Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

  They moved on, sidling up to a young man trying to push a barrow around a corner too small to take it. Didn’t seem to be hassling him.

  He spoke with them for a while, then tapped his forehead in salute.

  Changed his mind about pushing into the alley. Instead drifted up the street toward her.

  Humming to himself.

  She melted back into a doorway, avoiding his gaze.

  Unlike the old man, she took this one as someone who’d shout a warning.

  When he was out of sight, she picked her way down the street again. Looking for the three men in their dark coats.

  A few more people were leaking onto the road, many with barrows and carts. Taking stock to markets or stalls.

  Setting up their stands on the side of the road.

  Many were cooking. Steaming buns and frying meat.

  The smell of food began to work its way into her belly. Wetting her mouth.

  It seemed to work on the three ahead of her, too, because they stopped often to sample as much as they could on the way.

  Never paid for it.

  For herself, she was soon plucking pieces of meat from a skewer and wondering if it was too early in the morning for something so greasy. It tasted like it’d been cooked the night before and her stomach didn’t appreciate it.

  She threw it down the next alley.

  Wiped her mouth with a grimace.

  Corrow pulled the others to a stop in front of an inn.

  Went inside with Forn, leaving the third to stand out front. He bounced on his feet, working warmth into his hands and squinting up at the steel grey sky.

  There was a lot of muscle on him. And hair, she thought. Lots of hair. Thick, black, and like bristles. Even where it ran down the back of his neck to disappear beneath his collar.

  His round face looked like it belonged on an infant. Ruddy cheeks and a mouth a little too small. Big eyes. Bright and grey.

  But there was no innocence in him.

  He kept a heavy iron-wrapped club tucked under his arm and there was a dagger in a sheath on his hip. Saw it under his coat as he turned. A long dagger. In her hands, it’d almost be a short sword.

  Corrow came outside first.

  Scanned the street.

  Reflex.

  As his gaze moved toward her, she moved with it, turning away and behind a soup stand. The seller looked a little surprised, but she made a show of checking out the small tubs of steaming soup.

  “What’s this one?”

  “That’s my ma’s best recipe,” he said. A mechanical line he’d delivered more times than he liked. “Richer than the duke himself!”

  “That beef in it?”

  “What do you take me for?”

  “How about this one? The red one.”

  “No beef in that, long-ear. No meat at all. That’s something I picked up from a Caspiellan trader. Sure, they’re a pack of assholes. Sorry if you like them, but I won’t argue politics with you this early in the morning. Taste it. Go on. Here. Try some. Have a spoon before you buy. Taste it and you’ll want a cup, I promise.”

  Forn came out of the inn, grinning and waving to someone inside.

  Corrow’s eyes were still picking the crowd apart. Searching with laconic care.

  She edged further round the side of the stand, away from his gaze. “Sure, feller. I’ll try.”

  He stuck out a spoon and she dipped it in. Pulled it to her mouth.

  Not interested, but eager to avoid the searching gaze of Corrow.

  Mouth clamped over the spoon. Tongue lashed heat. Heavily spiced and tang of tomato. She blinked a few times and turned her head completely from the three gang members to stare at the soup seller.

  Slightly bewildered.

  Looked down at the spoon.

  “Good, right?”

  She wiped her tongue across her teeth and dug into her pocket. Found a few coins to drop down in front of him. “Give me a cup.”

  “I’m here every day,” he said, pulling out a wooden cup and spoon. Scooped the small silver coin and handed a few ugly little copper ones back. “Five copper in all. It’s an extra three for the cup, but if you return it here, I’ll give you two back.”

  “Sounds fair,” she said.

  Corrow was leading the two Claws away again. She snatched the spoon and lifted the cup. Reveled for a moment in the smell of it.

  The soupseller turned back to what he’d been doing before she arrived. Rummaging through a small chest of spices for whatever other concoction he was brewing.

  Tension easing from his shoulders now he was sure she wasn’t a thief.

  “Take it easy, lady.”

  The three Red Claws stopped on a corner not far ahead. She watched from in front of the stand. Keeping her head aimed away from them. Down low. But eyes constantly drifting toward them.

  They seemed to be waiting for something.

  Around them, the narrow streets were becoming more active. A shop opened beside the three. Elderly man wrestling with the shutters gave them a scornful look.

  One they didn’t notice. Then he went inside, kicking the door shut with a blunt crash.

  A few traders paused to exchange words with Corrow.

  They seemed to know him, she thought. Know him and respect him.

  Like he was more than just a lowly gang member. She thought of how Tati had spoken to him. The soft wheedling in his voice, even when he’d snapped back. The more she watched, the more she began to suspect Corrow was someone to be careful of.

  She edged closer. Watched them from a dark corner beside a cobbler’s stall. He hadn’t yet set himself up and was too busy with that to notice her presence.

  The elf sucked her spoon thoughtfully. Wondered if she was doing the right thing, but couldn’t think of another way to find out what she needed.

  The banter of the two younger Claws, half-playful and half-nasty, escalated suddenly until Corrow had to bellow at them.

  Frustration and tiredness driving his anger.

  The Claws lapsed into silence, each looking away from each other.

  Out into the streets.

  Then they started walking again, Corrow in the lead.

  Forcing a calm she didn’t feel, she followed. But angled to their right as though heading for the inn they’d left behind. Blowing on a spoonful of soup before gulping it down.

  A fourth Claw came jogging down another street, heavy club in hand.

  Saw the three and waved.

  Corrow waved back.

  She was close enough to hear snippets of their conversation.

  “-got hit again.”

  “Again? Who by?”

  Muttered words she couldn’t make out.

  “Fuck that guy. We’ve gotta do something about him. Soon. He’s gonna-”

  A couple of kids hurried past, chattering loudly. Squawking at each other.

  She had to bend her hips to miss one of them knocking into her and bit down hard to stop spitting a curse.

  And when she looked up, the third Claw was looking right at her.

  The one whose name she hadn’t yet heard.

  Rush of heat to her head and she sucked on her lower lip. Lifted the cup to her mouth and forced her eyes to slide away from his. Found the inn, which she stumbled against.

  Forcing a story into her movement.

  Story of someone who, like them, had been out all night.

  Had maybe drunk too much and now needed a bed to lie in.

  Faked a yawn and tossed the now-empty cup into a layer of trash pooled along the mouth of an alley. Alley Rats took care of it. In fact, a pale hand slid from the rubbish and slowly pulled the bowl back into the depths.

  Not that she saw.

  Her attention was deliberately away from the gang members.

  Completely focussed on the inn.

  The doorway.

  The promise of shelter within.

  She could feel his eyes on her.

  Had he gotten a good look at her inside t
he Fish’s den? Had he seen her clothes?

  It’d been dark, she told herself. Too dark for him to make her out. No way he’d recognise her. She’d had her hair over her face.

  Lifting a hand to her cheek, she scrubbed the skin beside her scar. Aimed her gaze at the corner they were gathered around.

  He wasn’t looking at her anymore.

  And the men were closer together. Whatever crisis was happening in their world, it was more important than her. She breathed a slow sigh of relief and held up from entering the inn. Instead leaned on one of the brittle posts. It was scratched with gangsigns.

  Even a few goblinsigns.

  Marks which held meaning only to those who knew their secret code.

  She watched the four as Corrow seemed to arrive at a decision and spun them around. They came back towards her. Long determined strides.

  Showing her back, she looked into the inn’s sullen depths. Couldn’t see anyone inside. Made to step into the bleak interior, but then smoothly turned around the post and entered the broken crowd in the Claws’ wake.

  Let herself drop back. Further than she should, but was worried the unnamed Claw would look back and see her. And, if he hadn’t recognised her before, he’d realise now they were being followed.

  Reaching the end of the street, she followed them down a lane which zigzagged down a steep slope. Stairs of blistered stone led the way. More gangsigns etched into the walls. Couple of banners hung from lines above. Black, with three sharp red lines.

  Red Claw banners.

  They passed a small burned-out volcano. Once belonging to a gang destroyed by the Red Claws, its earthen walls now crumbled in defeat. It hadn’t been tall. Maybe three levels high. And only big enough to fit a few apartments inside.

  But, in the quiet of morning, she could almost feel the sorrowful ghost of its pride.

  She lost sight of the Corrow more than once.

  Their pace increased, and she could tell by the way they started to twitch that they were expecting trouble. Maybe they were headed toward a confrontation. Territorial disputes were common.

  Maybe another gang had tried encroaching on their turf.

  She watched Corrow as he loosened his knife in its sheath. A short weapon. Wide of belly, though.

  Practical. Good for fighting in narrow streets.

  Forn already had a slim dagger out. Was spinning it in his hand.

  A fifth man dropped from the rooftops ahead of them. Erupted from the shadows with a flash of black and steel. Stood in front of them, grinning broadly.

  They didn’t pause, and he kept pace without a word.

  Coming out into the street ahead, she heard a few voices inside one of the warehouses she passed. Young voices.

  The five Claws were suddenly six.

  They swept left into another lane and she followed.

  Scratched her palm as they became seven.

  Stopped.

  Looked up.

  Saw only the crisp line of the rooftops above. Three levels high on either side. No way to climb up the smooth featureless walls. No balconies. No windows. Heavy alcoves all the way down on both sides. Shuttered shops.

  One of those few streets too quiet to be honest.

  Spat to the ground with a vicious grunt and spun on her heel. Sprinted back down the lane.

  Behind her, Corrow gave a shout. “She’s rumbled!”

  From a series of narrow doorways, a flood of black-coated Red Claws dashed to meet her. Clubs and daggers ready. Eyes already punching violence.

  She hit the first with a crash, slicing him open from navel to rib with a savage tearing of A Flaw in the Glass. The blade spilled his guts at her feet but she didn’t stop to hear his dying squeal.

  Leapt over him and kept running.

  Knew if she stopped now, she was dead.

  “Get ‘er,” Corrow roared. “Fucking get ‘er!”

  “Fucking stupid,” she spat, sending Needle Me Later spinning into the forehead of a dark-eyed Red Claw. As she passed the body, was able to quickly dip her hand and snatch the slim dagger.

  Left threads of crimson across sprawled remains.

  “I got her!”

  A hand grabbed her collar, but quickly let go as Queen of Hearts chewed through flesh and bone to sever the limb just beneath the elbow. Blood gushed and his scream slaughtered the peace of Dragonclaw’s morning.

  Forn jerked to a halt, mesmerized by foaming blood. “Oh, shit.”

  “Spread out,” the unnamed Claw growled. “Surround her. She can’t fight us all.”

  “Don’t reckon I need to,” she shot back. Kicked the dismembered limb towards him. It splashed like a dead slug against his foot. “On account of I’ve got a real disarming manner.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was a race.

  She pushed her way through the crowd using elbows. Knees. Fists. Sometimes her knives if resisted.

  Leapt carts when she couldn’t go around. Shoved them over where she could, sending contents spilling across the street.

  Tried to leave chaos in her wake.

  As one of the Red Claws caught up with her, she slashed his reaching arm and booted him into a stall selling fried spicebuns. The heavy pot wobbled. Then tipped, sending a wave of boiling oil to consume flesh to the bone.

  He screamed.

  A scream which wailed just long enough for his friends to catch up.

  Became a choked sob.

  Then silence.

  They called to her. Shouted for her to stop and face them.

  Threatened with anything they could think of.

  But she knew better than to stop. Knew they were rushing down streets they knew better than she did. Knew they were going to try cutting her off soon. Her only hope was speed.

  Speed and the knowledge that if she could make it to the bridge leading into the docklands, they wouldn’t follow.

  They’d want to.

  Maybe a few would dare to try.

  The smart ones would stop.

  An older Claw lashed out of a doorway, still pulling on his coat. His one good eye blinked, while the ruined socket twitched. Almost dropped his staff as he saw her barreling towards him.

  “Stop ‘er, Rell!”

  He stepped into her path, sure of himself.

  He was big.

  Real big.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he snarled. Lifted the staff. It was thick and heavy. Iron plates wrapped around each end to give it more weight. Not the best weapon to use in a skinny little street, but the elf resolved to accept any advantage she could get.

  She ducked, bringing knee up hard to thud into the inside of his groin. Didn’t quite hit the soft tissue she was aiming at, but it hurt. He bent, losing his breath in an explosive gust. As he snapped his head to face her violet eyes, she spun. Wound up a kick which expended all her energy into the point of his chin.

  Sent him spiraling back into the path of two men pushing an oversized cart loaded with steel. They’d been trying to cross the street, moving from the mouth of one alley to a lane opposite.

  They shouted. Tried to stop. But given the slope of the ground, they couldn’t. There was too much weight.

  It hit Rell square in the back and sent him sprawling.

  He scrambled. Hands slipped on greasy ground. Let out a mew of terror. Then scream of agony as the wide wheels ploughed into his chest. Over his torso.

  Blood gushed a steaming river. Ribs splintered and spine flattened against road by the immense weight.

  Horrified, one of men had to dance to miss stepping in Rell’s entrails. He still had hold of the cart. Shock made him grip it tighter. “Oh, shit.”

  Forn’s cry was crisp in the morning air. “Rell!”

  The two finally hauled their cart to a halt. Smudged faces distraught, they swept around to help but nothing could help the dead.

  “We couldn’t stop.” Hands up high. Afraid she was there to take revenge. “We couldn’t stop in time! We didn’t mean it…”
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  “Don’t sweat it, fellers,” she drawled as she darted past. “One-eyed Rell was always destined for crushing disappointment.”

  Red Claws shivered out of the crowd. Let out a few snarls as they caught sight of Rell’s smashed corpse.

  A knife whistled.

  The elf rolled herself sideways and the blade meant for her back struck a young boy in the throat. He dropped. Squealing like a pig. The boy’s father dived on him, hands reaching for the source of the crimson fountain.

  Screaming for an alchemist even as his eyes went wild trying to decide who was to blame.

  Who he decided to hate more, she’d never know. She was already gone.

  Already sprinting further ahead.

  With each step, she sucked air deep. Heard the hammering of her pulse.

  And felt the worms.

  Worms inside. Cruising through meat. Flashing down into her thighs. Gnashing at muscle. Electrifying it into numbness. And instead of slowing, she ran quicker.

  Moving with a speed which left her mind floating as though time itself was standing still.

  Shouted words were a muffled drawl in her ears.

  City sounds a tidal wave of corrupted fragments.

  Startled intake of breath from a washgirl shoved out of the way. Spat curse from an old man who raised a fist in salute at the Red Claws. Hooted his support.

  Blur of footsteps.

  Shuffled boots.

  Creak of a wheel.

  Door slamming.

  Window locking.

  Her arm moving through air.

  Nothing distinct. A jumble of sounds jammed together. Nothing she could pick out.

  Except one.

  Snicker of steel cutting wind.

  Came from the depths of an alley so narrow she’d have had to walk through it sideways.

  She threw herself into an alcove and the knife driven from the shadows missed by more than a hand. Tore into the air where her neck had been. Clanged off the stone wall and danced into a puddle of slime-drenched trash.

  No time for thought.

  Prophet of Rage whipped upward and inside, aiming for ribs.

  He tried to roll with it to survive, but the elf wasn’t holding back.

  Had no time to hold back.

  The blade sheared bone and pierced lung. Wasn’t quite long enough to take his heart. The sound of his deflated scream was something she’d never be able to describe.