by Lucas Thorn
“Fine.” He called as he skipped after her. “We'll talk about something else, then. How about Willem? I'm curious about him. What makes an elf go to Rule? Everyone knows Rule wants your kind wiped out. So why do they go to him? Sure, some humans head south now and then. Sometimes they make it past the Wall. But Rule doesn't hate humans. He's not trying to exterminate us. Well. Not all of us. I don't understand why an elf would go.”
The elf closed her eyes for a moment and thought of all the possible reasons. Each as pointless as the one before.
Then she remembered the taste of Lostlight's streets.
The ruthlessness of life.
When she spoke, her voice was so soft he had to lean forward to hear. “We were Veil's, once. They still tell the stories of what she did for us. And it ain't her priestesses in the temples doing the talking now. It's just a bunch of old drunks dribbling shit in taverns. Places where the lost haunt themselves with dreams of hope. You ever been to Lostlight, Chukshene?”
“No. Not yet.”
“It ain't a friendly place. After Rule killed Veil, most folks moved back up behind the Wall. But we didn't. Some reckon it's so we can keep honouring her temple. But that's bullshit. Her temple's where the Jukkala train. Death is all there is in its courtyards, and the Old Skeleton owns it now. No. It wasn't to honour her dead memory. It's because were were too fucking stubborn. I ain't old enough to remember the good times, so I ain't so sure it was ever as good as they say. But I know right now it's as bad as can be believed. The Jadeans are at each other's throats. They fight like gangs in the streets sometimes. Scores dead in seconds. And the king allows it. Because if he tried to stop them, it'd be the spark which sets fire to the whole city. There ain't no one to pull them together anymore. No one to to make the king seem better than any other feller.”
She remembered watching him, gibbering in fear behind his throne while Talek lay screaming. Flesh burning.
She clenched her jaw before continuing. “There's no safety in the city. No kindness. Every year it gets worse. Not just for those like me who lived on the street. More and more it's like a war. Where the strong survive by feeding on the weak. Only natural some folk get to wondering what it'd be like if they surrendered to the Caspiellans. They tell each other stories. Stories of how if only we had a god like Rule. A god who could give stability. A god who already proved himself stronger than all the other gods and even Grim himself. A god who could protect their families. Feed the downtrodden. Who could help to rise against corrupt officials. Bullshit stories. Stories no better than fucking piss riddling down a drainpipe. But, for some, those stories are strong in their hearts. They get up one day, and they look outside and see the blood on the street and they think it can't be worse. Even if he kills them, they're already dead inside. So they pack their shit, and they head like refugees toward the promise of a better life.”
The warlock was nodding by the end of her words. “I never thought of it like that.” He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “And what about you, Nysta? Did you ever think of heading south?”
“I ain't ever been a believer in dreams.”
“Not even once? For a little while?”
“They call me Tainted, 'lock. Tainted blood. Not pure enough for Rule. I've seen the kind of things Grey Jackets do to small farms. To the women. To the children. To the last living fucking thing. Whatever the traitors find in Caspiellan arms, it ain't any prettier than Lostlight. No, Chukshene. I ain't ever thought about heading south. Rule can go fuck himself.”
“You know, I knew this girl in Doom's Reach who knew this guy who'd headed south-”
But the elf had stopped moving. Was as still as a block of stone, other than her fingers which scratched her palm so hard they dug into the skin.
“Ah,” she said. She was irritated with herself for not feeling it before. “Fuck.”
“What?” He felt it, too. Something not quite right with the air. “Nysta?”
“Something.”
“Where?” He squinted into the dark, sending the globe fizzing ahead of them. “I can't see anything.”
“Shut up.”
“There's nothing there.”
“Shut the fuck up, Chukshene!”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
And she listened, but only for a brief moment.
Because the acrid stink of magic was so strong she couldn't stand to be still. It made her eyes blink and bile rose in the back of her throat. A whisper. Barest whisper of a breeze stroked her cheek.
Muffled sound of grit and sand compressing.
So she moved. Uncertain of her target, but sure of her aim.
A Flaw in the Glass flared into life as she threw herself backward and then launched to her left, ripping the blade up fast as the magical barrier hiding her enemy shimmered and lost coherence with a thunderous crackle of energy.
Someone, not Chukshene, let out a pained cry from her right but she didn't care about that.
Couldn't care.
Because she was busy springing away from the axe cleaving the air in search of her torso.
A battleaxe whose size she couldn't believe. Heavy, with two massive double blades curled into twin crescents. On a long thick shaft bound in leather and iron banding. Her belly curdled at the sight of it shearing through the air toward her head.
The elf couldn't imagine the strength needed to wield such an impractical weapon as cleanly as her mysterious opponent.
Dark purple runes danced along the blades as the heavy axe swung past to tear into the earth. Mud and grit splashed. She felt the impact shudder up through the ground beneath her feet and reeled away from the warrior who closed the gap between them with astonishing speed.
A blur of purple and steel.
The battleaxe swung up in a smooth arc. The heads of the axe missed, but her attacker deftly spun the weapon to send the heavy shaft smashing into her ribs. The elf let out an involuntary yelp and countered by slamming her foot into the warrior's hip, spinning them around in a snarling circle.
But before the elf could think of driving A Flaw in the Glass into flesh, the axe was once more cruising for her torso.
Whoever her opponent was, they knew what they were doing.
And seemed desperate to split her in two.
The battleaxe nearly took off her arm as she rolled, then her leg as she darted away from the back-handed defensive swipe.
“Chukshene,” she called, surprised by the fighter's agility. “Reckon now's a good time for you to get involved.”
“I am involved,” he managed to squeeze through his lips.
She chanced a glance. Saw him struggling in the grip of a pale-faced man who seemed to be trying to push a dagger against the warlock's throat. Remnants of green energy glowed about the stranger's fists.
“Fuck,” she said. And nearly died as the battleaxe's brutal blade ploughed through the air above her head.
Missed only by half an inch. She felt the breath of its passing slice past her ear.
Rage boiled in her heart.
Screamed for release.
She reached for the stopper, eyes burning with fury. Looked up.
In a display of terrific skill, the warrior had altered the angle of the sweeping attack and brought the flat of the battleaxe smashing hard across the elf's chest. It hit hard, partially deflected as the elf got her arm up, but the shock of the strike reverberated between her ribs.
Sent spinning, she felt every impact as her body tumbled across the ground before crashing against the tunnel's smooth wall. Gasping for breath, she twisted. A Flaw in the Glass still in her hand, though she almost lost it to nerveless fingers.
And was surprised to see the warrior wielding such a heavy and powerful weapon was a woman. Clad in mail, snarling down at her from above.
“You tell him he can't buy me,” the axewoman hissed. “You tell him I'm not for fucking sale. You tell him that!”
The axewoman's boot stomped against the elf's
heaving chest, driving her back down onto her side.
Her arms refused to move. Mind still scattered and vision stifled by pinpoints of buzzing light.
“Wait!” Chukshene let loose a strangled cry.
“Melgana! Elf!”
The battleaxe responded to the barked words with a blur of purple light and slash of steel.
Time reduced itself to a crawl as Nysta saw the Shadowed Halls open so wide she could feel the sickly sweet breath of her impending death. As the axe hit her head, she imagined a bell clanging from a great distance. A bell so heavy its note rang deep in her guts and sent the worms racing.
The Old Skeleton himself was surely dancing above her head.
She almost heard him laugh.
“Can't buy-” she heard the woman snarl.
And, before her world imploded into darkness, thought she managed to murmur; “Too late. I've bought it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The elf had never been afraid of death, nor had she sought it.
Growing up on the streets of Lostlight, she'd learnt to survive by reducing herself to something less than human. Had cut her teeth on death's sharp bones. At first, it was disbelief which had motivated her.
One day, she'd believed, her father would come for her.
He'd made a cruel mistake. He'd realise that.
Rescue was only minutes away.
This dream sustained her for a while, but soon the reality sank in. As did the cold.
Then she'd learnt to despise him. And all like him. Those who figured they could do what they wanted just because they had the power to get away with it.
She'd stolen from them. Taken what she could get away with.
Finally, unable to endure the self-hate consuming her from within, she learned the art of murder and projected her rage in an unforgiving cull.
It hadn't seemed an art to start with. It took the Jukkala'Jadean to teach her that. The Lostlight assassins. A merciless guild of killers serving only the King of Lostlight. Shadowy and elite, they inspired fear in those who would plot against him.
The kind of fear which was justified again and again.
For a time, she'd even believed herself something special. Accepted the uniform as a badge of honour. Even began to dream she'd risen far above the shame of being outcast from her own family.
But then her husband was hideously wounded in a failed attack on the King by a Caspiellan force of Grey Jackets. The mage who led them burned Talek. Burned him with magefire, leaving him clinging to life.
Many times Talek wished he'd died that day.
Then, to complete her spiral into darkness, the very family she'd been driven from had come to finish the job. Her half-brother's men had cut Talek down and fled into the arms of the Grey Jackets.
Death, it seemed, hunted her since she was born. Had been gnawing at her ankles every step of her life. The Shadowed Halls had always been opened, and the Old Skeleton himself beckoned her.
Yet, there was one thing more powerful than death.
One thing which soaked so deep into her flesh that it seemed to have replaced her very blood. Her heart sent litres of it jetting around her body. And sometimes it seemed her brain could think of nothing else.
Hate.
Hatred so dynamic that even when she thought she was about to die, she couldn't give in. Couldn't bear to leave the world without killing her way out of it.
It was, then, with a roar of pure rage that the elf rose from the darkness of void and entered screaming into the wakefulness of life.
Hands searching for the handles of her knives.
And not finding them.
Eyes snapping open, she saw the massive broad-bladed battleaxe in the armoured fist of the woman seated directly opposite.
Chukshene, mouth open and squatting against the wall.
The pale-faced stranger sprawled, lost in semi-consciousness next to him.
Her knives, a steely heap glinting dangerously between them all.
She licked her lips. Flexed her shoulders. A spider on the edge of its web, angling for the fly.
The woman tightened her grip on the long handle. Knuckles white.
And Chukshene held up his hands, “Nysta! Wait. Stop. It's not what you think.”
Her fingers twitched, and the rage coiled molten arms around her heart. “You took my knives,” she growled. To the woman who watched her with a newborn killer's eyes.
“His idea,” she responded with a nod of her head toward the warlock. “He said you'd come out of it angry. Said you were fast, too. You already showed me some of that.”
“Not enough.”
“No,” the woman's smile was genuine and lacked mockery. “Not enough.”
“They're with us,” Chukshene explained quickly before the elf could retort. “Sure, it didn't seem that way, but they thought we were Grey Jackets. That's an easy mistake to make, right? The light wasn't too great. It was just a fuck up, okay? It's fine now, though. Right?”
The elf's violet eyes slid from the pile of knives toward the warlock.
Across the nervous-looking stranger. To the woman and her battleaxe. She looked like she wanted to use it.
Slowly, the elf nodded and settled on her back, looking up at the impenetrable darkness above. Let out a sigh. “Just don't touch my knives again, Chukshene. Or I'll bury them in you.”
“Sure. Of course. Goes without saying, really.” He grinned at the two strangers and looked more comfortable. “See? I told you she'd be fine. Nothing to worry about. Just a little misunderstanding.”
The pale-faced stranger shifted. “What's happening?”
His voice was barely a croak. Almost a whisper. He was dressed in black. Hooded coat, the hood half-drawn around his head. Tunic, also black, which fell to just above his knees. No belt. Dagger in a sheath inside his boot.
His face was slightly feral, hinting at a scholar's cunning. Blue eyes wide and bloodshot. Patches of a youth's first beard forming rough edges around cheeks and jaw. Black hair streaked with thick white lines bleached by the trauma of horrors beyond description.
The woman, younger than Nysta had first thought. The elf watched as the woman turned toward the stranger. Concern open on her face. “It's okay, Hem.”
She was built tough, with the look of someone who'd spent her life training for war but lacked the scars to show she'd seen battle. Slender rings of mail over a heavy jerkin. Dark pants. Thick bracers rimmed with fur. Iron-clad leather gauntlets.
Heavy boots tipped with steel.
Knife strapped to her thigh. A sensible knife.
The elf liked it.
Then there was the axe. Big and brutal, she carried it in one hand, but would need both to wield. Its twin blades looked ready to cleave stone. It radiated death. As such, it looked out of place with the young woman whose face looked made for humour and games rather than violence and killing.
Gold hair cut short around muscular shoulders. Wide mouth trying to repress the natural grin. And something in the way she sat, in the way she held herself, spoke of confidence. Not just in herself, but in those around her.
The kind of confidence found only in those who'd been born to the heights of power.
The woman turned back toward the elf as Chukshene bent over the fallen man. Held out a hand to Nysta, offering to help the elf to her feet. “My name's-”
“Melganaderna,” The elf finished. “Reckon he's the spellslinger who helped you flatten Grimwood Creek a few months back. Don't recall if I was told his name. I was a bit tied up at the time and wasn't thinking straight.”
That shocked them, and it was the elf's turn to grin.
“How'd you know that?” Melganaderna tensed, ready to fight. The hand, while not withdrawn, froze in place. Poised to snap back to the axe's thick handle.
“Met a few fellers looking for you,” she said, accepting the offered hand. Tried not to let the dizziness show as she made it to her feet. Stared into the woman's dark brown eyes for a moment before limp
ing toward her knives. “They figure they're rescuing you.”
“Rescuing me?”
“From your kidnapper. Evil bastard, he's supposed to be.” Her lip curled slightly as she looked over at the young man. “Doesn't look very scary right now, though.”
Keeping her movements deliberate, she began sliding her weapons into their sheaths as the young woman eyed her fallen companion with a worried glance.
“You seem to know a lot,” the young axewoman said.
The elf's grin was slight. “A wise feller once said that a person's life can often depend on a mere scrap of information.”
Melganaderna raised an eyebrow at the warlock, who shrugged. “Don't ask me,” he said. “We only met up again a few hours ago. And she's never really been the sort of person who shares her thoughts. I didn't know anything about you until a few minutes ago.”
“Hemlock,” the young axewoman told the elf. “That's his name. Martin Hemlock. We grew up together. And whatever he's growing into, it certainly isn't my kidnapper. Do I look kidnapped to you?”
The elf glanced at the battleaxe again, wondering how heavy the enchanted weapon was.
It looked heavy.
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
Melganaderna snorted. “Kidnapped. Shit. That'd be my cousin's story. Always good at stories, he was. Especially for my father. Always whispering into his ear. Bastard. No, Nysta. This is worse than a kidnapping. This is an escape. An escape from everything the throne of Cornelia has come to stand for. By rights, it should be mine. It never would have been, though. Scarrow already saw to that. But he wants me back. Wants to parade me like a trophy in front of the Council. Wants Rule himself to bless our union so he can legitimise his claim. Then he can finally say he owns me, body and soul.” The fury simmered in her dark eyes, and the elf was surprised to feel a twinge of respect for the young woman. “He'll never get that satisfaction. I'll kill him, and anyone else who tries to take me back. My heart lies with someone else. It always has.”
Moaning, Hemlock rolled onto his side. Let out a few soft moans.
Chukshene glanced at Melganaderna and shook his head. Then turned to the elf. “He's not good. Something in this place is affecting him.”
