Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

  “Then I reckon I’m leaving you how I left everyone else since making it to this stinkin’ city,” The elf said. Began limping down the street. Winced with almost every step.

  “How’s that?”

  “Laid out.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was dark when she woke.

  Rolled herself from her bed and felt a sharp stab of pain in her shoulder. Also had a headache. A mean one. It pounded at her temples, squeezing chunks of her brain with sweaty fist.

  A small bucket had been left near the door. She scooped a handful of icy water and splashed her face. Ran wet fingers across the back of her neck.

  Felt around for any swelling.

  Found nothing. Only a slow squirm as something moved under the skin behind her ear.

  Something she didn’t like thinking about.

  She pulled her hand away and began the process of checking her knives.

  Murmuring their names.

  She’d lost one in the street and it bothered her. The empty sheath acted as cruel reminder to a weapon she’d left behind.

  Told herself she had no choice. There’d been too many Red Claws, and it was their turf. Running had been the best option. It had kept her alive.

  Still.

  It bothered her.

  Downstairs, the taproom was filling as workers from the docks came in for food and drink. Myrna waved toward a dark corner where a small table had been pressed away from any others.

  There was only one stool.

  Though she was aware Myrna was trying to keep her out of the way, she didn’t take offence. Instead shuffled toward the corner and sank down onto the stool with a sigh. Leaned into the corner and looked up, feeling a brief string of vertigo loop through her skull.

  She’d heard of fighters who’d never recovered from a blow to the head.

  Had even met a few.

  Some lost memories. Others balance. Most seemed a little less sharp.

  More prone to staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  “Shit,” she muttered, forcing her gaze back toward the clutter of people spread through the taproom.

  Mostly young men. A few women from surrounding shops. She recognised a couple of faces, but allowed most humans looked alike to her.

  “You’re still bleeding a little,” Myrna said quickly as she dropped a plate and a mug on the table. Pulled a clean towel from her belt and handed it to her. “Here. If you need, I can get someone to stitch you up? I can send Bograt to bring Llull. He’ll have some potion or other, I’m sure.”

  “Obliged,” the elf said. “But I reckon I’ll be fine after I eat.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Usually do.” Reached for the dark ale but stopped short of drinking. “How is he?”

  Powell wasn’t behind the bar. Instead, a grizzled old ex-soldier who’d sometimes filled in for him.

  Myrna pushed lips together into a tight line. “He’s resting upstairs. Llull gave him a potion to help sleep. Tomorrow. He should be walking tomorrow. But I won’t let him behind the bar again for at least a week. Farmer’s filling in for a while. He’s a good man. A friend of Powell’s from the old days. He’s exhausted. Drained. It wasn’t the first time a gang has made trouble in here. But usually you can reason with them. Pay the bastards off. Food. Drink. Coin. Something. Not this time. This time, it was like all they wanted to do was hurt us. Kill us.” Shivered. “The city’s changing, Nysta.”

  “Hey, Myrna,” Farmer called. Voice, while raised, was a twanging drawl and his eyes were cold despite the friendly smile painted on his face. “We need another barrel. You alright for me to go downstairs?”

  Myrna didn’t turn from the elf. “Will you be around for long tonight?”

  “I got some places I need to be,” Nysta said. Was unsure of the truth of it, but didn’t feel like haunting the taproom. She needed to find out where Damis was holed up.

  Needed to pinpoint where he was.

  Next time she wouldn’t be caught. Next time she’d take the rooftops. Hide in the shadows.

  She wouldn’t be fishing next time.

  Next time she’d be killing.

  “I see.” The barmaid glanced to where Farmer was waiting for an answer. Hesitated before speaking. “If there’s anything you need, talk to Bograt.”

  “Obliged.”

  The elf watched Myrna scuttle back toward the bar. Then turned to the plate in front of her. A few heaped roasted vegetables beside a couple of slabs of meat. Herbed gravy sloshing across the top. A chunk of heavy sourdough.

  She began to eat.

  Allowed it was, as always, good. One of the reasons she returned to Powell’s was for the food. There were a lot of places to eat in Dragonclaw. More stalls than she could count. But many tested the elf’s tolerance for taste as they mixed ingredients which were either too old or from sources best left unthought of.

  She’d seen more than one Alley Rat selling rodents to stalls by the fistful. And, while she’d eaten more than one rat in her life thanks to her time on the streets of Lostlight, she felt it was always a last resort. An act of desperation.

  Never a choice.

  Her mind wandered a little over how much she’d changed since the day Talek had found her. Also couldn’t help remembering the food of the Jukkala’Jadean.

  They’d served the finest meats. The freshest fruits. Vegetables with more flavour than any she’d had before or since. Their cooks were some of the best in the city. A few of her trainers had told her it was because the Jukkala needed to be fit. Strong.

  Healthy.

  But another, in a more cynical mood, said they weren’t expected to survive most assignments and the condemned always deserve a satisfying final meal.

  Her mouth curled toward the scar as she chewed.

  Then dropped away as she realised she’d put her knife down to scratch at the palm of her hand.

  Wiped grease from her lips with her fist.

  Lifted the mug to her mouth. Tasted dark beer slowly, pulling it gently into her mouth. As she drank, slitted violet gaze swept across the room.

  Workers.

  Dirty clothes. Smeared faces lined with the rewards of exertion.

  Exhausted laughter, desperate and playful.

  Couple of orks telling each other lies. Times of war. Times of battle.

  Showing off bone fetishes. Rune-etched leather straps.

  Stone carvings strung like beads.

  A troll, curled in the back of the room. Face split down the middle as though cracked. Eyes mismatched. One large and shining with deep blue light. The other, small and green. Mouth overworked with jagged teeth and two tusks ripping up from its lower jaw.

  Three spindly arms. A mug in two, the third resting across a vacant chair at its right.

  A woman, dressed in pale lavender shirt.

  Eating. Back to the elf.

  Young man counting last few coins from his purse and looking forlorn to the bar. Empty cup on its side in front of him.

  She was missing something. She knew that much.

  Someone was here. Someone was watching her.

  And, she realised as she put the mug down and lowered her gaze back to her food, they were good. But their attention prickled her senses. Sent the shadows scurrying across her shoulders and the back of neck. Hairs rippled on coffee skin.

  Flesh creeped as the worms moved, confused and urgent.

  She picked up the knife Myrna had left for her to eat with.

  Speared another slab of meat and pushed it into her mouth. Chewed.

  A man sat three tables away. Dark hair loose around his face. Looking down at his beer. Looked like he’d just lost someone close. Sad expression. Head rolling gently as he eyed the beer in his cup. He sighed.

  Sighed again.

  Two men, somewhere in their forties, argued at the table closest to her. A young woman struggled not to look bored. She’d finished her wine and was toying with her hair. Every now and then she looked to the bar, almost wishin
g someone to come and refill her cup.

  More often, she glanced to the door.

  Bograt was talking to a man with a scar on his forehead. Looked like he might’ve been a mercenary a long time ago.

  Now and then, the scarred man’s eyes flicked toward her.

  She thought for a moment it was him. His interest which had made her feel uncomfortable in the small taproom.

  Which kept growing smaller. Tighter as she let the icy ball in her stomach churn and churn again. The frustration of having been chased from Red Claw turf only served to boil the waters around that ice. Melting it to reveal its seed of hate.

  The bored woman caught the elf’s eyes. Opened her mouth slightly as if to send Nysta a telepathic plea for help. Then discretely rolled her eyes as the men shuffled closer so they could argue without being drowned by the noise.

  Five workers waded between the tables, seeking beer at the bar.

  One looked around. Saw her. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should.

  The elf’s fist around the knife tightened.

  Then eased as the man saw the bored woman and seemed momentarily entranced by her before accepting she wasn’t alone. He didn’t see anything else, so edged toward the bar and began engaging Myrna in an unreturned round of awkward flirtation.

  To her left, a drunk ork tried to make his way past.

  Without thinking, the elf slid her leg out from under the stool and caught his toe. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him skid and swagger with a stunted roar. A roar which ended as his hand landed hard on the table in front of the bored woman.

  It didn’t hold his weight.

  With a crash, it collapsed under him. Splinters of wood drove into his hand, drawing a few flimsy spurts of red.

  The two men cried out, jerking away even as the bored woman let out a startled shriek.

  Everyone turned.

  Except for one.

  And the elf’s grin solidified even as she threw Myrna’s knife. It spun like a glittering bird in the dim light. The girl shrieked again as it split the air beside her head.

  The man pretending to be depressed over his beer moved with lightning speed to twist on his stool and snatch the blade from the air.

  Gave her a rueful grin as he balanced it in his palm.

  Said; “Well, that was unexpected.”

  Then spun toward the way out, lifting and throwing the table at her in the same motion.

  She was already on her feet and making to dive across the clutter made by the fallen ork. Had to raise both arms to absorb the impact. Though it wasn’t particularly heavy, the table rocked her backward.

  She rolled with it, feeling rage ignite inside her veins.

  “Hey,” one of the fallen men began to rise.

  She shoved him back down with her boot. Snarled; “Get the fuck down!”

  Threw herself across the woman who was no longer bored. Instead was making small choked sounds and switching her gaze from the sprawled ork to the elf who’d rushed over the top of her.

  Nysta tore through the maze of tables and stools, only seconds behind the fleeing man. His back begged for a knife to bury into it and the elf was desperate to oblige.

  She spun Spills the Kitten Milk in her hand. The blade had no handle. Just a hole in the steel for her middle and ring fingers to slip. Blade spearing out from her fist like a claw.

  It was a weapon made for punching.

  And she felt like punching holes in the bastard.

  Bograt started to slam the door shut. Intended to lock him in, though he first shot the fleeing man a look which was almost apologetic.

  With a spray of curses, the fleeing man threw a knife. Bograt squeaked and grabbed at his face, expecting the blade to have found his head. But it had missed and was quivering in the wall.

  The man took advantage of the goblin’s panic. Wrenched the door open and tore into the night. Feet kicking up water from stained puddles decorating the street.

  And she was right behind him.

  Which nearly got her killed.

  A hatchet, thrown with deft skill, whooshed straight at her as she dived outside. Forced her to jerk back so hard she bounced into the doorframe and dropped fast. The hatchet hit the door with so much power the head punched through to the other side.

  Just above her skull.

  Bograt let out a yelp.

  She scrambled to her feet, but the man had disappeared down an alley the elf knew forked and forked again.

  “Stupid,” she growled. Spat on the ground, wishing she’d tried throwing a blade at him instead. “Fucking stupid.”

  The old goblin poked his head around the corner. “You okay, Knifehand?”

  “Fine, feller,” she said, rubbing her hip. It had hit the wooden frame hard. Was bruising fast. “Mostly hurt my pride is all.”

  He looked up at the axe. “Me not understand why Knifehand want to kill Vikter for.”

  “Vikter?” She turned on him. “You know that feller?”

  “He Vikter Crowlee.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  The goblin grinned cheerfully. “Oh, he easy to find, Knifehand. You just go to Guardhouse down road. Ask for him.”

  “He’s a guard?”

  “He start new guard job tomorrow.”

  She doubted that. “He come around often?”

  The goblin held up a hand, showing two fingers and a solemn expression. “He come five times. He talk to Bograt. He say he new guard.”

  She wondered what he’d been doing here. Obviously watching her. Judging by his skill, she figured either he was working for Hideg, or one of Hideg’s enemies.

  If he was Hideg’s enemy, then why didn’t he kill her?

  And if not, why was he following her?

  Didn’t Hideg trust her?

  Or had he learnt about what had happened with the Red Claws? Did he think she was a loose end needing to be tied? Could be Vikter was here to kill her.

  Which wouldn’t help her employment opportunities in Dragonclaw too much.

  The thought irritated her. She’d gotten so close but he’d gotten away.

  “You want to find him, Knifehand? Maybe cut him? Me get knife and we find him.”

  “No.” She eyed the hatchet, thoughts racing. Whoever Vikter was, she guessed she didn’t have much time. “Let him run. I’ve got another job to do.”

  The goblin showed confusion with a nervous grin. “You have job, Knifehand?”

  “Maybe.” Rubbed the scar on her cheek before heading into the street. Drawled; “Either that, or I just got the chop.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The elf headed north along the main road leading from the docks. As the main artery feeding into both its heart and the highway out of the city, it was both wider than other roads and considered a neutral zone for gangs. While not safe, she’d be less likely to be challenged.

  Still, she kept to the edges of the street and often moved into shadows. Moved further into the dark to watch other travelers pass.

  Couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.

  Some piece of a puzzle which would snap everything into place.

  Lostlight was a swamp of Houses, each competing for the King’s favour. Each House a family, bound by ancestry. Twisted limbs around a solid trunk. Roots sunk so deep into Lostlight culture to define anyone, even those such as Nysta who’d been ejected from their own.

  A House was life and, without one, an elf could spend their life decaying in the street.

  Alone.

  So, they worked hard to remain. Would do anything to keep their bond to the House.

  Most elfs also held loyalty to a Jadean. Guilds whose bonds were not those of blood, but which held equal power.

  With Jadean and House not always seeing eye to eye, many elfs found themselves in difficult positions which could see them abandoned by one, or even both. The constant stress and intrigue left a toxic web of ruthlessness and corruption.

 
Where blood was currency.

  When she’d first tasted the musky scent of politics and seen the depths of depravity surging through Dragonclaw’s streets, she’d felt at home. The gangs seemed like a strange mix of both Houses and Jadeans.

  Yet, she couldn’t quite get comfortable.

  In Lostlight, she was a Hand of the King. Here, she was nothing.

  Should she really tie herself to Hideg without knowing even the slightest thing about him?

  In hindsight, it’d been stupid.

  Her desire to find the first rung had meant she’d forgotten to be more careful with which ladder she chose to climb. She should’ve known better.

  Lostlight had taught her.

  The Jukkala had taught her.

  When in a hurry, climbing the wrong ladder could get your throat cut quicker than walking down the wrong alley at night.

  There, it’d been her knife which slashed the dreams of the unwary.

  Here, she wondered whose was aimed at her neck.

  Too many lessons honed on the streets of Lostlight had been lost in the relative emptiness of the Deadlands. Where she’d see danger coming. She’d almost forgotten that in a city with a heart as black as obsidian, you don’t feel the Old Skeleton until his breath is hot on your neck.

  Lost in thought, she drifted closer to Red Claw territory but was careful to avoid their streets. Instead worked parallel to the main road and found an inn yawning into the night with tired glow. She drifted inside, taking note of the atmosphere which told of revelry long past its peak.

  The only customers left were slow to drink or those who’d been late to arrive.

  A couple rested their heads on table and bar.

  Snore from the corner. A saw through smooth wood. The ork snorted. Pawed at the table as he battled endless foes within his alcoholic dreams. Twitched back into heavy slumber.

  The sallow old bartender swept behind the bar. Tidying for the next shift due soon. This place never closed.

  Out back, someone was frying food.

  Beating the breakfast rush.

  Bouncer at the door wiped at his greasy face often. He’d had enough and wanted to go home. Eyes bloodshot and a bruise spreading across chiseled jaw.