by Lucas Thorn
The prisoner's eyes widened.
Of all the things to come crawling down out of the Bloods, she was the last thing he'd expected.
She wore loose-fitting pants and jacket of wyrmskin. Two bracers, one on each arm. Left only loosely tied. A style of light armour which belonged in the alley of a city whose belly burst with violence. Shades of dark green, black, and charcoal. Already heavily patched, her clothes showed sign of needing attention and her coffee-coloured skin could be seen shivering through ragged holes and cuts.
Oddly, she wore only one boot. Her other foot was wrapped in a blood-soaked rag.
As she limped closer, the prisoner could clearly make out the gleaming handles of knives. So many knives. Sheathed all over her body so no matter how she moved, her fingers would always find the hilt of a cruel bringer of death.
Small for an elf, he thought. Slim, too. But not weak. Strong shoulders. Muscles coiled and tense. His first impression was of a snake on legs. But more deadly.
Without waiting for invitation, she squatted in front of the fire. Ignoring the shared looks of the two men, she held out her hands for warmth and obviously relished the radiant heat. Her features relaxed and he thought he saw a flicker of shadows dancing against her throat.
Quickly figured it for his imagination.
Then, as her violet eyes lifted across the fire to catch a glimpse of him, her mouth curled slightly. A wolfish grin made cruel by the scar which began at the corner of her mouth. It tore up to a point just below her eye before jagging out toward her ear.
He couldn't decide if her face, marred as it was by the scar, was beautiful or ugly. The grin, whose humour never quite reached her eyes, was gone as swiftly as it'd come. Replaced by an impassiveness which suggested cold disregard for his predicament.
Surrounding her face was a heavy mop of long hair in thick twisted locks the colour of burnt wood. Rags of cloth woven into the ropes of hair like bows. On any other woman, they may have looked like tattered scraps of ribbon. Remnants, perhaps, of a more privileged life. Perhaps a concession toward vanity which her clothes worked hard to deny.
But on this elf, there was nothing decorative about them. Each strip of cloth had been torn from the body of a corpse. A corpse she'd made. Trophies of fights she wanted to remember for one reason or another.
The prisoner held his breath and knew hers was a face he could never forget.
It would haunt his dreams. Sometimes turn them into nightmares.
“Shit,” Delfar blurted suddenly. Nearly dropped his sword in shock as he got a better look at her. “It's her. She's the one! The one Willem kept talking about. The one from that fort. It's fucking her, I tell you!”
Lopan wasted no time. He flashed to her right, lunging with the long blade in his hand.
He'd guessed her relaxed. Defenceless. Figured if he was quick, he could pin her to the ground and be done with it.
Triumph already hot in his veins, he celebrated victory with a roar of joy before the blade had even found its mark.
Delfar, still frozen in place, struggled to decide which way to move around the campfire. Terror had scattered his thoughts.
But the elf had no doubts.
No hesitation.
Even before Lopan's muscles had tensed for him to throw himself at her, she was already in motion. Already whipping two knives from their sheaths. One, slender and light. The other, vicious and heavy with a wide belly which curved up to a wicked upswept point. Made more evil by the venomous green light flaring around the blade.
The prisoner recognised the enchantment but didn't have time to think about it. His mind was consumed by awe as she glided into Lopan's attack. She moved with the kind of graceful brutality which sent shudders of terror into his guts.
The heavy knife left a ribbon of light in its wake as it streaked through the air.
Buried itself with a solid think into Lopan's shoulder. Drew a howling scream from the man which echoed through the mountains on the frozen wind. His own strike slid loosely past her torso.
The prisoner's heart pounded in his chest and he hurt his neck further by looking around swiftly. Searching for signs of other soldiers returning from their search.
But, other than the fading echo of the shrill scream, the forest was silent. As though it was poised to witness the outcome of the battle playing out within its embrace.
Eyes bright with growing hope, the prisoner's gaze flicked back in time to see the elf throw the smaller of her blades in a powerful underarm toss. Steel drilled into Delfar's chest, left of centre. Blood spurted from wounds, torrents of crimson let loose in raging streams. Sword lost to his numb fingers as he dropped to his knees.
Delfar made no sound. No whimper. No scream. His eyes held no pain. Instead, he stared in slack-jawed disbelief at her as she strode coldly toward him.
She'd drawn another knife. Long and straight, with a jagged spine.
“No,” the fallen soldier managed to gasp before she brought the knife plunging down into his throat. Tore the blade free with a callous snarl before stabbing him again in the back as he slumped forward.
Brought it down again.
And again. Shredding his back in a frenzy of quick strikes which picked between his ribs and pierced his lungs, drowning him on pain and blood.
The prisoner want to vomit through the gag. Nearly wet himself when he caught sight of her violet eyes burning with rage. Could almost see an army of demons fuelled on her hate, screaming from the depths of her soul as they cried their lust for violence until her mind drowned in it.
She's lost it, he thought. All control.
Then she stopped with a suddenness that gripped the silence by its throat as she heard Lopan make a small movement.
The elf's eyes narrowed. She spun away from her fresh kill toward the bleeding soldier trying to drag himself away. The glowing blade, still buried to its hilt in his shoulder. He let out a stricken cry as she leapt on him.
Moving like a cat, the prisoner thought.
But not like a kitten. Nothing so cute. More like the breed of mountain cat which lived in the mountains further east. Heavy paws and slavering jaws. Boundless strength driven by the hunger of a predator starved for meat.
Incredulous, Lopan squeezed his last words between agonised groans. “How'd you do that? How were you so fast?”
Blood poured from the wound on his shoulder. She dropped on top of him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Lifted him slightly off the ground so she could hiss into his face. “Ah, Lopan,” the prisoner heard her say as she brought the gore-flecked blade down into the centre of his chest. It split his sternum and chewed through his heart to send his life reeling into the mocking gates of the Shadowed Halls. “It's all in the reflexes.”
The prisoner's heart drummed crazily in his chest. A bird trying to break from its cage.
Then he had to breathe again, and his breath whistled around the gag. The sound, which couldn't have been loud, drew the elf's attention.
And she turned. So slowly it chilled him to the core. She lifted herself from the corpse, knife in her fist pulling free of Lopan's chest with a horrible sucking sound.
Then she limped toward him
Blade dripping spots of red.
Crisp mountain air swirled through the camp, making the fire flap crazily for a moment. The tree at his back shivered.
She nodded as she approached, answering questions only she could hear. Something in her eyes wasn't right. There was too much hate there. Too much rage. All aimed in his direction.
The elf crouched in front of him.
Violet eyes bored into his. That mad hatred still boiling in the recesses of her pupils. He knew what she was thinking. Could see her mind weighing the decision which would send the knife spearing into his chest.
He tried to beg. Tried to plead through the muffled gag. Offer something. Even a lie. Anything to save his life.
The knife flickered bright as it lunged toward his face and he let out a muffled squea
k.
But instead of flesh, it cut the cloth binding his mouth.
Still shocked to see her, he spat out shreds of rag. Tried to stretch his stiffened jaw and wet his mouth so he could speak.
Managed a few gurgled croaks before she used the knife to tap the heavy padlock on his chest and drove all thought from his mind as swiftly as the words abandoned his tongue.
“Kind of like old times,” she said. “You being out here in a place you ain't meant to be. And me not sure whether to kill you or not. Now, I figure I ain't thinking straight to begin with. Had a long trail through the mountains behind me. Maybe that's got me on edge. But maybe I also got a reason to be worried? Figure I got a choice to make. In the long run, it doesn't mean much to me. Short run? Means everything to you. Because either way, Chukshene, I reckon you're about to be unlocked.”
CHAPTER TWO
She worked without urgency to free the warlock, producing a pick from one of her many pouches to wrestle with the padlock's rusted tumblers.
Her cold fingers didn't make it easy. Nor did the fact she hadn't picked a lock since leaving Lostlight. She grunted when it snapped open and tossed it aside as he worked his arms free of the heavy chains.
At some stage in the past few years, an old pine had fallen along the edge of the clearing. The warlock had watched the soldiers use it as a place to rest and he watched as the elf did the same.
Perched on top of the dead trunk, she tried on one of Delfar's boots. Found it not as comfortable as her other, but decided it was better than the blood-soaked rag she'd been using. Then sat there, sharpening her blades with a small stone.
Her heart slowed its pace, resuming a plodding rhythm as the anger she'd felt receded on a reluctant tide. Though she showed nothing of what she was thinking, her thoughts were buzzing in her head.
Since leaving the Deadlands, she'd crawled across the Bloods like a wounded cockroach. Lost a boot somewhere along the way. It'd fallen from her foot during a long climb and she didn't have the patience to go back for it.
Gained a few more fresh wounds. Some of them deep.
But the biggest change had been inside.
The crippling headaches and dull fog which smeared her brain for the months before had disappeared only a few days into her journey. As though they'd belonged solely to the Deadlands and the distance from that cursed place was serving to heal.
Only, she didn't feel healed.
She felt angry.
Unlike any rage she'd ever felt. Compared to the battle rage which often consumed her, this was something else. Something alien. Something not quite her own.
And it scared her.
As she honed the edge of Entrance Exam, she pushed the thoughts aside. Tried to box them up. Cage them, she thought with an ironic twist of her mouth.
Her violet eyes, revealing nothing of the war she was waging with herself, followed the warlock as he knelt beside the two packs left by the soldiers she'd just killed. He rummaged through them, looking for something he obviously didn't expect to find.
He hadn't changed much, she thought. Maybe got a bit skinnier if that was possible. Gaunt and almost fragile-looking. Black hair looked a bit more dirty, and his jaw was coated with a scratchy layer of stubble.
His flamboyant robes had seen better days, too. Like her own clothes, they were torn and teased at the edges. The dark purple runes which once glittered proudly along the edging appeared to have faded.
He looked less like the impressive mage he wanted to appear and more like the travelling spellslinger she'd always taken him for.
The only thing missing was his grimoire.
Which, she figured, was probably what he was searching for.
None of these observations answered the unspoken question.
Why was he here?
Last time she'd seen him, he was aiming to catch ship to the Fnordic Lands. He should be home in Godsfall. Or enjoying himself in his precious Hatejaw with one of his supposedly endless string of wives.
Not out here in the shadow of the Bloods.
He lifted himself from the last pack and glanced at the bodies as though considering searching them, too. And it was in that moment that the elf realised something had changed about him after all. Something unseen. He looked tougher. More sure of himself.
Less afraid.
Nibbling his bottom lip, the warlock curled his fingers and turned to her. Eyes skipped away from her gaze and up toward the sky. Steel grey shot through with blue.
“Hello again, Nysta,” he said at last. And, when he realised she wasn't going to respond; “Fine. If that's how you want it. I won't lie and say I missed your conversational skills.”
The elf showed her teeth in a humourless grin. “If you don't tell me why you're here, I won't miss you, either,” she said, spinning Entrance Exam in her fingers. “Not at this range.”
“Or your threats.” He showed only a trickle of doubt as he moved closer to the fire, seeking warmth. “Didn't miss those one bit. I swear to Grim, Nysta, those are like the only language you know. I'd write a book about it if I thought anyone would read it. Shit, I might write it anyway. I'll call it The Eloquent Threats of an Elf Thug. It'll only have one chapter, of course. After that, they'd only get boring.”
“Don't fuck with me, 'lock. I ain't in the mood.”
“And I am?” His eyes were slightly wild. “Look at me! Look what they did to me. They kicked the shit out of me for days. Weeks, maybe. Could even be months. I don't fucking know how long to tell the truth, but it was a long fucking time. And I'm cold. I've been sitting against that tree so long I can't feel my fucking legs. Or my arms. Or my fucking ears. Hardly feel my mouth moving, to tell the fucking truth. You want to kill me? Grim's frozen ass, Nysta, right now that'd probably be the best thing you could fucking do for me. What I'm trying to say is I feel like shit. Just let me get my fucking bearings before you start trying to get answers to questions I can't fucking answer, okay?”
“Longer I wait, the more lies you invent,” she snapped back, pointing the knife at him. “Don't pretend you're too tired to talk. I know you enough to know you love flapping those lips of yours. Can't keep quiet most times. Feller like you? The only time you shut your mouth is when you can't tell your lies from the truth. So don't piss me about because I ain't fucking around when I say I'll happily slit your fucking throat and leave you with these other dead assholes for the Dhampirs to gnaw on. Won't lose a minute of sleep over it. Might actually leave me with some nice dreams for a change, too. And judging by the way you've been creeping around this camp, you've lost your precious fucking book of spells. Which means you ain't about to put up much of a fight. Now, out with it, you spellslinging motherfucker. Right now. Before I really lose my fucking temper.”
The warlock scratched at the stubble on his jaw and looked away from her.
Back at the fire.
“You're right,” he said. His voice was calm. Unmoved by her threat. “I've lost my grimoire. Sharras Exilium. But I'll get it back. And give the bastard who took it from me something to remember me by. I owe him. I worked too hard and lost too much getting that book to just let it go. You remember what that's like, Nysta? To owe someone? You owed Raste. Owed him a death. And you gave it to him. I watched. I even helped you with that. You can't say I didn't. So, in a way, you also owe me. That's how this works with your kind, right?”
The elf leapt from the dead tree, a snarl erupting from deep within. Sprang at him, jerking him back by his throat. Slammed him onto his back and stuck Entrance Exam millimetres from his eyeball. Hissed at him; “Don't you fucking dare try that on me, you bastard.”
He didn't struggle. Just lay there, flinching beneath her with his hands held up in front of him. Her fingers tightened around his neck, squeezing harder as he choked his words through trembling lips. “You owe me, Nysta!”
“Bastard,” she spat. “You fucking bastard. You're just like the rest of them. Mages. Fucking mages and your fucking manipulative tricks.”
/>
“I wouldn't have to if you'd act like a fucking human for a few minutes.” He winced. “Sorry. I mean an elf, of course. Not a human. What was I thinking? You're not human. Not even a little. But I've met enough elfs to know you're different from them, too. Most of them were polite. Nice, even. One cooked me dinner. I liked that. We talked about the stars. I like stars. They're like diamonds in the sky and all that shit. Look, I wasn't really trying to fuck with you. It's just I'm kind of desperate. And here you are. Like a fucking gift from Grim. All wrapped up. Only not very pretty, of course, and you already know what I think of your bows. But tough. And I need tough right now. Need it bad. I can't do this on my own. Not like this. Not without my grimoire. Please, Nysta. Just listen to me. For a few minutes? And maybe stop squeezing my throat so much? I think I'm about to pass out. Please? Nysta? Come on, please. I'm begging, if it helps.”
Blinded by a blizzard of stars popping angrily across her vision, the elf wanted nothing more than to keep squeezing. Especially when something crawled across the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Shivers she chose to ignore. “Why should I? Why should I trust you?”
“I didn't kill Talek,” he forced through strangled throat. “I wasn't even there!”
Talek.
His name formed, but never made it across her lips.
She let the warlock go with another growl and spun away to stare up at the crisp lines of the mountains as the rage leaked slowly from her veins. Her mind replacing the hate with blurred images of her dead husband.
She rolled her shoulders, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. “Damn you, Chukshene,” she said. “Damn you to the Shadowed Halls. That was unfair.”
He lifted himself up onto his side and looked up at her. A smile tried to emerge from his twitching mouth, but in the end gave up.
“You gave me no choice. And I'm sorry,” he said, rubbing at his neck. Bright red splotches where her fingers had dug hard. “For what it's worth, I really am. But, you know. There could be a positive side to this. Sure, you didn't kill me now, but that just means you can still kill me later. Where there's life there's hope for death, right?”
