Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) Page 11

by Lucas Thorn

  “Best you study while there’s still light, then,” she looked up at the dark clouds boiling overhead. It would be getting colder soon, she thought. If it was possible for the air to be more merciless. Even the frozen flakes of snow shivered as they started to fall. “I reckon it’s gonna be an exciting night out.”

  He pulled his blanket close and blew into his hands. The steam puffed out through his fingers and he winced. “Doesn’t sound like my idea of a party, though.”

  With a grunt of agreement, the elf slid a small stone from her belt and began sliding it along the cold edge of Entrance Exam. Over the next few hours she planned to do the same to all her blades. Her mind cleared as she started to work, though her eyes still skipped actively over the ash-coloured ground.

  The sound of the sharpening stone along the razor edge made the spellslinger shudder. “You have to do that?”

  “Relax, Chukshene,” she said. “Tonight, the town’s gonna be painted red. Best we have our tools ready so we’re the ones brushing them all aside.”

  “I get the picture,” he said drily.

  “That’s enough,” the elf drawled. “Don’t draw it out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nysta kept her troubled thoughts to herself as they rode the knotted paths toward Spikewrist. The lifeless trees cramped them in, and she was often reminded of the tight alleys of Lostlight. A similar feeling of dread and claustrophobia made the space between her shoulders itch. Enough so that, despite her thirst to catch Raste and his men, she forced herself to slow her pace.

  There was a chance she would lose them if they passed the town before she did. Also a chance they’d fall to whatever evil had taken residence there.

  But the elf had no desire to rush into a nest of unfamiliar demons without some caution.

  In the Deadlands, encounters with demons were expected. There was no doubt in her mind that the ork had seen one or two in his time. Demons were drawn here by the magics unleashed by the warring gods.

  It was thought they fed on it.

  But something about the breed which infested Spikewrist had unsettled the ork. And she knew from experience that not much unsettled an ork.

  To think an entire town might have fallen to demons wasn’t something she would take lightly, but it still seemed unlikely. Demons preferred to hunt alone. They were savage by nature, and unwilling to share their kill. Whatever could force them to congregate would have to be powerful.

  Or it could be that whatever waited in Spikewrist was something else.

  And anything else was always bound to end up being worse.

  She turned her mind back to Raste, summoning an image of him in her mind. His youthful face and red hair. Arrogant strut. Her teeth ground hard against each other and her fist absently gripped the hilt of A Flaw in the Glass.

  Why had he come all this way to kill Talek?

  Spite?

  She wouldn’t put it past him.

  The fact there were nine of them made sense and she wondered how many of the stories were true. Snarled at the small flicker of fear which uncoiled inside her as she thought of their reputation. Knew it would be well-deserved, too.

  The Bloody Nine.

  A violent splinter in the ass of the Musa’Jadean. Trained by the most lethal assassins ever known, the Jukkala’Jadean.

  She knew he’d risen in their ranks years ago. It figured. He always was a slippery motherfucker, she thought. Made it easy for him to climb greasy poles and she had no doubt it had been his intention to rise to the top of the Musa’Jadean.

  Nysta found herself gnawing more and more on the skin inside her cheek as they squeezed along the cramped path. While not as efficient as the Jukkala, the Nine had earned a reputation for brutal combat.

  Grudgingly, she admitted to the rumours he was supposed to be good with a knife.

  His viciousness was a reputation Raste had taken one step further with the massacre at Logen’s Run.

  The Musa’Jadean had tried hiding his name. It was the only loyalty they showed him. But she’d always known it was him. He echoed the cold brutality of his father.

  She wondered, for the first time, if she shouldn’t just turn back.

  Let it go.

  Talek would understand.

  “You sure you want to go there at night?” the spellslinger asked suddenly, breaking her thoughts.

  “Demons are hunters of men,” she said with a light nod of her head. “Means they’re only active when their prey is. Usually not awake much at night no matter what old wives say.”

  The spellslinger threw her an odd look. “Usually? That’s quite a fucking leap of faith,” he said carefully. “I can tell you know fuck all about demons. That they sleep at night like everyone else? That’s your hope?”

  “It’s what I’m going with,” she confirmed. “Unless you got a better idea? Always willing to learn.”

  For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. Then shrugged instead. “I ain’t got shit.”

  “Guess there’s nothing in your book that’ll help, either?”

  “Here and there,” he said. “Question is more how much time I get to cast. Some spells take time. More time than I think I’ll get. I’m still not fast enough to cast like a master. Sorry.”

  The elf said nothing. Uncomfortable as she was with mages, she pushed her feelings aside to save for when she’d need them. For now, she was willing to accept she might need him and, unproven as he was, he was all she had. Grimly, she set her jaw and told herself that to kill Raste, she’d use Rule himself.

  The trees suddenly gave way as though a line had been drawn in the land. Chukshene breathed a sigh, relieved to be free of the ghastly embrace of the forest. The horses, too, seemed less skittish and took to the widening path with lighter steps.

  “Glad to be out of that,” Chukshene said.

  “Keep your eyes open, spellslinger,” she said softly. “Ain’t much in the trees could hurt you, but out here, there’s plenty.”

  “Thanks,” he winced. “Just what I need. More shit to be afraid of. Like I don’t have enough.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They rode over a steep, but small hill shaped like a squatting spider. The path zigzagged over its back and angled sharply down onto a wide plain where only a few splintered trunks remained to show it had once been a forest as thick as the one they abruptly emerged from.

  Smacked into the middle of the plain, the town of Spikewrist was little more than a scattering of small buildings huddled together for warmth inside a tall stone wall.

  A wide gate swallowed the path and the elf could see even from this distance that the gates were open.

  Not a good sign.

  Uneven and littered with steep hills and gullies, the ground was the same ashen colour as much of the Deadlands. Snow sprawled in ghostly clumps across the plain. Dry twigs stuck up from between many rocks but if there had ever been anything alive out here, it’d long since died and turned to dust.

  There were, she figured, many places to hide in the trenches carved into the plain. Like scars criss-crossing an already wounded face, the narrow channels had been dug by armies long since dead and each line closer to the town had no doubt been carved at great cost in blood.

  Scanning them with narrow eyes, the elf could almost feel the ghosts which surely haunted this place and wondered if perhaps they had tired of huddling in the damp ditches and sought the warmth of the town.

  Wondered, too, if anything alive was waiting for them to pass. She half expected an army to rise up from the trenches and charge toward them.

  Quickly dismissed the thought as a fear-driven fancy, confidant that whatever waited for them was inside the town itself rather than hidden in the treacherous landscape surrounding the town.

  Her eyes swept further across the gloom-drenched land, searching for sign
of the nine she was hunting, but saw no signs of life.

  No tracks. No trees.

  Just grey stone and white snow as far as she could see. It looked like a shimmering sea of salt surrounding the doomed town.

  “Doesn’t look inviting,” the spellslinger said. “You know, even if I hadn’t been told demons were running amok inside that place, I still wouldn’t want to go there. Looks like a trollish whorehouse. Can’t we go around? You really think those bastards you’re chasing are stupid enough to go inside? And who are they, anyway? What did you mean when you called them the Bloody Nine? Is that some kind of gang name? We get gangs in Doom’s Reach, too.”

  “They were Musa’Jadean. A guild of honoured warriors. The Bloody Nine are led by a feller named Raste. He took them to fame, fortune, and the King’s favour. All that bullshit. But favours change, and all it takes is one mistake. The Nine made theirs when they butchered a town down to the last child in ways even the Jukkala were revolted by. Town wasn’t even Caspiellan. The Musa’Jadean expelled them. Jutta would’ve put a price on their heads. But Raste’s family is powerful. Reckon that’s why the king settled on exile instead. It was a long time ago,” she spat irritably at a skull half-buried in the ground. “Figured they’d gone their own way. Disappeared up north or something. Seems they stayed together. Or, could be Raste just kept the name. Likes to make an impression, does Raste.”

  “If not soldiers, then what are they now? Or don’t I want to know?”

  The elf shrugged. “Bandits? Mercenaries? Who gives a fuck? Just another pack of vicious bastards roaming the Deadlands. Plenty more fellers like them out here. They’re nothing special.”

  “Nothing special,” he echoed, obviously not believing her words any more than she believed herself. “Since when do a bunch of mean bastards responsible for a massacre translate into nothing special?”

  “Relax, Chukshene,” she said tightly, kicking the mare forward. It responded with a sullen lurch. “I’m meaner.”

  They rode side by side down the path. While she didn’t believe the Bloody Nine would be stupid enough to go into the town, there was enough of a possibility they had.

  They’d need fresh supplies. That they’d taken one of her goats was sign of how low they must have been. And, out here, there wasn’t much else to eat unless you figured on eating each other.

  Reluctantly, she admitted to herself it was also very possible they hadn’t survived. That they were already dead. If not by whatever haunted the town, then by any number of savage creatures which roamed the land. A group of nine could attract all kinds of hungry evil out here.

  Rage trickled through her veins like mercury through water at the thought of being cheated of her vengeance. She would have to live her life feeling she’d failed Talek.

  Again.

  Her jaw steeled. If they’d entered the town and whatever was in it had killed Raste and his band of murderers, then she swore she’d kill every last demon in the place.

  Kill everything in the Deadlands.

  Still smouldering in hate, she didn’t notice the mage growing more and more disturbed until he started muttering to himself and flicking through the pages of his grimoire. She glanced at him as he held his hand up toward the town, feeling it out.

  She’d seen enough of magecraft to know what he was doing. Scrying, they called it. Tasting the air.

  An acrid smell wafted on the frozen wind and the elf wrinkled her nose. The smell of magic. Her guts twisted as the stench of it made her think of Talek’s shattered body and she fought her instinct to pull a knife. Wrench his head back and slit his throat.

  The spray of blood, she snarled inwardly, would be most satisfying.

  Tearing her gaze away, the elf returned to staring at the town drifting closer. Its walls were blackened as though smeared with smoke. But she couldn’t see any evidence of a fire. It was as if the walls were stained with something darker than shadows.

  She didn’t like it.

  Her fingers dug deep into her pocket and wrapped around Talek’s box. She was getting used to the feel of it nestled in the warmth of her jacket and there was something vaguely comforting in its presence. As though Talek was with her in some small way.

  The icy coldness of it felt strange between her fingertips, but it didn’t feel the same as the icy coldness of the wind gnashing at her cheeks. It was more fresh. Somehow a little more crisp.

  One fingertip found a light groove in the wood. The alien runes. She traced them absently, her mind drifting like the snow peppering the air.

  Her thumb pressed against one of the iron straps.

  Softly, almost tentatively, Talek’s box pulsed.

  Shocked, the elf froze and her horse breathed a soft whinny as it felt her sudden shift in mood. Her heart raced as she remembered how the box had felt before. And now, in her fingers, it was growing colder again. Colder than ice. Perhaps cold enough to burn her skin.

  It pulsed one more time.

  Possessed with the sudden urge to pull it free and break it open, she scrambled to drag it free from her pocket. Her mouth opened and her brain, though it screamed at her to leave the box where it was, fumbled for an explanation as to what was happening.

  “There’s something wrong,” Chukshene said, shattering everything.

  The elf froze, her heart stopping. “What?”

  “The town,” he jerked his head toward the stained walls. “I’m not sure, but there’s something wrong. Very wrong. It doesn’t feel right.”

  Shaking her head to clear the fog from her mind, the elf let go of the box and slid her hand from her pocket and rested it on her thigh. “Yeah, well. It wouldn’t feel right. It’s full of demons. They ain’t known for feeling right.”

  “That’s just it,” he said quietly. “I have to tell you something, Long-ear. I’ve been lying my ass off to you since we met. Told you I’m not much of a mage. That’s true. I’m shit at it. I came out here to study, and I don’t mean fireballs. That was an accident. See? You do get a little truth from me sometimes. I came here because it’s said this place is cursed. That there’s more demons here than anywhere else in the world. So, who’d notice if someone summoned a few more, right?”

  She halted her mount and glared at him. Her mouth was dry and a suspicion spiralled between her shoulders like a length of razorwire. “What the fuck are you talking about, Chukshene?”

  “What do you know about magic?”

  “Enough to know spellslingers are liars, assholes, and worse.”

  “True enough,” he allowed. “But there are many schools of magic. Magecraft, of course, is commonly accepted. And who’d argue with someone who could melt your face off? And among the Fnords, there’s more mages than anything else. They’re the majority of spellcasters, if you like. They’re more powerful than most. They’re the cream. Caspiellans have more clerics than mages. Maybe a few wizards. We don’t get many clerics because magic is god-aspected for the most part, and Grim was never much for healing. Our Dark Lord was always more cheerful around death. So we got Deathpriests instead.”

  The elf shuddered at the thought of Deathpriests. She’d met one when she was young and had no wish to meet another. “What are you trying to say, Chukshene? You ain’t a Deathpriest,” she said firmly. “I know that much.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “I’m not. My skin’s too pretty for starters. But there’s other schools, too. Not so well-liked. In fact, we’re hated. Even the Dark Lord hunted us down and killed us. Our magic is considered so foul that it’s the only thing Grim and Rule ever agreed on. To be honest, it scares the fucking shit out of me. I’m a warlock, Nysta. Demon-aspected. So, while I know fuck all about magefire, I know about demons. And that town out there? Nysta, Rockjaw said there were demons in it. Well, I’m telling you there aren’t any in there at all. There’s none around for fucking days. Hardl
y any left in the Deadlands right now. I should know. I’ve hunted three of them already. Left the last one spread halfway across a mountain.”

  Her eyes drilled into his. “This the truth, Chukshene? Or are you fucking with me again?”

  “It’s the truth,” he said. “And maybe you can see why I didn’t tell you. If just one wrong person knows what I am, I can look forward to being burnt on a fucking stake somewhere.”

  “Not a good way to die,” the elf said, her nostrils remembering the smell of Talek’s burning flesh.

  “No, it’s not.” He turned toward the town and shook his head anxiously. “Whatever’s in there, it’s bad. I can feel that much. I mean, the hairs on my ass are standing up and my balls are shaking. But it’s not a demon. I don’t know what it is. And not knowing is making me want to piss my pants.”

  “This warlock thing? It make you more dangerous than you look?”

  His lips parted into a grim smile. “I know what I look like, Long-ear. I can guess what you think of me, too. But there’s more to magic than magefire and there’s a reason the gods didn’t like us much.”

  “There better be,” she snorted, leading them forward again. “I ain’t carrying your ass.”

  The spellslinger lifted his hand and spoke a word of power. Light flared. A bright pale orb with a sickly yellow glow. It hovered at his shoulder and he beckoned it closer so it hung over his book. “I can look after myself,” he said. “I might not know my way around these parts, but I’ve been around. And I’m still alive. Just didn’t want to do anything in case you knew enough about magic to know I wasn’t a normal mage. In case you knew I was a warlock and figured you’d prefer to cut my throat than let me live.”

 

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