by Lucas Thorn
The young axewoman let out a short chuckle from the back of her throat. “That makes you evil, you know.”
“Reckon I can live with it.”
“I tried to help some of the poor people near the castle,” Melganaderna said. “But I couldn't do it for long. At first, I thought they were happy. That when I gave them coin or food, they were grateful. That it was helping. But then, I'd catch them looking at me. Like they wanted to cut my throat open and drink my blood. I still see their faces sometimes. Nasty. Hateful. I was just a kid, then. I never went back.”
She glanced at the former princess. Former queen. A rank the young woman had held which was easy to forget when the elf looked at her. She didn't look regal. She looked strong, for sure. Built to lead. There was a touch of arrogance to the way she walked, and in how she carried the massive axe. But it was the bearing of one who'd earned the right, rather than was born to it.
Everything about her origin screamed at the elf to hate her.
Yet, she didn't. Despite their differences, she felt only a cautious sense of trust.
Still, she sneered as she spoke.
“Of course they'd want to kill you. You get to give shit away which means nothing to you. The food. Coins you figured would make a difference but which weren't enough to get them further than the next morning. You stood there with your clean clothes and your beautiful hair and then you got to walk away. You got to go home. Sleep in a bed. But most of those fellers are damaged. Or lost. They don't need pity, Melgana. Don't need a few coin or scraps of bread. We needed more than that. Some of us needed healing. Some of us needed a fucking break. And the rest? The rest didn't know how to take care of themselves. They couldn't do it. Buy them a house, shove some gold in their pockets, and they'd be back on the street in a week because they ain't all there. They don't know how to cope. They need help, not fucking charity. Fucking charity gets them drunk. Only help gets them cured.”
“What cured you?”
“Ain't sure I did get cured. But maybe you could say it started when I killed some rich bastard,” she said, feeling the heat in her voice like a writhing snake. “Cut his guts open. Some other feller saw me, and figured I might know my way around a knife. He took me to the Jukkala. They gave me a home. Had to earn it, though.”
“It doesn't sound like that was easy.”
“First thing they do, is test you.” Nysta's violet eyes glittered as she remembered, and her hand unconsciously reached for a scrap of cloth woven into her hair. “They drop you in a room with three Musa'Jadean. Trained specialists who work around the southern borders. Sometimes behind the lines. The soldiers have knives. You get nothing. For the Musa, it's training. They have to prove their commitment by cutting up who they throw in the room before sand runs through a glass. For me, it was seeing if I could survive long enough. They want to see if I can control my fear so I don't get dead. Also see me take a few cuts. Maybe learn some respect for their training. They'll tell you at the end that they know ways to stop you ever getting cut again. Give you promises. Bullshit promises, mostly. But they work on new recruits.”
“No shit?” Melganaderna stared hard at the elf as though seeing someone new. “And I thought some of the Black Blade training was tough and inhuman. That must've been terrifying.”
The elf held out her fist, squeezing the fingers tight. “Jumped on the first and tore his throat with my bare fucking hands. While the others were pissing themselves, I took his knife. That's when they stopped it. Didn't want me killing the other two.” Her mouth curled into a wry twist. “One was the son of someone special. Ain't right when poor folks kill rich people, is it?”
“I bet that surprised them.”
“Surprised me more.”
“Didn't think you had it in you?”
The elf shook her head as Deadeye led them around a corner, hands fisting around knives at her hip while the air swirled around her. Motes of dust prickled her skin. “Didn't think I'd like it.”
“I'm not sure if that's horrible, or sad.”
“Ain't either,” the elf said. “It just is.”
“I had to read a lot growing up. It was sort of expected that I learn everything about the history of Cornelia. All about Rule and how he saved us from the hordes of orks and elfs. Had to read about the heroes who slew thousands all on their own. Like Gemlyn the Shieldburster. He stood alone at Settler's Bridge. Just him on one side and ten thousand orks on the other. The bridge wasn't wide enough for more than two orks to cross at a time. Gemlyn was alone. But he had the Hammer of Light, and his pride. He fought for hours, and the orks were forced to roll their dead off the bridge to get through themselves. It's said the bodies formed a chain for miles, floating toward the sea. In the end, the orks gave up. The cost had been too high. The stubborn knight with Rule's blessed warhammer prevailed. A story to remind Cornelians why we should always give our complete devotion and loyalty to Rule.” Her lips formed an impish grin. “I wasn't too good at that, obviously. You see, I don't think it matters what weapon he carried or how devoted he was. He could've taken an axe. Or an iron sword. Or just his fists. He still would've won. Some people are like that. They just fight and fight because it's all they know and death doesn't scare them. I can see you one day standing on a bridge. Facing ten thousand Black Blades or Star Swords. And you'll keep fighting until they cut you down or run away.”
The elf felt a ribbon of shock spear down her spine. “I ain't a hero. And I am afraid of death, kid. Everyone is. Anyone who says they ain't is just lying through their teeth.”
“You never look afraid.”
“I feel it.” The elf patted her gut. “In here. Like a ball of ice which spins and spins. It's got sharp edges, and they cut at my insides. It hurts and it's cold and it's crazy. It eats me alive. Every fight we get into, a part of me wants to run away and hide.”
“Why don't you?”
“Because another part of me loves it. The thrill. The violence. The release.”
“And that's the only reason you fight? For fun?”
The elf's neck shivered as the hairs rippled down her skin. “When we get back, I'm going to kill Jagtooth,” she growled.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just something that fucking ork said is all. Got me second-guessing myself.”
“What'd he say?”
“Ain't sure,” the elf grunted, not wanting to talk about it. “It was in code.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The young goblin continued to guide them through a series of winding corridors and narrow tunnels. Down skinny stairways and wide curling ramps. Even through a large hall with walls covered in old paintings licked by dust. Sometimes they backtracked when Deadeye announced she'd taken a wrong turn.
When she did this, the other goblins never complained. Rather, they grew more excited and hurried back with enthused chatter.
They seemed to think being lost was normal, the elf thought.
For her part, Nysta kept quiet. Even when she was wrong, Deadeye showed confidence in her role as guide, so the elf didn't interfere or show her rising frustration.
Instead, she dropped back and allowed her mind to turn over the thoughts Melganaderna had again stirred in her. Knowing it was probably pointless. Tired of even thinking about it. But hoping if she worked through them, maybe it'd stop haunting her.
At first, she'd thought it was something defensive which was devouring her. A need to retaliate to the ork's judgement. She burned with outrage. How dare he think he could judge her? When he hadn't lived through the chaos of Lostlight's streets. Then the hardships of the Deadlands. When he couldn't hope to understand what it felt to have the aimless hatred gnawing through her body with its icy fangs snarling for violence.
How could he understand the pain of losing Talek?
Or the sharp little razor of guilt which never seemed to want to stop cutting.
How dare he question her life.
She knew what she was. She was...
She glared at the ground ahead.
And didn't know what she was.
She'd once defined herself as a street urchin with a dream of returning to her home. But now she had no streets. Besides, she was no longer a child. Not since she'd spilled blood in a filth-stained alley. No, she thought, the child is grown. The dream is gone.
Then, she'd thought of herself as Jukkala'Jadean. An elite fighter for the Emperor. She'd almost found what it meant to feel loyalty to something besides her next meal. Had certainly felt the growing of pride. But now she had no Jadean.
Then, she was a wife. But now no husband. No family. Just a deep festering scar.
So, what was she?
A thug? Mindless killer slaughtering for sheer lack of purpose. The kind which Jagtooth despised?
Was that all she'd ever be?
The trigger, then, hadn't been his contempt. Hadn't been his fumbled excuses for his judgement.
Instead, it was because he was right.
Without identity, all she could claim to be was a monster. Empty and scourged. A thing to be reviled. Not just by others whose opinions she cared nothing for, but by herself.
Add to that, Bucky's decapitated head still bounced against her thigh. Still reminded her of a promise she hadn't kept. And though there were many promises she'd never kept, this time it bothered her. This time, it reflected on her. And, while no one was going to judge her for this, she felt she already had.
She should have killed him first. Killed him quick. He'd kept his end of the bargain.
Did it matter that he was the enemy?
No.
A bargain had been struck. A promise made and broken by her.
Then there was Chukshene and his constant worrying at her about finding a cause. And with Asa, it finally looked like she'd picked a side. Sure, there wasn't much of a choice. Defend the Wall or be killed by a god. But she'd made that choice. It was something she could say was hers. Yet, she couldn't commit to it and had demanded payment.
A payment the imperial princess had paid with more than just gold.
She'd paid with guilt.
And now Melganaderna, who seemed eager to learn something from her. What could she teach right now? How to be a cold-hearted killer. Was that really something she'd feel comfortable with passing to the wild-eyed young woman?
She resolved to give Asa Bucky's head. Then she'd leave them all behind. Chukshene. Asa. Hemlock and Melganaderna.
She'd journey into the Fnordic Lands and find something she hadn't been able to find south of the Wall.
Herself.
It was a mercurial thought. One which drove through her soul like the whispered words of a god. Maybe, she thought, Jagtooth was right. Maybe it was time to make her own code. Figure out who, and what, she was. Time to start putting some lines in the sand.
The more she thought about it, the righter it felt. Her spine straightened, feeling some of the burdens slip away even though she wasn't sure where to begin.
What would she allow?
What could she live with?
So absorbed in these thoughts, she didn't notice as Deadeye skidded to a halt and turned to push past Melganaderna, little hand shoving the young axewoman aside as though she was nothing. Melganaderna raised an eyebrow, but kept silent.
Reaching for the elf, Deadeye grabbed a fistful of her jacket. “Hey, Bloodhand. You listen?”
Nysta stopped.
Looked down at the green fist holding onto her. Felt a flash of irritation and nearly cut the hand from its arm. Then a moment of stillness as something clicked in place like the first of the final pieces of a puzzle.
So, instead of lashing out, she crouched down to stare the young goblin in the eye. Grabbed hold of the green fist and prised it loose with cool deliberation.
Her words, when they came, were cold and fashioned from ice. “Sure. I'll listen. But first, I'll tell you once. I don't like being touched. Not by anybody. You want me, you call me. You know my name. Just in case you've forgotten, it's Nysta. Or Bloodhand if you really have to. I'll accept that on account of the goblin who gave it to me maybe saved my life by throwing himself on a sword meant for my head. So, you've have your warning. Next time you touch me, I'll cut your hand off. Got me?”
The goblin thrust her jaw out. Wanted to be tough. Felt she had to prove something.
But the look in the elf's eyes made Deadeye look down. “I sorry,” she growled. “I not know Bloodhand have thing for not touching. But me tell all goblins. No goblin touch Bloodhand.”
And the elf suddenly felt like shit. Like she'd kicked the small creature. At first, her thoughts shouted at her not to be bothered by it.
To not care.
There was too much caring in her at the moment. Too many emotions. She didn't have room for any more. The goblin was quivering, and not from fear. From rage.
There'd been a day, many years past, when Nysta was handed her own Hand. A small group of assassins sent to kill a smuggler who'd gotten too big. Too hungry. Arrogant enough to refuse to pay the bribes needed to ignore his trade.
The taste of leadership had proven too much for her. She couldn't lead. All she could do was kill. And kill some more.
Plans? Those were for people who knew what they were doing.
She'd lost three of her Hand, and the only other to survive had done so at the cost of a limb.
Nysta was, as Chukshene had said, solely a weapon.
A good weapon, but certainly not the hand to hold it.
However, Deadeye seemed in a good position to lead. Where Nysta's Hand had never trusted her, Deadeye's gang looked ready to die for her. Even now, they were frozen in place, unsure what to do. But they'd fight for Deadeye even if it meant attacking the one Eventide had said they should listen to.
Perhaps, in the sting of words meant to take some control of her life, there'd also been a touch of jealousy?
She sighed.
“Fuck,” she said. Looked up to where Melganaderna was trying to hide her amusement. Looked back to the goblin whose head was still looking down at her boots. “I didn't say not to look at me, Deadeye. Said not to touch me is all. Now, I figure you got something important to say. Reckon maybe I'm a bit on edge. Seems I've been giving a bit of thought about the kinds of things I should stand for. Thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of what I wanted to be. But maybe this was the wrong time to try it out. Can only say this place is doing my head in. And speaking of heads, I have one in a bag tied to my hip and that ain't helping me feel any more civil. Didn't mean for you to think you ain't worth listening to, though. So, speak up. I hear you Wallrats are the best there is, so I reckon I can use your words.”
“Wise,” Dimrod intoned softly, the word echoing through the swooshing air.
Deadeye looked up, luminous green eyes tunnelling into the elf's violet gaze. Looking for mockery. Finding none, she lifted herself a little and pointed her goblinknife at the wall. “Me come here before. Walk through many places like this. And get lost many times. But me remember this place. Me remember this stone. It have face like Stingnose.”
Stingnose reared up. “It does not!”
The black ooze which sweated from the wall just looked like a big stain to her, but Dimrod managed a dry chuckle. “It have big nose like you.”
“This stone is doorway,” Deadeye told the elf, not looking at the others. Her eyes were serious and her voice was tentative. But there was strength there. She'd never break. “On other side is room. It big room. On other side of room is Big Gate.”
“So, we head through here? Tophead can open it, right?” She kept her gaze on Deadeye, who nodded.
“He can open doorway,” she confirmed. “But on other side is ork sleeping place. If many orks, maybe they attack goblins?”
“Don't sweat the orks.” The elf's eyes hardened, the violet or her eyes glittering bright enough for the goblin to flinch. “I'll deal with them.”
“We not big number, Bloodhand,” Deadeye said. “We kill many o
rks. But we kill one. Maybe two at time.”
“We kill five,” Stingnose protested.
“One,” Deadeye said firmly. “We know goblins small and orks big. But we fight goblin way, and always win. Open door here, we need trust. Trust to Bloodhand.”
“Eventide say we trust Bloodhand,” Tophead put in quickly.
“But Bloodhand angry,” Deadeye said, not looking away from the elf. “Bloodhand do best for Bloodhand, me think. I not worry 'bout that. Me do best for Wallrats. Me not care for orks. But this big trust to Bloodhand. We open door, and maybe die by orks. Orks not like goblins, me think.”
“Wallrats kill many orks, Bloodhand,” Tophead said. “Deadeye right, maybe.”
Nysta looked up at Melganaderna, who leaned on Torment.
The warrior shrugged. “I'll follow your lead on this one,” she said. “I've killed a few orks before. Can kill them again if I have to.”
“Shouldn't need to,” Nysta said, not quite as sure as she sounded. Then turned back to Deadeye. Held out her hand. “Won't look after you. That ain't my job. You're Wallrats. Best there is, right? So, you don't need me to protect you. But I'll stand in front. Kill anyone who wants to make a try for you. Reckon that'll even it up a little. That good enough for you?”
The young goblin eyed the elf's hand. “You not like be touched.”
“Ain't so much that I don't like it. More like I choose the conditions. I choose when.”
Nodding, Deadeye moved away without taking the elf's hand. “Me know this. Me not like touching either.” Then she turned to the Wallrats and put one hand on her hip and held the goblinknife high in the other. “Me stand with Bloodhand. Eventide give number one job to Wallrats. Me say we do best job ever. If have to, we kill everyone.”
