by Lucas Thorn
Melganaderna's eyes widened then narrowed in outrage. “Vampire Lords? Here?” She rounded on the necromancer, who winced at her fury, though she kept her tone even. “Hem? You didn't mention Vampire Lords. Not even once.”
“Well-”
“So, they're right,” she growled. “This is a Vampire Lord's Keep? And you didn't think that might be important enough to tell me? You said this was just an old ruin. From the Night Age, you said. Nothing to worry about.”
“Melgana-”
She slapped the heavy battleaxe with her gloved fist, halting his words with a ringing of steel. “You see this? See it? How many times did I tell you about it?”
“But-”
“How fucking many?”
“A few,” he admitted, managing to look sheepish.
“More than that. It's all I talked about for the first week we were out of the fucking palace! I told you everything I knew about it. And what did you say? What did you say to me?” Her voice had risen to a near-shout. “You said no Vampire Lords are alive anymore! You said Rule killed them all. You said it would all be okay, Hem. You said that.”
“With the Dark Lord's help,” Chukshene put in, sounding slightly offended. “Grim was here, too. You know. To kill the Vampire King?”
The young axewoman never glanced at the warlock. Her eyes were instead on the necromancer, who shuffled a step backward under her glare. “Hem, you said I was completely and utterly fucking safe with it. That I had nothing to worry about. And now you tell me you've brought me right into the lair of one and it might actually still be alive? And, if Chukshene is right, then it's not even just a normal Vampire Lord? It's their King. And what can he do, Hem? What's he going to do to me when he sees me holding this? Just what the fuck were you thinking?”
“If it's really one of them, then it's dead,” he rasped, trying to hold her gaze. “At worst, it's so close to death it doesn't matter. Kind of like sleeping. Sort of.”
“But it's waking up! Didn't you think maybe it felt this bastard of an axe and that's maybe what got it fucking angry enough to wake up?”
“I don't understand.” Chukshene tugged at Hemlock's sleeve. “Do you want to explain it to us?”
The necromancer flinched. “Umm...”
“Tell them,” Melganaderna ordered imperiously. “Go on. Tell them how you let me carry my doom in here.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I really thought they'd be...”
“Dead?” She shook her head at him. “Aren't you the one always saying death isn't the end? Hem, you're a fucking necromancer. You should know better than to offer that stupid excuse.”
Chukshene looked over at Nysta, who'd torn a strip of cloth from one of the Grey Jackets' shirts and was cleaning her knife on it. “Nysta? Do you know what they're rambling on about, because I'm lost.”
“Big axe there attracts Vampire Lords would be my guess, 'lock.”
“Not quite,” Hemlock said. “It killed them. Lots of them. That's what it was enchanted to do. Melganaderna's ancestor used it in battle. He was here at the end, though he didn't get to kill Urak. Your Dark Lord took that pleasure for himself.”
“They hate it. With all their black souls, they hate it,” Melganaderna said. “It's said they can feel its presence. They're afraid of it, of course. But they hate it more.”
The warlock brightened. “But isn't that a good thing? You've got an axe which kills Vampire Lords? That's brilliant, isn't it? We can throw the long-toothed fuckers in front of you and you can cut them into little pieces.”
Hemlock bit his bottom lip and gave a shake of his head as Melganaderna rounded on the warlock with a snarl. “Sure!” Her voice rang through the cavern. “Throw me in front of them. I mean, I don't know how to use this fucking thing properly and the enchantments never work how they should, but yeah. Throw me in front of a creature whose knowledge of magic is far beyond what you two assholes can pull out of your stinking holes on your best fucking day. Sure. I don't mind dying for you. It beats putting up with your fucking stupidity.”
“Melgana-”
“You!” She spun the battleaxe deftly in her hand and pointed the heavy weapon at his chest. The steel glittered red in the sullen light. Shadows danced across her face as it shifted from expressions with the abrupt twists of emotion knotting her guts. “You don't get to talk to me right now. I can't believe you brought me here, Hem. I trusted you.”
The elf caught a clicking sound and began searching for the source. It seemed to be coming from behind the rocks. Near the entrance where they'd come in.
She squinted.
“Look, I think you're taking this too far.” Hemlock put his hands up, palms out. “Please, Melgana. You know I'd never put you in danger. Ever. I promise you, it's more likely the Keep's defences are working on their own. They'd have some heavy enchantments down here is all. It's just the enchantments filling my head. An echo of their presence, maybe. The Vampire Lords' magic was strong, but there's no way one is still alive. No way. Rule was very thorough.”
He looked to the warlock for help.
“I guess so,” Chukshene shrugged. “Yeah. It doesn't have to be a Vampire Lord. The Mage Tower at Godsfall is enchanted to fuck. Sounds right a Vampire King would want his Keep to have enchantments on its enchantments. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen an old ruin whose enchantments still worked. I mean, I could tell you the story of how I got hold of Sharras Exilium. Amazing story. You see-”
“You still should've told me,” the woman growled, though the heat was gone from her voice as she lifted the axe to rest its long leather and iron handle across her shoulder. Fist wrapped around it just under its massive curved blades.
The clicking became a rattle.
Clink of chain. Hum of something in the background.
And something heavy. Something heavy rushing through the dark.
The elf cocked her head.
Hemlock held a hand out to Melganaderna. “I'm sorry.”
“I think we should move,” the elf said softly.
Chukshene sighed and began heading toward the end of the cavern.
“No, 'lock,” she said, nodding to the ledge they'd dropped down from. Voice like steel. “Back that way. Fast.”
Groan of rock grinding against rock. Getting louder, more thunderous.
“What's that?”
“Move,” she spat, darting toward the opening. Leapt up, snatching at the ledge with both hands. Began pulling herself up when a shower of dust and debris exploded from the opening. At the same time, her ears were assaulted by the roar of a heavy stone boulder as it slammed into place, blocking the entrance.
Knowing it was futile, she hauled herself up and pressed against it.
Pushing.
Hammered with her fists and kicked with her boot. Managed only to hurt her toe.
“Fuck!”
“Looks like you were right,” Chuskhene said. Shuddered. “Something's leading us in.”
Melganaderna coughed on the dusty aftermath “Yeah? But what?”
And a voice, high-pitched and seeped to its core with insanity, shrieked through the cavern from somewhere hidden; “You think I don't know why you're here? You think you can take it from me? You can't have it! You'll never have it! She tried. Tried to take it from us. Murderers! You will pay for your crimes. I'll strip the flesh from your bones and feed on your souls for eternity!”
The voice ended its short rant in a fit of cackling which faded into a ghostly wail.
And for a long time, no one could speak.
The elf stood with her hands clutching the hilts of her knives, her body coiled. Mouth dry. Even the sensation of crawling across her skin had ceased.
Chukshene closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you just had to ask. Why doesn't anyone know there are some questions you just shouldn't ask? Especially when you're in the mouth of a fucking Vampire King's Keep?”
“Just the Keep's defences,” Melganaderna breathed, jaw clenched as she repeate
d the necromancer's words. Eyes shining bitterly.
Hemlock looked down at his feet, pale cheeks reddening. “I'm sorry.”
“Shut up,” she said. Fear rimmed her eyes, and her hands were shaking. “Asshole.”
“Melgana. I-”
“I love you, too,” she said. “So get us out of this.”
“I will.”
“You'd better. Or I'll never forgive you. Ever.”
At last he smiled, though he looked just as shaken. The phantom voice still reverberated through the rocks, but he pushed forward and threw his arms around the woman, who eased against him.
The elf slithered back down the ledge, boots kicking up dust.
She brushed dirt from her hands. Wiped her palms on her pants, and studied the three.
Two strangers. Both Caspiellans. By rights, she should kill them to start with. The fact they were obviously running from the soldiers was the only reason she hadn't.
The warlock. Again, she should kill him.
She hated spellslingers.
She had every right in her eyes to slit his belly and leave.
But he, too, was an outcast. Maybe he was running to power, but he was also running from the judgement of his own kind. When they found out what he was doing, and they would, she knew they'd try killing him. It wouldn't matter his reasons were to protect his beloved Fnordic Land from Rule.
He'd need every scrap of information from his grimoire to survive his own kind.
And, deep down, he knew it.
She looked from one to the other. Why were they still alive? Why hadn't she killed them? What was stopping her? It would be so easy. Two weakened spellslingers. And Melganaderna would never expect it. Not now. She was too young. Too trusting.
That made her weak.
The worms slithered through her heart. Soaking up blood and channelling it to her brain on thoughts of killing.
“I must be getting soft,” she murmured as the warlock stepped close.
“Yeah,” Chukshene said, eyes on the couple. Patted her on the shoulder. “I know. It's good seeing two people in love-”
Her fist hit him hard on the jaw and he dropped like a sack of rocks.
Didn't move.
Something inside the elf giggled in satisfaction.
That felt good. As though some of the rage had been let out.
She was grinning, she realised, as she looked up at the shocked couple. “Told him before not to touch me,” she said. “Reckon he figured I was joking.”
Melganaderna raised an eyebrow and pulled away from the necromancer, suddenly aware of how close they were. She looked down at the unconscious warlock. “I don't think he'll find it funny now.”
“Sure he will,” the elf drawled. “He got the punch line.”
CHAPTER NINE
Beyond the cavern, the cave's tunnel narrowed again as it drilled into the mountain. In some places, crude stairs were carved into the grey rock to make the descent a little easier, but mostly it was a struggle to stay upright.
Small stones and loose soil kept them stumbling until the trail vomited them into another chamber. This time, instead of the more natural looking cavern they'd found before, it was perfectly square with high vaulted ceiling and tiled floor. The wall along one side had partially caved in, dropping a mound of sodden brick and rubble into the room.
There was no furniture. No sign of it ever having been used for anything. And the only light was from the warlock's sullen orb which hovered into the middle of the room and waited. Shadows cast high into the reinforced ceiling shivered and murmured against each other.
“Let's stop here,” Hemlock said, helping Chukshene make it to a place against one of the walls. The two battered-looking spellslingers looked ready to collapse. “He looks like he needs rest.”
Still shaky from the blow, and not yet recovered from his previous beatings, Chukshene muttered his thanks before resuming his quiet study of the elf as he slid to the ground and hugged his knees to his chest. He dabbed at his bloody nose with a rag Melgana had taken from the Grey Jackets for him.
He hadn't said anything since he'd woken, but she'd felt his gaze on her back.
Could almost hear his brain working.
Wondered what he was thinking.
Was he contemplating some kind of violent reply?
She'd hit him without thinking. Responded to a hidden urge she couldn't fathom, and the rush of satisfaction had overwhelmed her. Kept her heart prancing for some time.
“I think we all need rest,” Melganaderna said, dropping her heavy pack. She lay the battleaxe down and sprawled on the ground beside it. Looked up at the dark shadows crawling across the roof. “I know I'm completely fucked.”
Though she didn't want to admit it, the elf agreed. Every fibre of her body ached not just from the day's exertion, but the months of pent-up fear. Fear which had left her mind submerged beneath a fragmented fog of indecision that had only recently dissipated. Replaced by something which smouldered inside like embers only seconds from flaring into a flame-drenched serpent and lashing out at anyone. Anything.
This conflict of emotions made her more uneasy, so instead of dropping to the ground like the others, she moved to the rear of the hall and peered down the corridor leading out. Unsure what she was searching for, and thinking she was maybe just looking to distract herself.
Couldn't see anything.
Just more of the stifling blackness which was beginning to leave her impatient to get out. She wasn't yet close to panic, but the elf was beginning to suspect she might be more prone to claustrophobia than she'd thought.
Hemlock moved away from the warlock and squatted beside Melganaderna. Dropped his pack down between them. Rummaged through its hidden depths. Pulled out a featureless clay bowl and set it down. Kept digging. Didn't look at Nysta as his tired voice rasped; “Do you see anything?”
She clicked her tongue. Rubbed the scar on her cheek and shook her head. “Nope.”
Then she returned closer to the small group. Stood looking down at them for a moment. Found she couldn't meet the warlock's thoughtful gaze.
Noticed a larger block of fallen masonry a little further away and moved to sit on it.
Drew Under Melegal's Hat and a sharpening stone from one of her pouches. Began stroking the blade.
The steely sound drew Melganaderna's attention and she groaned. “I have to clean this thing, too. Shit. Forgetting all my training already.”
“It can wait,” Hemlock wheezed.
“No. It can't.” The woman sat up, rubbing her shoulders and stretching her neck. “Look at her. She's tired, too. She hides it well. But she is. Yet she knows to look after her weapons. Gormen always said you should take care of your gear. Look after it. If you don't, you can't connect with it. Can't feel it's a part of you.”
“She names all her knives,” Chukshene said softly. “Every one. There's a lot of names on her. You'd think she'd forget a few of them. But she doesn't, do you, Nysta? You even remember the names of the ones you've lost, I'm thinking.”
The elf's lip curled slightly at what was more an observation than an insult. She aimed her words at Melganaderna. “Feller who told you that was right. If you think of them as just tools, then that's all they'll ever be. Bits of metal you might as well use to slice bread because they'll be useless for anything else. Besides, if a blade loses its edge, you'll regret it. Only regret it the once, though.”
Melganaderna let loose a weary smile. In the depths of her mail-clad soul, the young axewoman recognised the truth of the elf's words. So she didn't sigh as she claimed a large steel from her own pack and hauled the unwieldy axe across her lap.
“My people have a name for this,” she told the elf. Her fingers ran along the glowing runes with a reverence the elf found unsettling. “They call it Rule's Blessing. But its enemies had another name for it. The name I chose to know it by. They called it Torment.”
The warlock blinked. “That's Torment? Really?”
“It's a good name for an axe,” the elf allowed.
“But you've never heard of it?” Melganaderna's expression was surprised.
“Nysta grew up on the streets of Lostlight,” Chukshene said. Tone matter-of-fact rather than mocking. “They're cut off from most places. Sometimes she surprises me with what she knows, but history's a big mystery to her most of the time.”
The elf shrugged. “Lessons I learned weren't from any story.”
“In many ways, that makes you lucky,” Melganaderna said. “There's a lot of things I've learned from stories which I wish I hadn't.”
“You can never have too much knowledge,” Hemlock said.
Chukshene grinned wide. “I'd drink to that. You know. If I had anything to drink.”
The young axewoman kept her eyes on the elf. Studying her. Perhaps assessing her. Wondering if she was really as ignorant of history as she claimed. “It was made by Rule,” she said at last. “It's said he brought metals from Heaven just to make it. That he then forged it in the belly of the sun. The enchantments he placed on it were also his own. No mage has ever understood them. And many have tried.”
“It wasn't Rule's work,” Hemlock said, repressing a cough. “I found a book which says the axe was made by someone else. By someone called Sorrow.”
“Sorrow?” Chukshene frowned. “I've heard that name. Somewhere...”
“The book I read it in was a journal, of sorts. Written by a Captain of the King's Guard before the Godwars. He secretly recorded all the conversations he heard between the Dark Lord and Rule. Most of them are confusing. The language is archaic. Sometimes strange. But from what I can make out, Sorrow was a builder for the gods. He made weapons for them. And their armour. The enchantments, too. Rule didn't like those. He kept telling Grim not to trust Sorrow's enchantments. I don't think he liked Sorrow.”
“Rule doesn't like anyone.”
