by Lucas Thorn
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chukshene stared at the body of the elf still clutching tightly to the box. His emotions were muddled, and his face twitched from expression to expression. He seemed unable to decide where to put his hands.
He heard, carried on the wind, the long shriek of Gaket as the last of the cords died with Veil’s blessing bleeding out of the elf’s arm in oily drops of black ooze.
It was an agonised sound, torn from the very core of the creature’s tattered soul and the warlock shuddered to hear it, knowing it was the last sound the King of Lichspawn would make.
The warlock found his eyes drawn to the town. The splotches of light as the buildings burned created flickering shadows and he squinted, trying to make out any sign of surviving Lichspawn.
Then the long wail came to an abrupt end, and Chukshene frowned.
Cocked his head.
The explosion which tore the town apart was something he didn’t expect, and his eyes widened impossibly, drinking in the sight even as the blast rocked the ground. The thunderous sound punched his already punished eardrums and he slapped both hands over his ears in shock, his heart hammering furiously in his chest.
âWhat the-â
Fire raked the darkness and he watched as debris rained down both within and around the walls. Watched in fascinated horror as Spikewrist seemed to give a final gasp before dying.
What had caused the explosion, he couldn’t guess. There was an eerie echo to it that made him uneasy, but there was not enough gold in all the world to offer him which would make him return to the town to investigate.
Instead, the warlock shivered and hoped whatever splinters of darkness might have survived were too weak to emerge. Heightened by fear, he thought he could hear a child’s cry. But after rubbing his ears, figured it was just the wind dragging itself through the town and out past the disintegrated gates.
He could almost feel the ghosts of the dead townspeople shuffling out across the plain. Where they headed, he didn’t want to know.
Imagined, too, that he could make out the black smudge of Gaket’s damned soul writhing in the sated flames left crawling across the town’s shredded corpse.
âGood riddance,â he muttered, turning away from the mournful sight. He shuddered again, but kept resolute in keeping his back to the town as though this simple act of defiance would keep him safe.
Almost believed it, too.
The elf was draped over the ground like a ragdoll. He knelt tentatively beside her. Wincing, the spellslinger touched the box in her hand.
Breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened as his fingertips prised it fully open.
Empty.
âHang on,â he chewed at his lip. âEmpty isn’t good. Or is it? Fuck.â
He tried to figure out what had happened. It’d been a blur. A heady mix of violence and confusion in the swirling aftermath of a spell he was proud to have cast.
He could swear the skin of her arm had turned as black as night and could only conclude that what was in Talek’s box had caused the change. A few good ideas what it was floated nervously around his brain, but he desperately wanted to leave those ideas alone.
Perhaps the two forms of darkness vying for control over the elf’s body had destroyed each other, he thought as he studied the box with a nervous eye.
It was a pity he hadn’t been able to get it from her before she’d opened it and he struggled to understand why he hadn’t tried hard enough to do just that.
Perhaps he felt sorry for her, he thought bitterly.
He knew how she felt. It was all she had left of her husband. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know what it was.
Or what it contained.
To her, it was simply a memento.
And Chukshene knew the value of keeping memories alive.
Her breathing was shallow, as though each intake of air was another wave of fresh agony to her. Even comatose, she looked wracked with pain.
But he had no doubt she was tough. Tougher than the wyrmskin she wore. So he figured he’d wait until morning. See if she woke. If she died, it wouldn’t matter that Talek’s box was empty or not.
And if she survived?
His eye caught hold of the glowing blade in her fist. He could take it. One quick slash over her throat and it would all be over.
This far from anywhere, who’d know if he killed her?
She’d be just another body in the snow.
Plenty of them around now. It would solve all his problems.
He lifted the cruel blade from her limp grip. Looked at it, admiring the quality of the enchantment.
Then slid it into the sheath at her hip.
Plucked the box from her other hand and dropped it into one of his pouches. Looked up at the sky. A small crack between the clouds showed the promise of stars.
It would be nice, he thought, to see the sky again. He was sick of snow. There was enough of it up north. Hadn’t anyone told the clouds they weren’t supposed to snow this far south?
Stupid clouds.
He hated clouds.
In his lap, the elf moaned lightly. What dreams haunted her, he couldn’t guess.
If anything was buried in her flesh, it was now hidden in the darkest corners of her body and her dreams tonight would no doubt be made more nightmarish for it. But those dreams were nothing compared to what would come later.
He didn’t envy her.
Even if the darkness didn’t kill her or drive her mad, there would be others who would try to use her. Others as ruthless as she, in their own way.
The warlock set his mouth into a grim line.
For her sake, he hoped she died in the night.
There was something fragile about her features, he thought. As though, hidden beneath the scarred face was one which might once have been beautiful if only it hadn’t been weaned on sorrow.
In that moment, he could almost see what it was Talek had seen in her.
âAh, Nysta,â he said. âNow you’ve really opened a can of worms.â
Nysta will return in
Nysta #2: Duel at Grimwood Creek.
If you enjoyed this novel, please consider dropping a line on Amazon.com about it to earn the author’s undying appreciation if not more sequels.
Acknowledgements
I have, naturally, a few people to thank for their support. My good friend Andrew Hindle, who has survived both cancer of the nose and cancer of the ass.
He is solely to blame for reigniting the comedy bug in me and leading me down this path of cheese-ridden puns. As an editor in search of continuity issues and typos, he is second to none. As inspiration, he could do with a little work…
Amir Zand, for the awesome cover. I have not worked with an artist before, but he spun this cover out with very little in the way of helpful guidelines from me, and it is exactly everything I ever hoped it would be. He has been a pleasure to work with and I look forward to him continuing to grace the covers of my books for a long time to come.
Terry Harknett (aka George G. Gilman), whose work greatly inspired a teenage me. I once wrote him a fan letter and his reply deeply humbled me and set me on a new direction in my writing. His method of finishing a chapter with a clever pun or sneaky modern cultural reference also inspired my initial work with Nysta, and I hope he sees my stealing this technique as the tribute I mean it to be and not outright theft.
He told me in an email that the reason he wrote was to âput food on the tableâ for his wife. As someone who at the time was writing books which could only be described as âgenerally inaccessibleâ to the average reader due to their surreality and weirdness, this was the best advice I think I could receive and advice I will continue to pass on.
It seems he influences me in my emerging years as a writer, too.
And speaking of wives, I thank my own. Kyungsil, who has stuck by me despite my debts and my unique approach to life. Who has been the most amazing editor a man
could hope for. Many writers say this, and I count myself lucky to be able to do so, but much of the character’s bloodthirsty depth and the story’s best twists are down to her.
Without her, I would never have written this book. She has supported, encouraged, and laughed at me all the way.
This book, then, is completely and utterly for her.
