Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2)

Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) Page 16

by Lucas Thorn

  But she was close. So close she could almost taste the son of a bitch.

  “You still want to do this?” the warlock asked quietly. “Knowing they know you’re coming?”

  The elf gave a curt nod. “I owe it to him. To Talek. And to myself. We’ve come this far, ‘lock. Spilled a lot blood getting here. Some of it mine. Maybe took on something else. Something worse. But I’ll pay any price right now to get Raste. Spill all my blood. Take any curse. Killing that red-haired fuck is all that matters.” She felt the hard wooden box sitting coolly in her pocket. Considered the warlock’s promise to find out what it had contained. And, if it had cursed her, then what she could do to be rid of it. Grunted; “Fuck it. I don’t feel any different anyway.”

  The field ended abruptly, sliding downward in an easy slope. The trees clinging to the side of the shattered mountain were mostly dead. But here and there one still lived precariously. They were close. The town of Grimwood Creek hovered right on the edge of the border.

  They stood together at the top, looking down into the dark. A glint of light far out on the horizon drew her gaze and held it. Somewhere, possibly between her and the shining beacon which was Grimwood Creek, Raste was breathing.

  “We’ll need some rest, first,” he said. “It’s going to be a tough day tomorrow, I’m guessing.”

  “Reckon so.” She glanced at him, and saw not the weak apprentice she’d taken him for. Saw instead a powerful spellslinger. A warlock capable of summoning creatures from the foulest pits of the Shadowed Halls. A man with more secrets than she had knives. But one who’d done his share of killing. And more.

  Whatever his reasons, they were his reasons now. She no longer cared. Already suspected him of using her in some fashion, but felt obliged to hold onto the thin thread of trust they’d tied around each other.

  So, she tucked her thumbs over the hilts of A Flaw in the Glass and Kindness and let her shoulders relax. Felt the knots unwind slowly. Stifled a yawn. And said; “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want. I can get him on my own.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “And I’m sure I’ll get in the way. But you led me this far. And though I’ve got nothing to do with your search for revenge, Nysta, I told you I understand it. I had help getting mine, too. I wasn’t able to pay out that debt. Maybe this can go toward it.”

  She didn’t understand the reference, but she understood the sentiment. Clapped him on the shoulder and nodded. “Obliged.” She looked back out at the gleaming dot. “But you leave Raste, ‘lock. You leave him and his men for me. No matter what else you do, you remember that.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Then we’ll get to Grimwood Creek by late morning, I reckon. I’ll kill Raste and the rest of his assholes. And anyone who gets in my way. Then we head our separate ways. Nothing more owed.”

  “Nothing more owed,” he echoed.

  There was something soft in his voice, but she chose to ignore it.

  Instead scratched at her scalp as she headed toward a twisted tree winding uncomfortably from the rocky earth. Long dead, it’d left a hollow curved against the sharp wind. She kicked the loose rubble out and squatted beside it.

  “We’ll bed down here,” she said. “Don’t want to use a fire just in case that bastard’s slinking around here somewhere in the dark. I doubt it, but best to be sure.”

  The warlock accepted without argument and tossed his pack into the hollow before settling back against it with a sigh. “Grim’s teeth, I ache all over,” he said.

  “Think you ache today, ‘lock?” She squeezed in beside him to share any feeble warmth their bodies had managed to hold back from the wind. “Wait until tomorrow.”

  He curled his legs up against his chest and rested his grimoire across his knees. Put his head down across the book and looked like a dog staring into the dark.

  Restless of mind, the elf looked down at her hands. They didn’t look much different. Still a little sticky. Whose blood, she couldn’t tell. But there was nowhere to wash them. So she would smell of old death in the morning.

  Something crawled up her side and she rubbed at it, hoping it died beneath her fingers. Didn’t feel anything else move, so pushed herself further back against the hollow and listened to the warlock’s breathing. It didn’t take long for his slow shallow breathing to break into long jagged snores.

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes, leaned back and looked up at the moon doing its best to dodge the clouds.

  When she finally slept, she dreamt of Talek.

  Of his face before it had been twisted by magefire. Of his hands, brushing her cheek.

  An apple, dipped in a cold mountain stream.

  His laughter.

  The way he moved.

  And, finally, his mouth. Warm against her own.

  She woke with tears frozen on her chin and scrubbed them away with a grunt as she pushed out of the hollow. Stood in a thin patch of snow and stared out at the cruel landscape. Clearer to see in the cold light of day. Harsh grey stone and more shale formed a twisted wreckage leading to the town. More patches of white littered the grey, masking the echoes of violence with the pretence of purity.

  On one side of the border, the Deadlands with its blasted landscape and a thin silvery creek of water creasing the mountains. And on the other, a lush forest hinting at what the Deadlands might have been before the gods chose to make war.

  She wanted to head toward the creek, beckoned by the cool promise of washing the blood from her clothes. From her skin. But revenge had the greater pull, so she swung her gaze back to the town.

  And couldn’t stop thinking about the streets of Lostlight.

  The smell of garbage, piss, and blood.

  How much she’d endured. The pampered child she’d been when pushed to the streets had so quickly had all her dreams shattered. How she’d learnt the savagery of self needed just to survive. Just the thought of all she’d suffered made her want to vomit.

  Want to cry.

  Want to kill.

  And then Talek. A vivid change of paths guided by his hand. A path which so cleanly channelled all that savagery into something she could almost believe could wipe the stains free.

  But killing for her Jadean would never clean her soul.

  And so the fragile dream had broken.

  And broken again, at the hands of Raste.

  Her fists balled tightly at her side, the elf felt the bitter wind cut across her skin. Whipped at her hair. The heavy grey clouds reflected the darkness of her mood.

  Given the way her luck had travelled, it was only inevitable they would clash again. She should have known that. Should have guessed. Should have drawn the blade across his throat when she had the chance.

  Slowly, the elf wiped her eyes and studied the ground leading toward the town.

  Picking her path.

  The quickest path.

  Toward a town which had been built by orks hundreds of years ago. Built on the furthest reaches of Grim’s once mighty empire. Now a bordertown used by smugglers and thieves.

  A town of opportunity, if you wanted it to be.

  A town of greed.

  A town of hate.

  And, today, she thought grimly, that town would bleed.

  “Can’t we sleep a little longer?” The warlock rubbed at his red eyes and let out a moan. His face looked swollen and groggy as he slid awkwardly from the hollow. Put his book down on his pack. The first time she’d seen him deliberately set it aside.

  He yawned. Blinked some more. Looked at her blankly.

  “Town’s just down there, ‘lock,” she told him. “Walk a few hours and you can sleep in the inn.”

  “Yeah?” he yawned again. Peered out toward the town. Noticed a few small ghosts of smoke rising over the walls. “I’ll believe that when it happens. Tell me, Long-ear. You ever met a town you didn’t d
estroy? Looks warm, though, I’ll admit. I could use warm.”

  The elf thought of Raste’s blood gushing over her fist and her grin was cruel. “Yeah, me too.”

  But a more exciting thought had occurred to him. “And food!” He spun back toward the hollow with sudden energy. Grabbed at his pack. Hugged his grimoire close, hitched his robe, and began dancing down the hill. “Come on, Nysta! Food! Real food! Potatoes. Bread. Meat. I’m gonna eat a whole fucking cow! Maybe a pig, too. And a chicken. Wash it down with wine. No. Rum! Maybe ale. And then I’m gonna fuck the barmaid until her brains shoot out through her eyes! Fuck. Come on, Long-ear! What are you waiting for? Can’t you smell it? That’s food!”

  She watched as he slid down the hill and shook her head, bemused by the sudden shift in attitude. “You ain’t all there, are you, ‘lock?” she called.

  The elf followed at a slower pace, aware he’d soon run out of energy and be reduced to stumbling along in a daze. When she did catch up to him, he was holding his side and looking mournfully through the depressing line of twisted trees fossilised by magefire. “More of these stupid trees,” he murmured. He kicked at the ground. “I fucking hate this place. How much further?”

  “Ain’t far.”

  He dragged his feet, stumbling regularly, looking to be drunk on exhaustion. “Why’d you marry him?” he asked suddenly.

  “Huh?”

  “Your husband. What’s his name? Tarek?”

  “Talek.”

  “Yeah, him. Why’d you marry Talek? No offence, Nysta. Really. But you don’t seem the type to feel anything except hate.”

  “I feel a lot of things, ‘lock.” She felt her throat tighten as she spoke. Her jaw ached. “But there’s a time for them. And a place. And those times and places are gone.”

  “You think you’ll marry again?”

  She shook her head. “Talek was special, Chukshene. He found me at a time when I needed him. But that little girl ain’t around no more.” She tightened her fist around Kindness. “I won’t let anyone guide my life again. No one uses me from now on. No one.”

  He looked at her strangely. “But, you’re a weapon, Nysta.”

  “A what?”

  “A weapon. Don’t be so mad. So am I,” he said, holding out his grimoire. “With this, I can do things some men only dream of. Even some other mages. While you weren’t much impressed, you’ve got to remember we’re in the Deadlands. This thing wasn’t made to deal with the undead, or with creatures given power direct from the gods. But what it can do to men is unimaginable. I’m all kinds of dangerous, Long-ear. But I’ll tell you what I’m not.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A thinker. I don’t know where to go to do the most damage. And most of the time, while you were stabbing shit and actually doing something, I was sitting there trying to figure out what to do. See, I’m a blunt weapon. I do what I’m told. I get used. By the Mage Council. By the emperor himself. Fuck. By anyone who pays me. Should I be ashamed of that? Of doing my job? Doing my best? Some of us, Nysta, were made to be used.”

  “Not me,” she growled. But she thought of how Talek had guided her to her Jadean. How he’d let them mould her. Fashion her into the kind of soldier who only felt alive when they were killing.

  “You think it’s not honourable? To be a weapon? If that’s true, then why do you give your knives names? You do it because they have a purpose. And you respect them. And sometimes, the difference between being happy and being fucking miserable is just being able to choose who uses you. And what for. There are worse things, Nysta, than being paid to do what you do well.”

  Still struggling with her words and her beliefs, she said nothing, and the next few hours were spent in silence. Both of them left the other to be carried away by their own thoughts.

  Their own secrets.

  So caught up was she in her troubled mind, the elf didn’t notice for a moment as they stepped between a line of twisted trees and caught their first glimpse of the town of Grimwood Creek.

  The gates were wide open and a small group of men were gathered at the front, painting the gates grey. Flags flew high at each corner. Grey flags. With an earless face in the centre.

  The men, too, were dressed in grey.

  All human. Caspiellans, she snarled inwardly.

  Quickly overcoming her awe, the elf’s brain filled with images of the last time she’d seen the Grey Jackets and could almost smell Talek’s burnt flesh. The scar on her cheek burned horribly.

  The warlock’s mouth opened and she slapped one hand over it. Dragged him down behind the trees. Held one finger to her mouth and waited until he nodded. Took her hand off his mouth, then slowly looked around the trunk at the town.

  “What’s happening?” he asked morosely. “We’re not getting breakfast, are we?”

  “Looks like it ain’t a bordertown no more,” she said. “Grey Jackets have taken it. They’re everywhere. Looks like they’re building a pyre, too. Reckon anyone who ain’t human is dead. Anyone else who didn’t see things their way is dead, too.”

  “So,” he put his head into his hands and rubbed his temples. Tried to think. “They’re actually doing it. They’re moving into the Deadlands. Heading north again.”

  “Looks it.”

  “Shit. How long before they’ve dug themselves in? We’ve got to tell somebody, Nysta. Got to get to a ship. Get back to-”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the elf hissed. Grabbed a fistful of his robe. Her eyes burned so fiercely that he nearly swallowed his own tongue. “Until I’ve ripped Raste’s guts out through his fucking throat, we ain’t going nowhere. You move now, and you’ll be seen. And no one north of here will know about what’s going down here, on account of us being dead. More than that, Raste will get away. And I won’t allow it, ‘lock. So shut the fuck up and let’s think.”

  He twisted around to get a look at the town. His shoulders slumped. “There’s more inside. How many more? Dozens? Hundreds? They’d have to have more to take a fucking town like this. And are you gonna fight them all? Is one man really worth it, Nysta? You really, in your heart, believe Talek would want you to get killed for him?”

  “No,” she rubbed angrily at the scar. “He wouldn’t. But he’d know me well enough to know I’d try before I gave up. I’m going in there, Chukshene. With or without your help. I’ll kill Raste. And his men. And any other fellers who get in my way.”

  “You think you can take on a fucking army? What if they’ve got clerics? Or more mages? Or even their god? What about that, Nysta? What if Rule is there?”

  She felt her jaw clench as she caught sight of one of Raste’s companions. The big one. His axe slung over his shoulder as he stood between the open gates, looking out. She could feel his eyes skip over their position and she bit hard on her teeth to stop from running from cover. She wanted to do this right. Couldn’t miss the chance.

  Not now she’d come this far.

  “I’ll kill them all,” she said through her teeth as Tubal moved back down off the wall. “Even Rule himself.”

  “Mad,” he said. But there was awe in his voice as he realised he had no doubt she’d try it. He could almost see her, spitting rage as she flung herself at the God of Light. “You’re fucking mad. Which means I’m insaner, of course. Well, you long-eared fruitcake. Tell me, then. How are we getting in there? You got a great idea in that ugly head of yours? I hope so. Because I’m all out.”

  Her mind flashed over the memories of what she’d allowed herself to do to get out of those frozen Lostlight alleys, even for just a few minutes. Memories which haunted her dreams. Made her sick to the stomach. But suddenly those memories gave her strength. She’d survived where many died.

  She’d done what she had to.

  And no m
atter how hard she struggled to deny her past, it was a part of her. A foundation on which every ounce of strength she now possessed was built. And how could there be shame in surviving?

  Suddenly feeling light, her violet eyes flashed dangerously as her lips curled into a wicked grin. “Oh, I reckon I still know a few tricks.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The elf called Nysta waited.

  Leaning against a tree, she sat with her legs crossed and watched the warlock work. He had his book open across his knees and was murmuring whole passages in a long mumbled string.

  The words meant nothing to her. They were as alien as the runes scorched on the side of the box in her jacket. And almost as ugly.

  But they were working. The rising stink of magic burned the air and she could feel the hairs on her neck rising as the warlock concentrated all his energy on the attempted summoning.

  Sweat poured down his face and neck. This summoning wasn’t going to be as trivial as a few minor sprites. This was powerful.

  She looked away. Sought to breathe the icy freshness on the wind coming from the north.

  Not far away, the Grey Jackets still continued to repair the front gates of Grimwood Creek. Gates they’d no doubt been responsible for breaking. Though they kept a watch on the surrounding area, they didn’t seem as concerned as they might have been had they known what the warlock was planning to unleash.

  The putrid yellow light of magic ruptured through the warlock’s forearms, ringed his torso, and spewed from his eyes. His body began to tremble as the words rushed faster through his teeth and the elf scrubbed hard at the scar on her cheek. Began to check her knives.

  Could feel it would be soon.

  His body arched painfully as he snapped a final word. The echo of that last unholy word seemed to hang in the air. Twisting into a groan as he slumped forward, his face pressing hard against the cold ground. A few sparks of electricity snaked from his his fingers into the earth.

  Knowing it was over, she patted him gently on the back. Nodded at his shivering form. “Good job, ‘lock,” she said. And looked around the edge of the tree.

 

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