Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) Page 21

  A brother who might have protected her.

  Maybe loved her.

  “Who?” The warlock slumped beside her. His robes were soaked with the cleric’s blood. He reached out and took the box from the dead elf’s lifeless hand and gave it to her. She took it without a word and shoved it back into her pocket. “Who’s gonna come after you?”

  “Raste was always a momma’s boy,” she said. “Figure he meant her.”

  The warlock dropped Entrance Exam on the ground. She took that, too, without blinking.

  “I used the knife like you said.” He sounded sick. “You didn’t tell me how awful it was gonna be. He cried at the end. Had to stab him in the throat. He couldn’t get the words out to heal himself. Fuck. His eyes. He knew he was dying. He was younger than me. Just a kid.”

  “Not good, uh?”

  “How do you do it? I mean, with magic, I don’t feel their life leave their body. With this, I felt it. It was so vivid. So close. I fucking felt him die.”

  She shrugged. “Reckon it’s what you get used to. Raste was right, maybe. Could be I don’t have a heart. I never felt that way, ‘lock. I guess I figured the world had given me so much pain, I could afford to give some back.”

  “That’s fucked up. Really. That’s so fucked up, I don’t think I can even find the words to tell you how fucked up it really is. And I knew soldiers who grew to love their shit. Loved killing Caspiellans. But you’re so far beyond them. You’re like ice. I don’t know whether to be revolted, or pity you.”

  “Yeah.” She let out another sigh to take the last splinters of hate she’d been carrying. Slumped forward and stared at the bandages in her hand, too tired to try wrapping her wounds just yet. Wasn’t sure where to start, anyway. “I’m a real cut above the rest.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Nameless Mage stood alone on a large platform suspended over a pit. Whether the pit led to anywhere, even he couldn’t tell.

  The platform was lit by thousands of candles kept burning along dozens of thin shelves hovering magically in the air. While the light cast a warm glow across the rough walls, it never did much to reduce the chill he felt whenever he entered the chamber.

  The chamber itself lay deep in the bowels of the earth below Godsfall Tower. To reach it required travelling through a maze of intricate and often elaborate security measures. A journey which would take many hours and had claimed the lives of all who’d tried to penetrate its secrets.

  Looking back over the single bridge leading to the floating platform, the Nameless Mage waved his hand and the doors slid silently back into position. None would get in.

  He dared to imagine even Rule himself wouldn’t be able to penetrate his chamber’s exotic defences.

  A wide scrying bowl sat in the centre of the platform, perched on a black iron pedestal. Simple in design. The fluid inside was the blood of a dragon and the story of how he’d forced the dragon to part with its blood was a story guaranteed to feed minstrels for the rest of their lives, though no minstrel would ever hear it.

  Which, he thought sometimes, was a shame. He would have liked someone to write a ballad about him.

  He passed his hand over the bowl. The blood had an eerie phosphorescence and bubbled gently. Fog foamed over the lip of the bowl and a form emerged from the middle of the bowl to stand in front of him. About an arm in height, the perfect image of Chukshene stood nervously in the centre of the bowl.

  He was chewing his fingernails.

  The Nameless Mage sat on a crude stool and rested his chin in his hands. “Tell me it is done.”

  “Well.” The warlock cocked his head. “Sort of. Kind of. Well, not really.”

  “But she had the cage?” hissed the mage.

  Chukshene nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah. She had it alright. Just like you said she would. Kept it in her pocket everywhere she went.”

  “So, you have it?”

  The warlock licked his lips. Chewed on his fingernails again. It was a trait the Nameless Mage found utterly infuriating. Given the perfect circumstances, he’d prefer never to had worked with him in the first place. But the warlock had his uses. “She’s dangerous.”

  “She’s a common assassin,” the Nameless Mage said dismissively. “Are you seriously telling me a mere thug outwitted you? I thought you could do this one simple thing for me, boy. You swore you could.”

  “I know what I promised! But you don’t understand-”

  “You were a pickpocket, Chuskhene. A thief when I found you, boy. On the streets of Doom’s Reach. You remember? A common little thief. But good with your hands, I thought. Quick. Are you telling me you couldn’t pick her pockets? Have you forgotten that much?”

  “Of course I could,” he said. “But there wasn’t much point.”

  The Nameless Mage felt a bubble of dread in his chest. “What do you mean?”

  “She opened it.”

  “Opened it?” He nearly fell off the stool. “How? They cannot be opened without the greatest of mages. Even I would need help!”

  “Yeah, well. Someone forgot to tell her that.”

  “This isn’t good. Not good at all. How could you let this happen, you useless boy? I told you it was not meant to be opened. I told you to leave it closed. To not even touch it. You should have stopped her.”

  “I didn’t fucking know it was going to open! Besides. I was a little occupied at the time. We were attacked by Lichspawn. Have you ever seen them before? Horrid things. Shadows leaking from their skulls like fucking smoke from a chimney. Awful.”

  “Lichspawn?”

  “That’s what she called them.” The warlock nodded grimly. “Gaket arrived. I’m guessing you already know more about him than I do. He tried to possess her. While he was trying to take her body, the cage just opened. Whether because she made it, or it made itself, I can’t be sure. But it opened.”

  “Gaket?” The Nameless Mage was torn between wanting to scream and wanting to rub his face in his hands. Everything was going wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The cages never opened. Not on their own. That was the point of them.

  Because of that simple fact, the plan had been simple.

  Send the boy to get the cage. Boy gets cage. The end.

  Not this. Not legendary creatures rising from their dusty tombs. “What did he want with it?”

  Chukshene shrugged. “I told you. It wasn’t the cage he was after. He didn’t even know she had it. He was after her. He wanted her to take his place.”

  The Nameless Mage froze, his mind flashing from thought to thought. Finally, he leaned forward. “Then Veil’s Gift has been passed to her?”

  “Fucked if I know,” the warlock scratched his head. “It looked for a while that she’d been taken over. Her mind was being crushed from the inside. But then the cage opened and whatever was in it, it went inside her. It looked like a fucking war under her skin. Like the two forces were fighting. She screamed and screamed. Even when she passed out, she kept screaming. And her skin went black. Completely black. I’ve never seen anything like it. And I never want to see it again. But then, something happened. I don’t know what, but it looked like Veil’s Gift just died. Her skin cracked open and black shit poured from it. Sludge. Oily sludge. I kept some in a bottle in case you wanted a look at it later.”

  The mage tugged at his chin thoughtfully. Pleased the boy had thought to save some of the ooze Veil had infected her soldiers with, he twisted his thoughts to try solving the puzzle of the box which should never have opened.

  It had taken the combined might of four of the greatest mages to open the last one. And that had killed two of them. “Are you sure Veil’s Gift didn’t destroy … the other?”

  Chukshene shook his head. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t feel
that way. If Veil’s Gift had won, I think it’d have possessed her. That’s what it was trying to do. And the crap coming out of her looked like more of the shit Gaket attacked us with. But not knowing what was in the cage makes it difficult to know. I know it’s supposed to be a secret, but if you tell me…”

  “Don’t even think about it, boy,” the Nameless Mage scowled. “Such magic isn’t for you. You have to trust me, Chukshene. It was not a thing to be trifled with. Not for you to understand. Well. It is done, now. It cannot be altered. We will have to find out more. This may change everything. What about her? The thug? What has changed?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” He swallowed his surprise. “That can’t be right. The personality should be changed in some way. Are you sure, boy? There was nothing at all to hint the other was present?”

  “Maybe it didn’t survive. Or it was too wounded to surface. But she was an ill-tempered bitch when I met her, and she was an ill-tempered bitch when I left. Nothing changed.”

  “Her eyes. Did they change colour?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.” The mage felt a sudden need to destroy something. Calmed himself quickly. Not here. Not in this chamber. Not this close to them. “Where is she now?”

  “Said she was heading back to her home in the Deadlands.” The warlock shuddered. “Said she was arranging a marker. If you could call it a marker. She plans to cut off the head of an elf she killed. Said she was going to stick it on a pole on her husband’s grave.”

  “Pleasant.”

  “Yeah.” The warlock made a disgusted face. “That’s what I said.”

  “Then she is loose somewhere,” he sighed. “We have to find her again, Chukshene.”

  “I, uh, did put a tail on her.”

  “You what?”

  “Well, I thought you might like to know where she went. So I summoned a demon.” He caught the expression on the Nameless Mage’s face and added quickly; “Only a small one! Just to watch her. Keep an eye on her. Tell us where she goes. What she does. I mean, she’s a fucking ball of chaos. She needs watching.”

  The Nameless Mage shook his head, but his mouth curled into a wolfish grin. “That’s why I use you, boy. Just when I think you’ve got turnips for brains, you surprise me. Every fucking time.”

  “Thanks,” the warlock said drily. “I think.”

  “We’ll watch her, then. See where she goes. Where are you now?”

  “Heading east. There’s a town on the coast. Place called Firedrop. I’m almost there. Hoping to catch ship to Dragonclaw.”

  “Then move quick, boy. I hear we’ve lost Dale’s Wind to the Black Blades.”

  “Lost Grimwood Creek, too. To Grey Jackets. We killed a lot of them, but I don’t think we made enough of a difference. The emperor should be told.”

  “I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready. But it’s disturbing news. It means Rule’s pushing north soon. We may lose more towns before Winter’s out. And, come summer, I think they’ll be pushing toward the Wall.”

  “So soon?”

  “If not, then sooner.” The Nameless Mage’s eyes narrowed and a crafty expression spread across his face. “Perhaps this hasn’t turned out so badly. Maybe she can be of use to us.”

  “Uh, about that?”

  “You have an idea?”

  “No. Not really. Just some advice.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Ever hit a nest of wasps with a stick?”

  “Not really, but I think I get your point.”

  “I hope so,” the warlock said. “She isn’t the kind of person I suggest fucking with. She’ll fuck hard right back. And I don’t mean in a good way. She’s dangerous. Scares me more than you do, and you know you already make me piss my pants.”

  The Nameless Mage raised an eyebrow, but far from being offended, he felt a flash of curiosity. And was unsettled by it. While often melodramatic, it was unlike the boy to be so open in his opinions.

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll consider your words, Chukshene.”

  “Just my advice, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Can you recall the runes on the cage, by chance?”

  “Copied them out,” the warlock muttered, delving into his pocket and feeling around. Tried another. And another, before finding a scrap of parchment. He unballed it and held it up.

  As the Nameless Mage’s eyes slid across the alien runes, he felt his heart close tight as though inside a fist and thought it seemed too afraid to pulse again. “Are you certain?” he asked in a strangled voice. “There can be no mistake in this, boy.”

  “Yeah,” Chukshene said miserably. “It’s bad, isn’t it? I knew it would be, of course. With her, it was always bound to be bad. Always. Couldn’t be anything but the shittest of shit, really. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Sitting back, the Nameless Mage suddenly felt very old. He passed his hand over the scrying bowl without another word, severing his link to the warlock.

  He didn’t move for some time. His mind blank and empty of thought. Didn’t even blink. The only movement was the slow joyless dance of the many candle flames.

  Finally, his brain clicked forward and his thoughts returned on a stream of puzzlement and horror.

  What could it mean that she’d opened this particular cage?

  At this particular time?

  He pushed himself off the stool and looked around the chamber one more time before striding quickly toward the enchanted doors. Muttered harshly to himself. A rush of cold air seemed to glide up from the pit and down the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed as he paused, one hand on the door.

  Half-turned.

  Eyes, glittering in the dark.

  The candles hardly moved, their flames serene and elegant. Like bright wraiths in miniature. Holding their breaths.

  No.

  He’d imagined the cold air.

  He shuffled from the chamber, closing the doors behind him. The enchanted lock thundered back into place, leaving the candles to stand guard over the dozens of small boxes positioned carefully on the shelves. In front of each box, its runes were carefully scrawled in black ink. Some spaces were blank, the runes announcing the name of the missing box.

  One of the blank spaces, huddled against the darkest edge of the platform, held the name Chukshene had copied so carefully onto a scrap of parchment.

  The air seemed to shift slowly. The candles flickered as though giggling in the dark.

  And behind them, shadows danced.

  Epilogue

  She listened to the warlock leave until she could no longer hear his footsteps. After killing the cleric, he seemed eager to move on. She didn’t try to stop him. Figured he was shaken to the core. Killing someone from a distance was different to feeling them struggle for their very life in your fists.

  The elf sighed.

  Though he’d mumbled his intention to find her again as soon as he had more information for her, the elf was torn between whether to demand answers now, or let him go. She chose to let him go.

  He’d saved her life. So, she owed him.

  It took a while for her to feel alone again, because not only was her hearing better than he realised, but he made more noise than a gang of goblins on the run from orks.

  When the world was silent again, she turned to the corpse.

  “Now,” she said grimly. “I know this ain’t exactly the kind of thing a sister should ask a brother, but how about a little head?”

  Her hand moved down to A Flaw in the Glass and came up empty.

  Scowling, she spun around. Eyes glinting dangerously as she realised where she’d left the blade. In the mouth of the giant axeman. Tubal. Left it pinning him to the wall like the cockr
oach he was.

  Back in the town.

  The town filled with Grey Jackets.

  “Ah, fuck,” she snarled.

  It was just a knife, she told herself. She’d had dozens over the years. Dozens more than the ones she carried now. She looked down and saw at least two more which could do the job.

  But they’d be messier, she told herself. A Flaw in the Glass could cut through Raste’s dead neck like a hot wire through butter. It was the perfect blade for the job. The perfect blade for many jobs, she reflected.

  Besides, Talek had bought it for her. Didn’t buy her any others.

  And that enchanted glow? Well. It really did it for her. More assholes had left her alone because of that knife than anything else.

  And she wanted it back.

  Now.

  The elf called Nysta looked over her shoulder at the corpse of her brother. “Shame he was a shy ‘lock, Raste. Would’ve been handy to pull a dagger out of Tubal,” she said. A glint of dangerous humour burned in her eyes. “Didn’t think that was funny? Well. Don’t go anywhere, brother. I’ll be back in a little while with something that’ll make you laugh your head clean off.”

  And without another word, she stomped through the trees, headed toward the town and the hundred or so Grey Jacket soldiers waiting for her inside the shattered gates.

  Nysta will return in

  Nysta #3: When Goblins Rage

  Keep Reading for an Exclusive Short Story, The Longrunners

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  Author’s Note

  The hardest thing about writing is how to keep going. I’d argue that it’s a tough thing to write your first book, and even tougher to write your second. Which is why I cheated. This book is the second half of the first book. Let’s just say I pulled a George RR Martin.

  I split the first book into two for a simple reason. Size.

  I want to bring you books on a regular basis, but not books which are epic in size. I want to go back toward that whole cheap thrills size of book we used to read before Tolkein really took off and everyone had to try writing an epic tome you wanted to use as a doorstop.