by Lucas Thorn
Jagtooth looked around. “Where's Inkiri?”
“Vuk sent for her. I think he likes her.” The young ork's humour faded a little and his red eyes shone wicked in the dim light. “I figure he's going to need us to kill some rats. You know. For his spells. It's the life we lead, Jagtooth. For us sons and daughters of misfits, it's all murder, all guts, all fun.”
The big ork grunted. Shifted on his heels as an idea seemed to strike. “Hey, Legtrap? Go get me one of the stripes. See if you can find Finnen.”
“Right, captain.” Legtrap touched one of the fetishes on his chest. A small thing of bird bones and runed leather wrapped in dark metal wire.
The elf wondered at the orks' superstitions. All of them, even Meatslice, had at least a half-dozen. Some orks were dripping in them. One even had them twisted around his arms and they jangled when he moved, little bird bones clacking against each other. At least, she thought they were bird bones.
Jagtooth absently fingered one of his own. A rose stem with the thorns still attached. Wrapped in copper wire and teeth. She ached to ask him whose teeth.
A sneer began to form as she felt a rush of contempt for their superstitions, but she buried it quickly as she realised in her hair were her own tokens. Tokens torn from the bodies of those she'd killed.
Maybe, she thought with a ghostly echo of guilt, she had more in common with the orks of the Fnordic Lands than she'd expected.
“It's a shame he got himself sick,” Meatslice said. “If we had him out here, we could probably push them all back into the town. It'd make it easier if they weren't halfway down our throat.”
“I didn't think deathpriests got sick,” the elf said.
Jagtooth grunted. “Yeah? Tell him that, because he ain't doing so good. Looks like shit in fact. More shit than deathpriests usually do.” He rolled his heavy shoulders. When he did, she wondered how the massive plate armour didn't just slide right off. It looked like it weighed a lot more than she did.
“Get Chukshene out here,” the elf said. Grinned more widely than she should at the thought of the warlock being put onto a battlefield. “Make him throw a few fireballs around. He loves that shit.”
“Reckon you're fucking with us,” Meatslice said.
She shrugged. “Fucking more with him than you.”
Her humour dissipated as she returned her attention to the long tunnel and the tantalising sight of the town gates at the end. Freedom was so close and the air inside the barbican was stifling and humid despite the wide openings above and the cold rain dripping in.
“You really think you can get in there?” Jagtooth crossed his arms across his knees.
“Nope.”
“But you're gonna try.”
It wasn't a question. “Yep.”
“If the shaft doesn't go far, you're gonna come up inside the trenches. They've been pretty good at spotting anyone getting past them so far. We sent some scouts. Good scouts.”
“And the archers?”
“Fuck the archers,” Meatslice snorted. “Rain's fucked up their strings.”
“Don't listen to him.” Jagtooth said. “They're still shooting sticks into our heads. But, no. I didn't mean the archers. I meant magic. Everyone we send gets spotted sooner or later. Meatslice here's the only one who's gotten close enough to the gates and not gotten killed. I figure he's stupid enough to have dumb luck on his side. It's their cleric, you see. He spots us. Mallet says he saw a mage, too. But how that blind fuckhead recognises a mage, I don't know. Asa believes him.”
“He said the bastard was throwing fire around,” Meatslice said. “That's kind of what they do. Clerics, not so much. They're mostly healers.”
She thought of Hyrax. “Some like to bring the hurt, too.”
“I'll take your word on that. We ain't seen a cleric this side of the Wall. Ain't sure what to do with him to tell the truth.”
“Kill him.”
“Oh, we got that bit.” The big ork gave an ugly chuckle. “It was the actual killing we've had some trouble with. He stays inside the walls of the town. Right at the gates, mostly. Sneaks his pus-filled head out now and again, but not far enough. We couldn't put a bolt through his brain if we wanted to.”
“They're tricky fuckers,” she allowed.
“You're headed in there, though,” he said. “If you see him, I won't be upset if you pull his ass out through his face. Slowly.”
“Ain't got time for that,” she said. “But I'll open his neck if you like.”
“Guess that'll have to do.” He looked down at his hands. Like he wasn't sure if he wanted to say what he was thinking. Then sighed. “Never thought I'd be happy to see someone of your kind.”
Something in his tone made her scowl. “My kind?”
“Yeah. Killers without a code. The kind who'll kill for silver and gold.” He waved a meaty hand. “No offence. But I usually ain't so good with that kind. One of my cousins got himself sliced. Was in a bar somewhere on the docks of Dragonclaw. I tried to find out why it happened. Turned out the feller who cut him open was offended by his way of eating with his mouth open. Simple thing. Bullshit thing. He gave no warning. Just walked up and cut him open from his navel to his neck. Shit reason to die. And there's gotta be better reasons to kill.”
“I ain't ever killed anyone for eating,” the elf said. Her violet eyes studied him, and something in her blood began to simmer as the rage trickled into her veins. “And codes are for the broken.”
“Broken?” The big ork laughed. “And you ain't broke? Nysta, what's inside you ain't ever been whole, I reckon.”
Her hand moved before she could think. Fingers wrapped tight around her new knife. The knife she'd taken from the ancient corpse of a Vampire King. A knife without a name. A knife learning its purpose. A knife burning to bury itself in his flesh and earn one.
But before she could snarl a response and tear it from its sheath, Meatslice reached out and enveloped her hand firmly with his own. While he wasn't as big as most orks, there was power in his grip. He stared hard at her face. “There's no need to prove his point,” he said.
Pinpoints of light glittered on the edge of her vision.
Worms of solid darkness slithered through her muscle, and she knew without even trying she could pull herself free.
Could slash Meatslice's throat open so fast he wouldn't have time to blink.
Then she could be on Jagtooth.
She could rip and tear him open. Flay him.
Meat like molten strings, severed.
And severed.
And severed.
Feel his warm blood splashing between her fingers.
“You pull that, and I'll take it from you,” Jagtooth said slowly. “Give it back to you point-first, too. But there ain't no need to do that. I didn't mean to be insulting. Was more an observation and an explanation. I'm sorry if I hit a nerve. I was just saying I don't understand your kind is all.”
“And what's your kind, feller?” Her words hissed through her teeth. “Kind with a code, you reckon? You get to walk around feeling like it wasn't you who cut all those people down. Was the bastard who told you to. You're just a soldier following orders, right? That it? You think that makes you better than me? Well, from where I'm standing, you're the same. You were paid to be here. At the end of the day, you fight for gold. Kill for it. You ain't no better.”
Jagtooth scowled. “Never said anything about being better.”
“But you think you are.”
His eyes slid away. Then back. “It ain't about that. It's about the why. I know why I do what I do. Sure, I get paid. In this world, we all need to be paid. But we also choose what we get paid for. I lived here, Nysta. Right here in the shadow of the Wall. I grew up knowing what it was for. What it did. Also grew up knowing its limitations. It holds Rule from our throats, but there's other things which can come through. You take a look at that town, and it's got a cleric in it. A mage. And we ain't seen a townie since this shit began, so I got no doubts there's a
lot of death in there which'll churn my fucking stomach when I see it. And you'll get to see it, too. But will you hang around and help clean it up? Will you find their families and tell them what happened? Will you be around when the survivors are crying? No. You'll be long fucking gone. Well, guess what? I won't. I'll be here. And as for following orders? Yeah. I follow orders. But even she wouldn't tell me to kill kids. Or kill unarmed people. I won't do that. That ain't something I'll do for anyone. That's my line. But your kind wouldn't hesitate. You've probably done it before and you'll do it again. Ain't no lines in the sand for you, so long as you get your gold. Your gems. We orks, we believe in codes. During the Night Age, we lived like animals. We were less than common raiders. Killed everything that moved. Lived in small clans and protected our hunting grounds with axe and spear. Had to. That's the kind of world it was. But the world changed, and we learned to do more than just survive. We learned to grow. To build. And you can only do that if you believe in something more than yourself. See, my code is what defines my life. Helps me live with what I gotta do sometimes. That's what a code is for. Helps you do more than just survive. Be more than just a common piece of dirt in a world which already has enough mud in it.” He blew air from his lungs and shook his head. “Didn't mean for you to take that as you did. And maybe I'm a bit harsh on you for it on account of you taking something real fucking special from Asa. Maybe I'm angry she's so desperate to protect us all that she felt she had to give it. You can't be more than you want to be, and you can't want to be more unless you got a reason to. Ain't your fault, I guess. Steps you took to get here were steps I didn't take, so I can't judge you. Now, all I meant was I don't like what you are. But I appreciate what you can do.”
“Because I'll do what needs to be done,” she said. Thought of the things Jutta had made the Jukkala'Jadean do. The blood on her hands. “So you don't have to feel bad about yourself.”
“Might seem that way to you,” he said. “But I don't look at you and see someone only good for doing the worst. I see someone I wish could do the best. At the end of the day, Nysta, you'll have a lousy life. And a lonely one. Sure, you'll have no ties and it'll sound like freedom to you on the best days, but a life without friends is a life without colour. Wouldn't wish that on anyone. And there's one thing you don't know, but you should.”
“What's that?” Resentment made her snap at him.
“That ring? Really means a lot to her. It's personal. You took more than just a bit of gold and flashy-looking gems. You took a piece of her heart. She's had to trade a lot of things to get where she got right now. But that? It would've been better for her if you'd taken one of her arms. When she talks about him, you can hear how much he meant to her. Not as a god, but as a man. She'll live a lot of years, Nysta. A long life was his gift to her. His curse. And that ring was one of the only real personal things she had to remember him by. Now on those nights when she misses him the most, she'll have nothing to hold but her memories. When you piss it all away on beer or fucking or gambling, I want you to know what you pissed away.”
A heavy-set man with dark hair rolled up from the trenches and moved with erratic speed to belly up next to them. Looked from the elf to the ork and grinned at the tension. “I interrupting something, captain?”
Nysta looked away from Jagtooth, rage and guilt tearing at her emotions, and pulled her hand from Meatslice's grip. Said to the young ork through the corner of her mouth; “Touch me again and I'll cut off your hand.”
Jagtooth sighed at the newcomer. “No, Finnen. You ain't interrupting.”
“Then, if you'll be so kind as to tell me why I'm here, I can get back to my lads. They're grumping a bit about all the digging, and we expect a few of Bucky's bastards to make it through any second.” He licked his lips. “I reckon we're in for a mighty fine scuffle and I'd hate to miss it.”
The elf almost smiled, reminded by his lilting accent of Pad. But the heat in her veins turned the smile into a sneer, which she kept aimed at the trenches.
Meatslice inched away and began to turn, ready to make his way in search of Inkiri. He rubbed at his wrist where the elf had pulled free.
“You,” Finnen pointed at him. “Where d'you think you're going? Stand still, laddie. I'll be needing you in a minute, I'm thinking.”
“But I haven't eaten, yet.”
“Are these stripes I see on my shoulders? They certainly look like stripes to me. Do they look like stripes to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Who you talking to, laddie?”
“Yes, stripe. They're stripes. Ill wait right here, stripe.”
“A little better.” Finnen nudged Nysta and grinned. “Pleasure seeing youngsters respect their elders, ain't it?”
“Quit fucking with him, Finnen,” Jagtooth leaned close. “I've got a job for you.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“You'll probably get killed. And all your men, too. Or most of them.”
Finnen looked ready to make a joke, but then frowned as he caught Jagtooth's solemn tone. When he next spoke, there was no humour in his voice. “Like that, is it?”
“Like that.”
“And will it be making a difference?”
“It might.”
“Big chance, or small?”
The ork jerked his thumb toward the elf. “She ain't looking too big a chance right now. But if we can get her through the lines, I'd say she'll do alright by us.”
The Fnordic soldier looked at her closely. Took in the knives. The wyrmskin armour. Scar on her face. Signs of battles he could understand. Nodded. “I hope she's worth the risk.” He fingered one of the stained yellow stripes painted onto the black plated armour across his shoulders. While not as large as those the orks wore, the armour made him look broad and capable. “Still, they didn't give me these things for wanting to live forever. What've you got? I hope it's good.”
“Don't get your hopes up about that.” Nysta's sneer softened a little as she shot him a look. Softened because no matter how she felt about everything, she knew this man would soon be fighting to give her a chance at taking Bucky's head. And her experience with the Jukkala'Jadean was that such chances were expensive. So, she injected humour into her voice as she drawled; “Reckon we just established there ain't nothing good in me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The trenches were exactly how she'd imagined they'd be.
Wet.
Stinking of blood, piss and excrement.
And, with the front line being difficult to pinpoint, filled with men trying to kill her. Unsolicited Advice drove into the shoulder of one of Bucky's youngest. As he doubled-over, he dropped his hatchet. Was obliging enough to angle his body away from her, showing his back. In which she embedded Market Me with casual force.
Blood splashed down her arm and she had to use her boot to kick the boy off Unsolicited Advice, tugging hard to get her knife free.
He hadn't said a word. Which was unusual. Most of the others she'd been killing were eager to spit at her.
Call her Tainted.
Promised to give so much agony to her.
Always gave so little.
Always took a lot.
Still, the little accumulated. She had a shallow cut across her thigh. Another one running up her side. A few just above the bracer on her left arm. The wounds buzzed with sensation and she knew it was because whatever the darkness was inside her, it was flooding her cuts with rivers of black worms wriggling through muscle and sinew. Gnawing at ruined flesh. Tearing it. And weaving the rest.
Healing, in its way.
Snarling, the elf continued forward, mindless of Finnen and his handful of soldiers struggling to keep up behind her. Her veins pumped with hate she was finding difficult to control, but they'd been pumping since Jagtooth spoke his piece.
She darted around a sharp corner and stumbled into three men. At first, she wasn't sure if they were Bucky's or Asa's, but one went for his sword and that made the point moot. The close confines
made for a rush of steel and flesh. Her arm slid through the triangle made across his chest by his forearm and bicep to plunge Market Me into meat.
A knot of flailing limbs. Press between bodies like breath between screams. The slam and crunch of flailing arms.
A gush of blood and a warbled shriek.
Strong hands grabbed her jacket and jerked her back even as the first body crumpled into a writhing heap. The knife had found the flesh between shoulder and throat.
She let the hilt pull free of her hand and spun, whipping Unsolicited Advice across belly. Didn't do too much damage, thanks to strips of armour running vertically up his abdomen, but it cut deep enough down his side to vent him of a quick splash of blood and a scream.
Instead of ignoring the cut, he doubled-over, bringing his arm up and hoping to push her away. But she knew this fight was done. Drew and spun A Flaw in the Glass in her right hand. Brought it arcing up in an uppercut which split his face in two and carved a line clean through his brain. The glowing blade's curved tip erupted out the back of his head like a breaching whale, exhaling chips of bone and gore and venomous green light.
Then blood wiped everything in a red spray.
The third jumped back, rolling on his heels. Shocked by her speed.
Scared by her hate.
Hand up, though his other fumbled for his sword. Mouth a careless line.
“Hey, hey! It's just a job,” he cried. “I don't want this. Please, long-ear, it's just a job. I didn't come here for Rule. I'll switch sides. I will! I'll do anything you want. Don't hurt me. Please. It's just a job!”
Seeing only hunger to kill in her eyes, the man turned and made to climb out of the trench, screaming wordless to the mist creeping over his grasping hands. So filled with terror that he didn't even try to protect his back.
He was thick of build. Pudgy about the waist.
She cocked her head, considering her options. Remembering Jagtooth's talk about what he chose to be paid for. Then drove A Flaw in the Glass up under the his ribs. With cruel precision, the howling blade found his heart and creamed it before it could beat twice.
