by Lucas Thorn
“Careful, feller,” she drawled. “Don’t alarm me.”
These words warm in her ears, she cruised into the street and prowled the shadowy corners. In search of what, she couldn’t say. Only that her body trembled with the echo of brushing lips with danger.
One word from Hideg and his assassins, still dressed as guards, would have done their best to cut her down.
One loose movement from the ork, and they’d do the same.
And she’d just walked into the jaws of their embrace.
Flicked her nail at them.
Walked out with a promise to kill for vague rewards.
Instinct told her to keep walking. To forget Hideg and his empty promises.
Forget the strange ork. Strange in a way she couldn’t define. Something about him made the hairs on the back of her neck feel like shards of glass sticking into her skin. Made her palm itch, too.
The smart thing, she told herself, would be to move to a different part of the city and hope to be left alone. Grunting, she spat a wet globule into the dusty street.
No way Hideg would cut her loose now.
Not with what he’d shared. She probably knew more than he’d wanted about his Order and their plans.
Even if only pieces of it were true, it was too much for her to be walking around with.
All the elf could expect if she tried to run now would be a knife in the back.
He’d send assassins crawling all over the city in search of her. No matter where she chose to disappear, they’d find her. Eventually.
Dragonclaw was too dirty and too corrupt for anyone to hide for long.
As she drifted into one of the busier streets to be lost in the familiar hustle, she found herself smiling. A genuine smile. The kind of smile which anticipated.
The last few months had felt empty. Deprived of direction.
But now she was operating.
Working.
Sniffing the scent of opportunity she’d known was soaked into the violent bones of Dragonclaw.
So, to the Shadowed Halls with the ork. And to the Old Skeleton with Hideg and his secrets. They hoped to use her for their purpose, but they’d find she was using them, too.
All she had to do was keep her eyes open.
Ears open.
Mind open.
And knives loose in their sheaths.
She walked smoothly, still absently rubbing her palm.
He was good.
Real good.
She hardly felt a thing. But a shiver down her spine interrupted her thoughts and Leaf in the Wind slid into her fist and arced through air to press firm against the throat of the kid trying to spin away with one of her pouches in his hand.
Her left hand snatched short greasy hair and wrenched him round. Shoved her knee up hard into his stomach, bending him across her leg.
Pinning him in place. A pig for slaughter.
He let out a squeal.
Dropped the pouch while bringing hands up to try pushing her arm away. She jerked his head up, as far as his neck would allow.
He stopped squirming when his gaze found the cold chips of her violet eyes looking down at him.
“That’s mine,” she said.
“I’m sor-” Then caught himself with a strangled choke and tried again. She could see his mind racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about? You mean this? Well, it’s not mine. I just saw it on the floor is all. How’d I know it was yours? It could’ve been anyone’s. I was just gonna call out if anyone knew whose it was. If you’d given me one more second, I’d have called out. And you could’ve claimed it.”
“One more second and you’d have been on the other side of the fucking city.”
There was no heat in her voice.
No coldness, either. Just stated fact.
He gave a light struggle, testing her grip. Then sighed. “Look, lady. I’m just making a living here.”
She thought about cutting his throat.
No one would care. As it was, people shuffled by with barely a glance. It was that kind of street. That kind of city.
“This ain’t making a living, kid. This is looking to get killed.”
“I’m not dead, yet.”
“There’s still time. I ain’t let you go, yet.”
Fear moved across his face like a pale rash. “Please don’t cut me, lady. I’ll do anything. Anything at all. I’ve got a few coins. Not much. But I’ll give you everything.”
How old was he?
Seven?
Eight?
Hardly more than that.
Her fist, still bunched into his hair, tightened its grip as she studied his eyes for something she couldn’t quite grasp.
Something about his cheeks.
The pitted texture of his skin. Blue eyes riddled with hazel.
Grubby clothes. Unwashed. Tattered shoes.
What was it that worked to stop her cutting his throat the second she’d grabbed him?
He licked tight lips, pupils widening even further as the silence between them stretched.
“Lady, are you…” Eyes grew wet and his fingers bunched into fists. Not defensive. Just frightened. “Are you crazy?”
Dark worms flitted across her shoulders. Down her arm. Forearm twitched beneath the bracer.
The boy felt the knife shiver against his flesh.
“Beat it, kid,” she said, throwing him away with a suddenness that sent him sprawling in the street. He tumbled against copper drainpipes, sending trash scooting out from under him.
The elf grabbed her pouch and hefted it in her palm. Shot him a look to hide inside his nightmares for weeks. “Scram.”
The boy blinked.
Swallowed dry spit.
And scrammed.
She watched him disappear into the crowd. Heels kicking high. Looked back once, the expression on his face shifting from fear to cunning.
“Fuck,” she growled and took a few steps after him, patting herself down.
Only stopped when she realised he hadn’t taken anything.
Instead, had added something.
Irritated for not noticing the boy’s quick fingers, she almost tore the rough sheet of paper as she unfolded it to reveal a line of text written with obvious haste.
He will betray you.
Violet eyes darted as she sought the watcher she knew would be searching her reactions. A ragged man prowled the edge of the bustling crowd, filthy hands wrapped around a battered staff. He called for alms.
Scars across his eyes showed his reason.
For a second, she thought he turned toward her.
Then that feeling was gone. Wide-faced man dressed in patched yellow coat and blue tunic fumbled with a set of upturned cups in front of a small crowd. His fingers were too quick and he sent the bright-coloured ball bouncing into the street.
A few onlookers called him to pay them their coin.
Nervous smile touched his face.
Then he grabbed his cups and ran, pursued quickly through the crowd.
Someone shouted for the guards.
She turned, skin prickling the back of her neck. An old ork leaned against a nearby post. Arms crossed across broad chest. Fetishes hanging from his shirt. Red eyes aimed back at her with laconic disinterest.
As she caught his gaze, he sucked on his lower lip but otherwise looked unconcerned.
Plump young woman bumped into her, hands laden with a basket.
“You shouldn’t stop in the street like that,” the woman spat. Pushed past with forceful disdain and kept muttering as the elf considered sending Go With My Blessing into her back.
Two kids shot past, singing bravado. Had to hop sideways to get around.
A tinker crouched in an alcove. Clanged a metal pot with a heavy wooden spoon and shouted; “Two coppers a fix! Just two coppers!”
Little food stand. Three customers standing in front. Backs to her. One was drunk. He swayed on his feet. The other two, one to each side, held him up.
An ol
d grey dog trotted from one alley to another. Looked at her with a sad expression, head low and tail curled toward hind legs.
Couple of gang members, smoking bacha. Guarding the door to a blockhouse built to house a local brothel. Two girls stood either side of them, dressed to reveal.
Laughter from above. She looked up. A young couple pressed against each other on the balcony three levels above. They kissed.
Violet eyes flicked back down to the street.
A door slammed shut.
Nothing.
Someone, though. Someone was here. She could feel it. Feel their attention.
Her palm itched.
Mind raced, judging everything she could see.
And getting more and more angry by the second.
Where?
Flicker of movement on the fringe of an alley, and the elf was off. She leapt a small barrow, causing its owner to start and send a string of curses in her wake. The gang members blinked as she rushed past, but didn’t follow.
She pushed through a huddle of old folk, sending one stumbling with a sharp cry. The elf didn’t look back. Her eyes were straight ahead.
Another flicker.
Dull red cloak.
It flapped as its owner raced ahead. Looked once over shoulder, but his face was buried in the dark recess of the hood.
She ran harder. Imagined he smiled as she darted sideways to miss running into a slow-moving troll.
Reached out and grabbed a rusting pipe to swing herself around a small bend in the street.
He was ahead of her, gliding smoothly through the crowd with an elegance the elf envied. Every step of her own seemed to involve having to dig past people with elbow and shoulder.
Shove herself through.
Fighting for every step she drew closer.
She lost him.
Found him again.
Swerving into a narrow alcove. Kicked through rancid trash before slithering back into the packed street.
Reaching with both hands, shoved two orks aside. “Move!”
“Hey-”
But she was gone, wrinkling into the thrust and parry of a street which seemed to be getting busier the further she ran.
Dull red hood lifted above the crowd, then sank again. Like a dolphin sucking for air, it lifted one more time.
Wild-eyed, she flung herself sideways between a cart and a couple of men wrestling a barrel into an inn. They had to work to keep its balance as she bounced off the full barrel. Drew more curses and someone threw something at her.
Whatever it was he’d carried, it was soft and wet. Probably a rag he’d been using.
She didn’t look back.
Couldn’t spare a glance.
Squinted, searching for the flash of dull red.
Didn’t find it.
Stood still in the middle of a narrow crossroad, chest heaving as she sucked air. One hand resting across the butt of A Flaw in the Glass and the other spinning Purple Hill Witch in her fingers. The narrow throwing knife glittered. Seemed to vibrate with the same hunger for blood felt by the elf who wheeled herself around in a frustrated circle.
People filled every direction. Jostled her as she blocked the way.
She ignored a few more curses.
Ears tuned for something she couldn’t hear.
Eyes searching with increasing disappointment.
Then thrust down the street to her left as she caught the briefest sight of the dull red cloak sweeping into an alley.
Jerking A Flaw in the Glass free as she bounded into the dark, the elf sucked a hissing breath and stomped to a stop over the crumpled form of the abandoned cloak.
“Shit!”
Swiveled on the balls of her feet, half-expecting a sudden attack from the shadows. But when nothing came, she squatted down beside the cloak. Lifted it in her hands.
Whoever had been wearing it had led her a merry chase, she thought sourly. Then thrown it into the alley, expecting her to come running. He’d be gone, now. Or watching from any number of frightened corners.
“Excuse me,” a little voice called from the trash. Irritated.
She looked up. Saw the bald face half-exposed from under a bed of waste. Streaked with slime and filth. Skin pale, but bruised. Sickly.
An Alley Rat.
She was no doubt in his territory, and the Rats could be unpredictable when faced with intruders. Their knives, slick with pestilent grime, could kill with a scratch.
“Ain’t looking for trouble, feller,” she said, aware there’d be at least five more of them somewhere close. Watching from under beds of rubble. Rage still throbbed in her belly, and she forced herself to remember it only took one scratch from their evil weapons. Held up the cloak. “Was just looking for this.”
The Alley Rat lifted his head higher.
Spread mouth wide. Bright red lips which tickled open to expose broken teeth infected with rot. Eyes misted with cataracts.
“It was here,” he said. “In my alley. That makes it mine.”
She looked down at the cloak. Knew there was nothing more she could get from it. Tossed it at him. “You’re welcome to it. Was looking for its owner anyway.”
Quick hands whipped out of the garbage and grabbed the garment.
His eyes widened with delight at his new find. Wrapped it around his shoulders and pulled the hood up over his bald head.
Stretched dry lips back and grinned even wider.
Slapped a feral scowl onto his face as his mood flared.
Flared because she was lifting herself to her feet. Sliding blades into their sheaths. And dusting her hands of dirt.
“You can’t have it,” he hissed. Gripping the cloak tighter. “It’s mine now. Mine! You try getting it, and we’ll kill you.”
More than a few voices twittered in echo from under the trash. “Kill you.”
The elf’s eyes thinned. “You can keep the red cloak, feller. Your eyes don’t look like you can see too great. So, maybe you think I’m some kind of innocent little girl off on a picnic in the wild. But you got it all wrong.” She turned, shoulders tingling as shadows slid through her muscle. “I’m the wolf.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whatever the Alley Rat gang member had to say next, she didn’t hear. Was too busy angling back into the crowd, eyes already beginning their search for any hint of the cloak’s former owner.
Not that she was about to find him. He’d be long gone.
He will betray you.
Hideg?
Probably.
Someone was thinking to warn her, she figured. But what she couldn’t figure was why. One thing she knew about Dragonclaw was it was a foul hotbed of gangs. Gangs whose corruption spread from the poorest slum to the Duke’s castle itself.
The politics of the city was one of many factions. Each more ruthless than the first.
No doubt Hideg had his finger in someone’s pie.
And maybe that someone knew she was working for him and was looking to drive a wedge between them. Not that they needed to. The fact the young man would betray her wasn’t exactly something she hadn’t already guessed.
It’s why he’d chosen her. She was nobody important. If all he needed was a few Red Claw throats slit, he could use any of his guards to do the job. And if it was tough, the ork looked more than capable.
Too capable.
The stray thought plucked at her mind for as long as it took to walk two small blocks. Something about the big bastard just wouldn’t work loose.
She didn’t like him, she decided. And trusted him even less than Hideg.
Something about him wasn’t right.
Shaking her head, the elf spat a stream of spit at the ground, not caring at the muted sound of disgust from a peddler forced to skip out of the way before it wet his boots.
Betrayal in a city like this was inevitable.
All that mattered was she kept her eyes and ears open. And jumped quick as soon as opportunity presented itself.
Preferably with a fistfu
l of gold.
Two, if she was lucky.
With this thought, the elf allowed her lip to curl a little toward the scar on her cheek and turned her mind toward the problem of her first paid assassination in Dragonclaw.
A simple execution.
Of an alchemist.
An alchemist employed by a violent street gang with visions of power too big for their boots.
Which meant they’d be led by a man with brains as much as hunger.
And he’d realise the alchemist was key to his success. Would be protecting him with everything he could spare.
At least a couple of his toughest members would be at the alchemist’s side.
Armed to their teeth.
A few enchantments to trap the unwary? Probably. In Dragonclaw, crude and destructive enchantments came cheap.
They’d have to have a rich patron to pay for their sudden rise to power. No one rose quick in a city like this without the coin to back them.
How rich was their patron?
Could he afford more sophisticated enchantments?
Could he afford a mage, perhaps?
Her fingers rubbed A Flaw in the Glass, feeling the comfort of its grip. Despite her recent dealings, she still didn’t like mages.
A fleeting image of her husband. Face blistered and torn. Skin fuming and red.
What was Hideg sending her into?
Shuddering, the elf used her boot to kick against the door of Powell’s Place. It didn’t open and she waited, expecting Bograt’s singsong voice to query her through the peephole.
Instead, a heavy voice growled; “Fuck off! We’re closed.”
The elf looked down the street. Surrounding businesses were in full swing, churning lunches to the dock workers and selling baubles with all the frenzy of drunk goblins. She noticed even the baker’s assistant was looking flustered as a clump of customers overwhelmed his counter.
At this time of day, Myrna usually had the doors wide open.
She wanted the coin.
“It’s only midday,” she said to the door. “But I’ve had a shit morning. Don’t piss me off. Open up.”
“You fucking deaf? I said we’re fucking clo-”
She kicked the door again. This time with every ounce of strength she could muster.
And, as her boot slammed into the wood, she felt a tremendous wave of movement shoot through thigh and into her heel. A pulse of energy which blew the air from her lungs and sent a flush of heat sweeping through her body.
