the mirror. Which one are you going to do?”

  Go With My Blessing was cool in her hand as her fingers squeezed around the handle. The snarl in the back of her throat, however, died quickly as she fought for and won control.

  Her eyes flashed in his direction before she shot her gaze back to the path twisting through the army of lifeless trees. Caught the smell of something sour on the wind and wrinkled her nose. Her fingers loosened their grip on the tether.

  “Might be right,” she allowed through tight lips. “But you want to be careful, spellslinger. I ain’t in the mood for any kind of intervention. So shut it, uh?”

  “That’s it, girl,” he sighed. “Keep spitting. But it’s your face you’re getting wet. And all that venom’s likely to eat through it quicker than a fireball. Might be a bright side, though. At least you’d have an excuse for being ugly. Although, you’ll have to wear a mask to stop frightening children. If you don’t wear one already.”

  The elf scratched the palm of her hand and allowed the corner of her lip to curl dangerously up toward the scar.

  An emotion she couldn’t identify, but which was akin to both fear and excitement, sliced neatly up her guts before drilling warmly into her skull.

  “I got no regrets,” she said. “Now, if you’ve finished playing with words, spellslinger, you might like to open that book of yours to reveal a different kind of truth, if you get me?”

  “What? Nysta, I was only joking,” he paled, awkwardly fumbling with his grimoire and nearly dropping it into the snow.

  Realising he’d mistaken her meaning, the elf shook her head. Gave him a firm glance. “Mean it’s time for a duet, not a duel. You could be right. Maybe I ate it all and spat it out. But we got no time to chew on doubts right now. So you keep your advice for the fellers in Doom’s Reach and summon up some of that old black magic,” she spat as she powered off the horse to hit the ground running. Slapped her hand to Entrance Exam and sent the slim blade screaming through the trees with an efficient underarm throw. “Because out here, we do it my way.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A yelp of pain exploded from the shadows behind the trees as the blade sank deep into flesh.

  Following the blade, the elf was a blur of movement. She skipped over a splintered branch without slowing. Spun around the trunk of one tree, dislodging ice, and hissed as she filled her fists with A Flaw in the Glass and Fulci’s Last Joke.

  “Wait!” a voice shouted. A big voice. Heavy and booming, but echoing with pain. “Stop! I don’t want to fight.”

  “Get out here, then,” the elf said through her teeth. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “You’ve fucking killed me!”

  “At best, I tickled your shoulder. At worst, I put a hole in it. And, ten seconds from now I’ll be using your skull for a beer mug if you don’t get the fuck out here right now!”

  The figure lumbered tentatively out of the shadows, looming over her like a massive gorilla. Chukshene sucked air as he caught sight of the ork, and even Nysta felt a thrill of fear.

  He was bigger than any ork she’d ever seen. Each arm looked thicker than her torso and with one swipe he could break one of the horses in half.

  The muscle rippling over his body made him look heavily armoured. As though nothing could hurt him. His face couldn’t have gotten uglier if he fell on it, and with the heavy jaw and swollen brow he looked like the meanest creature in the whole of the Deadlands.

  The jutting dagger embedded in his bicep looked no more life-threatening than a splinter, but he inched forward with the look of someone about to fall over and die. The thin trickle of blood dribbled down his arms and dusted the snow with red.

  The elf shook her head, amazed that such a creature could look so brutal, yet so cowardly at the same time.

  “What’d you do that for?” he moaned. “I didn’t fucking do anything!”

  “Anyone else in there?” the elf lifted her enchanted blade, keeping the point aimed at his eye.

  He sniffed. “I look like someone who likes company?”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “Waiting for you to go the fuck past! What else? Why’d you stick me? Grim’s fucking eyes, this hurts. Is it poisoned? Have you poisoned me, elf? It feels poisoned. I can feel it burning!”

  She kept his wounded gaze for a moment, before deciding he was probably a lot more harmless than he looked. “Let me see,” she stepped forward, suddenly bold. Slid her blades back into their sheaths and reached up. Had to stand on her toes to reach. Grabbed the jutting handle and jerked it free.

  A quick spray of warm blood arced across the ground with a dull splatter.

  “What the fuck?” the ork howled, dancing back in pain. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to run at her, or away. But seemed to prefer backing away. “Fuck! Why’d you do that?”

  She ran the knife through the snow to clean it before sliding it into its sheath. Shrugging, she moved back to her horse. “I wanted it back.”

  “Poor fucker,” Chukshene si
ghed. “You going to apologise to him?”

  “What for?”

  “You just put a knife in his arm.”

  “So? He shouldn’t have been skulking around the fucking path, should he?”

  Vaulting onto the horse, she ignored its nervous whinny and urged it forward. Stamping the snow, the horse trotted forward, eager to be away from the fresh scene of violence.

  The ork tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, muttering as he wrapped his wound. He looked up as they slowly moved past. “Hey!” he called. “You heading to Spikewrist?”

  “Yeah,” Chukshene had to twist around to face him. “It far from here?”

  “Well,” he tugged at the ragged mop of reddish hair. “Kinda. But I wouldn’t go there if I were you. Not if you paid me a thousand gold pieces.”

  The elf wheeled her horse. “What do you mean?”

  “You know,” the ork scowled at her and gently patted his wound. “I ain’t so sure I wanna tell you shit.”

  “I’m sure I wanna pin your other fucking arm, though,” she countered.

  “Alright, alright,” he lifted his good arm in defence. “No need to be so fucking hostile. Shit, Long-ear. You rile easy.”

  The spellslinger shot her a disgusted look and held his hand out in a peaceful gesture to the morose-looking ork. “Let’s start again, shall we? I’m Chukshene, and this foul-tempered excuse for an elf is Nysta. She’s having a hard week. Her husband was murdered and she’s chasing his killers. Makes her a bit tetchy. Also, she doesn’t look to be much of a morning person.”

  “Killed her mate, huh? Well. Guess that’d piss most people off,” the ork said as he squatted in the snow. Crossed his massive arms over his knees. Though he spoke to the mage, he kept his gaze cautiously trained on the nonchalant elf. “Name’s Rockjaw. Folks at Spikewrist named me that. Had a name before, but I don’t want it no more.”

  “What was it?”

  “You ain’t from the Deadlands, are you, spellchucker?” The ork grunted, scratching his scalp.

  “No. Here by accident. Well. It’s hard to explain.”

  “No one uses their real name in these parts. Only folks out here are smugglers, thieves and fugitives. Fugitives from the law. Or from life? It don’t matter. Criminals, all. Lowest of the low. This is why they call it the Deadlands. We’re all dead. That right, ain’t it, elf? Just don’t got the sense to lie down. Look around, spellchucker. This place is a fucking cemetary.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Ain’t that bad?” the ork barked a bitter laugh. “You blind as well as fucked in the head? Grim and Rule fought for a thousand years all over this place. The ground ain’t sand here, spellchucker. It’s the ashes of the dead. Too many soldiers fought here. Too many died. Always it’s the soldiers who die. Couldn’t bury them all, so they burned their bodies to keep the ground flat enough to keep fighting on. That’s officer thinking, right there. But if you look closely, you can sometimes see teeth. And worse. Don’t believe me? Look to the trees, spellchucker. Look to the trees and weep if you got feelings.”

  Chukshene cast his gaze around, but slowly began to suspect the ork was mad. He glanced at the elf, expecting to see a grin on her face, but her glittering violet eyes were locked on Rockjaw.

  “I don’t get it,” the spellslinger said. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

  The ork slapped a meaty hand against a tree close at hand. The twisted branches shuddered and snow powdered down. “Look closer!”

  And Chukshene saw it.

  Hanging from the high branches, a skeleton covered in rot. Dusted lightly in snow, it blended perfectly with the blistered branches. It was like seeing a puzzle’s solution for the first time. His eyes widened.

  There were bodies everywhere, caught in the trees. Their limbs, broken or hanging loose. Scraps of clothing and rusted armor clung to their bones.

  The scars of a once beautiful forest were a grotesque testament to death.

  “Oh, fuck,” he gagged.

  “They’re everywhere,” the ork sighed. The sadness in his voice was heavy, and the elf wondered if he’d been a soldier himself. “Welcome to the Deadlands. The biggest graveyard in the world. This forest stretches for days to the west. The soldiers were dusted, spellchucker. By magefire. But the important ones. Emperors, kings, dukes and all their fucking merry men. Too good for dusting, weren’t they? Good enough for soldiers to be dusted. They’re just fucking commoners. Forgotten folks. Nothing. But ain’t right to dust an officer, right? But there weren’t the space nor the time to build tombs. So they dangled them from trees to keep watch on the armies. The smell must have been awful. Nothing new there. Officers all smell bad. All the shit they speak.”

  “You said Spikewrist ain’t safe,” the elf interrupted. “Why?”

  “When were you there last?”

  She shrugged. “Five, six months. Place is a shithole.”

  “Won’t argue that. But it’s worse now. At least when it was a shithole, it was a town. With people in it,” he shivered, though probably not from the cold. “Things live in it now. Evil things. Don’t get me wrong, the people there weren’t always the friendliest. But whatever’s in there now is evil.”

  Chukshene tore his gaze away from the trees. “Bandits?”

  “We’re all bandits around here,” the ork said with a grim smile. “But it weren’t bandits, no. I was lucky to get out alive.”

  “What happened?” the elf asked, rubbing at the scar on her cheek. She lifted one leg and crossed it over the horse’s back and leaned laconically toward the ork.

  “Front gates were open. Should’ve noticed that. Didn’t,” he shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Hollered for the guard. He didn’t come. Got close enough to see the windows, though. They were black. So black, I thought they’d come alive, you know? Gave me the fucking creeps so bad. I was gonna leave. Right then. But then I saw him. This feller was standing on the porch. Didn’t notice him before. He was looking right at me, though. And, I swear to you, Long ear, that man was a demon straight from the deepest chasms of the Shadowed Halls.”

  “What’d he do?” Chukshene licked his dry lips.

  “Nothing.”

  The spellslinger sat back in surprise. Threw Nysta a glance before frowning at the ork. “Nothing? That’s it? No flames spitting from his mouth? No fireballs from his fists? Just stood there? And you ran from that?”

  The ork spat a thin stream of spit into the snow. Looked up at the mage and shook his head. “Ain’t no right way I can explain it, spellchucker. But that weren’t it. Wish it were. I was all froze up at the gates and then they started coming out of the houses. Slowly. So slow it was like watching the fog roll in. But it weren’t fog. Were creatures. Creatures who looked like people, but they ain’t. Coming out of the houses like the dead from their graves. Worse than the local Draugs. I tell you, you can get used to Draugs. So long as they don’t get close. But this. Never. This was the fucking worst. Their eyes were empty pits. I turned then. And I ran like Rule and a horde of clerics was on my ass. Kept running until I heard you. Then I hid. You could’ve been one of them, for all I knew.”

  His eyes grew more haunted as he spoke, and the elf felt a small pang of regret at drilling his arm. She looked away, her eyes skimming the trees.

  “You see a bunch of fellers?” she asked slowly. “Probably nine of them. Elfs. On horseback. Bastard at the front has red hair.”

  The ork shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t seen shit.”

  “And you kept the trail out from Spikewrist?”

  The ork clicked his tongue and gave his head another shake. “Came through Hadrian Falls. Was the quickest route out of town. Only got back onto the trail an hou
r ago.”

  “Obliged,” the elf said, running her fingers through her hair. Then added, reluctantly; “Sorry about the arm.”

  He shrugged. “It’ll heal.”

  She accepted the graciousness of the ork with a nod of her head and kicked her heels into the horse to send it forward down the path without another word.

  Chukshene scratched his head and followed.

  “Hey!” the ork called. “You’re not still going there? Didn’t you listen to me, you fools? It ain’t fucking safe!”

  Ignoring the ork’s shouts, the elf rolled her shoulders.

  Chukshene looked back nervously, but kept pace with the elf. He brought his horse up close beside her.

  The ork watched, an incredulous look on his face, then threw his hands into the air in resignation. Spat in their direction and stomped off into the trees, muttering to himself.

  The spellslinger studied her determined expression. “Can’t talk you out of this, can I?”

  “Don’t reckon so,” she said. “Trail forks soon. One heads east toward Locktooth on the coast. Ain’t much, but a few traders use it. You can get a ride with one to Lostlight. Ain’t hard to get to the Wall from there. Up to you where you go after that. I don’t give a shit.”

  “Thanks,” he said, picking at his grimoire. “But I’ll stick with you.”

  “Any reason, spellslinger?”

  “Just that. I’m a, uh, mage. If there’s something going on in this town like Rockjaw said, then I want to see it. I didn’t become what I am because I had nothing to do. I had this disease called curiosity. Can’t help it,” he sounded tired all of a sudden. “I’m just not sure I’ll be much help to you.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, unsure why she was saying it. “Just be ready to melt heads.”

  “That’s the bit that worries me. Closest I ever got to melting anyone’s head was yesterday when I nearly took yours off. And that was an accident. I’m not a good mage, Nysta. You could say my skills lie in other areas,” he licked his lips, obviously reluctant to say more. “But I’ll do my best. I guess what I’m saying is I might not be the best partner you’re bound to find out here, but I’m about all you’ve got right now. And if what the ork said is true, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

 

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