by Lucas Thorn
Dockworkers, bodies slick with grime and sweat, carried heavy loads or pulled barrows packed with stock. One snapped at her to get out of the way, but there was no venom in his voice. Just an eagerness to get his job done and not enough room through the tight street to navigate easily.
She pressed against the wall to let him pass.
Thieves worked the edges. Picking pockets mostly.
Quick fingers and quick getaways.
Passing an alley close to the market, she turned her head from sight of two men kicking another crumpled on the ground. They hollered at him to pay what he owed.
“We know you’ve got it!”
None of her business. Even if she was inclined, in a city like this it was too hard to tell a villain from a victim.
Only a fool would try.
Stock was a big man.
Rough edges around a face spattered with crisp clumps which struggled to form a beard down his jaw. Sullen eyes and wistful expression.
He was the kind of man who dreamed of being someplace else.
Someplace far away. Someplace quiet.
Peaceful.
Instead, he was stuck here. In a market, selling shit he didn’t even like. Scratching coin like a chicken scratching for worms. Finding mostly more shit. He wiped at his brow, looking often at the sliver of sky above as though half-expecting a god to reach through the narrow gap and take him away.
Hope hovered in his heart for a moment.
Then died a little harder than it did the last time he looked up.
Twisting lips into a bitter line, he’d suck a deep breath. Call out with a heavy voice; “Come get it! Finest crystal from Wraithclaw Mountains! Infused with the mysterious power of the Worldscar. Carved by the best artisans of Ravensholme. Best prices!”
She stepped up to his stall and eyed the delicate glass stems.
Allowed they weren’t as cheap-looking as she’d expected. Maybe some really were crystal.
He dabbed his cheeks as his eyes caught sight of her. Though his eyebrow lifted a little at the knives, the trader in him took over.
“I see you don’t believe it’s from Wraithclaw,” he said. “Well, I can promise you it is. Swear it on the grave of my dearly-departed wife. And I loved her. That ain’t no idle promise. It’s the real thing.”
She stopped herself from reaching down and touching one of the flowers. “What’s so special about Wraithclaw?”
“What’s so-” He cut himself off, disbelief making his eyes wide. “You’re shitting me? No. No, you ain’t. I see that. Where you from, lady?”
“Lostlight,” she said. “And I ain’t no lady.”
“Lostlight? No shit? You’re from the lost elf kingdom?” He dabbed his face harder, shaking his head. Wiped the back of his neck and squinted. “Really? Maleth didn’t send you, did he? You ain’t here to yank my chain, right? Lostlight, for real? Like, in the Deadlands? That Lostlight?”
“There another?”
“No, there ain’t!” He leaned on the old table and peered closely. “But I ain’t never met no one from Lostlight is all. Say, would you like to maybe talk about it sometime? Don’t take that the wrong way. I mean, I ain’t trying anything. I love my wife.”
“You said she-”
“Oh, she is.” He looked up to the splintered sky again. Saw no gods. Sighed. “She’s gone, alright. Waiting in the Shadowed Halls for me, I hope. I miss her. And I ain’t looking for a replacement. She was all I had. All I wanted. This was her stall, not mine. I always wanted to travel, see. I wanted to go to all these places. Wraithclaw. Ravensholme. Lostlight. But she preferred being here. With her family. Friends. When she died, I felt I had to continue. Had to keep going with the stall. Like, if I just closed it up then I wouldn’t have anything of her, if you know what I mean? Doesn’t stop me from wishing I felt different, though. That I could just up and leave. I’d give anything to talk about what you’ve seen. I drink out at The Farmer’s Curse. Just ask around. Name’s Stock.”
“Nysta.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” He sat down on his stool and looked glum. Shoulders dipped low. “I really just wanted to talk to you is all.”
She moved.
A Flaw in the Glass was halfway from its sheath before the heavy hand wrapped tight around her forearm and froze her in place.
It was a big hand.
An ork hand. Not as green as most of his kind. A little grey. As though he’d been standing in the shade so long some of the shadows had gotten stuck to his skin.
Spun her round so fast she felt all the colours in the world blur into a single vibrant hue.
“You try any shit, I kick you,” the ork snarled. “Even look at me funny and I kick you.”
She blinked.
He wore the uniform of the Duke’s guard. Matching tunics of red and gold stamped with a simplified black dragon’s claw. Claws curved and thick.
And, behind him, a dozen more wore the same. A few others in the crowd smoothly pulled cloaks free to reveal their own uniforms.
A trap, finely tuned and set. And, like a mouse, she’d triggered it.
“Shit,” she said. Looked up at him. He was almost as big as Rockjaw. Almost. And he looked down at her as if she was something he’d peeled from the bottom of his boot. Didn’t stop her from sneering back at him. “You’re a big bastard. What’s your name, feller?”
“You don’t need to know my name,” the ork barked. “But you can be sure as shit I know yours. You’re Nysta. And, last night, you killed three fellers. I’d be impressed, but looking at you up close like this, I figure they can’t have amounted to much. Probably a bunch of fucking shitkickers from Hatejaw. They make ‘em weak round there. I mean, three fellers? You don’t look strong enough to kill even a single crippled goblin without help.”
“Four. There were four.”
“Whatever. We’re taking you in. You’re wanted for murder. So, get a good long look around here, because all you’ll be seeing from now on is four fucking walls.”
“Sorry,” Stock said. His tone almost sulking. “I didn’t really get a choice.”
“Ain’t your fault, feller,” she growled, remembering Hideg’s promises. “Weren’t your shit I was buying.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The big ork led her away, leaving Stock staring down at his glass and crystal flowers with a morose and slightly offended expression.
“It ain’t shit,” he muttered. Looked around. “Well. Not all of it.”
Nysta considered breaking free of the ork. There were plenty of people in the crowd. Plenty who weren’t guards. Would they scatter? Could she push through?
Beyond the fragile line of curious onlookers were plenty of alleys to get lost in. Plenty of knuckled streets and tight lanes. She’d have to be fast. Maybe climb a little. Speed. That’s all she needed.
And some luck.
It’d be easy, she reckoned, to run.
But then she’d have to leave the city for good, and right now she wasn’t in the mood to head out onto wild desolate roads again. Still, fury seared her thoughts as she was led away.
Hope had made her wish Hideg’s offer to be true and now she was probably going to pay for her stupidity.
“I see you looking for a way out,” the ork growled. Mean red eyes skipped over her knives. Knives he hadn’t taken from her. Which was maybe a good sign. “And I don’t mind you looking. Look all you want. But don’t even think about trying to make it. Because you won’t. Captain wants to see you. Real bad. So, you’re gonna see him. I’ll drag you by the fucking neck and drop what’s left of you at his feet if I got to. Even if all that’s left is your ears.”
The elf grunted with an irritated twitch of her cheeks.
Memories of the moment Nearne had revealed she was an elf. An elf whose ears had been taken in a bloody ritual to the God of Light.
Just thinking about it made her own ears hurt.
Outside the market, people moved ou
t of their way. Some glared at the guards for barreling past. Mouthed a few curses. But few found any reason to show interest in the elf. Those who did offered brief glances of contempt or sympathy, neither of which she wanted.
The guards kept close.
A tight ring of mail and steel.
Itchy fingers hovering on sword hilts. Eyes flicking across the crowd with feral alertness. Searching faces for sign of aggression.
Other than the ork, they were all human.
Mostly older. Grizzled. Scarred. Sure of their toughness.
Experienced.
Which they had to be to last in a city where gangs might decide at any moment to explode into vicious pockets of murderous intent.
One of the guards stayed close to the ork, a man whose face was buried beneath an untidy collection of scars. Nudged him in the side. “Hey, this is bullshit. We should take her knives at least. Look at her. She could fuck one of us up before we took her down.”
“It’s his orders,” the ork said. Then, firmly; “And she’ll be fucking up nobody.”
“But-”
“If you’re scared of her, Fern, you can take point.”
“Hey, I ain’t saying I’m scared.”
“Then keep your mouth shut. She can hear you, you know. And fear feeds her kind. Don’t it, long-ear?”
The elf shrugged. “Reckon I agree with your pet,” she said. “On account of this being bullshit. Maybe you can answer a question for me, though. Hideg? He likely to be where we’re headed?”
“That ain’t for you to know.”
She showed teeth in a cruel grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Again, I can see what you’re thinking.” The ork glanced pointedly at her knives. “Don’t think you’ll get that chance.”
“You look big,” she said. “But you ain’t as fast as you think you are, feller. And if you are, you don’t want to be around me.”
“You’re the kind who make a lot of threats, I see.” He gestured to the other guards. “See this lot here? They’re used to that. Used to listening to piss-stained cockroaches like you. Used to the shit that comes dribbling out between your teeth. Ain’t nothing you can say they ain’t heard a thousand times from some shitkicker fresh to the city who thinks they’re gonna just walk right in and be somebody. But we ain’t ever seen a shitkicker make it. They all end up being nobodies right to the end. Like you. So, you keep talking, long-ear. You keep laying out those threats of yours. We don’t give a shit and our knees ain’t shaking even a little bit. But, go ahead. Make a move. Just one. One little fucking move toward those little pigstickers of yours. Go on. You move, and we’ll kill you quicker than you can blink. Because I don’t give a shit how fast you think you are, you ain’t quick enough for me. You’ll be sitting in the Shadowed Halls wondering what the fuck got you because you didn’t see it coming. That ain’t a threat. That’s just how it is in Dragonclaw. We make the rules. And you break the rules, you get broken. Simple as that.”
“You’re the law.”
“Right. We’re the law. We might let some of you roaches loose sometimes, but other times, we put our boot down. Keeps the rest of you from thinking you’re anything more than cockroaches in the dark.”
The elf looked away, violet eyes scanning the crowd. “Sounds dreadful.”
He shot her a dark look which quickly turned into a sneer of his own. “Reckon it does,” he said. “On account of my name being Dreadaxe.”
“Figures.”
He didn’t know how to take her softly-spoken comment and chose to lapse back into grim silence. The kind of silence meant to leave her guessing. But the elf was making no guesses. Was content to wait for answers.
Because though they seemed to treat her like a prisoner, she’d been allowed to keep her knives. That one simple fact was what she clung to as she walked, taking comfort in the weight of her blades and the way the guards spent more time looking at faces in the crowd than checking on her movements.
Only the ork had eyes on her.
The warehouse was deep in the city’s rotten heart. A place she’d never been before. The lane was mostly empty and the dusty grey ground flat and featureless. All the warehouses and stores around it were permanently shuttered. Iron bars on a lot of windows.
No magelights hung between the buildings above. Instead, their way was lit by a few oil lamps slung on hooks at regular intervals. They didn’t provide much light and seemed to promise any casual traveler a quick and ruthless death by a knife in the dark.
There were no monolithic gang-built volcanos down this lane, or any nearby.
No towers.
No blockhouses.
No caged balconies for residents to peer down into the street from.
It was cold. Empty. A place only the city’s ghosts might walk down.
About all that made it look like someone had been here recently was the signs and sigils of a few small gangs carved into the wooden walls. Probably put there as a rite of passage.
She could easily imagine a challenged gang member creeping down the dark lane and planting his sign before sprinting wildly back to the relative safety of other streets.
Each sign, then, was a token stamp of ownership like the dry piss of a stray dog.
Unlike the others surrounding it, the warehouse Dreadaxe finally stopped in front of was a solid building of stone and mortar. Only two levels high. A squat little cube being crushed from both sides by dense towers.
No windows.
Just a big iron door at the front and a simple sign dabbed with faded paint. No words, though. Just a number.
Number seven.
No gang marks anywhere along its face.
Her skin rippled with goosebumps as she was brought to a halt in front of it. Adding to her discomfort, wind skipped across the buildings and chilled her neck.
One of the guards searched for a glimpse of the cloudy sky in the narrow cut between buildings. Muttered under his breath, palm out. Testing for rain.
Dreadaxe stomped to the door. Placed a big hand on it before pausing.
Looked around the empty street, red eyes taking in the sharp shadows cutting the ribs of other warehouses. Swept both sides of the lane.
When satisfied, turned to the elf with a hard look.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Now ain’t time to be stupid.”
The elf crossed her arms. Lip curled toward the scar on her cheek. A humorless grin. Shivered a little. “I’m cool.”
Inside, the warehouse contained a maze of crates and cartons packed to the ceiling. Bales of wool and cotton in neat stacks.
Everything stamped with the same dragon’s claw as the guards’ uniforms.
Same as the city’s banners.
The Duke’s crest.
She winced, knowing the warehouse belonged to the Duke and trespassing in such a place would see her hanged. Was that what they were planning? Making it look like she’d been caught breaking into the Duke’s private stores?
Why go to the effort, though?
Why not just cut her up in an alley somewhere? No one would care.
Dreadaxe gave her a light shove. “Come on. Keep going.” Looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Fern. You take the others out front. Make sure we weren’t followed. And if we were, deal with it.”
“You sure?” He looked at the elf’s knives.
“Yeah. We’ll be fine. Go on out front.”
They didn’t question him. Turned as one and sauntered off.
A few shrugs. Muttered word or two. But they were a tight bunch and knew the score.
When they were gone the ork let out a grunt. “Hideg’s up ahead. Wants a few words with you. Words he couldn’t speak out on the street or in front of the others. Don’t fuck shit up now. You’ll listen to what he wants. After that? Well. We’ll see, won’t we?”
“Yeah, feller.” She tightened her jaw as if it was on screws. “We’ll see alright.”
“Dreadaxe? Is that you?” She recognised Hideg’s v
oice. “Did you find her? Did you bring her here?”
Around a corner of stacked crates, she saw him. Seated in a heavy chair set against a long table. Big enough to sit at least a dozen. He had a goblet in one hand and a plate of meat stacked in front of him. Fresh fruit. Cheese.
An unexpected banquet.
Another plate to his left promised food to the elf’s growling belly.
She waited, unsure if she should step forward.
The ork hovered beside her.
“Sure.” The ork flexed his hands as though about to go for his weapons. “She was where you said she’d be, so yeah. I found her. Brought her here, too. You sure about this? She’s still armed. And I reckon the only thing she wants right now is to slit your fool stomach open. Maybe climb inside and do a dance. I’m telling you, I know her type. They don’t fuck around. Trust me.”
“Let her keep her tools, Dreadaxe. You might know some things, but I’m a better judge of character than you are.” He smiled to the elf and waved her to come closer. “Here, Nysta. I’m sorry for the way they grabbed you. But we had to make it look good. It had to be authentic, you see. It’s better people think you were taken in by the Guards. Trust me, it is. Word travels fast in Dragonclaw, as you’ll soon find out. They already saw us together last night. If they think we kept our acquaintance? Well. It’d be bad for you. Very bad. Your career would be over before it began. No, the best thing I could do for you was drag you in like a common thug. No hard feelings?”
She glanced at the ork, who returned it with a shrug. “Told you, long-ear. Your choice. Hard or easy. Ain’t making a lick of difference to me.”
“Please, Nysta,” Hideg patted the table near the extra plate. “Join me. Try the ham. It’s good, I promise. Everything I told you was true. And there’s more. So much more. Won’t you put aside the inconvenience and listen? If you don’t like what you hear, you can rip out my throat afterward and we’ll call it even.”
“Lucky for you, feller, that I’m hungry.” She moved smoothly to the seat and grabbed a fork. Began scooping chunks of sliced ham into her mouth.
Used her other hand to wrap around the metal goblet.
