by Lucas Thorn
The power of it stunned her. And she knew she was more surprised than the man behind the door when it crashed open with more force than she’d anticipated.
Knew she hadn’t surprised him at all, because he never had time.
The door, exploding inward, smashed into his head faster than any thoughts he might’ve had before it connected with his forehead. It turned his face to paste and sent his body flying across two tables with the reinforced door spinning in his wake.
One of the torn iron hinges bounced cheerfully to a halt against the bar.
Recovering quickly from the awkward momentum of her kick, the elf moved into the grim darkness of the inn and stood with unnatural ease in the bright doorway.
Scanned the room. Counting off faces she didn’t know.
Only three.
“You’re open now,” she said to the dead man. Looked across the debris at the one she figured was in charge. “You figure I’m right?”
He was tall. Face had seen too many fists too close. A knife or two had worked into his cheeks and jaw some time in the distant past. Withered skin raw and stained with bacha ash.
Eyes bloodshot. Fingers twitching. Too many potions.
Dark hair spattered with dirty grey.
Shaved on one side of his head to show off the tattoo of a small triangle just above his ear. A gang sign she didn’t recognise.
The other two wore their greying hair the same way.
Same tattoo.
Same faces weathered by experience and age. Looks of shock and disbelief as their gazes drifted from the corpse on the floor to the knife in her hand. Then the frozen void in her pupils.
Despite the obvious lack of youth, they carried themselves with pride toughened from a life spent fighting in the streets. They’d been tough kids.
Were now tough men.
Behind the bar, Myrna shook in the tight grip of one. Thin arm around her throat. Other round her belly. Locking her arms in.
Bograt sprawled unconscious on top of the bar. Blood flowed freely from a gash to his head. For some reason she couldn’t explain, this made her mouth tighten and eyes narrow.
Powell. Tied to a chair.
The old man’s gentlemanly face now crisscrossed with bruises and blood. His blood. Swollen nose. One cheek bigger than the other. He stared vacantly, unable to comprehend what was happening through the veil of pain thundering inside his head.
Shirt torn open.
Arms slack in their bonds.
Chest leaning against a table. Its surface glistened with sweat and blood.
The gang leader squinted at her, trying to figure out what to say.
Wet his creased lips with dry tongue before speaking. Voice a confused whine. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Nysta,” Myrna groaned, closing her eyes.
“Myrna.” The elf nodded in greeting to the woman as if her captor hadn’t spoken. “Ain’t sure I can afford the door right now. If you’d put it on my tab, I’d be obliged.”
“That your name? Nysta?” The gang leader took half a step toward her, slender knife in wrinkled hand held low. A street shiv. So thin it’d break if he tried using it to lever a window open. The kind of knife which had little purpose other than to inflict dozens of small cuts to Powell’s flesh. As the man kept talking, the elf’s frown deepened. “I heard of everyone around here. I know everyone, right? I’ve been around. I know Powell. I know Myrna. And I know this little green cunt here. He’s called Bograt. But I ain’t ever heard of an elf called Nysta before. Hey, Wolfgang? You heard of an elf called Nysta before?”
The skinny man holding Myrna let out a thin giggle. Deep lines came to life around his bloodshot eyes. Pupils dilated too wide. “Nope. I ain’t heard of her. Never have.”
“What ‘bout you, Herder? You heard of an elf called Nysta?”
The other, holding a mug of beer he’d poured himself, shook his head.
Sucked air through his teeth before shaking his head.
“Let me have a think about it.” He mulled it over a sip of dark ale. “You know, Zwack, I can’t say I have heard of an elf called Nysta at all. Who is she?”
Zwack looked down at the dead body, then the knife in her hand.
A Flaw in the Glass hummed bright in her fist.
He licked his lips again, no doubt thinking about taking the blade for his own.
“Tell you who she is, Herder. Nobody. That’s who she is.”
“Nysta,” Myrna choked out. Eyes wide and glistening with unspent tears. “Nysta…”
“Kind of like living here, Myrna.” The elf turned her frown toward the barmaid. “And I’m a bit short of coin right now. Ain’t sure I can afford more of a mess if you’re gonna charge me every time a bit of blood gets on the floor.”
“It’s-”
She tried to speak, but Wolfgang tightened his grip. “Shut it, wench.”
“Sorry, Myrna?” The elf let the smile curl into a cruel line. “Didn’t hear you.”
The woman’s eyes lit with her familiar fire and she spat quickly between breaths: “On the house!”
Zwack spoke first. “What the fuck?”
The elf moved first.
And Wolfgang died first, ageing reflexes recognising the source of the glittering spray of light honing itself on air in front of him only in the last instant before it buried itself to the hilt in his forehead. The knife, Path to Enlightenment rocked his head back and he dropped where he stood.
Blood spurted down Myrna’s back.
A few ghostly words of gibberish exhaled on his last breath before he formed a knot of limbs at her feet.
Gasping for air, the barmaid spun.
Snatched a heavy mug and began hammering it into the dead man’s face, screeching curses which roused Bograt and made Powell blink three times.
Within the first blink, he saw the elf uncoil in the air to land on the bar.
As he closed his eyes on that first blink, she was already leaping again, A Flaw in the Glass flaring brightly in her fist.
During the dark of his blink, the savage blade’s curved tip cruised into the wooden mug Herder brought up to defend himself with. Split the wood to send dark Dragonclaw ale spewing across the elf’s coffee-coloured fist.
Foaming fluid flushed bright red as the mug, caught between knife and Herder’s ribs, shattered to allow the venomous blade entry into flesh.
He howled as she used the weight of her body to screw the blade further into his chest. The wide belly of the knife cut through ribs to slide into the beating muscle of his heart like a bladed fang.
The bubbling venom of the enchantment oozed putrid light through broken skin.
Zwack whipped at her from behind, slender knife swishing air.
It was the sound which made her head turn toward him. And it was the cruelty in her gaze which stopped him short. Arm held high, knife shaking in his hand.
He looked from her to the agonised expression on his friend’s face. Blurted; “Herder!”
The elf wrenched A Flaw in the Glass free, spraying him with his dead friend’s blood.
Watched Zwack struggle to understand what was happening.
And, when his lucid gaze settled on her again, she tapped the enchanted blade against the bar to flick excess blood from its edge. Said; “He was supposed to be good?”
“He was the best.” Zwack nodded. “Quickest, too. He killed Elin Wolfhand. Only two years ago. No one’s been quicker than him. No one. How’d you do it? How?”
“You know how it is. One day you’re Herder. On top of the world. Feeling unstoppable. Faster than the next feller. Next day you’re nerfed.”
He glanced to the door. Figuring he could make it. Then back. She watched with a widening grin as hope died in his eyes. “Please, long-ear. Don’t kill me.”
“It’s too late for begging,” she said.
And he ran.
Sprinted with everything he had.
Maybe he could’ve lost her in the crowd if he got outside.
But he never made the door. Thrown with near-laconic poise, A Matter of Degrees slivered through the dark room to drive into the back of his knee and send him skating into a huddle of stools.
Jaw slammed against table, sending it scooting away and bouncing him back onto his feet.
He fumbled a few more steps, squealing long and loud as pain stabbed his nervous system with brutal strokes. Unable to hold his weight, his knee dropped him to the ground.
Desperate to live, he rolled toward the door. Clutching at his leg with one hand.
Dragging himself to the doorway with the other.
Slapping the ground ahead. Pulling himself forward.
Sobbing. “No! Please, no.”
But she was there. Crouched beside his writhing body.
Wiped A Flaw in the Glass on his shirt.
Eyed the cleaned blade critically, then casually slid the knife into its sheath.
Reached.
Turned him onto his back.
Straddled his chest and peered down into his terrified face.
“Reckon Myrna asked you not to hurt her, feller. Maybe asked you not to hurt Powell, too. She likes him a lot, you know. Enough she probably begged. And begging really ain’t her thing. Reckon she asked you not to kill the goblin, too. Because she ain’t as bad as she thinks she is.”
“Me okay,” Bograt piped up suddenly. Voice forlorn. “Me just got bonk on head. Me not young now days. Me hope Eventide not see.”
“Coin,” the man squeaked. A whine twisted into every word like a worm. “We just needed some coin. Not all of it. Wouldn’t have taken it all. Just some of it, you know? Just to get started. We wouldn’t take it all! We had to move. Alley Rats took our hideout. Cleaned it out. Took everything. We’ve got no one now. They’ll find me. Find me and kill me. We’re all that’s left. A few coins, and we could get those bastards back. Just a few fucking coins. That’s all we needed. And then we’d get it all back. The streets. The volcano. Everything. I built it, you hear me? I was there. I built it with my own fucking hands! My hands… All he had to do was give us a few coins, long-ear. Just that. But they’re greedy. Look at them! Greedy! He’s got more gold in here than you can dream of. Hidden in here. Somewhere. Everyone knows. You ask around. They know! Everybody knows.”
Myrna threw herself from behind the bar, bloody mug in hand. Raised it as she ran forward. “When everyone else turned their back on you because of Anglek, we didn’t! We let you come in here on the quiet. Fed you. We even let you sleep here. And this is how you pay us back? You shit, Zwack. You piece of fucking shit! You’re like all the others. Just gang trash.”
“Myrna?” The elf’s voice halted the barmaid. “Go look after Powell.”
Myrna halted as hatred drained with every word uttered.
Stared at the elf.
Spoke, voice crinkled in the dark. “We’ve got no gold, Nysta. No gold, I swear.”
Something was there, though.
Fear?
Yeah, the elf thought. She was afraid of what Nysta might do.
The elf sighed. “Myrna. Do I look like I give a shit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just go get him stitched up before he bleeds out.”
That did it.
The barmaid twirled with a cry and rushed the old man, tears finally working loose.
“I didn’t cut him that deep,” Zwack whined. Using his good leg to try pushing himself toward the door. Still trying to get away. Pulled his face into a shamed mask. A child caught in an act of brutality. “Just little cuts. That’s all. Hardly anything.”
“Yeah, I know.” She slid Fulci’s Last Joke free and pointed the knife at his face. “You’re an amateur, Zwack. Here. Let me show you how it’s done properly.”
She had to hit him.
He wouldn’t stay still.
Kept writhing and squealing, whipping withered head back and forward. Anything to get free.
But he was old. The strength in his arms limited by age.
Her first punch took him on the cheek. Split it wide, but didn’t stop him squirming. Second took his nose and obliterated it. Third ploughed into jaw and hit all energy from his body.
Though he kept struggling, they were dull waves.
Which allowed her to use the knife to lever just under his eyelid and pop the orb free of its socket. Slicing it free, she palmed the grotesque trophy.
Then, grimacing, the elf ignored his shuddering sobs and climbed off him.
Grabbed his shirt and dragged him slowly toward the shattered doorway and the light beyond.
“Let’s take this outside,” she growled.
“Oh, shit.” Agonised moan. Curled into fetal ball. Voice beaten into tiny childlike whimpers. “You took my eye! My fucking eye.”
“Reckon I did.”
“I can’t see.”
Gibbering and mewing, the man reached with weakened hands to claw at her grip.
She batted him away and kept dragging.
“Please,” he whimpered. “Let me go.”
“Nope.”
“Bitch!” Hiss long and slow. Spit foaming down his chin. “I’ll kill you. Kill you! There’s no place you can hide from me. I’ll get revenge. I’ll cut you. I’ll tear your fucking heart out. Oh, shit, my eye. Fuck you, you long-eared bitch! Fuck you! You won’t get away from me. I’ll kill you. You’ll see. Fucking kill you. You’ll see!”
“You won’t.”
Outraged shriek; “Bitch!”
She kicked him. Hard. Right below the ribs.
Then hauled him the last few steps.
Managed to get him through the door. Feet still inside.
Looked around at the frozen faces as she worked him into the street.
Faces alive with horror and disgust watched as she blocked their way.
“Feller figured to steal from Powell,” she told those with enough interest to listen. “I don’t like that kind of shit in a place I’m staying. Figure it was too dark inside for him to see things right. Brought him out here so he can get a good look at how I feel.”
With that said, she cut his scrawny throat.
Someone screamed.
And more than one vomited as she dropped the eyeball on the side of his head. It rolled to a wet stop inside the triangle tattoo.
Without waiting for a response from the crowded onlookers, the elf moved back into the dark confines of the inn. Wiped hands on her pants.
Bograt staggered to the doorway. Looked outside, then spat on the twitching body. “He learn lesson, Knifehand. You teach good.”
“Yeah,” she headed toward her room, mindless of the destruction. “Reckon you could say I sure illuminated him.”
CHAPTER NINE
The elf lay on her back across the bed.
One leg dangling loose.
Left hand across her chest and the other around Queen of Hearts on her hip. Chest breathed slowly, letting the echoes of violence phase from her body.
Could still feel the fluid ease with which she’d plucked Zwack’s eye free.
The wet plop as it rolled across his head, leaving an oozing trail in its wake.
His sobbed cries lingered in her ears.
Talek wouldn’t have approved.
That thought alone kept her mind humming in a daze.
He’d always frowned at unnecessary cruelty. He’d never accept she’d done it in front of witnesses simply so no one else would try anything while she remained at the inn. So word would get around. So others would leave Myrna and Powell alone.
“Hatred never sows peace,” he’d told her. “Only war.”
“You’re dead,” she whispered to his ghost. “And it was hatred which revenged you. Remember that.”
Anything he might have whispered from the past was lost as a gentle knock pulled her from her reverie. Her eyes, which had unconsciously flickered closed, now snapped open.
“You’ve got the key, Myrna. Let yourself in.”
She came into the room like a woman expecting
the elf to leap from the shadows and slit her throat. Nudged herself through the doorway and closed the door behind.
Quiet.
Tense.
Fingers woven together in front of her belly. Writhing like hunted worms. A bloodstained rag over her shoulder. Forgotten for now.
She looked sideways and dropped onto a small stool Nysta had found no use for. Looked down at her bunched hands and then at the elf who hadn’t moved.
For a while, neither broke the silence.
Content to let the woman gather her thoughts, Nysta closed her eyes again and listened as the crowd dribbled through the street outside. Someone shouted his prices, voice wracked with urgency.
Sausages, she thought, as her stomach growled.
He was selling sausages.
“The alchemist says he’ll be okay,” Myrna said. Her voice was low, but it carried well enough. Gone was the bitterness when she spoke the elf. Instead, only dull helplessness. “The potions will heal him. But this … broke him in other ways, Nysta. He’s really hurting. Inside. Well. Maybe you’re not interested. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”
“You ain’t disturbing me,” the elf said. “Was just laying here thinking was all. About a lot of things I don’t really want to think about. Could say you’re a distraction when I need one.”
“I need to tell you we don’t have any gold, Nysta. Not as much as they thought. Just what we’ve earned from running this place. Believe me, we’ve nothing you want.”
“All I wanted was a room, Myrna.”
“But those men. They told you there’s gold here. Told you Powell is rich. I thought…”
“You figured I’d want a piece?”
Nodded. “Yes.” And when the elf didn’t say anything; “Can you blame me for thinking that? Look around, Nysta. Dragonclaw was made for people like you. Killers on the make. Looking to turn blood into gold. You’re no different. You know that. You’ve pretty much told me that a hundred times.”
“Can’t argue that,” she allowed. “But I reckon I can argue I choose whose blood I spill. You remember the first night I came here?”
“How can I forget that? You cut all the fingers off Lanyard West.”
