Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8) Page 12

  Knife in hand.

  Closed eyes for a second.

  Opened.

  Flicked head to send a few drops of sweat spitting away.

  “…heard her tongue was cut out, man. I’m telling you. Whoever it was, they tore it right out of her head. Who’d even do that?”

  “No fucking idea.”

  “Some sick motherfuckers in this city. Sick motherfuckers.” Pause. “You ever saw her, Arthas?”

  “Nope.”

  “I did.” Sigh. “She was beautiful. Like, real beautiful. Kind of beautiful who makes you feel real stupid. I hear all women in Moontide are like that. Beautiful. And friendly, too. Seemed the type who always smiled. Come on. Seriously. I ask you, who’d want to do a fucked up thing like that?”

  “One crazy motherf-”

  And the elf went round. Knife striking before they had time to react. The Ugly whipped into midriff, just under chest. Tore up in a frenzy of gushing blood as the elf rammed it as hard as she could, trying to shred a lung.

  Did.

  He threw himself back, thrusting her back. Dying, but hoping if he could get some distance, he’d survive.

  She let him go, knife stuck fast.

  Arthas was older.

  He’d been around. Had worked streets where violence was a heartbeat away. And while his brain hadn’t time to think, his training nearly saved his life.

  Reflex drew his sword and began to swing even as his fist jabbed at her jaw.

  Connected, spinning her head around.

  Force of it leaving her side open for his blade.

  The elf cursed. Felt the ice of fear freeze tighter inside. The worms worked hard, but couldn’t find the strength to do much more than she could on her own.

  The sword glittered with nasty intent.

  Point hit wyrmskin.

  The toughened leather could deflect some strikes, but a direct blow with a guardsman’s sword should at least let it through deep enough to make her bleed.

  Kill her, too, if he had the power.

  And he had the power.

  But it wasn’t a guardsman’s sword.

  Flaws in the steel felt the impact.

  Flaws became fractures as steel bent. Should have straightened out again and whipped through the leather.

  Didn’t.

  Instead broke into shards, leaving the guard holding a shattered sword. He blinked.

  Said; “Ah, for fuck sakes. Bran, you cunt.”

  And died, choking on Bringer of Ash. The curving blade skewered throat and ripped free. Blood splashed her boot.

  His expression was still one of disgust as he dropped. Still glaring at his broken sword as though it, rather than she, had killed him.

  The first guard was trying to crawl away. The Ugly still buried inside his chest.

  Sound of his breathing was raw. Wet. Bubbles of blood flecked lips. He tried to cry out, but couldn’t. Couldn’t do anything except struggle to breathe. A struggle he was quickly losing.

  She walked up to him.

  Knelt.

  Plunged Bringer of Ash into his back. Left of centre.

  Sent his soul on its way.

  Glanced at the broken weapon and frowned.

  She should be dead. Only luck had kept her alive. She’d gone running around the corner without checking their position. If she’d looked, she’d have seen the guard with his hand on his sword.

  Would’ve taken him first.

  Luck.

  Just dumb luck.

  But she’d take it. Hopefully learn from it.

  She cleaned the knives. Took a shred of the second guard’s shirt. Tied it gently into her hair as she stalked the orange trail. Twisted lip into a cruel grin. “Bad time to learn you’ve got a shitty weapon. But you should’ve known that blade was cursed, Arthas.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tapp let out a groan. Reflex mostly, as the blade sank into his liver.

  From behind.

  He started to twist, not knowing what had hit him. But savage agony fizzed up his back like lightning and he chose to fall onto his knees instead.

  Reached out to grab Staghead for support. Wasn’t sure why. They weren’t exactly friends. But, when you’re dying, you’ll take what you can get for comfort.

  Unfortunately, Staghead had problems of his own.

  He’d heard the dull sound of her bootheel and instinct kicked in.

  A lifetime ago, Staghead had worked with the Fnordboys on the West Side. Still remembered the good old days of cracking skulls. Beating up drunks.

  Taking their coin.

  Fighting. Fucking. More fighting.

  Running from guards. Lots of running from guards.

  Now he was one. But those reflexes never quite left him. He’d always been jumpy in the dark.

  Unfortunately, the fat hadn’t left him either. It’d expanded to the point the muscle in his shoulder twitched when he went for his sword. And a bone in his neck clicked.

  “Oww,” he let out. Clapped a hand to his side as something hit hard.

  Looked down to see a knife leaving his body in a flash of steel and red.

  The elf whirled up close in front of him, grinning.

  Kind of grin which scared the piss out of him. Literally. Felt the warmth riddle down his legs, soaking into the his new pants.

  Wasn’t just piss, though.

  Plenty of blood went down with it.

  More as she plunged the blade in again.

  He dropped beside Tapp.

  “Tapp,” he whined. “Tapp? She got me, mate.”

  Tapp didn’t reply.

  But a cold voice snarled in his place; “Forget it, feller. Turned him off already.”

  And the elf aimed a kick at Staghead. Hit him in the face and sent soul cartwheeling into darkness.

  Skipping over the corpses, she spat at the wall.

  Trying to rid the stink of piss and death.

  The further the orange glow led, the deeper her resentment toward Hideg became.

  She’d killed three pairs of guards and a small handful of Bonebreakers. And the thread seemed to be leading in circles. Round and round. Up, then down. Like it was lost.

  It nudged a wall here.

  Glided up alongside another.

  Bounced away.

  Hesitated.

  Then darted ahead.

  How much longer until the passageways were flooded with guards? How long had she been down here? It was hard to tell. Hours?

  It was beginning to feel like an age.

  An age of red-drenched darkness.

  An old blue magelight choked its last few glimmers of light.

  Couple of sparks puffed free and hit the ground.

  Blue light winked out.

  Dead.

  “Lot of dying down here,” she muttered.

  The thread led up another stairwell.

  She was getting sick of stairs. Her thighs ached. Calves ached. Maybe she could rest a little?

  Was thinking about that when someone sneezed.

  “Fuck, mate,” a tight voice squeaked out. “Give me some fucking warning before you do that. I nearly shit myself.”

  “Would it make a difference? Not like you ever wash in the first place.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “What? You sayin’ it ain’t true?”

  “Just … Fuck off.” Pause. “You gonna check downstairs?”

  “What for? It ain’t on my map. See?”

  “Shit, you know I can’t read.”

  “Don’t need to read words to read a map, you dumb shit.” Sigh. “Why the fuck do I get lumped with the dickheads?”

  “Fuck off.” No heat in the voice. Nothing. Just weariness. “So, leave the stairs?”

  “Yeah. Leave ‘em for Jorg. Too many fucking stairs in this shithole place.”

  “This is Jorg’s route?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why the fuck are we here? Just leave the whole fucking place for Jorg. We can do somewhere else.”
>
  “Ain’t my choice. I didn’t write it up. We’re supposed to pass the sewers later. I don’t mind going down to see Fee, but it’d mean Caz and Kok are probably there, too. Everyone’s pissing about with those barrels. At least, when they ain’t trying to get in her knickers. It’s bullshit.”

  “Stupid.”

  “Yeah. Still. You’re right about one thing. If he’ll do the job, then there ain’t no need for us to bother with it. And I need a piss. Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “Take a piss and get some piss, right?”

  “What, you want to go to the new place they put up in the basement?”

  “Are you joking? I sure as fuck ain’t going down there. Beer’s like something an ork’d piss. I saw them rolling it in and gave it a taste. It was like if that ork had pox. And someone punched him in the bladder. Fed him shit for three days before. Then poured the lot into a barrel with some fish guts. Fuck that place. Nah, I know better.”

  “I liked it.”

  “Yeah? You would.”

  Their voices droned into a murmur before the elf took the stairs slowly.

  Carefully.

  Could hear their voices heading left. They were up ahead, one in front of the other. Turning a corner. Not looking back. Each shielding themselves from the dark with a magelight torch.

  Not good torches. Light flickered and danced and a few sparks chuffed loose. The men didn’t seem to notice anymore.

  The thread followed close, nudging at their ankles. Slinking between legs.

  Sigh.

  Tightened the bracer on her left arm. Slid Go With My Blessing free.

  Charged ahead. Feet sliding smooth across the ground. Each step blurring into the next. Faster as she drew close. Violet eyes squeezed to dangerous slits.

  Red light from the alchemist’s brew seemed to darken as the lust for violence raged through the elf’s frozen belly.

  She made the corner.

  Went round like a hurricane.

  Go With My Blessing left her fingers. Arm kept moving. Found A Flaw in the Glass before the thrown blade thundered home in the back of the closest guard’s neck. Dropped him fast. Gauntlet hands reaching back in horror.

  Second turned. Dull eyes sparking bright as death charged into him on a silent rush of enchanted steel.

  Blade bit deep.

  Belly.

  Belly.

  Chest.

  Neck as he fell, mouth spewing a quick “Oh!”

  Surprise?

  Horror?

  Pain?

  All three in a final ghostly whine.

  Rabid, the elf stood above him. Chest heaving. Behind her, a body twitched.

  In front of her, five Bonebreakers came up the stairs like skittish cats.

  Hiss escaped lips of the first to see her; “Get her!”

  Might have said more. Looked the type to spit directions in a fight.

  Instead spat blood as Company Tools whistled from her hand. He tried arching back, but there was nowhere to move to. The corridor was too tight.

  Had time to start bringing his arm up to slap the blade out of its deadly flight.

  But not time enough to succeed.

  On hands and knees, he cared only for his own survival as the others rushed to get past his collapsed form. He clutched his throat. Willing the blood to pump back inside.

  Wishing a few more sucks of air.

  The elf met the rest of them with a crash and avalanche of swearing.

  Curses dropped from all sides.

  A chaotic mash of hate and desperation. A club smashed into her forearm. Caused A Flaw in the Glass to slit shallow line instead of burrow deep.

  Sword tip swept through her hair.

  Swordsman angled his wrist and wrenched. A skilful attempt to saw the razor edge against the side of her neck.

  But she wasn’t where he’d expected her to be.

  Had thrown herself to the ground.

  Rolled onto her side and stabbed upward.

  Blade met groin.

  And the first scream split silence. Made her wince.

  She grabbed his hair as he doubled over. Pulled him down on top of her and stifled his scream with another uppercut strike to the cheek. A Flaw in the Glass shattered bone and tore into brain. Gore dribbled down her wrist.

  His mouth dropped open.

  Eyes staring into hers across the bridge of her blade as it was being coated in thick red blood.

  Clash of steel.

  Another grunt of pain.

  The elf kicked him loose. Shoved herself free, spinning to her knees. A Flaw in the Glass in her right. The Ugly in her left.

  And saw five Bonebreaker corpses where there should only be two.

  Someone had killed the rest.

  Someone who was no longer there. How?

  “Shit.”

  And she was up.

  Running. Two ways out.

  The stairwell down on her right.

  On her left, another leading up.

  No sound of retreating footsteps, but her gut told her to go right.

  The glowing thread cheerfully ignored her quest for answers to drift lazily upward.

  Grinding her teeth, she chose speed. Headed up, three steps at a time. Sweat sliding down her face. Dripping off her chin.

  Part of her wanted to throw the coat away. It was too hot. Stifling.

  The Shivs could get her another.

  But another part couldn’t let it go.

  Could hear in the echo of her memory, Klista’s words; “We’re family.”

  And above the soft words, heard something she’d been dreading. Sound of a roaring guard “Intruder! Intruder in the Halls!”

  She rolled up the last stairs and into the startled arms of a young guard.

  Too young.

  He staggered back, shocked by the impact of their bodies.

  Said; “Sorry, I-”

  Then realised what was happening and went for his sword. Dropped the lamp.

  And took A Flaw in the Glass in his shoulder. Her left hand clapped over his mouth. Slammed him against the wall and ripped the blade free. Brought it down again in a vicious arc which pierced thin armour and ate his heart.

  “Don’t sweat it, kid,” she growled. “I always forgive the dead.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tellirend walked with a limp.

  As a child, he’d been trapped against a wall by a fruitseller’s cart. Could have killed him, but the wall belonged to an alchemist, who was better than some and more generous than most.

  He entered his room as the guards changed shifts, to avoid having to engage in conversation with them. Sound of a bell in the distance. Nine times.

  Every night, this was his routine. He liked routine.

  Inside his room, he murmured the words which made a magelight on his desk flare into life. Bright white light filled the room. Let him see everything.

  Nothing had been moved.

  Papers where they should be.

  Pillow ever so slightly askew.

  Pebble above the door had fallen neatly into his hand as he came inside.

  A thin silver coin perched half-off the edge of his chair.

  Seemingly absent points all meticulously arranged and memorised.

  Different every morning.

  He spent some time shuffling papers. Considered reading from a thin leatherbound book. The Duke had seen fit to lend it to him. No doubt expected glowing praise, but so far it read like base drivel. The kind which Doom’s Reach was churning out right now.

  He put it aside instead.

  Would tackle its awful contents tomorrow.

  He limped to his cleaning chamber. Spent more than an hour cleaning. Washing his face. Hands. Body.

  Neatly folded his used clothes and set them aside for the maid.

  Dressed slowly in nightclothes. Nine nightcaps were laid out across the foot of his bed and he started from left to right, putting them on one at a time. Carefully building a thick ba
rrier for his skull in case he rolled from his bed in the middle of the night.

  Didn’t want to die like that.

  The bed was concave. The mattress raised on all sides.

  Thick rugs piled on the ground either side of the bed.

  Further precaution.

  It was his one irrational fear, and he knew it for irrational.

  Couldn’t help himself, though.

  His hand slid under the pillow. Found the thin knife underneath. Comfort of the leather-strapped handle made him sigh as he slid between the sheets.

  Lay there for a while, thinking about what he had to do in the morning. Organizing his movements.

  Structure provided order.

  Order provided strength.

  One of the prisoners had interested him. A member of a gang whose members had died in a fire recently. The prisoner had come to the castle looking for employment. He’d been drunk.

  Very drunk.

  But seemed to think someone in the castle had been paying his boss. For the usual things.

  Alchemical brews. Whores. Slaves.

  The Duke didn’t mind so much. But this meant the burning of the gang’s volcano was a power struggle. And Tellirend didn’t like that thought. If Anglek and Vor were beginning to struggle so openly among themselves, then it meant they sensed an opportunity.

  A chance at betrayal?

  Which one, though. Who was more powerful?

  He needed to know. Needed to know if it was time to switch sides.

  Duke Boregard was getting old, after all. There were hints of illness.

  Let it be Anglek, he thought. He’s more likely to keep promises.

  Closed his eyes.

  Listened to the sounds of the castle’s interior. Could hear the party continuing in the distance. It would go all night despite the Duke retiring early. He’d earned it, though. A squad of young women had escorted him away.

  How did he manage it? Tellirend tried not to think about it.

  The party would end in a dance. A boisterous reel which everyone participated in. One where they bounced off each other with wild abandon.

  Heavy stomping feet.

  He’d endured the dance once before and, with his leg, found it murderous.

  Never again.

  Sighed.

  Thought he heard a shuffle of leather to his left.

  Didn’t register for a moment.

  Had to think about the word again.

  Shuffle.

  He moved fast. Spinning onto his side, hand slipping up under pillow.