Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) Page 16

by Lucas Thorn

  After directing a hurt look at the elf, Chukshene lapsed into determined silence. He broke this only once as she shoved past him to take the lead, and this just to clear his throat.

  It was easy for the elf to ignore the warlock’s response to her lack of social skills.

  She’d faced worse and lived through it. Few had endured her sharp mix of temper and sarcasm for long, and only one ever figured there was anything worth knowing under the thin layer of bitterness.

  And he was dead.

  At thought of Talek, she remembered not his face, but the feel of the earth as she dug his grave in the frozen soil.

  The impact of the shovel.

  The sound ringing out across the valley. A solid, yet clean sound. As though she’d been hacking through the bones of the earth.

  Her eyes scanned the terrain as they moved cautiously across the thickening layer of snow. It’d begun to fall heavier since they left their brief camp.

  Not enough for her to bother pulling the hood of her cloak, though. If Talek were here, she thought, he’d be calling her stupid for walking into the obvious makings of a blizzard.

  The elf’s jaw tightened and her teeth pressed so hard against each other, she thought her jaws might lock permanently.

  She hadn’t put up a marker.

  It kept bothering her. No stone circle to mark his passing.

  No name.

  “Raste,” she muttered darkly under her breath. “I’ll have your head for his marker. I swear.”

  The wind scraped its frozen fangs over her face with a sudden howl and she knew enough about the weather in the Deadlands to know that, while it was not often as cold as this Winter was turning out to be, there was a certain viciousness to the storms which that seemed to echo the chaos that tormented the land for so long. As though the past presence of two raging gods damaged the weather and gifted it with spite.

  Each step closer to the town made her boots sink deeper into the snow and she snarled a curse as her foot sunk deep enough she had to jerk her leg free. She heard a muffled snort, and she flashed the warlock a warning look which he took with a twist of his lips.

  He said nothing, though. Plainly, he wanted to keep his silence.

  Which suited her.

  Her training prepared her for stretched periods of silence. It wasn’t uncommon for members of her teams to speak only in hand gestures for lengths of time which lasted weeks. Sometimes as much as a month.

  At thought of her training, the elf ran her fingers through her ragged hair. Felt the bumps of cloth and wondered what her life would have been like if Talek hadn’t found her.

  Likely she’d be dead. A corpse in an alley. Food for rats.

  Shuddering, the elf pushed thoughts of Lostlight’s alleys from her mind and concentrated instead on the only good thing she’d found in that cursed city. Talek.

  A smile almost touched her face as she remembered how he’d pretty much badgered her into marrying him. Their marriage, while unconventional, was always a comfortable one. He liked to talk, and took her silence for listening.

  The odd sharp comments she tossed into the stream of bullshit seemed only to fuel his need to talk.

  Her mouth parted slightly as she realised his words had seldom penetrated her mind and she couldn’t recall much of what he’d spoken about. It all seemed like breezy nothingness. A constant buzzing in her ears at the time.

  Yet, far from being irritating, she’d been calmed by his voice. His presence.

  Given her past, it was a miraculous thing. Made more miraculous by how effortlessly he often made her forget what she’d been.

  But now it felt like she’d betrayed him even more. Just the simple act of not having paid attention to his attempts to connect with her brought a flush of red to her cold cheeks. A flush which rode the tightening of her face.

  The guilt was getting too much to bear. It was like sliding down a rope. A rope which was tearing the flesh from her hands.

  Soon, she would fall. To her death?

  But she wouldn’t blame herself completely.

  No. They were responsible. The Bloody Nine.

  And they would pay.

  Pay screaming.

  Muscles knotted across her shoulders and she ground her teeth hard.

  “Nysta,” the spellslinger broke his silence with a reluctant gasp. “Please, slow down. It’s not easy walking through this slush. Especially in robes.”

  She bit back a snarled retort as she realised the sudden rush of rage pumping through her veins had quickened her steps. She motioned for him to stop beside a shattered tree, which he did with a grateful sigh.

  But, squatting in the snow, she told herself it wasn’t for his benefit. It was simply to get a better look at the town which appeared more solid behind the curling wall of fog and dusty speckles of snow. She could make out a few buildings built higher than the walls. One had a large pitched roof and a small glow of light bruised the darkness.

  The inn, she recalled. It lay in the centre of the town.

  “Can you see anything?” he breathed. “They coming?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Thank Grim.”

  “Dead gods can’t help you here, ‘lock,” Nysta said softly.

  “Well, the alternative is thanking Rule, and the only thing I’d thank that bastard for is if he cut off his own head so I could shit down his neck.”

  She nodded absently. The Gods never played much role in her upbringing, so she’d never given them much thought after her first tear-stained prayers went unanswered.

  Before his fall, the Dark Lord wasn’t known for protecting street urchins. That role belonged to his sister, the enigmatic Veil. But she’d fallen to Rule centuries before the battle at Godsfall.

  Mostly forgotten to the elfs now.

  A few of her temples still remained in Lostlight. She’d trained in one.

  But it was just a building. No longer a place of worship or miracles. No mysterious aura of holiness remained. Just a sullen emptiness that defied absent moments of faith. All she could count on, reasoned the elf, was her blades.

  In fact, the closest thing she’d had to a religious experience was watching the life drain from her most challenging enemies.

  Just thinking about the last really good fight she’d had made the elf chew hard on her bottom lip and a coffee-coloured hand lifted to the plaited ropes of her hair. Her finger touched a ragged piece of cloth and a smile curled crookedly across her face like a crack in glass.

  “Not sure if I like what you’re thinking,” the warlock shivered.

  She let the smile fade from her mouth and nodded at the town. Said; “They know we’re coming.”

  “Why would you say that?” he hugged his book so tight she thought it would burst apart at the spine. “Even if it’s true?”

  “See the biggest roof there?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “What’s the light, Chukshene?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” he said through chattering teeth. “Not much of a light, though. Small fire? Who can blame them? It’s getting colder, Long-ear. We’re going to freeze to death out here. Not much choice, is it? Freeze, or get eaten? Fucked if I know what’s worse.”

  “Why light a fire, ‘lock? They’re creatures of the night. They probably love the cold as much as the dark.”

  “Warmth? Cooking? Either idea sounds pretty fucking hot to me right now,” he said, then giggled. There was a strained note of desperation in his voice as though he was trying to suppress his rising fear by clutching at any chance of humour. “Hot. Get it?”

  Shook her head. “It’s a beacon.”

  “A beacon to what?”

  “Us.”

  “Ah, shit. No way. Get fucked, Long-ear. No, don’t say it,” he gave her a sour look. “It’s too fucking cold to tell, but if I haven’t already, then
I’ll piss my pants if you keep that up.”

  “Come on,” she pushed herself forward, wiping an icy drop of water from her cheek with the back of her fist.

  “Nysta? Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, if this Nine of yours aren’t there, then you’re wasting your time. Why chase trouble? Just skip the town, yeah? We can maybe look at it again in daylight. When whatever’s in there isn’t so active. I mean, a beacon? It it’s true, then you’re not asking for trouble. You’re begging for it.”

  “You can move or freeze, ‘lock. All the same to me.”

  “Maybe it’s not too late to go back,” he grumbled. “Horse couldn’t have gotten far.”

  A guttural howl tore through the wind, making them both look around in shock. The source was behind them rather than from the town.

  Chukshene cursed and raised his hand, his fist glowing with arcane energy and the first words of power tumbling over his lips before he paused to glance at the impassive expression on the elf as she spat forcefully in the snow before moving on.

  The acrid smell of magic faded as the warlock let the spell die. “Nysta?” he stumbled after her, lifting his robes. “What was that? It didn’t sound like one of those things from the town.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Was probably a Draug.”

  “A Draug? Are you sure? It sounded fucking close. It wasn’t close, was it? Draugs. Fuck. That’s all we need.”

  “Relax, ‘lock,” she said with a humourless grin. “Reckon they’re not coming this way.”

  “How do you reckon that?”

  “Draugs yell like that only when they’ve killed something.”

  “Oh, shit. Mccabe?”

  “Could be.”

  “Poor motherfucker,” the warlock rubbed at his temples. “First those Lich things, and now Draugs. I think he was wrong, you know. It’s not his lucky day.”

  A ripple of dread slashed through her brain like a bolt of lightning, peeling her memory like an onion to expose an idea which horrified her to think about. “What did you just say? Lich?”

  “Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it and I remember reading somewhere that some Liches have no eyes. That their sockets hold the darkness cast from the Shadowed Halls. So, these things? They could be Liches. Bit rare, but they happen. Plenty of Graveborn creatures in the Deadlands, so it makes sense. It would explain why I can’t feel them as demons. Not sure if I’m right, but it sounds true. Dozens in one place is odd, though. Still. You got a better idea?”

  “Lich,” she muttered. “You sure they don’t normally get together?”

  “Never heard of it happening before,” he said. “They’re solitary. Loners. Sometimes in pairs. They’re too powerful to like each other’s company. Usually found haunting old ruins. I’ve got no fucking idea why they’d be out here. More I think about it, the more I don’t know what they could be.”

  “Fuck. No way. Can’t be. Can’t be Gaket’s Lichspawn.”

  “Lichspawn?”

  “The darkness will fight again. That’s what they’re saying, right?”

  “So Mccabe said. You remember where you heard it from now?”

  “There’s an old story. Legend, more like. That during the Godwar, Veil made an army out of scraps of darkness and flesh. But the army was mindless. It needed a leader. So she found a soldier. Just a simple soldier. She filled his body with shadow and made him strong. It’s said he became like the shadows himself and could slide through darkness like a fish through water,” she rubbed at the scar on her cheek and frowned deeply. “She used the Lichspawn to kill the Five Kings. Even got past Rule himself to take out the High King. Alfred Direwulf I think it was. I forget their names. It broke the southern Kingdoms for many years and shattered their alliance. Rule had to abandon the front lines wrestle the Five Kingdoms back into submission. Had to take the role of High King himself. Since then, the High King’s throne has been empty. The Caspiellans have their own prophecies on that. They reckon a High King will come one day and lead them to the Great Wall. And beyond.”

  “Gaket, uh?” the warlock looked skeptical. “I’ve never heard that tale. Heard of the Empty Throne, though. But our stories say Grim killed the High King.”

  “He would say that,” Nysta snorted. “He was an asshole. When Veil fell, he tried to take everything of hers. It’s why Lostlight never returned beyond the wall. In any case, when Rule killed Veil, the Lichspawn disappeared. Probably died with her. No one knows how many there were, but it’s said there was an army of them.”

  “It fits.”

  “Too well for my liking.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  The elf scowled. “The legend of Gaket is old! It’s just a story. Who knows how much of it is true? It’s just a tale to make us feel proud. Proud of our heritage as Veil’s chosen people. Most of it’s got to be bullshit.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of years poking around old tomes,” the spellslinger said. “And I’ve learnt that every story, no matter how strange, always has an element of truth to it. But I still don’t see how you can connect that old story to what’s in the town. We still don’t know if they’re Liches. Or any kind of Graveborn. Or these Lichspawn of yours. I just used the word.”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “But it’s one fucking big coincidence. See, there’s another story. More a joke, really. Tells of how the Dark Lord found the Lichspawn near Worldscar after Veil fell. He demanded they join him and fight Rule. They refused. Pissed him off. He tried to fight them, but Gaket slipped away into the shadows. Before he disappeared, Gaket told Grim he was too tired to fight any more wars. But that, one day, the darkness will fight again. Those words are engraved above the gates to Veil’s temple to the north of Lostlight. Her priestesses abandoned it some time after she fell. These days, the Jukkala use it as a training ground. I fucking knew I’d heard those words somewhere.”

  “Well, if it is these Lichspawn of yours, then why are they killing townies? Why Spikewrist? There’s nothing worth killing for in this wasteland.”

  The elf shrugged. “Maybe it’s the day they fight again.”

  “Picked a cold one.”

  She looked up at the snow shivering down toward her. “Look on the bright side, ‘lock. Fighting warms your blood.”

  “Not when it’s spilling out into the snow.”

  She glanced at him, nearly pulling her mouth into a crooked grin before her eyes caught sight of something in the snow.

  Hissing, she lunged off the path and rushed past him with a suddenness that sent him into a spin. He corkscrewed around, catching himself in his robe and tumbling into the snow with a cry of alarm.

  Skidding to a halt, she fell to her knees and her eyes blazed with fury. She reached out and touched the fresh imprints.

  “Horses,” she spat. “Fucking horses. More than a few. Could be nine. Yes. It’s them. Has to be. I can feel it!”

  “Horses?” the spellslinger sat up, dusting snow from his hair and face. He wore a disgusted expression. “All that, just for some fucking horses? Look at me! I’m fucking cold enough, you long-eared lunatic! This shit’s fucking ice! It’s freezing!

  He pulled himself to his feet and stomped to where she was glaring down the path toward the ruined gates of Spikewrist.

  “They’re in there, Chukshene,” she growled.

  “Great. Then they’re dead,” he sighed. “Those things have eaten them. Good riddance. Can we go now?”

  The visceral howl of rage began as a low moan before it swept her to her feet and powered her toward the gate as if on the screaming wind. A Flaw in the Glass and Fulci’s Last Joke leapt into her hands as she kicked up snow.

  “Nysta!â€
 the warlock shouted. “Stop! You’re not thinking properly! Nysta, wait! You fucking Long-eared idiot! Shit!”

  But her veins were charged with hate and the elf couldn’t have stopped even if she wanted to. The gates loomed out of the darkness and the single light glowing in the town called to her like the moon to a moth. She was so close.

  So close she could feel their throats between her teeth and their blood on her tongue.

  A lone Lichspawn stood between the shattered gates, its back bent crookedly. The elf pounced, spinning in the air.

  Her booted foot snapped out. Fragmented the bones of the creature’s cheek.

  It reeled under the impact, though whether it felt pain or not, she couldn’t tell. She was too swept up in the sheer insanity of killing it to care.

  A Flaw in the Glass ripped its throat open with a vivid spray of black blood which splattered sickly to the ground. She rolled around its torso, quicker than a weasel, raking flesh with both blades. Burrowed under its arms and spun the gore-drenched blades in her fists.

  Swinging madly, the Lichspawn opened its mouth in a silent snarl as her fist smashed between its eyes, snapping the misshapen head back. The creature landed in the sodden earth with a crunch. Tried to roll to its knees, but was forced back as the roaring elf leapt onto its chest.

  She caught her breath.

  Lifted Fulci’s Last Joke high above its head. Grinned.

  Spat in its face.

  The blade plunged into the Lichspawn’s eye with the sickening song of metal piercing bone and brain.

  Victory’s lavish thrill punched her in the chest but drained quickly from her blood as her gaze drifted toward the town’s poisoned heart to see a tide of Lichspawn slowly emerging from the shadows. They had, she knew, come to feed on her flesh.

  Her violet eyes blazed in anticipation of violence and her lip curled cruelly. Tasting iron and the bitter threads of fear, she tore the blade free of her latest victim’s eye socket and bared her teeth at the incoming creatures. There seemed no end to their number.

  “Now I’ve done it,” she mused. “Opened the Gates to Hell.”

  “The darkness will fight again.” Their voices merged into one. The menace in their voice reminded her of a murder of crows.

 

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