by Lucas Thorn
“That's what I figure. You'll be second on his list.” She grinned wider. Glanced at the young axewoman who was watching Hemlock's face with concern. “Which leaves you.”
It was Hemlock who spoke first. “If it were Black Blades down there, they'd target her before they even thought about me. They helped train her. She's good, and they know it. Let her get close, and she'll chop them to pieces. But Grey Jackets? They've got their own ways. Their own disregard for what a woman can do. You know more about that, of course. Personally, I think they'll discount her long enough to regret their mistake, even if they see the axe and recognise it. You see, no matter what Rule told them about Torment's powers, they'll think it looks impressive, but will see it as a toy. You should hear the soldiers in the castle talk. They thought it was stupid. Too big to be efficient. And, let's be honest, it looks frightening, but it also looks like no one can use it with any speed or accuracy.”
“That's more or less right,” Melganaderna confirmed. “Even Gormen had no respect for it. The thing is, enchanted weapons are rare. It's been hundreds of years since anyone could enchant anything. It's a lost art. So is the art of using them. I mean, I've got Torment. I've got some of its benefits. For me, it's light and agile. When I'm fighting, it barely weighs a thing. Yet it cleaves through stone as though it weighed more than steel. If you tried to lift it, you'd hardly get it off the ground. But that's a small part of its enchantments. To really use it? To let the enchantments trigger their other supposed benefits? Well. That's not something anyone can teach you. And it's not been in any of the books we could find. So, mostly it's considered collectible junk.”
The elf scratched at the scar on her cheek, wondering about A Flaw in the Glass and not knowing what was true. Talek had said he'd paid to have the blade enchanted. But if it was such a lost art, how could he have paid to have it enchanted?
True, she'd never been sure what it was supposed to be enchanted to do. And he'd never really hinted at it being anything more useful than the killing tool it was.
Maybe she'd misunderstood him.
Maybe he'd bought it with the enchantments already in place. Maybe the blade really was older than she'd thought.
She wished, not for the first time, he was still alive to answer some questions she should have asked him a long time ago.
Pushing her thoughts aside for the moment, she nodded at the young couple.
Decided not to confuse things by asking about her knife. Instead, shared her gaze between them. Settled on the necromancer. “A while back, the 'lock and I passed through a town. Down near the south border. Called Grimwood Creek.” She spoke evenly, unconcerned by the sudden panic in their eyes. “Chukshene here raised some Hell. Took out a lot of Grey Jackets. Broke apart a lot of their town until a cleric chased us out. But that ain't important. A feller I met, called Storr, said the town was reduced to rubble. Now, at first I thought he was talking about us. Seems he meant you. Anything you got to add to that? Given where we're going, I'd like to know what I can count on you for.”
Hemlock looked down at Melganaderna, who nodded. “Might as well tell her, Hem. She's not exactly going to hand us over to them.” She smiled widely. “Besides, I like her. So she can't be all bad.”
“Actually,” Chukshene wagged a finger at the young woman. “She can. If you think she's not all bad, then I'd get your brain seen to when you get a chance. Because, like her, something's broken in it.” Then he glanced at the elf. “No offence.”
“You don't have to stick around,” the elf offered. Jerked her head toward the edge and the promise of a long fall. “Can drop you off any time.”
“Funny,” he said, but shuffled himself a little out of arm's reach.
“You're right,” Hemlock said when Nysta's stare returned to him. “We were in Grimwood Creek. After you, I guess. We saw something of what you did. We didn't know it was you, of course. From what rumours we'd heard, we thought the Deadlands was always like that.”
The elf nodded. “It is, mostly.”
“They weren't exactly waiting for us. So, we were fine for a while. But then a runner came from the men sent to find us, and we were trapped in our room. I had to do something,” he said. Looked at Melganaderna, who took the necromancer's hand as he sighed. “So, I did. I know what you think about me, Nysta. I know you look at me and see some weak little kid still playing with things he doesn't understand. And in lot of ways, you're right. I am. But if I don't play with them, I won't understand them. And I need to understand them. Need to know them. Fast. I don't have time to be gentle about it. I need to push myself. As hard as I can. If I take even a moment to relax, or let my guard down for a second, then I've lost. And this is something I can't afford to lose.”
“Couple of fellers seemed to think you were pure evil. So powerful that you'd break the world one day. Kill us all.” She didn't smile as the young couple began to blush. “I don't think they were joking.”
“Really?” Hemlock recovered fast, realising she wasn't mocking him. “What did they say?”
“Just that. If you want to know more, maybe you'll get the chance to ask. One of them is down there right now, I reckon. Bastard's got the 'lock's book.” She paused. “But you didn't answer me. What I need to know, is how good you really are. I ain't playing distraction all the time. That ain't my way. Especially when I don't know what I'm distracting for. Now, I've seen the 'lock in action. And if he had his grimoire, I'd maybe trust him enough to throw myself into the mouth of a waiting trap and let its pieces fall where they may. But I don't know you, feller. I don't know what you can do. Or how fast you can do it.”
Chukshene's eyebrows shot up as she spoke and his voice was incredulous. “You trust me? Really?”
“Not enough to hope you'd keep your mouth shut when I'm talking,” she growled.
He grinned at her in response, happy enough to move away and lean back against the wall while looking smug.
“I'm not fast,” Hemlock said. “But necromancy is a slow art. I have two spells I know enough of their effects to cast if you're planning to spring their trap. You see, the problem with this spellbook is it's got a lot of spells, but no explanations. It was written by someone who already knew what they were doing. It was a personal grimoire. Not one for an apprentice. Which, technically, is all I'm qualified to call myself right now. I've had to just try them and see what happens. Which has already had its consequences.”
“Tell me,” the elf said, leaning forward. Her violet eyes glittered. “Tell me what you can do.”
He took his pack off and pulled out his spellbook. Opened it up and spun the tome around to show her the spidery script. Pointed at a few runes halfway down the page. “Well, if you see here-”
Shaking her head, the elf clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Reached out and closed the book in his hands. “Just tell me, Hemlock,” she drawled. “No need to spell it out.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It would be a race to the bottom, and the elf knew it.
She decided quickly that to waste time with caution would give Willem time not just to set his trap, but to perfect it. The best choice, she figured, was to give him less time to put himself into position.
Guiding the small group swiftly down the winding ledge, the elf quickly lost sight of the Grey Jackets. While she could guess their general position, the fractured light inside the massive cavern made it difficult to pinpoint them accurately. The flickering torches made the light creep and crawl naturally across the smooth walls between heavy expanses of shadow.
Chukshene's greasy yellow orb did little to improve it. And motes of dust were thick on the air rising up from below. All this combined to give a smoky, almost ethereal gloom to the cavern.
She gave up trying to spot them. Accepted that if Willem was the kind she figured him for, he'd know the narrow path was no place for an ambush. Nowhere for him to hide. He'd find better possibilities on the ground. So she reckoned he'd move with speed.
Ner
vous anticipation crept into her veins even though she knew there was a long way to go. Because the path wound in a zigzag pattern around the internal wall of the mountain, they'd have to stop a few more times before they made it to the lower level.
They had no choice but to stop, because with the pace the elf was trying to set, even Melganaderna was breathing hard.
But Nysta still wanted to push it. Her lips drew back into a snarl as she felt each thudding step to be one more step closer to killing.
In her ears, Chukshene's ragged breathing.
Hemlock staggered against the wall, letting out a muted sound of disgust as he found the stone slick with slime and filth from the drooling roof.
Melganaderna breathed through her teeth. Teeth grit hard in effort as she tried matching the elf's pace.
Nysta heard all of this, and it served only to make the steel in her heart grow stronger.
Willem was down there. And his cleric.
They needed to die. Had to. Not in a few hours. Not even a few minutes. They had to die now.
Right now. She couldn't bear to be slowed by a small group of humans. They were holding her back. Keeping her from her prey.
She could abandon them. It would be so much easier...
The warlock muttered a curse. His voice struck deep inside her like a bell. Rang a note of hate through her heart.
Her hand fisted around A Flaw in the Glass and it was only as the warlock stumbled to a halt that she managed to get a grip on the boiling hatred churning in her guts. Whirling around, she caught Chukshene's suddenly fearful look.
Knew what he was thinking.
He thought she was about to snap at him. About to demand more speed.
And, seconds before, he'd have been right. But Melganaderna's face, sheathed in sweat, kept the elf's mouth from spitting words she knew were sourced from somewhere deep inside her frustrated soul. Somewhere near where something more dark and frightening was pounding at her chest as it tried to escape.
Violet eyes bright, the elf simply nodded and said nothing as Hemlock slid gratefully to his knees. The warlock mumbled another curse. Hemlock sprawled beside him, the pair of spellslingers clearly exhausted.
Melganaderna leaned on Torment, its twin blades digging into the ground, and wiped sweat from her cheeks with a rag from her pack. “How much further?”
“Reckon that depends how easy the path is,” she said, though her tone was neutral. Her own heart raced and she was surprised to feel the ache of exertion creeping down her bones. Elfs were gifted with more stamina than humans. But right now, she felt more exhausted than she should. She kept her voice calm. “If it stays this easy, then a couple of hours, maybe.”
The woman knelt near the edge of the trail and peered off down into the dark. Shook her head as she realised she couldn't make out any movement which might show the position of the Caspiellan soldiers. “What about them? Do you think they're down there now? Setting themselves in position?”
The elf squatted beside her. Scanned the sullen depths. The glow of the green river of sludge failed to illuminate much.
She thought she caught a shadow move across one of the torches. But while she stared hard at the area for a few more moments, the soldiers still did not reveal themselves. They were good at moving with stealth, she admitted silently. Almost grudgingly. They knew to pass quickly through the dull beacons of light.
Something she should have passed on to the others herself. But she'd been too absorbed in getting down. Too focussed on seeking bodies to plunge her knives into.
In hindsight, she began to wonder if she'd made a terrible mistake.
She grunted. “They've still got a while, I think. They'll be faster than us, on account of not having any spellslingers to slow them down.”
“Hey,” Chukshene called in a hurt tone. “I heard that.”
“Maybe we're going about this the wrong way,” Melganaderna said with a note of hesitation in her voice.
The elf glanced at her. “Got something on your mind?”
“I'm not sure. It's just something Gormen used to say. About waiting for something to happen. He said it was the worst thing about soldiering. Those moments when you knew the enemy would come, but you didn't know when. Or from where.”
The elf nodded, thinking about Tannen's Run. The fear everyone had felt along the wall. Not knowing what would happen next. “You think it's a mistake,” she said. “Running in before they can set up.”
“I didn't say that,” Melganaderna said quickly. A sliver of doubt, mingled with fear, showed in the young woman's eyes. As if she was afraid of how the elf would respond.
“Don't sweat it.” The elf rubbed at the scar on her cheek, briefly recalling the feel of the sword slicing flesh. “Could be you're right. Could be I wasn't thinking straight. And thinking like that always leads to mistakes. Reckon you're right. I figured it out all wrong. We're moving too fast. We'll slow down. Let them stew for a bit. But not too much to let them get set.”
Melganaderna smiled. “You know, I think that was a tough thing for you to admit.”
She found it hard to resist replying with a grin of her own. Settled instead on spitting out into the void to force her lips from curling. Gave a light half-shrug and settled back on her rump to look up at the ceiling so far above. “Ain't all that hard to admit when you're wrong. It's how you learn.” She closed her eyes for a moment and could smell the streets of Lostlight. Tainted with rotting filth and splashed with blood. “Where I'm from, if you can't admit your mistakes, you can't recover from them fast enough. Can't learn to do the right thing next time. Fuck up like that too often, and chances are you'll be dead.”
“I envy you.”
“I don't see why.”
“I grew up in a castle. Just like in the stories. You probably already figured out most of my life just by me saying that.” Melganaderna lay the battleaxe aside and began kneading the back of her neck with her knuckles. “Spoilt brat. That's what I heard the soldiers call me. No matter how hard I trained. No matter how much I beat them with their own weapons. They always figured I was just a showpiece. You know? A novelty. That my skills were for play. A princess playing with wooden swords. I never killed anyone until the night I left the castle. I wonder what they think of me now?”
The question made the elf's brow deepen for a moment as she wondered what her father would think if he'd known she'd joined the Jukkala'Jadean. Maybe he did know.
She'd seen him a few times in the King's court before she'd left Lostlight. Had thought he'd seen her, too.
“Reckon they'd be surprised,” the elf said easily.
“More than you know,” the young woman puffed out her cheeks before sending the air jetting out with a pop. Clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Then turned toward the elf and stared intently. “You said they told you something of why they wanted us. How much did they tell you?”
“Not much. If they did, I didn't care much to listen,” Nysta said. “Other than what I told you earlier, I seem to recall something about your father being dead and you being the new queen.”
Melganaderna's laugh was soft, only lightly coloured by something close to hysteria. “You got that much right. He's dead. Dead as you can get when Torment cleaves you right through your middle. Yeah, you heard me right. I killed him with it. Grabbed Hemlock and left as fast as we could run. Does that surprise you?”
The young axewoman's words, spoken almost in challenge, ignited a vision of her father in her mind. His features obliterated by shadows as he stood in front of his Hold, watching his ancestral home burn to the ground. Fists at his sides. Back rigid with shock as the flames echoed his rage.
He'd lost everything that night.
The night she left Lostlight with Talek.
Many times since, as she lay awake staring up at the ceiling, she'd wondered what had stopped her from creeping up behind her father that night. She could've done it. He was isolated. His guards too busy rescuing trinkets.
The fires, turning the night into a cascade of inky shadows and florid reflections.
Wouldn't have taken much to draw a blade across his scrawny throat. Would've been easy.
She'd told herself it was because she wanted him to suffer. To witness the end of all he'd struggled to build.
But, nestled somewhere inside her chest, a frightened child had been too afraid to stalk her father from the dark. Too afraid he might turn around and see her. Then what would he say?
Instead, she'd drifted away. Melted into the night like a ghost.
The black smoke had stained the sky as they shuffled from the city. Talek, leaning hard on her while struggling to use his sheathed sword as a kind of crutch.
Never said anything, but she could tell he knew what she'd done. What he thought of it, he'd never told her.
Now, looking at Melganaderna, she could see a woman who'd worked hard to toughen her heart as much as her body. Who'd struggled as much against the weight of her upbringing as Nysta had. Could see the casual manner with which she announced the murder of her own father.
Yet, in those wide eyes, the elf could also see the frightened child. Shivering in the young woman's pupils. Scared and alone. Still afraid of actions and their consequences.
And it was this fear which was eating her from the inside. Teasing her.
Tormenting her dreams.
The elf rolled her shoulders and grimaced, uncomfortably aware of how alike they were. Uncomfortable because of how deeply it challenged her opinions of Caspiellans. “Reckon there ain't nothing in the world that surprises me any more,” she said.
“He didn't even scream,” Melganaderna said. “Just stood there and waited for it to happen. Like he expected it. Didn't look angry or anything. Just waited. Like he was waiting for a servant to fill his mug. Fuck. I hated him. Hated him so much. Why didn't he scream?”
