by Lucas Thorn
He frowned, then couldn't resist a slight grin. “Then it must be pretty slim, Highness.”
“Don't try being funny with me, apprentice.” The spite in her hiss made him bow deeper. Asa's fingers twitched, clawlike. “I'm still thinking I could have Ironthorn throw you out the window. Maybe I don't need you. The Keeper has said he needs you. But I think he's lying. I think he just didn't want me to throw you back.”
“I'm sorry, Highness,” the warlock's voice was thick. “I don't know what I've done to offend you, but I'm sorry.”
“No. I'm aware of your ignorance and the reasons for it.” She closed her eyes and when she opened them, they glittered dangerously. But her tone was more moderate. She turned to the necromancer. “What's your name? I can't keep calling you whitehair.”
“Hemlock will be fine,” he said. His fingers gripped his grimoire tightly and she noticed, though she didn't seem threatened by it.
“That's a unique book, Hemlock. Be careful of it.”
“You know it?”
“I knew its creator.” She steepled her fingers, pressing them under her chin as her gaze drilled into his. “Search those pages, and you will find everything you need to know about the spell you will cast for me soon. Search them well, Hemlock. You will need help with it. The Keeper can assist, but tells me it is a spell he has only heard of. Never has he cast it. He waits for you downstairs. For you and this contemptible dishrag apprentice with you. Together, you will work with Vuk. It is an honour, I am told, for a mage to be allowed within the Inner Chamber. But we both know you are no mage. Neither of you are mages. The Mage Tower would call you both an abomination. Grim would have agreed with them, but then he would have invited you to dinner. I see you as tools. Tools to be used. And, if you are good, then I see no reason to break you. For now, you will do as he asks. Everything he asks. You will do this, and you will have something of great value. You will have my debt. And the debt of the Fnordic Lands. Anything you ask, I would give. Oh, no. Don't you look so happy, apprentice. All you earn is your life.”
“I am grateful,” Chukshene murmured.
“You are slime,” she said. But there was no heat in her voice. Just a statement of fact.
“Whatever you're hoping I can do, I would need the makings,” Hemlock said. “Ingredients. My spells require certain items. Some are rather exotic.”
She waved at Hemlock's spellbook. “I already know what you will need for this. The Keeper has made us aware of one of the more exotic requirements. When he told me what you would need, I didn't believe it could be done.” She returned her gaze to Chukshene's bowing form. “You see, apprentice? Even though I knew you could help me, I still didn't believe I should open the Doomgate for you. I still thought you would be more trouble than you're worth. Even though the power you and your friend here are playing with will shake the world to it's core, I know right now you can't master it alone. You don't have the strength to retrieve what we need and then cast such a spell. This will take preparation. Time. A lot of time, I'm told. My guards are the best in the world. I know this. They've held the Wall against a force many times their size for days. And they will continue to hold. But they can't retrieve what you will need. They were not trained for this. Even Melgana, with her axe made for death on a scale she can't dream of. Even she can't help us. You are all a waste of my time.”
“Then, I don't understand.”
But she'd moved on. Her head turned from the others to where Nysta stood.
The elf had ignored most of the conversation, finding her violet eyes drawn instead to the massive army sprawling across the Wolfpaw Plains in the shimmering morning light. The colours of the yellow grass caught in the steel grey morning.
Their numbers had grown in the time it took to travel from the Blood to here. Swollen to near incredible size. So many of them that even the rain couldn't hide the futility of fighting them behind its watery veil.
A sea of iron and steel. A sea which might look warm with blade and fire.
Ready to storm the Doomgate and cut through the Fnordic Lands like a scythe.
Standing where she was, she was acutely aware the only thing stopping them was the Wall. The Dark Lord's legacy. His gift.
She shivered, at last overwhelmed by the sight of them. Realising the sheer hopelessness of fighting such an enemy. Where to begin? How many seconds before she'd be cut down?
Even if she could kill ten, twenty or a hundred men before she died it would make no difference. She remembered the fight in the ruined fort. Remembered the desperation. The fear as she was surrounded by Grey Jackets. Then, it had been a number measured by the dozen.
Here, it was thousands. Tens of thousands.
A cold droplet of sweat slithered down her spine, avoided by the worms sliding beneath her skin. Numb with the tension of impeding war, the elf felt Asa's gaze on her. Turned to face the princess. Rubbed at the scar on her cheek and met the woman's strange yellow eyes.
Gave a quick dip of her head. The closest thing she'd ever come to kneeling. After Jutta's betrayal to her husband's spirit, she'd never kneel again.
“At last,” Asa said. Voice soft. Sibilant. “We come to you. To where you are.”
“Ain't sure I can kill them all,” the elf said evenly. “But, fuck it. Reckon I can give it a shot. Can't be on the fence forever.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Asa left her seat with the grace of a dancer but the tread of a tiger. Stalked the elf into the shadows cast by the encroaching sun and peered as hard as she could as though trying to suck the life from the elf's body.
Impassively, the elf allowed the imperial princess to slide around her. Asa's face radiated pleasure as she studied the elf's gear.
The woman's fingers clawed at invisible strings when she came to a halt in front of her. Shorter than Nysta. Even more slightly built than the elf had expected. But her ancient eyes were harder than steel.
“We were standing right where you are when I saw you first. I saw you running through the grass. Saw you kill the sentries. Three of them. So fast! The Shadowed Halls probably didn't even have time to open. And I bet the men didn't even get the chance to breathe before you took their lives.”
The elf squeezed her fingers into fists and remembered the brief clash.
Shudder of her arm as A Flaw in the Glass ignored armour to rip through flesh and bone. Sickening tear of skin. Gush of blood.
The last had sucked air to scream.
Had almost let loose the bellow which would have summoned a flood of Black Blades. But Economic Equilibrium had left her fingers. A flitter of steel in the blushing dark. It cruised through the terrified soldier's bulging throat. An inch below the jaw. Choked off the scream with a wet spatter.
His arm raised. He spun. Blood flicked across her face.
She stabbed him.
Belly. Back.
Back again.
Had waited, breath slow and steady. Feeling the shadows ribbon inside her body. Excited. Tense.
Waited for more violence. Hoping for it.
The wind sifted through the long grass. A hushing rattle which soothed and cleansed. She looked up, wondering how long the rain would hold. She'd hoped it would rain soon. The rain would work to hide their passage.
Then Melganaderna had come, battleaxe ready. And they ran. Sprinting for the Doomgate on a desperate hope they might open. A hope the elf hadn't shared at the time.
Nysta stared back into the yellow eyes and showed nothing of her thoughts. “They were in my way.”
Asa brushed a long fingernail against one of the many patches of green wyrmskin on the elf's jacket. The fingernail moved, sliding over the rough stitching which hid much of the uniform beneath. Across Nysta's chest to where an insignia had once been joined to the leather beneath her shoulder. A spot now marred by the scratch of the knife which had cut the insignia away and left it to rot in the dirt outside Lostlight.
“I don't know your name, child of Veil, but I know what you are,” Asa purred
. “I know what you can do. You are Jukkala'Jadean. This jacket is not given lightly and none who did not earn it would wear it. You live in shadow. You thrive in darkness. Alleys and rooftops are your home. The blade is your voice. I saved your life today, elf. I could have left you to die out there. By rights, I should have. But I need you. I need what you can do. I need you to speak for me.”
“You should know I ain't too happy when people try putting words in my mouth.”
“They'll be in your dagger, not your mouth.” Asa's yellow eyes flickered, unused to defiance. She studied the elf even harder, taking in the laconic stance which worked to hide the elf's muscles coiled to the point of striking. Then, as though reaching an understanding, the princess smiled with genuine humour. “You are a tool which has cut off its handle, I see. A tool no longer comfortable with a hand to direct its path. Even if that hand promises the blood you feel the urge to spill. You have no direction. No meaning. You are lost. Don't even try to deny this. I see your pain. Your hunger. You try to hide it. Bury it. Perhaps you are ashamed of it? No? Frightened of it. No matter. That's a philosophical thought for another time and place. Right now, the world balances on a knife edge. Your knife. Do you believe me when I say this?”
“I reckon you believe it,” Nysta allowed.
“Let me show you something. Follow me.” Asa swept away, waving an arm imperiously. “All of you. Come.”
She led the way back through the open doorway, ignoring Snotshank's wordless grunt and nodding of his head. Stalked the shadows further down the wide corridor.
Here, heavy runes carved deep into the mottled stone. Runes which boiled with inner light, pale and cold. Hemlock brushed his fingers against them and murmured to Chukshene.
Who nodded. “I thought so, too,” the warlock said. “It's a blend. A mix. I knew something was missing. Something I couldn't see. The Dark Lord must have mastered many magics.”
Asa paused, looking over her shoulder at the two spellslingers. “He didn't master anything. He had a hard time mastering how to put on his shirt.” Her eyes moved from one to the other, obviously wondering how much she felt like sharing. “He had help. A human mage of great power. Who dabbled in things he couldn't hope to understand. He frightened me. But he didn't frighten Grim. No. He was always obsessed with ancient magic. It was a thing of beauty to him. Together, they forged this place. A place Rule couldn't break. The towers which pierce the clouds keep Rule from crossing into the Fnordic Lands in flesh. He can only send his avatar. An illusion of himself. He shows up in Doom's Reach sometimes and shouts at us, which is about all he can do. Some of the orks like to bare their asses at him. It's usually very amusing.”
Melganaderna balanced Torment across her wide shoulders, resting her wrists across the long handle. “I always wanted to know. If the Wall keeps him out, how did Rule get in to kill the Dark Lord? I know our books say it was his holiness, but I'm sure it was more than that, right?”
“Grim had a single weakness. A weakness I did my best to destroy. I told him many times it would be the end of him. But he laughed at me for it.” She looked away, eyes surging hate and loss. “He trusted. And so he opened the gates. Let down the Wall's defences and let Rule walk inside. A stupid thing to do. And something he paid for. Rule repaid his trust with murder. And we have the problems we have with the Wall now because even the Keeper doesn't know as much as he did about how to keep it working. Maybe only one other knew it as well, if not better. And he hasn't been here. Probably for the better.”
“Lornx,” Hemlock said. His open grimoire shivered in his hand, the dark tendrils wrapping around his hands and forearms. The words scrolled across the page like insects and twisted symbols whirled and danced. “It's Lornx you're talking about. He helped build the Wall. And he wrote this. It's his spells we'll be using, and you don't trust him?”
“Lornx? Yes.” Asa kept her face away. “That's what he called himself. And I didn't trust him in many things. But in this? In this case, I do. He wanted to protect the Fnordic Lands as much as Grim did. But power corrupts. Always. Doesn't it, apprentice? The lust for power creeps into your bones and infects the marrow. Do you already look to turn on your Master? To consume his heart? Feed it, perhaps, to your demons?”
“I don't think they would eat it,” he said drily. “Even wychdemons are fussy eaters, believe it or not. I think his heart would be a bit too dusty for them. Not enough juice.”
“It was Lornx who first told me of this spell,” she said to Hemlock, ignoring the warlock. “In great detail. More detail than I wanted to know at the time. I thought at the time he was trying to impress me. Now? Now, I wonder. When Vuk brought it up again, I wondered about many things that bastard said.”
“And these runes?” Hemlock touched the stone wall again, fascination making him look more youthful than he already did. “Did he tell you anything about them?”
“Nothing. If no answer lies within your book, then those secrets he took with him to his accursed tower.”
Hemlock slumped. “And there the High King killed him. Which means there's no one left to tell us what all this means. All these runes. There's power here. Immense power. It's amazing.”
“It makes me want to throw up,” Chukshene muttered.
“Lornx killed?” Asa hurried on, nodding to herself. Thoughtful. “Could be. Yes. Maybe he was.”
Hemlock blinked, rushing to catch up. Skipped around the elf, face suddenly animated. “Wait. You thought he was still alive?”
“No one knows, Hemlock,” she said. “His tower is cursed. All who try to enter are killed. Horribly. Maybe he's still inside. I doubt it, though. He wasn't the type to sit still for long. Or the type to ignore a chance to show off. Many powerful and influential people have presented themselves before his gates, shouting at it for admittance. Fools. All of them. If you go there, you'll find their bodies in the snow.”
“I have to go. There's so much I need to know.”
“And I won't stop you. But when you get there, you will die.”
“I already did that,” the necromancer said with a shudder. “It wasn't that bad. Sort of.”
The imperial princess whirled on him. “Learn to keep your tongue still about such things,” she hissed. She flicked a disgusted expression at Chukshene. “Haven't you bothered to tell him what awaits if your mages find what he can do? In detail?”
“I tried,” Chukshene protested, holding his hand up. The other hugged his own grimoire to his chest as though it could defend her from Asa's scowl. “Don't think I didn't. I told him everything. The chains. The sword in the neck. The fire. Brimstone and fucking ash. Heart on a stick. Balls in a bag. Everything. I told him. What else can I do? I'm not his fucking nanny. I can't hold his tongue for him.”
“Then how's this for a thought, apprentice? If they find him, they find you.”
He winced. “I already thought of that, too.”
“Then try harder. Teach him.” She ran her fingers over her tightly-bound hair. Closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Turned away and stomped onward down the corridor. Threw her hands in the air. “Useless to me!”
Nysta's mouth curled as the warlock looked to her in confusion. “Don't look at me, 'lock. On that, I agree with her.”
The room Asa led them into was almost identical to the last. A long viewing platform with wide windows. Only, this time it was on the Fnordic side. The sun was higher, having slithered into the cold sky to provide small creases of light through clouds still unleashing their burden on the ground below. Despite the rain, the elf had a grand view of the landscape.
Just visible through the rain to her left, the rugged horizon gave hints of the distant Wyrm's Tail, a mountain range said to be dizzying in height and swarming with trolls who'd eat anything but preferred it to be screaming when they began to gnaw. She knew from old maps that it stretched north almost all the way to the top of the world, split into two immense and distinctive regions. The Tail, and the Teeth.
Looking
down, she could see the barbican leading like a fat grey tube into the mouth of a town. A town encircled by a thick wall which made it look like a bubble attached firmly to the tube. Gaping holes in the barbican's back gave a view of trenches carved into the mud.
Beyond the town, the fields were mostly flat and green, differing from the yellow grass and hills of the Wolfpaw Plains. Splotchy patches of trees and brush sketched out across the horizon which was divided into many parts thanks to the roads leading into the wild heart of the Fnordic Lands.
The buildings were cramped inside the walls, jostling ruthlessly as they fought for room. There was a single central road, but the rest was cut up by twisted streets and alleys barely wide enough for a cart to be pulled through. Smoke drifted upward, caught on the wind which flung it in all directions.
Some smoke from cookfires. Disturbingly, not enough to tell the story of a town full of people.
Men were like tiny dots moving across the walls, each a pair of sentries. Sometimes in threes. Never far apart. Concentrating mostly around the mouth of their gate and swarming in the narrow field between where the barbican ended and Lovespurn's gates lay open like a hideous maw.
Soldiers. Everywhere. No matter where she looked, whatever way in or out, it was blocked by a ring of soldiers who seemed to flow endlessly in and out of the captured town. She tried to guess their number.
A few hundred? A thousand? It was too hard to tell.
And how many defenders were left? From what she'd seen, not enough.
“Looks like shit,” she said.
“It is,” Asa agreed, fury in her voice. She gripped the metal rail as though wanting to tear it from the stone and fling it at the town. “And, as you can see, we're outnumbered. All that's kept us alive so far is the bottleneck below. They can't get far enough into the barbican to take the Doomgate. Not yet. And we don't have enough to fight them back to the town no matter what Jagtooth says. One look from here and you can see there's too many to risk that kind of nonsense. We have a stand-off. One which can't last for long.”
