Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

Old Fludd winked.

  And then the door shattered at his back and the elf swung her body like a whip, sending herself up over the gutter and onto the thin clay tiles above. One cracked beneath her boot, but they didn’t give way. For that, she was grateful.

  Almost offered a prayer to Veil.

  Snarled instead, and moved across the roof like a lizard. On all fours. Spreading her weight as best as she could.

  The roof angled gently, and she headed for the top. Eager to get a look around.

  Could still hear Fludd singing as someone shouted questions at him. Demanding to know where she was.

  They hit him.

  More than once.

  But he kept singing.

  Even when they broke his teeth.

  Kept singing.

  Broke his jaw.

  And somehow kept forcing the words from his mouth. Slurred, but they were there.

  The elf made the peak of the roof. Looked down at the bustling streets of Dragonclaw and flinched as Fludd’s song cut off with brutal suddenness.

  Unable to think any more of the old man, she rolled down the other side. Perched on the edge and searched quickly for a way off. Knew the Red Claws would find her soon.

  And was rewarded with an arrow cracking off a tile near her knee.

  “Shit,” she growled, flinching away.

  A voice called up, carrying that same greasy smugness as before. “Stay where you are! Stay right there or the next one won’t miss!”

  The elf paused. “I ain’t the adventurer you think I am, Noster.”

  Ran.

  Didn’t bother trying to be careful as a flurry of arrows darkened the air. Knew that if she tried, she’d die.

  The edge of the roof was coming fast.

  Heartbeat was coming faster.

  In her ears, the rush of blood.

  Rush of shadows.

  Two long steps and then she launched herself with all her strength, sending every ounce of energy she could pull into her legs.

  Found air.

  Heard curses as Red Claws burst from the warehouse and started running below.

  But saw only the rooftop a few metres away and several metres below.

  She hit like a meteor.

  Smashed into tiles to form a broken crater. Shattered clay cut red streaks into skin, and it took a few heartbeats for lungs to recover enough to snatch a breath.

  A flock of pigeons exploded into flight, a cloud of warbled cries which circled the rooftop before wheeling away. Startled resentment in every flap of their wings.

  She rolled. Tasted iron. Bird shit.

  Choked on blood.

  Spat it out.

  Gave her head a shake. And was up again. Running. Enduring the agony throbbing across spine and ribs. Moving away from the bustling street. To where she could leap onto the next rooftop. The impact wasn’t as bad this time, and she kept going.

  Arrows sometimes chipped clay close to her feet, but luck and speed worked to keep her safe.

  For now.

  Sooner or later she knew she’d need to hit the ground.

  And when she did, they’d be waiting.

  They knew it too. They ran up the street, shouting. Guiding each other. Several scouted ahead. Others on the street to her right, never losing sight of her.

  Bouncing on their toes to keep her in view.

  But the river was close.

  Couple of streets. That’s what Rojer had said. Just a couple. How many was a couple to him?

  The elf jumped across to another rooftop. Rush of silence as she swept across empty space. Then heavy crash as she hit the roof.

  Rolled onto her feet.

  Ears straining.

  Kept moving, arms out wide to keep balance on the steep slope.

  Had to decide. Fast. The next building was too high to leap onto. It reared toward the sky.

  Toyed with the idea of crashing through a window before getting lost within the strangled guts of stone. Maybe she could elude the gang inside the maze of corridors and staircases. Doubted it.

  Instead, she slid down the roof and into the next lane.

  No room to roll properly, but managed to snatch a hand around the gutter pipe on the way down. Which let out a creak before breaking in half and dropping her to the ground.

  Water dribbled down her jacket sleeve. She spun, panic making her strike before thinking.

  Buried A Flaw in the Glass hard in the side of a Red Claw who looked to be barely fifteen. Young eyes snapped wide with pain. Didn’t know why he was dying, but knew he’d soon be walking the Shadowed Halls.

  Empty hands up to protect himself. Not that it had mattered.

  He never made a sound as she kicked free of clutching fingers and kept running.

  Swearing. Shaking her hand to lose rust-tainted water and blood.

  And running.

  If she’d failed like this for a second time while in Lostlight, the Jukkala’Jadean would’ve been ruthless.

  Was she getting slow? Had she forgotten everything she’d ever learned with Lostlight’s elite core of assassins?

  She thought of the sudden loss of patience which had probably triggered the attention of Noster’s gang. Knew it wasn’t the first time. How many times had she lost control since Talek’s Cage had opened in her hand?

  Sure, she’d never been patient. Had always been impulsive, especially when violence was involved.

  But she’d once sat outside a banker’s apartment for two days.

  Crouched in an alley. Not moving. Hadn’t eaten.

  Hadn’t even pissed.

  Just waited for the right moment.

  Now? Now she couldn’t even consider finding a different entry point. Had instead ignored stealth in favour of brute force. And gotten Fludd killed.

  The thought drifted sourly into her brain.

  It was her fault he was dead.

  Her fault.

  “A hundred silver!” Noster’s smug voice rang through the streets. “I’m giving a hundred silver to anyone who brings me that bitch’s fucking ears! Hear me? Spread the word. A hundred silver fucking pieces!”

  She cut through three Red Claws who tried to bring her down. A short fight won with quick repeated stabs and a sweeping lunge to vent a lung.

  Left behind two shredded bodies and a wheezing soon-to-be corpse.

  More blood stained deep into her clothes.

  She wiped sweat from her brow.

  Still running.

  Lungs burning. Chest heaving. Ghost of Rojer’s song filling her skull.

  “Here! She’s-” The young Red Claw’s triumph ended with a taste of Go With My Blessing. Deftly thrown, the blade skewered his throat. Skipping across his body, she snatched it free with her left hand.

  The look on his face as he’d choked on blood and steel had been almost comical.

  Eyes bulging and one eyebrow raised. Confusion and disbelief.

  And she knew why he felt that way.

  Because he was a Red Claw in his own territory. He should be safe here. She was supposed to be the prey, not the predator.

  She should be running in fear. A passive deer bounding through the trees. Dying without a struggle.

  Not killing anything which got in her way.

  What story he’d tell his friends in the Shadowed Halls, she couldn’t imagine. But it’d be one to make his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  As she darted across a narrow road with arrows thrumming past, she was struck by the sudden realisation that she was running away from where she’d wanted to be in the first place.

  Twice, stealth had failed. Both times due to impatience than watchfulness of the gang.

  An arrow seared air beside her neck.

  Thrust two inches into a rickety wooden wall in front of her.

  She spun to her right and sprinted down the alley, kicking bins out of the way. Spraying trash in her wake. Stink of it pulled her mouth into a grimace.

  Above, an old lady screeched at her. Cursed her for upe
nding the garbage.

  But the elf paid no attention.

  Red Claws were right behind. The fasted runners with the hungriest need to kill.

  Blindly, she burst into the next street. Knocked over a workman struggling with his load. He lashed at her as the tools of his trade scattered.

  He yanked away from the Red Claws in her wake. “Nail her one for me!”

  A line of washed clothes hung in front of her. Bright and clean.

  She burst through, tearing a sheet from its pegs. Getting caught in something more delicate. Stripping debris as she ran, she worked herself free in time to see the small rail protecting walkers from plunging into the canal.

  Glanced back once.

  Grit her teeth.

  Sucked a breath.

  And leapt.

  Over the rail and into the fetid waters below.

  Instant silence and darkness consumed her senses and she angled as best she could in the tight current. Felt breathless panic despite the lassitude of the water’s freezing embrace as she remembered tumbling in the waves off the coast of an island she was trying to forget.

  Brief image of draug swimming through the dark. Reaching for her ankles.

  Flailing, she felt the lazy current pulling her along. Tumbled within its grip, vertigo shunning her trust in which way was up.

  The icy ball of fear rolled out of control, wheeling through her guts. Pulse raced and hammered at her ears.

  She kicked and wriggled, attempting what she thought would be motions resembling swimming. Aiming to pull herself further into the water. Away from the Red Claws who’d stopped short of jumping after her.

  Came up a minute later, spitting and coughing.

  Choking on thick water.

  Pale smell of sewage wafting from greasy surface and she gagged, wading toward the embankment. Arms heavy. Had to lift her legs high to get free of the soft mud. Working for every inch closer to the other side.

  Fast.

  Fast as she could.

  Used her arms to propel through the water. Splashing her wake.

  Could hear Red Claws shouting as they ran the length of the canal behind. Unwilling to follow her into the foul water. Still, they felt desperate enough to sprint as fast as they could.

  Heading for a bridge in the distance. If they made it across, they’d have her.

  They could run to where she was aiming for quicker than she could struggle there.

  The ground fell out from under her as boots slid in muck.

  Spluttering and desperate, she kicked and flopped her arms. Felt stupid and afraid. Fought to keep her head above the surface.

  Made it eventually. Slapping across the rocky bank.

  Heard a deep-throated chuckle.

  Looked up into the face of a bemused bystander watching her crawl from the sludge. “That ain’t healthy, long-ear,” he said. Mock reproval. “Seen people get sick drinking from there. Die, too.”

  “Hey!” Corrow shouted across. “Hold her, man. Hold her!”

  The man stared back at the Red Claws. Unimpressed.

  Had his hands on hips. Long club resting close against his thigh.

  He was big enough to give her second thoughts about climbing up the rough wall. Scars down one arm. Scars from knives.

  He raised an arm, middle finger held high.

  “Go fuck yourself,” he called back. Jeered through his teeth. “I don’t listen to Claws.”

  “Hundred fucking silver, motherfucker!”

  Made him blink. “What?”

  “You heard, you deaf cunt! Hundred fucking silver if you bring her across! Snatch her up and take her to the fucking bridge. It’s easy pay, man!”

  He looked down, greed lit bright behind blue eyes.

  Then pain as A Flaw in the Glass ribboned. A venomous streak which took him low in the belly. She wrenched hard, pulling him over the edge and into the water behind her. Blood spattered her shoulder.

  Body splashed the river. Foamed red as it plunged into murky brown.

  Snarling, she scrambled up onto the street.

  Turned, soaked through.

  Glared at the Red Claws on the other side.

  Spat into the filth carrying the unfortunate bystander’s corpse downstream.

  Watched as Corrow fumed. “We’ll get you, long-ear!” Red-faced with rage, he waved a fist. “Fucking get you!”

  “Plain to see we’re on opposite sides, Corrow,” she called back. Looked to the bridge where another gang was pressed up against the few Red Claws trying to make their way across and showing the beginnings of what was probably going to be a brawl. Her grin was cruel. “But I reckon that’s something you ain’t ever gonna get over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The door was shut.

  She thumped it. Hard.

  The grate slid open. “Whatcha want?”

  Said; “Oh, for fuck sakes.” Then kicked the door open with a crash.

  “Knifehand!” Bograt hung off the handle, wide feet not touching ground. Looked at her with a mix of surprise and adoration. A child whose favourite adult had come to play. “You back! Me worry, but Eventide say Knifehand come back soon. And Eventide always right.”

  “Sure.” Pushed into the room, letting the goblin shut the door and try working the screws back in so it could be bolted.

  “Nysta,” Myrna called, voice regaining some of the irritation she used to reserve for the elf. “Your room’s clean.”

  The elf looked around.

  A few tables were empty, but for the most part the taproom was full. No one she recognised. Couple of orks, one already passed out. Dock workers mostly.

  “Like a drink,” she said.

  “I’ll bring it to you.” Almost pleading.

  The rancid stink of the canal’s water still clung to her. “And a bath.”

  “Bograt!” Shrill. “Get Nysta a bath.”

  “I can do that,” the goblin said. Then screwed his face as he trotted past. “And me wash clothes, too. Again. What you swim in, Knifehand? River? Smell like river. Shouldn’t swim in river. It not clean. You get sick.”

  Myrna’s face tightened. “Anything else?”

  “Food. Anything worth eating.”

  “I’ll bring it!”

  “Fine.” Through her teeth, spoken flat and hard.

  Moving upstairs, the elf felt the heat of rage gripping her cheeks. Wasn’t sure why, because she hadn’t felt like spending time around other people anyway. She wanted to go to her room and peel herself from the filth clinging to her body and clothes.

  Scrub herself clean.

  Then sleep.

  All the same, the woman’s rush to push her upstairs still wriggled under her skin like the shadows already there.

  Slamming the door harder than intended, the elf tugged her jacket free. Tossed it to the ground with a metallic crash as knives clattered.

  Her shirt was soaked through. And, like the goblin said, it stank.

  When he finally pushed the bath into the room, Bograt kept his eyes averted firmly from the elf’s coffee skin. Waved at the pile of clothes shoved down by the door. “Me clean,” he mumbled, scooping them into his arms.

  Then ejected himself with a hurried cough.

  Holding her clothes as far from his body as he could. Nose wrinkled.

  The elf sank into the tub straight away, bringing knees up so she could submerge to her shoulders. Glared at the door as though it was Myrna.

  Reached around until she found a thin bar of soap.

  Began cleaning with slow deliberate movements.

  Thinking about Hideg.

  About the Red Claws.

  And the song Fludd had been singing when they’d killed him.

  Terrible ditty. Worse than something sailors would sing.

  But it brought a sudden smile to her face and she leaned back against the tub and lay her head so she could look at the ceiling. He’d died singing it. And there was something in that cheeky act of defiance which made her wish
she’d known the old man a little longer.

  A hard thing to admit.

  Sighed.

  Hoped Talek had met Hideg at the gates to the Shadowed Halls and the old man wasn’t too bitter.

  She owed him, she realised, and had no idea how to repay him.

  It was a debt she could feel gnawing at her conscience.

  Drifting through her blood. He’d died because of her. And that thought stole the smile from her lips.

  The door cracked open and the elf’s hand, hidden beneath the water, was tight around All Down but Nine. Ready to throw. Thighs tight, preparing to spring in a frenzy of violence.

  “I brought your food,” Myrna said, more softly than before. “And some beer. The one you like.”

  “Dark,” the elf said. Sinking gently back into the heat. “Dark like shadows.”

  “Yeah. Dark like shadows alright.” Mumbled. “I’m sorry. About down there. But we’re trying to get people back in, and they won’t if they don’t feel safe. You’re getting a reputation, Nysta. Not a good one. You’ve only been here a short while. And maybe it’s unfair because we’ve only known you a month at most. But everywhere you go, trouble follows.”

  The elf reached to take the mug from Myrna’s outstretched hand.

  “Can’t say you’re wrong,” the elf allowed. “But it ain’t trouble I went looking for.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  The elf cocked her head. Brows dipping low. “You know why I got so many knives, Myrna?”

  “I hate to think about that.”

  “Defence.”

  “Defence?” The woman chewed on the word like a new flavour. A flavour she couldn’t tell if she liked or not. “Sorry if this offends you, but that doesn’t make sense. I mean, I’ve got less knives in the kitchen. And have you seen how many knives we’ve got? A lot. I’ve got knives for peeling. Knives for cutting. Chopping. But look at you, Nysta. All those weapons. That’s not defence…”

  “You don’t understand. If I went looking for trouble, I’d use one. Maybe two. Sword, most likely. Something with reach. Something to get in and kill straight out. I’d wear it on my hip. Easy to get at. If I was the kind to go looking for trouble, that’s where I’d want it. Or, if I only had one knife, I’d keep it in my jacket. Keep it hidden for the surprise of it all.” The elf waved at the pile of sheathed weapons beside her tub. “But this many? It’s heavy, Myrna. Lot of them, too. With lots of names to remember. And you might’ve noticed I don’t wear them just on my hip.”