Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

by Lucas Thorn

  “It could still happen,” she said lightly, her lip curling crookedly up toward the scar.

  The elf allowed his revelation to sink in as she led the way up the crooked path. As far as she was concerned, she’d never much thought about the differences between spellslingers. Cleric or mage, they were all the same in her mind.

  Still unsure if she could trust anything he said, she was prepared to accept he was what he said he was and, oddly, it settled a little more comfortably on her shoulders.

  Now he seemed less like the Caspiellan mage who’d waded through the palace kicking up death and spewing fireballs into Talek’s screaming body. She rubbed at her scar, feeling the rough edge of it. Could almost taste the steel which had stuck clean through her cheek.

  As they rode, she listened to the buzz of Chukshene’s mumbling as he flipped through his grimoire. What he was looking for, she didn’t know. Glancing at him, she admitted the man who seemed so clumsy and useless suddenly looked capable of something more.

  It was an odd moment, and she crossed her arms over her thighs as she leaned across the mare’s neck to peer into the scratchings of light across the horizon.

  Long shadows poured from the town like escaping ghostly fingers. Night was fast approaching and she felt a buzz of disappointment at the thought. The day had gone by too quickly with no sign of Raste.

  Unable to penetrate the shadows of the town, the elf wondered what really lay inside. Whatever it was, she didn’t feel it was going to be pleasant.

  It would be mean. It would have to be mean to live in the Deadlands.

  And tough.

  Again, she looked at the spellslinger. Frowned. A quicksilver part of her had been screaming to kill him since they’d met. She’d almost been hoping he’d give her an excuse.

  But now he was like her. An outcast among his own kind. Something which didn’t fit into the world any more than she did.

  She grunted, turning her gaze back to the haunted town in hope it would suddenly reveal its secrets.

  The warlock looked up from his grimoire. His expression suddenly curious. “You know, I expected more,” he said. “I’ve only told a handful of people before. And they all looked like they wanted to run away. Frankly, I’m a bit fucking disappointed. And a little worried.”

  “Worried?”

  “Maybe you’re waiting for me to turn my back? Maybe then you’ll shove a blade between my shoulders?”

  “I ain’t afraid of you,” she snorted. “If I was going to kill you, Chukshene, I’d stab you in the eye to see your expression. Spit in your face, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said drily. “I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome,” the elf yawned. Ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the knotted scraps of cloth brush against her palm. “You like the Deadlands, Chukshene?”

  “Like it? How could I? Fucking place is a shithole.”

  “I like it,” she said. “Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “My father was one of Jutta’s advisors. Nothing too important, but big enough so I had everything I ever wanted when I was a kid. I still remember this pretty dress I had. Red. With peaches on it. Might surprise you, but when I was that young, I thought a lot about dresses. But everything eventually falls to shit, right? My world fell to shit when my mother died. Was a convenient time for my father. Maybe too convenient, I’m thinking. One of Jutta’s cousins had reached an age, and the King was looking for someone to marry her off to. He felt sorry for my father. Figured a nice young bride would cheer him up. Did, too. Know why, ‘lock?”

  He gave a start at being called ‘lock, but let it pass. “I don’t think you mean what I’d be thinking, so not really. I suspect you’re talking politics, and I don’t know much about that. If I did, I wouldn’t be out here gutting demons to see how they work. I’d be back in Doom’s Reach whispering into some nobleman’s empty head and fucking his daughter. Daughters, if I’m lucky.”

  “Means he was a bigger shit than the shit he was before. Wormed his way into the King’s Inner Council. Became a Duke. Got his own Hold. Talked about starting his own guild. Big things,” she spat bitterly. “But his new wife didn’t like me much. Feeling was mutual. So, my father found a solution. Easy one, too. One night, he tossed me out onto the street.”

  “Bullshit,” the spellslinger blinked. “How old were you?”

  “I was seven. In human years, that’s young. In elf years, I’d barely been born. But my father had a reputation for ruthlessness,” her eyes glazed as she remembered the coldness of the streets. “Earned it, too. Let me keep my dress, though. Which is maybe why I didn’t die that first night. Snowed more that night than it had in fifteen years, they say.”

  “No wonder you’re fucked up.”

  “Grew up on the streets of Lostlight, ‘lock. Where a lot of people knew me. Knew my name. Knew where I came from. What I was forced to become. Some men liked that,” she drew her lips back into a disgusted grimace as Chukshene tried to comprehend the weight of her words. “Yeah, ‘lock. I survived by doing what I had to do. It wasn’t pleasant, but the streets of Lostlight aren’t known for being pleasant. Fact is, they’d make a goblin’s pisshole look clean and pure.”

  “We all do things we despise ourselves for,” Chukshene said slowly. “Things we have to do. To survive. There’s no shame in that.”

  “Maybe not. But it got to me. And all the hate I had for him. My father. It boiled and boiled for years. And then, one night, I was kneeling in an alley with a nobleman’s cock in my mouth and I realised what it was I wanted.”

  The warlock blinked, shifting on his horse as he tried to picture her as a back alley whore and just couldn’t do it. “What?”

  “Wanted to let it out. All the hate. The rage. Just let it out. And it was easy. So fucking easy. I had a knife. Well. Not so much a knife as a shiv. Just a street urchin’s tool. Hardly good for cutting paper, let alone skin. But it cut him. Cut him deep, the fucker. The gutters of that alley ran red. He bled so much, I couldn’t believe it. I can still feel the slickness of his blood,” she held up her fist, squeezing as she remembered. Could almost hear the wet sound of it pushing out through her fingers. “And it felt good. So good just to let it out. He begged me to stop. But I didn’t. Kept stabbing him until there was no more blood left in him. Why should I stop? No one ever listened to my pleas. Why should I care for his? Talek found me there. At first he thought to kill me. I’d just killed a nobleman. A minor Baron, as it turned out. By law, I deserved death. And I accepted that as a fair price to pay. It was Talek’s duty to end my life. But he recognised me. Knew me. Said later he pitied me and wanted to give me a chance at something more. So he took me to some friends of his. And they taught me to let that hate run like a fucking river.”

  “It sounds more like he used you,” Chukshene said cautiously. “I’ve seen it before. Take you from a bad situation and train you up into something they can use. A tool.”

  Her eyes burned and her heart clenched fiercely. “Used me?” The elf twisted her mouth hard up toward the scar. “Of course he did! Why wouldn’t he? But that was the first lesson I’d learnt on the street, ‘lock. That there’s fuck all in this world that’s free. Somehow, everyone gets used. That’s the price, and I gladly paid it because I was the richer. I got what I wanted.”

  “A home?”

  “To be free. Free of the names they called me. The spit they spat on me. The cum they shovelled into me. I was free, ‘lock. You don’t have any idea how that felt. For years I’d hidden in alleys. Snuck around taverns hoping to get lost in the shadows. Lost all shame. All pride. Swallowed it up in a river of fear and self-disgust. Talek set me free. More than that, he saw me as something more than just a place to wet his cock,” she closed her eyes, allowing the horse
to lead itself. “He did his best to help me forget what I’d done on the streets. But no matter how high you rise, you can’t run from what you are. In Lostlight, I was never completely free of my past. Many men who’d bought me worked in the highest offices of the King. I was always afraid they would recognise me if I lowered my hood. Afraid of what they would say. Words, ‘lock. I was afraid of words!”

  “I’m a mage, of sorts,” he said softly. “I know the power of words.”

  “That is different,” Nysta’s said with an angry shake of her head. “I ain’t so fragile their words could hurt me. Didn’t much give a shit what they said to me. But for him. For Talek. It would’ve hurt him, though he’d never admit it. They’d have judged him because of me. Because I weren’t good enough. But no one judges you out here. They wouldn’t dare. Here, I am unleashed. Ain’t nothing to be afraid of. No need to hold my tongue. No need to keep my blades sheathed for fear of offending one of the guilds. I’m fucking free! I love it here, Chukshene. Finally, I’m home.”

  “It’s never that easy, though,” the spellslinger said, refusing to meet her gaze. He picked his words carefully, and she wondered what he was afraid of. Guessed he didn’t want to risk offending her for fear of getting a knife to the throat. He touched his lips with his tongue before continuing. “I tried that, too. Running away. Looking for trouble to ease the pain. But you’ll wear out all your blades right up to their handles and still never find the release you’re looking for. Know why?”

  “Guess you’re gonna tell me,” she said, feeling the rush of emotion slide away like sludge down a waterpipe.

  “Because you’ve got a river inside you, like you said. A river of hate. And you’ll never be able to hold it back no matter how hard you force yourself to become. You’ve got to take control, Nysta. Turn the river. Direct it where you want it to go. Don’t let it lead you,” his voice sounded awkward, as though he wasn’t used to motivating anyone. She wanted to tell him to shut his face, but her protests shrivelled in her throat. “There’s a whole world outside the Deadlands. A world which is changing. Grim has fallen. His body sealed in the core of the world by Rule, who even now prepares his armies to sweep across the Wall and into the north to wipe us out. He’ll drive us all, Fnords, Orks and Elfs, right up to the icy wastes. He’ll break us on the glaciers. All who refuse to bow will be destroyed. And the Dark Lord is no longer here to stop him. We are alone. We face the wrath of a god. You understand what that means, Nysta?”

  She struggled to see what he was getting at. “What’s that?”

  “Means there’s still so many people out there who need you. The Grey Jackets. Black Blades. Starswords. Mages. Clerics. Even a few Green Arms. Every last motherfucking Caspiellan in the world. Who knows? Even a King? Or four. All of them. They need you more than ever. Right now.”

  Shooting him a suspicious look, her hand fisted around A Flaw in the Glass. “Should tell you, Chukshene. If you’re recruiting for Rule, I’ll kill you slow. There ain’t a fucking thing in this world I’d do for a Caspiellan short of ventilating them with a blade.”

  “For them?” he grinned, and surprised her with the nastiness of the expression. “Not for them, you fool. To them! Imagine that, Long-ear. Hundreds. Thousands. Maybe millions of Caspiellans. All needing you to kill them. Think of the crime you commit by denying them the honour of falling beneath your blades while you wallow in self-pity out here in the fucking Deadlands. You could do so much more. Be so much more.”

  A chill swept down her spine as he spoke and her violet eyes glinted. There was a note of urgency in his voice which disturbed her. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why do you think I’m here? To piss all over this blasted place? I’m here to practice. To master my art. So I can kill Capiellans. The Dark Lord may have protected us from them. But he’s not here anymore. We need everything if we’re going to survive. We can’t fall apart. Not now. Lostlight won’t last forever. There’s still time.”

  The elf waved a hand dismissively. “Lostlight has already fallen. Weren’t no need for Rule to lift a finger. The clans fight among themselves like ferrets in a beer barrel. And if it’s happening here, then it’s happening all over the land. Fnords will fight Fnords for power to fill the hole left by the Dark Lord. And Rule will sit back and laugh at us.”

  “Perhaps. It’s true it’ll take a strong hand to unite the north again. A hand almost as strong as Grim’s. And that hand will need help. Think about it, Nysta. You could spend your life sucking on shit out here in the middle of nowhere, or maybe you could do something a bit fucking useful. Think of it as a chance. And take it,” he finally met her gaze. “Or leave it and die pointlessly. Your choice.”

  “I’m sick of being used,” she growled. “By anyone. That time is past. I ain’t out here looking to find a cause, ‘lock. Just to kill the Bloody Nine.”

  “And then what?”

  “I ain’t a fortune teller.”

  “Then think about it. Because when that last bastard dies on your knife, you’re gonna feel empty. Vengeance isn’t very filling, no matter what they say. And I think you know that already. It’ll leave you hungry. Hungry for something else to fill the void. Think about what I’m offeri-” He broke off suddenly as a black shape tumbled through the gates of Spikewrist. It moved awkwardly and was followed by a handful of equally graceless shapes. “What the fuck is that?”

  The elf’s eyes narrowed to slits and she lifted her head, peering through the evening light and slender curtains of snow.

  Could see it was a man, big and round. So big he was almost rolling down the road rather than running. Could tell he wasn’t going to make it very far if he kept running as he was.

  Fear was all that was keeping him going, but it wouldn’t count for much if his own body couldn’t keep up with his horror.

  He looked over his shoulder and screamed, visibly pushing himself desperately up the road.

  His pursuers moved in a jerky manner, but looked determined to catch him. She couldn’t make out anything of their features except their eyes. Large black circles which looked to suck in the light and spit out the shadows.

  “Guess it looks like something you were about to offer me,” she told the spellslinger, kicking her heels to send her horse lurching forward. Her fingers itched and her heart thudded in expectation of explosive violence.

  He screwed his face up, trying to make out her meaning. “Huh?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, the elf drawled; “A fat chance.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The fat man stumbled, kicking up mud and snow. His round face was purple with the effort of keeping alive and his hair was pasted to his head in rivers of sweat. The choking sob torn from his mouth reached the elf’s ears over the thunder of hooves.

  Behind him, a half dozen creatures moaned as one in a voice which drew her lips back in a tight grimace. Once, they may have been men. But now, they were something else.

  Their faces were gaunt. Beneath stinking rags, their skin ravaged by cold. It peeled off the bone in flaking scabs. Where their eyes should have been, cold pits of black focussed on the fat man fleeing their grasping hands.

  Clawed fingers clenched and unclenched.

  Mouths hung slack.

  As he angled away from the path like a crippled bear, the fat man’s head snapped up and he stared wild-eyed at the approaching elf. “Help me!” he shrieked. “Please, help me!”

  Her mount gave a sudden jerk and vaulted a half-buried log. She had to snatch hard on the mare’s mane and cursed not having a saddle. Snow erupted as the horse landed heavily, bearing down on the figures slowly surrounding the fat man.

  “Out of the fucking way!” she roared at him, tugging violently on the mane. The horse reared with a scream and she rolled smoothly from its back. Ended in a sprawled c
rouch, a dagger in each fist.

  Stand and Deliver left her hand with a cruel buzz to sink into the darkly glowing eye of the closest creature. Inky black blood exploded from the wound and gushed down its chest like grave slime.

  Behind her, Chukshene’s words of magic made the snow ripple and her ears felt stuffed with wool as magic built itself into a powerful ball of chaos begging to be unleashed. Not daring to turn, the elf’s back shivered and her heart skipped a beat.

  She skidded in the slick mud.

  Swivelled on her heel.

  Had no time to reflect on the magic roaring to a peak behind her. Had time only to send Heading Toward Entropy screaming into the throat of another pale-skinned creature before two more staggered close enough to rake at her face and ribs with glittering claws.

  She let loose an explosive curse and threw herself sideways. Felt the barest tip of one claw slit the skin of her cheek. Figured any wounds to her face couldn’t ruin it any more than it was already and spat hard as she threw herself forward, A Flaw in the Glass and Token Goblin Fighter spinning in her hands. Punched A Flaw in the Glass into the chest of the closest with all her strength. Felt bone shatter as it howled through flesh and dug deep into the shadow-tainted heart.

  Black blood poured thick over her hand and the foul stink of rotten meat filled her nostrils. It was an almost welcome change from the acrid stench of magic Chukshene was summoning behind her.

  She shouldered the creature squirming on her knife. The dying creature sprawled in the snow as it slid off the glowing blade.

  Her violet eyes narrowed to slits and she swung toward another of the pale-skinned creatures. Saw a few more edging up the path. Made to move forward, her blades glinting coldly in her fists.

  Then let out an involuntary scream as her neck snapped back hard. Unseen, one of the creatures had circled behind and snatched at her locks with one fist while pounding at her with the other. It pulled hard, trying to drag her to the ground.