Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

  “Reckon you’re right,” she said. “Slept enough to hurt my head real bad.”

  “We go now. Get to Buck’s Row before Red Claw change guard.” He licked his lips. “Me count Red Claws, Knifehand. There many. Maybe five.”

  “Five? Is that all?” The elf smiled wider as she sheathed A Flaw in the Glass and plunged the room into darkness. “If you’re right, then Buck’s Row sounds like the right place to start.”

  He watched as she moved past. Scratching his armpit, he followed close. “Why it right place, Knifehand?”

  “Because with all the sleep I’ve had, I reckon I’m ready to rip.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The evening was warmer than the elf had expected.

  Stars scratched the sky, preparing for the moon’s first appearance somewhere after midnight.

  People still walked the streets, drifting home. The late, the lost, and the carousers.

  A salt merchant, dressed in rich clothes, led a small train of mules. Must have decided late evening was an easier time to transport his wares. Less chance to be obstructed by crowds. More than a dozen guards, swords loose in wide scabbards, escorted him.

  Salt was something worth killing for and there was enough of it on those mules to make even the elf eye the merchant’s guards with casual appraisal.

  When they’d passed, she followed Bograt into the street. The little goblin’s legs pumped fast. Looking over his shoulder often. Checking she was still there.

  He was a skittish dog, ducking between the last open stalls and racing in front of drifters who moved without urgency now the day was done.

  Smell of streetfood tempted her stomach but was made bitter by the emptiness of her pockets. She’d sifted her pouches and found nothing, leaving her with a choice to sell a knife or endure the pangs of hunger a while longer.

  She chose the hunger.

  She’d need the knife.

  He paused in front of an alley clearly belonging to the Alley Rats. Thin greasy stream of water trickled from its mouth, sickened by the trash it’d had to slide through to get to the street.

  He pointed her inside, eyes glancing up and down.

  “Quick, Knifehand. We go.”

  “You sure about this, feller?”

  “Me tell Alley Rats we come,” he said. Nodded fiercely. “No time!”

  She moved in, noting slow movements from within the heavy mounds of garbage as the rancid gang stirred to see who was invading their turf.

  Scuffle of bodies squirming through corrupted refuse.

  Chittering like rats, they nudged at the dark. Probed the alley’s oily light.

  Then a single voice, feral and thick, rising above. “Why have you come here?”

  “Ain’t my choice,” the elf said, trying not to gag on the stench. “Just aiming to get from one side to the other is all.”

  “No one travels here.” He rose high, a rotting spectre with broken teeth and grey sore-puckered skin. Perched on the highest mound of trash. Spindly arms shaking with outrage. Tattered cloak loose around his shoulders. “All you have, including your life, is now ours.”

  Sound of rusted knives being dragged from tattered sheaths. There were many of them, she thought. More than she could see. Buried in makeshift shelters.

  The elf dropped into a crouch, hands on the hilts of her knives.

  Violet eyes tuned to violence.

  Ready.

  Then Bograt collided with her in his hurry to get down the alley.

  “Move, Knifehand,” he snapped. “We go. Hurry.”

  The Alley Rat crawled closer down the mound on all fours. Then reared in front of the old goblin. Rusted blade, chipped and weathered, pointed at the elf. “She’s ours, Brother. We saw her. She is in our alley. Ours.”

  “Me not your brother,” Bograt said. “Me Bograt. You get out of way. We go Buck’s Row.”

  The Alley Rat leader looked puzzled. “Why do you want to go to Buck’s Row, Brother?”

  The goblin straightened his back as best he could. Puffed out his cheeks with pride. Jerked a thumb toward the elf. “This Knifehand. Best there is.”

  “Knifehand?”

  “Eventide says so.”

  The gruesome face turned back to her. Eyes rimmed with grime. “He says you’re Knifehand.” Looked at the many knives she carried and nodded softly. “You look the part, although we didn’t expect an elf.”

  “Name’s Nysta, feller. Whatever their god thinks, doesn’t bother me.” She pulled A Flaw in the Knife halfway free. Its enchantment licked her hand with venomous light. Pointed through the alley’s gruesome guts. “Now, I need to get from here to Red Claw turf. Ain’t a want. It’s a need. And anything getting between me and what I need usually finds itself pretty fucking dead pretty fucking quick.”

  “Brave words.”

  “Ain’t just words.” She pulled spit into her mouth and sent it into the trash with a look of disgust. “I want out of here, feller. Your stink is killing me quicker than anything else you could do to me. So, stop pissing about. Get out of my way, or make your play.”

  “There no time for this!” Bograt charged forward, kicking with his boot at the Alley Rat in front of him. The startled man skipped out of the goblin’s way, holding rusted knife with obvious confusion. “Come, Knifehand. Must go Buck’s Row before guard change.”

  The Alley Rat watched without expression as she moved after the goblin, her hands still tight around knife handles.

  After a glance to their leader, the others peeled away to let her through.

  Bograt stomped through trash, muttering about Alley Rats as he went.

  “Knifehand!” The Alley Rat’s voice splintered as he spoke. “We don’t like Red Claws. They tried to take our turf. Killed Zern. I liked Zern. She was nice to me. She loved red things. And maybe she did take one of their scrappy pieces of cloth. But it was her right if it was in the alley. Her right! Eventide says you’re the best there is? Then show them, Knifehand. Show them for us! Knifehand! Best there is!”

  His voice rose to a cawing screech as Bograt hustled her faster through putrid mounds squirming with the Alley Rats. A hunched figure stood atop one mound and pumped his fist at her as she passed.

  Bared a toothless grin.

  Gums black and dripping slime.

  “Best there is,” he drooled, voice slurred. “Knifehand best there is.”

  A young boy, maybe six or seven years of age, pushed out from inside the hunched figure’s coat. Face greasy with grime. Blinked like a mole seeing light for the first time.

  Waved at her with bony arm. Two fingers missing from one hand. Thumb from the other. One eye rounder than it should be. Odd twitch to the cheek and jaw.

  A pathetic thing which tugged at something inside the elf.

  Deep inside.

  Fighting the rising bile forming in the back of her throat, Nysta turned away from the boy.

  Instead scoured the small hills of Dragonclaw’s waste which seemed to grow taller the further down the alley they went. She could make out small openings. Crude doorways and slitted windows lit by fires from within. Smoke drifted from crooked chimneys whose stacks gasped through layered debris with a desperate final reach toward the sky. Smoke tainted with the sickly stench of rot.

  More and more Alley Rats poked heads loose to watch her pass.

  Some looked awed.

  Others spat in her wake.

  But none sought to get in her way.

  Finally, the goblin snatched her trouser leg and pulled from the alley into a quiet little unlit street. Looked left and right. Nodded in satisfaction. “We not too late,” he whispered. Pointed to a small side street. “This way. We cross bridge on other side.”

  She nodded, sucking at fresher air with grateful sucks.

  Couldn’t quite shake the image of the boy living in the garbage.

  His eyes had been pale blue.

  Too pale.

  The alley itself had resembled some she’d seen in Lostlight, thou
gh the city guards had allowed few such places to exist. Many times, she’d expected her life to end that way. Consumed by the garbage of the street.

  Swallowed into the shadows and left to die a slow and poisoned death.

  A hideous fear which pursued her even through her training with the Jukkala.

  She frowned as something else occurred to her. “Why’d they let you through, feller?”

  “Me Bograt.”

  “No one goes down their alleys. No one. Alley Rats will slit your throat and pick your bones like vultures. That’s what everyone says. Why you, Bograt?”

  “Eventide say we go down alley,” he said. Shrugged. “Alley Rats do what Eventide say. They not say no to Eventide.”

  “Shit.” She spat the last taste of the alley from her mouth. Wiped her lips and winced. “Just what the world needs. A goblin cult.”

  “They smart. Eventide know everything. Knifehand should do what Eventide say, too.” He sounded like an old man admonishing a child, and the elf felt a burst of impatience flare in her belly.

  “I ain’t the worshipping kind. Even if I was, I wouldn’t be hooking to some crazy goblin religion. I’m from Lostlight. Where Veil had her temple before Rule put her down. I’ve seen how helpless people get when their god is dead. How unprepared they are to think for themselves. Then they fight. Not for faith. Not for survival. But because their god is dead and they want to grab some of the power that kind of hole can leave. Eating each other in a mad race to see who comes out on top. Who’s gonna sit on the throne. Can’t trust nobody anymore. Especially not any other damned religion which crops up from time to time looking to replace what’s been lost. Best to keep faith with yourself. Let what’s dead stay dead. Anything else is too dangerous. That’s how I figure it.” Lips curled into a crooked smile and she spat through the corner of her mouth before drawling; “Matter of fact, you could say I always practice safe sects.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The goblin led her further into the warren of alleys and small side streets. Twisting and turning so often she wondered if he’d taken her in circles more than once.

  He seemed to follow a small trail of runes carved into walls. Just above the ground. Primitive runes scratched with simple tools. Goblinsigns. He’d pause in front of one sometimes, look around.

  Scratch his head. Maybe give the runs a kick.

  Say something like; “But there no ogre here. Why say ogre here? I not see ogre. You see ogre?”

  Never waited for an answer.

  Would just scoot off in search of the next.

  “It here, Knifehand. It here somewhere. Me remember. Over here, look! No. This say house belong to big mage with bad temper. Say he have good food. Maybe bits of bat. Me like bit of bat. Can sneak in through hole in basement. Look out for cat, though. Cat like bit of goblin. Hmm. Me come back later. Maybe. Me not like cat.” Pointing. “There. It there. See? Red Claw hideout.”

  Circle with three wavy lines inside it. Diagonally slashing to the right.

  “You sure, feller?”

  Nodded. “Me sure. See? Seven lines. That mean Secret Hideout. And big circle is for Red Claw. Me know. It this way. Hurry.”

  Down another alley.

  Dead end.

  And another rune scratched at the base of the wall.

  “Oh. It wrong turn.” Leaned down to peer closer. Brushed some dirt off the goblinsign, and grinned widely. Stabbed a finger into the hole and looked up. “It over wall.”

  “Over?” She followed his gaze. It didn’t look like an easy climb.

  In fact, it looked impossible without rope.

  He held out his arms, hands clasped. “You want boost?”

  “I don’t think that’d help all that much,” she said. “Maybe we can go around.”

  Looking up the sheer wall. Squinted in the dark at the small sign scratched into brick. Grunted. “You right. Say here we in wrong place.”

  Impatience slit her belly, but she held it in check.

  While unsure how much the old goblin really knew, she allowed he’d gotten her into the heart of Red Claw turf without being seen. She could see enough of their gang marks daubed on walls in red paint to know he hadn’t led her too far wrong.

  That, and the volcano standing like a monolith in the dark only a few streets in front of her. Damis would be inside. Noster, too. She just needed a way in.

  On the chance he could provide that, she held her anger.

  All the same, the longer they lurked in the streets, the sooner they’d be found.

  Already they’d had to avoid more than one group hustling through the street with clubs swinging hungrily in hands. As night grew darker, more gang members would migrate this way. Drink and alchemist potions winding adrenaline through cold veins.

  They’d break into shops.

  Steal what they could.

  Cruise the alleys and laneways. Hunting for prey.

  And the elf had no time for that.

  Without heat, her voice cut the air between them. “We ain’t got all night, Bograt. Get it right this time.”

  “Me right,” the old goblin said. “It goblinsign is wrong. Me tell Eventide. Goblinsign not to be wrong. Who put here is dumb fuck. Need bad seat. Maybe no seat. Big kick in head. Me have foot. Me use it.”

  Night insects chirruped and hummed, locked in their pockets of safety.

  Thin breeze touched her cheeks. Crisp. Doing its best to clean the city’s stink. Mostly just pushing it around and coughing it back across discarded waste.

  Scuffle of boot against stone and they ducked into an alcove as an old man hobbled into the street. Bucket in one hand and a small bag in the other.

  He paused to light a lamp before moving to the next where he repeated his performance.

  Coughed.

  Hawked up spit.

  Spat.

  Disappeared down a side road.

  “Shit.” The elf crouched low, emerging splayed across the ground like an insect. “We need to get off the streets. Now. Either we find this mysterious fucking way inside now, or we get the fuck out of here. Come back when you’re sure. Or I find another way in.”

  “You not patient,” Bograt said, pointing to a little circle with three wavy lines slashed diagonally through it. “Way right here. See? Goblinsign never lie.”

  “It’s just wrong sometimes, right?”

  He gave a snort. “It never wrong.”

  Wrestling with impatience, she looked up at the Red Claw volcano.

  This close, she could see rope reinforcement netted the thick walls. Showing how quickly they were building its levels. While it was there to help the towering fortress’ drying clay skin remain intact, she doubted it’d be wise to try climbing.

  Especially given she’d heard most builders knotted small bells into the rope to help deter thieves and assassins.

  Scaffolding clung to one wall, illuminated by bright lamps. More than a few shadows kept watch from inside the lattice of beams. Enough to be sure she couldn’t scale it without herself or the bodies she’d have to leave behind being noticed almost immediately.

  The peak was rimmed with light and small chimneys shivered on its lip, kicking smoke to the wind. A straight-edged volcano primed to erupt.

  “You’d better be sure about this,” she said. Soft.

  “Me sure. You see.”

  They moved swift, the goblin doing his best to keep to the shadows. His right leg was obviously paining him and the more he moved around the worse his limp became. She doubted he could keep their pace much longer.

  Expected him to stop suddenly and pronounce he’d found a way back to Powell’s.

  Or a magic portal to the Deadlands.

  She flexed fingers, trying not to keep them balled into fists. Keep them loose.

  A cat bounded out of a nearby alley. Hissed at her as she whipped around, Garven’s Final Grin between her fingers ready to let fly.

  The cat ended its hiss in a garbled yowl. Skated away, tail high in the a
ir.

  Looked back, eyes glittering and green. Sour expression. Twitched whiskers.

  Hackles high.

  Leapt a fence and was gone.

  “Knifehand, why you fight cat?”

  She tucked the blade away, and rolled her eyes. “I ain’t fighting it. It just scared the shit out of me is all. Have you figured out where we are?”

  “Me not lost.” Looked around. “This way.”

  Found a tight lane between two buildings. So tight she had to squeeze through sideways. Chest sucked in and head uncomfortably turned across her shoulder.

  Every step rattling her pulse as she expected Red Claws to block both entrances.

  There was no way she could fight in here.

  No chance to defend.

  By the time they made it to the other side, she was sweating hard. Grimace on her cold face, which she wiped with the back of her fist.

  He looked up at her, completely unconcerned.

  Smiled. Then limped toward a small circle with three curving lines cutting diagonally through. “Here! Look. It my goblinsign. See? Bograt make this sign. It good sign. It say way to alchemist is here. We go inside.”

  “Inside where?”

  “It secret door.”

  “Then how do you know about it?”

  Wrenched his face into a thoughtful twist. “Maybe not big secret. Damis need special things for secret potion. Secret things. Bograt never tell. Me bring special thing here, one day.”

  “One day, huh?” She squatted near the goblinsign, trying to see what he thought was obvious. “You work for Red Claws?”

  “No. Me not work for Red Claws. Eventide not like Red Claws. He say Red Claws never sit in Shadowed Halls. Say they sit outside in cold.” The old goblin’s wrinkled face didn’t look happy. “They do bad things, Knifehand. Me old. It why me lucky. If me young, Red Claws not let Bograt leave. Noster say me bring more secret things. So Red Claws let Bograt go. But me never come back. Eventide say not go back. Not ever. Only now me come back. Bring Knifehand into Red Claw volcano. Knifehand kill everyone. No more goblin come here. Ever.”

  “Ain’t here for everyone, feller. Only after Damis. Noster if he’s about. Maybe Corrow, too. Just because he’s a fuckhead.”