The Wall of Darkest Shadow (Nysta Book 5)

by Lucas Thorn

  When she found one she figured was comfortable enough, she dropped down on top of the unwashed blanket. Lay back, not taking her boots off, and looked up at the ceiling. Didn't close her eyes. Just allowed her buzzing mind to drift slowly, emptying of conscious thought.

  The stones above were like square pupils staring down at her. Watching.

  Waiting.

  She stared back, half-expecting them to blink.

  Could hear a low murmur of voices from outside. Thought she heard Jagtooth laugh again. After a while, it was quieter. A few snores from some of the other occupants.

  A cough.

  That smell again. Not quite magic. But the same acrid stink.

  She remembered Hemlock and Chukshene talking about the Wall. Two nights ago. Hiding in the long grass. No fire to keep warm. Huddled against each other, the four of them pressed together to share their heat.

  Chukshene, finally out of stories to tell. Stories which usually involved him stumbling into a ruin and finding something best left undisturbed.

  Then disturbing it and running away.

  Or attempting to raise a female demon for personal purposes and conjuring something with big teeth and an appetite for consuming the flesh of warlocks.

  And running away.

  Hemlock, eyes fastened on the massive towers spearing out of the Wall to rip through the clouds. Had tapped his grimoire. “It says it was built using all kinds of magic. Necromancy. Demonology. Even witchcraft. Others, too. There's reference to a troll marker being used somewhere. It's as though they took powerful totems and magic from everywhere, mashed them together, and smeared it all on the stone. Into it, even.”

  “Impossible,” Chukshene said. “No one can use that many different kinds of magic. It'd tear them apart. I have a hard enough fucking time with demonology. And witchcraft? That's bullshit. There's no such thing as witches.”

  “No such thing as warlocks or necromancers, either,” Hemlock countered. “Besides, you can cast some of the spells the mages know. Right? That's how you hid among them. By pretending to be one of them?”

  “That's different,” the warlock snorted. “You know it is. I told you, those spells are pretty much given. You don't learn them. They're like being given a new pair of pants or something. Besides, even with it being handed to me on a plate, I'm not exactly known for being good at it. I think you'll find even apprentices think I'm a fucking joke. Bastards. I fucking hate apprentices. Really. Necromancy and demonology? Hugely different to magecraft. Grim's balls, it even feels different.”

  “I don't understand,” Melganadera said, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. “How can it be different? You do the same thing. You say a few words and stuff happens.”

  “Stuff happens?” Chukshene stared at her, expression bland. “It's that easy, is it? Stuff just happens.”

  “The words are a code,” Hemlock said. He spoke slowly, as though testing a theory. “It's like, we pull together the essence of the universe and shape it with the words. But the words themselves are meaningless. I have three spells to cast an energy blast. And all three are different, but they do the same thing.”

  “Fireball,” Chukshene muttered. “I've got ten of those. And I can only get one to work. And not all the time. First time I got it to work, I nearly melted Nysta's head off. Some days, I wish I had better aim.”

  “You're lucky I do, 'lock.”

  “I can feel the Wall from here,” Hemlock said. He held up a hand, trying to make sense of what he could feel. “A knot of enchantments and magic. But there's other things, too. I don't know. It's like some of it isn't there. Like it's locked away. A treasure hidden in a chest. Buried deep beneath the sand. Do you know what I mean?”

  The warlock shrugged. “I've never been too good at scrying, Hem. Or digging up treasure. If I was, I'd be in Doom's Reach, feet up. I'd be drinking beer from a real mug. It'd be real beer, too. And the barmaid on my lap? Real. Instead, I'm sitting here in the cold, shivering my ass off and scaring myself silly by listening to what pretty much amounts to ghost stories. Which, no offence, is pretty much your area of expertise, right? So, you've got an unfair advantage. You should stop.”

  “But, you feel something?”

  “Maybe. No. Well, okay, sure. Look, I don't know. To be honest, there's a fucking army just a few fucking minutes away and I'm too fucking scared to think.”

  “Triggers,” the necromancer said, closing his eyes. He licked his lips. Cocked his head. A look of intense concentration swept across his face as sweat beaded on his brow. “It's like the Wall is full of triggers. But I can't see how to pull them.”

  Chukshene's eyes glittered a little as he leaned closer. His voice suddenly eager. “You know, my friend, it's said that the Dark Lord could make the Wall do things,” he said. “Horrible things. Fantastic things. How's that for a terrifying thought?”

  “You think this is how he did it? With triggers?”

  “What I think is not the right question, Hem,” Chukshene said, a cryptic smile on his face. “The question is, do you?”

  The elf lay in her cot, running the conversation over inside her head. She had no doubt the two spellslingers were right now scurrying through the corridors like rats. Ignorant of the dangers.

  She expected to hear Chukshene's shrill scream any second as a goblinknife chopped out his guts and sent them spraying across the wall.

  The thought brought a smile of her own, and she closed her eyes. Felt sleep tug with ethereal fingers, pulling at her mind. Promising an assortment of dreams as shelter while she slept. For a while, she allowed herself to be crept away. Let her awareness constrict around her, drowning out the bubble of voices.

  The far-off shouts of soldiers.

  Shovels digging trenches.

  Footsteps moving between cots.

  Heavy.

  Her hands were across her belly. One resting against the worn hilt of Fulci's Last Joke. The other tucked around Work Makes You Free. The first blade was ideal for throwing. Slightly curved, but flat and lethal.

  The other was a little heavier. Good for slashing. It wouldn't bite deep, but its sting was venomous thanks to a thin coating of poison along its edge. The kind of poison which left you dying for days. Sometimes months.

  A blade to cause suffering.

  “Nysta?” The man's voice was calm. Not afraid, but cautious. “I think you're mostly awake. Just came to talk is all. Maybe you remember me. Maybe you don't. I was with you at Tannen's Run? When the Grey Jackets tried to kill us all. Some of the others say the goblins were the ones who saved us, but I think they only came because of you. Do you remember?”

  “It weren't that long ago, Hicks,” she said. “Reckon I remember you. Hudson still around?”

  “He's outside.” She could sense the man's smile even without opening her eyes. “He's digging trenches with some of the other boys. I think it reminds him of the chores he used to do back home. He complains about it. But funny enough, I think he actually enjoys it.”

  She opened her eyes and looked to where the mercenary stood a few cots away. “There something you want, Hicks?”

  He looked down and sat on the edge of one. “You remember how things went down in the Deadlands? How tough it was with the Grey Jackets and all? Well. We got here just before the Doomgate was closed. Before the Black Blades took the Plain. We got caught in this shit when Bucky tried to take the Wall. Her Highness offered us a job. It didn't pay well, but we don't really have a choice anyway.” He looked intently at her. “We're surrounded, Nysta. Ain't no way out of this one. But last time, those goblins came for you, remember? I came to ask if there's any chance they're going to do the same here?”

  “It weren't because of me.” She remembered Quietly, his black blood oozing into the ground. “They were there because Storr took something from them and they wanted it back. They just figured to use me to fight him is all because they didn't like his sword. I weren't feeling too good at the time, or I wouldn't have been there at all.
”

  “Oh.” He curled over his knees. Rested his head in his hands and sighed. “Then Spoonfed told it right.”

  “Spoonfed?”

  “Yeah. Black Blades showed up at Tannen's Run a few days after you left. Weren't much of a fight. Those who survived made for the mountains and ran through the Bloods with those bastards gnawing on our feet every step of the way. There was a girl with us. She fought on the wall. Maybe you remember her. Flin. One of the goblins took a shine to her and followed her like a puppy.”

  “Flin.” The elf remembered her. Young. She'd carried a spear. Fought with spirit.

  “Yeah. Nice kid. Bit fucked up, but aren't we all?” He looked around at the stained walls. Shivered. “She was one of the first to go missing. Nothing seemed to scare her. When the others started talking about what happens when you close the doors, I think she thought they were fucking with her. Hudson was a bit upset about it. Wanted to go looking for her. I think she reminded him of his sister. They were close, you see. Tannen's Run must've done him good. He's turning into a man since we left the Deadlands. Maybe you won't even recognise him anymore.”

  She let that one pass. “Did Sharpe make it? He here, too?”

  “Not sure. Him and Pad were in the last lot with Eli. We caught sight of them once. About two days into the Bloods. Too far away to be sure, but they looked okay. They haven't shown up, though. Maybe they didn't think they'd make it to the gate. Maybe they figured we wouldn't open for them. That Sharpe, though. He's a smart bastard. If anyone survived, it'll be him.” The mercenary looked at her. “I heard you're working something. I was wondering if you needed any help. Me and Hudson, we'd like to pay you back somehow.”

  The elf shook her head. Closed her eyes again. “Reckon I work better alone.”

  “Yeah.” Hicks stood slowly, rubbing at his lower back. Tiredness oozed from his body as he turned to move away. “I get that. I ain't a praying man, long-ear. Never saw the point. And with the Dark Lord buried, there's no one really left to pray to anyway. But if I were, I'd say I'm praying for you to come back and tell us all about it. Maybe over beer and a hot meal. And I'll hope it rains for you tonight. Rains hard. Then they won't see you coming.”

  “I ain't too good at telling stories.” The elf allowed her lip to curl cruelly toward the scar on her cheek and turned her face slightly away. Half-drew Work Makes You Free and tapped the thin blade. “But I reckon I'm alright at surprise endings.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mist crawled down the barbican's throat, tasting death with smoky tongue. Chewing at its back, the brittle wind and the rain spitting through the large holes in the roof might have worked to cleanse the filth but instead created puddles of gore-filled slime and rivers of foul-smelling mud within the maze of trenches. Rivers which swirled around bodies no one had been able to care for. Though some had been passed back to be set aside, the rest lay where they were and waited with boundless patience for the battle to be over.

  The sizzle of an arrow cut through the murky silence. Distance, wet fletching, and the broad head caused it to eventually ribbon in the wind. It landed between two trenches with a sodden splash. Skipped along the mud and dropped beside a dead ork.

  “They shoot at anything,” Jagtooth muttered. “So best you keep your head down. They've got some skill up there, even in all this. We shoot back sometimes, but it doesn't seem to matter. There's too many of them, and I think their spellslinger's messing with our eyes. Styren Joe said he hit one of the guards. One of them up there on the wall. Bastard of a shot if it's true. He said the arrow went right through. Said the feller didn't even flinch. Just kept walking. Swears it's true. Reckon their cleric must be better than he seems if he can heal an arrow that quick. Right? Shit. Place is driving us crazy, I think. Next we'll be seeing some of Forkleg's sharks in the walls.”

  The elf crouched on a large block of shattered stone which had tumbled from an overturned wagon. The rubble was strewn across the road and the wagon on its side. Its belly scorched and burned, but the wheels were still intact. One turned a little in the breeze, releasing a keening iron cry which echoed within the tunnel.

  She still couldn't fully believe the size of the barbican itself.

  Built as a bottleneck in case the Doomgate was breached, it was a long wide tunnel where defenders would work to contain or squeeze an army back against the Wall. Which is what was happening here.

  Grey seamless stone arching overhead. A roof with wide expanses cut open to let the last scraps of daylight stream inside. Deep carvings all the way down the side walls. Some painted brightly. Runes and images of people and places she didn't recognise and didn't care about.

  The ground, cobblestones which had been wrenched free to allow trenches to be swiftly dug. Those stones now helped to form barricades which littered the field.

  She squinted into the mist and waited for Jagtooth's scout to show. Watched the guards patrol along the top. Some were set in place. Archers, mostly. Others moved easily in unflinching circular routes.

  And they weren't half the danger.

  Only about two-thirds of the barbican was under Asa's control. The rest belonged to Bucky, and his men owned most of the trenches. Were still digging like dogs. Dirt and mud was flung high into the air as soldiers brazenly announced their approach with shovel and pick.

  No need to hide.

  Their goal was to slowly push Asa's orks and mercenaries back up against the Doomgate and pin them there.

  “The bastards keep coming,” another ork muttered as though reading her thoughts. Then grimaced. “Can't believe they turned on us like that. They came from all over. Doom's Reach. Icespike. Fellers who'd trained with us. Worked with us. I even saw Wiart among them, too. Wiart! He's from Ravensholme, for fuck sakes. Asshole trained me with axes. Never did beat him.”

  “We'll get them,” Jagtooth said, huge green fists around the hammers at his hips. He squatted in the shadows, hooded eyes staring at the sullen trenches. “Things ain't always as bad as they look.”

  “Or as good,” the ork countered. “I was up in Icespike just before the Dark Lord fell. You look out across the water in some places, and the sea may look warm to you on the coldest of days. Blue and inviting. Steam comes off it, you know. I've seen it. Really does look warm when your balls are froze solid. Gets so you start thinking that maybe you want a swim in it just to get out of the cold. Maybe it'll be like the hot springs you heard they've got in Darkrage. So, you get brave. You take a step out, but it's not water. It's fucking ice. Frozen clear as crystal in some places. Harder than my dick, too. But you wouldn't want to walk on it. No, laddie, you wouldn't indeed. If you do, don't be surprised when a crack in the ice appears under your feet. It'll be a kraken, it will. Rip right through the ice like it weren't there and the bastards'll eat you faster than a dog on guts. A lot of fellers die every year that way. All I'm saying is, it ain't always as bad, but sure as fucking shit it ain't always as good neither.”

  Jagtooth nodded. “Ain't sure I understand that story, but Asa knows what she's doing. Trust her, Legtrap. She'll see us right.”

  “I hope so, laddie.” Legtrap's fingers fussed at a wrapped wound on his forearm. Nails digging at the edge of the wrap as it sought to relieve an itch. “Ain't no arguing she's a smart one. And sure, Bucky weren't the greatest of minds. More gold than brains, if you ask me. Maleoin was the smart one. Good man, Maleoin. But sometimes it don't matter how smart you are if you've got numbers at your back. A flood of stupid will beat a spark of smarts any day of the week, mark my words.”

  The big ork held back whatever he was going to say as a young ork, looking practically waifish compared to the others, slithered out of a trench nearby and scurried toward them.

  Dressed in loose shirt and pants of various shades of filth, with open sandals clinging to his feet by the barest of thread. Slim sword at his side. A delicate weapon for an ork, she mused.

  He spoke in quick clipped sentences, voice hushed.

  The elf
didn't try to strain her ears to hear what he was saying. Her attention was firm on the broken ground in front of her. Ways through the trenches. Searching for patterns. For openings.

  And not seeing much.

  “Nysta?” Jagtooth waved her over.

  She ducked down, imitating the young ork's caution as she moved up beside Jagtooth.

  “Hi,” the young ork said. Stuck out his hand.

  The elf looked at it like she couldn't understand what it was.

  “This is Meatslice,” Jagtooth said. “Don't be fooled by his age. He's our only scout left, so you can bet he's pretty fucking good.”

  She hesitated, then gave Meatslice's hand a tight grasp before releasing it. He seemed satisfied with the gesture and whipped his gaze back to Jagtooth. “It's mostly blocked. I couldn't get through, but I reckon she could. She's smaller than Inkiri.”

  The elf's eyes narrowed. “What's this?”

  “There's shafts down both sides,” Jagtooth explained. “Mostly used to channel rain from the Doomgates. Usually goes into a reservoir outside town, but there's also few tunnels which lead inside. But they've been blocked. First thing Bucky did. Also, he collapsed the sewers and a couple of other shafts we knew about. Also filled in a few wells. But I figured it was worth checking again. Meatslice here thinks he's found one you can slip through. Means you'd be able to get behind their lines without having to fight your way through the trenches.”

  “I don't know how far it goes, though,” the young ork said. “I can't promise it goes anywhere. I couldn't shine any light through and I didn't want to be seen. Inkiri thinks it's clear right through. I doubt it, though. They've never been used, or even mapped, but I heard they went into the walls of the town. Which means if it really is clear, then my coppers are on you ending up right in the middle of a hundred of the bastards. Getting yourself cut into little pieces. It'll be fun.”

  The elf answered his grin with a sour look. “Fun?”

  “Sure.” His lanky frame shook with mirth. “What's the matter? You don't like fun?”