Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

  “I don’t care what you are.” Exasperation edged his voice. “And I’m not interested in you, either. Not that I have anything against your kind, of course. But I’m a bit busy, as you can see. And I don’t really want to be disturbed. I’d prefer it if you’d find another table.”

  She lowered her gaze, letting eyes settle on his.

  He had a thin face to go with his thin body. A few leftover pimples from recent brushes with puberty. A couple of tufts of pale growth on his chin. Short wiry blonde hair cut neat and short. Long hooked nose which gave him his hawkish appearance.

  Cheekbones a little too sharp. Buckled teeth on the left side, but straight on the right.

  He’d recently been punched in the mouth, but he spoke through it like someone who was used to getting punched in the mouth.

  For a moment, she considered punching him again to see how many he could take.

  “I don’t really give a fuck what you want, feller. What I want is to be left alone to drink in peace. Now, you quit flapping your jaw and there won’t be any trouble.” She tapped A Flaw in the Glass with a cool fingertip. “For either of us.”

  He scowled. “I don’t threaten easily. I’m not-”

  “Only one thing I want you to be right now,” she said, feeling the prickling sensation down the back of her neck. “Want you to be quiet. You were doing it just fine before. Do it again.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped teeth shut as her eyes thinned.

  When he looked down, though, the elf felt a hint of respect for the youth in that he didn’t do it because he was afraid. The look in his eyes had shown he hadn’t considered her a threat at all.

  Hadn’t even seemed to notice the knives.

  Instead, seemed to go back to his book out of impatience. Like he thought arguing with her was a waste of his time.

  Whatever his reasons, the elf was content to roll her shoulders and sip at the thick black ale.

  It was better than what the blacksmith had offered, she allowed. It’d been a surprise the first time someone had served her the dark drink. She’d looked at it for a long while, unsure whether the bartender had been fooling her.

  If he was serving mud.

  But, looking around, others had seemed to be drinking it.

  A few mugs later and she’d decided she liked the thick dark Fnordic beer.

  A lot.

  Thinking about that first time with wry amusement, she didn’t notice the small group who walked down the narrow staircase at her back. Not until one moved against her leg, which she tucked in with a grunt.

  There were four of them.

  An old man led the way. Leaned on a heavy staff in a manner which reminded her of the deathpriest, Lux. But this old man wasn’t blind. Didn’t seem decrepit either.

  Just looked like he had a need to lean.

  Dressed in muffled grey hooded cloak over a worn black tunic and scruffy brown pants and boots.

  Two men at his back, shoulder-to-shoulder. One looked like he’d been built out of a mountain. Not quite seven foot, he could still compete with small orks for size. Shoulder-length black hair shot with grey.

  A permanent scowl and thick fingers squeezed into fists like he wanted to use them to break skulls.

  The other, smaller. Wiry.

  Fingers which didn’t stop moving. Like little insects attached to his palm. Tasting the air. Round face, but sharp mouth. Tongue flicking to lick a sore on the edge of his lip.

  Dressed in clothes of similar fashion to most Dragonclaw men. Bright wool tunic and dark pants. Scuffed boots. Not too scuffed.

  Just scuffed enough.

  They didn’t suit him. He looked like he was used to better clothing. Something about his smug smile spoke of a more aristocratic origin. Like a part of him thought he was so much better than everyone else.

  Behind them, a younger man. Broad shoulders. Muscular. But not used to using it for anything other than baling hay, she figured. His clothes were rougher. Heavy fabric held together with dark thread.

  Made for a farmhand rather than a young man exploring the urban surroundings of Dragonclaw.

  Unlike the little man, she had no doubt these belonged to the youth.

  Certainly reeked of his sweat.

  An odd bunch, she figured, and was prepared to ignore the touch against her leg. Prepared to aim her gaze back to the ceiling.

  But the boy’s bright blue eyes settled on her and his face struggled to hide a burst of hatred. The word slithered across his tongue before he whipped back around and hurried to catch up to his friends.

  “Tainted…”

  She placed the mug gently on the table in front of her as the four men pushed away on the echo of the boy’s soft voice, the old man struggling to lead them out through the tight crowd. The elf tapped her reluctant companion’s arm.

  Just a brush of fingers on his cuff.

  “Here,” she said. Pointed at her mug. “Mind this. I’ll want it in a minute.”

  “What? Where are you-”

  But she’d already left.

  Slid from the chair with the deliberate grace of an adder who’d seen a mouse.

  Didn’t know why she was moving.

  Couldn’t explain it to herself. Just knew that something drove her to snatch the young farmboy and spin him around.

  And, as he spun with arms flailing, her fist smashed brightly into his nose. Crushed it with one deeply satisfying punch.

  Blood burst, splashing across her knuckles.

  A few drinkers tumbled out of the way.

  A couple others leaned in, eager to see the kid bleed.

  Someone cheered as he staggered in a daze to his feet.

  A high-pitched voice called; “I got five coppers on the kid! Anyone taking for the elf?”

  Then everything rushed in a blur as the small man with quick fingers came lunging in. Tried to look like he’d slipped on a puddle of spilled ale.

  Was mumbling apologies as he fell forward.

  In any other inn, it was a trick which would’ve worked.

  The knife popped into his hand and flashed in the last second, arcing toward her belly.

  A Flaw in the Glass flared bright as it ripped into his wrist. Should’ve gone all the way through, but he was already trying to wrench away. Not quick enough to avoid bleeding, but quick enough to keep his hand attached by half a bone and a few threads of tendon. Bit of skin.

  First, he dropped his knife.

  Then dropped to the ground with a crooked shriek.

  But the elf had no time to gloat.

  The mountain loomed. Heavy hands slapped down from above.

  Grabbed her shoulders, one giant hand each side.

  A split second.

  That’s how long she had to see the bestial lust for violence burn in his brown eyes. Then she was flying. Hit the window like a heavy missile. Exploded through the wooden framework. Spat into the street with the old dusty curtains wrapped around her limbs.

  She rolled, kicking loose.

  Came up on her heels, hands empty.

  Head spinning and eyes struggling to find a focus.

  Saw the big bouncer standing off to the side.

  Arms folded.

  He watched her struggle to her feet. Shook his head critically.

  “Well,” he said, voice oozing. “You didn’t last long.”

  The mountain came storming through the door.

  Had managed to find an axe. Where he’d had it hidden, she couldn’t guess. She hadn’t seen it on him before.

  But he came out swinging.

  Eyes wide, gorging on her.

  Anticipating the splitting of her skull.

  To stay unmoving was to die. She knew that much through the haze of being thrown through a window. She tightened her jaw. Rushed into the arc of his swing as fast as she could on unsteady legs.

  Diving, she felt the axe scream past her ear. Its metallic song sent shivers down her spine as the fear in her belly played its own f
rozen tune.

  For a few breaths, she worked in rhythm with the mountain.

  Slid beneath his swinging arm, and he around her slashing knives.

  They whirled like dancers in a dance more elegant than she expected. He’d looked the kind to use power and aggression, which he had plenty of. But he also had the training to wield it with grace.

  The meaty heft of his upper arm aimed into her face. Intended to sweep her off her feet. But she rolled with it. Impact washed by momentum, she was able to pounce away. Bounced off a wall, boot splashing into a gutter.

  He followed, axe aimed at her head.

  The elf ducked, sucking air as the murderous weapon clanged off the stone wall.

  Smelled his sweat. His hunger.

  And something else.

  Smelled something more acrid.

  “Shit,” she spat.

  The dark shadows in her body lunged up her arms, spiraling through vein and muscle. Suddenly frantic as the old man’s voice thrummed through the night and into her soul.

  Entrance Exam was in her left hand.

  Token Attitude Adjuster in her right.

  A Flaw in the Glass lay on the ground like a dead thing.

  Too far away. She couldn’t resist glancing at it.

  Blood drizzled across its flat blade, and for a moment she imagined it not as the blood of the little man, but of the knife itself.

  Anger of having dropped it punched through her guts.

  The mountain lifted high before her. His breath thick in her nostrils.

  Old ale and bacha.

  Huge hand rushed in, trying to grab her shirt.

  To pull her close. Beat the shit out of her.

  Token Attitude Adjuster snickered across the mountain’s incoming fingers.

  Sliced one free. It popped to the ground and he leapt back with a strangled roar, ground shaking. Shoulder slammed into a pipe racing down the wall. Knocked it loose with a gush of foul-smelling water.

  Panic in his eyes as he launched himself as far from her as he could.

  A smile played cruelly at her mouth. Then realised he wasn’t scurrying because of her.

  The smile flattened quick as she remembered the old man shadowed in the doorway.

  A few onlookers were trying to push past. He didn’t move aside.

  Raised his hand.

  Old face a wrinkled mask of anger as his spell reached its height.

  Her heart skipped a few beats. Was she too late?

  Entrance Exam exhaled from her fingers. Seemed to float through air.

  A twinkle of starlight.

  A bead in the dark.

  The old spellslinger’s word of power stumbled across a wet gurgle.

  He tried to look down, but the blade had pierced his throat and lodged between two bones at the base of his skull.

  He didn’t drop.

  He was felled.

  Crashed onto his face, blade spearing even further through his neck. Corpse rigid and hard.

  Staff rolled from dead hand with a heavy clatter.

  Satisfaction should have warmed her heart. Should have widened the grin on her face.

  But the mountain hit her.

  Hit her hard.

  Both fists, one bloodied and broken, battered the side of her head. One at a time. Drove her back as his grief fueled the madness of the mountain’s attack.

  She skipped and staggered, trying to get room. Trying to get clear so she could fight back. But there was no room in the tight street and his punches came with relentless rhythm. Her brain threw her thoughts to the storm as panic made her awareness float.

  “You fucking bitch. You killed Dalrath. You fucking killed him!”

  Another hit rocked her head back, sending waves of cursed numbness powering into her skull. It was an odd feeling. She could taste copper in her mouth. Could feel the blow as it blasted into her skull. But couldn’t feel pain.

  Could only feel a hardness.

  An icy hardness which spread through her head on glittering echoes.

  Splinters of ice which groaned like glaciers grinding.

  Visions of light popped and darted in front of her eyes.

  Another fist ploughed into her ribs. It echoed through lungs like she was a drum. Choked a sobbed gasp through clenched teeth. Tried to lift her arms to stop the next from taking off her head.

  Then the kid was there, holding his nose.

  Blood dribbled down his arm and off his elbow in a steady stream. Voice, nasal and slurred. “Kill ‘er, Connor!”

  Behind them, the small man desperately wrapped his wrist with strips torn from his shirt.

  Eyes bright. Feral.

  “Connor,” he called to the mountain. “There isn’t time for this. We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go, Connor. The guard will be here soon. Connor!”

  Another punch made her legs stumble out from beneath her.

  But she refused to fall. Knew if she fell, she’d never get up again.

  Blinded by the rush of violence, she finally managed to lift her arms to block the next punch. Managed to absorb the blow across her bracer, but a second slammed her shoulder and built another layer of frustration. Accepted it as the price to pay for being slow.

  She sucked a breath. Breath wet with blood swirling through mouth.

  Sucked it deep and allowed rage to purge her fear.

  Allowed it to wash her veins in heat.

  Then someone, she thought it was the young man who’d shared her table, yelled; “Fifteen silver on the elf! I’ve got fifteen silver on the elf killing all three! Fifteen. Who wants it?”

  A scuffle.

  Squabble of voices as they took his bet. Gaggle of drunks digging in their pockets for loose coin.

  The mountain lurched to a sudden halt. Threw a look over his shoulder at the small crow. Outrage darkened his features. “What the fuck? Fifteen on her?” He looked down. “Why-”

  Had been less than a second.

  But the Jukkala hadn’t trained her to be slow.

  The Ugly tore into his abdomen. Just above his groin. Her violet eyes stared into his, returning a look he’d offered only moments before.

  Lust for violence.

  Hunger.

  “I’ll take that bet,” she snarled. And, with every ounce of strength she could find, she jerked the blade upward. Felt intestines squirm and struggle to stay inside his belly then give up the fight and vomit free with a pitiful cry.

  He died hard, big hands reaching with one last attempt to kill her.

  One grabbed her wrist and he tried to squeeze. To crush the bones of her arm. But his strength, which had seemed immeasurable only moments before, drained as fast as his insides.

  The elf watched the huge hand slip away and land with a thud on the ground.

  Sucked a breath.

  And spat a bloody globule on his twitching face.

  The kid rushed toward her, hand held up. Palm out. Fingers splayed.

  Eyes fierce and deadly.

  “Wait, Baran,” the little man yelled, desperation forcing him to reach his wounded arm toward the boy he had no chance of reaching. “Wait. You don’t understand! Wait!”

  “No, Korlam. I can’t hide what I am any longer,” the kid hissed. “I won’t stand for this. You killed two good men, you foul creature. Now, the farm I’m from may not have been anything like this city here, but it taught me to look out for my kin. For my friends. Dalrath said I had to hide what I was. Said the Dark Lord’s spies would find me. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t care at all. Let them come. I’ll destroy them all.”

  She lifted herself to her feet, feeling every fresh bruise like a solid stone beneath skin. Eyed his open hand with confusion while the crowd held breath in anticipation.

  Anticipation which stretched into confusion.

  “Baran,” the little man called. Looked around, but couldn’t see a way out of the crowd. They’d blocked both sides of the street. “Baran, stop. Hey. Hey, long-ear. Don’t kill him. He’s unarmed. He
ain’t got a sword. Or an axe. Ain’t even got a knife. We couldn’t even trust him with one for shaving. He’s just a kid, long-ear. Don’t kill him. Please?”

  “Enough!” Baran’s face, mutilated by smashed nose, reddened with rage. “I know what I am, Korlam. Dalrath showed me how to use it. And you heard him. You heard what he said I could do if I tried hard enough. Well, I can feel it now. I can kill her. I’m the High King Reborn!”

  “Ah, shit,” Korlam sat down in the mud, slumping his shoulders. Nursed his wounded arm and squeezed eyes shut. “Fucking shit.”

  “Now,” Baran aimed his hand at the elf. Look of utter concentration on his face. “Die!”

  She stood there. Half-dazed.

  Watched as he thrust his hand out to her.

  Once.

  Twice.

  And again.

  Puzzlement growing as nothing happened.

  She took a step closer, still not sure what was going on.

  “High King Reborn,” someone tittered. “You hear that, lads? He’s the High King Reborn.”

  “Can’t be,” the ork bartender roared. “I’M the High King Reborn. My dad said so!”

  “No you ain’t, Grognut! I’m the High King Reborn.”

  “Horseshit, Fuldor. You’re both drunk. It’s me all along! And I’ve got a birthmark on me balls to prove it! Here, look…”

  “No way you’ve got balls big enough to have a birthmark, Monty!”

  Laughter all round as Baran gaped at the pale little man who’d given up trying to halt the bleeding from his arm. “Korlam?”

  The kid’s voice was small.

  Vulnerable.

  “Sorry, Baran,” the little man said. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything now, but it wasn’t my idea. All those times you thought it was you, it was Dalrath. He needed you, is all. No one can touch it, you see. It’s cursed to fuck. Anyone who touches it hears voices. They all go insane. End up killing themselves. Even Dalrath couldn’t touch it. He knew he couldn’t resist the curse. Knew he’d go insane. And who wants that? But you? You’re a nobody, right? You could’ve carried it back to Linkata for us. Then you could’ve gone mad and died and it wouldn’t matter. At least you’d have been a hero. Even for a little while. And that’s better than what you were doing on that shitty little farm we found you on. Isn’t it? I’m sorry, Baran. Really. I am.”