Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8) Page 21

  He sat in his chair. Arms at his sides.

  “So. You read the page. What did you really think? Did any of it resonate with you?”

  “Sounds like bullshit, feller.” Sniffed. “The old kind. More myths and legends than anything real.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Let’s just say it won’t put beer in my cup.”

  “He was close to making it work. And if he was close, then there could be others right behind him.” He looked thoughtful. “I’ve seen the reports, elf. Captain Blood was good for his reports, until you killed him. I’ve read tales of people using magics long lost. Necromancy. Witchcraft. Maybe worse. With the Dark Lord fallen, other things are coming to fill the void. Whether they’ll help us or destroy us, that’s now for others to decide. But my gut tells me if they’re released on the world, we’d have only one option for survival.”

  “You’re saying we should trust Rule.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “But maybe… Maybe he knows something we don’t. It would explain his hatred of your kind. That page alone tells you everything a creature like him would fear.”

  Volkyrja.

  She shook her head. “It’s just stories.”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t have made it this far. You’d have been killed in the Halls. Or Anglek would’ve torn you to ribbons. I’ve seen him fight. He was our best. Trained himself to be a weapon. I think he felt one day he’d stand in front of the Lord of Light and hoped to slay him with his bare hands. A childhood fantasy he never quite lost. But you seem to have survived that fight without a scratch. That thing inside you made you into that.”

  “Lostlight made me this way,” she rasped. Squeezed fingers around The Ugly’s hilt. “That and a shitload of pain I don’t ever want to feel again.”

  “If pain is your single fear, you’re a lucky woman.” He looked to his bed. “Do you mind if I lay down? I’m not sure I want to die in a chair. Bed would be fine.”

  She nodded. “Be easy.”

  “It’s Hideg, isn’t it?” Smooth. Just chatting. “My bastard son. He thinks he’s being clever. Thinks I never noticed his plotting. But he’s not half as smart as his mother was, I promise you that. No, not by half. Now, she was a woman I wish I could have married. His recent decision to leave the Halls was meant to clear your path. He knew anyone I replaced him with would be unable to keep you out this late in the game. But he didn’t realise his leaving gave me the time to make my own plans.”

  “Oil.”

  The old man flashed a crafty grin. “You know about it already. Good.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “You’re a smart woman,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find some use for it. Yes, I think he picked the wrong instrument. His lust for power makes him a poor judge of character. All he saw was the long ears and the thing inside you. Didn’t think what was behind all that.”

  “You talk too much.”

  “I’m a politician. It’s what we do.” He lay in the bed. Rolled onto his back and looked up. “I’d be grateful if you killed him. Can’t have someone like that allowed to run loose. When he realises tonight has been a failure, he’ll keep searching for another way. Maybe he’ll find one. No. We can’t have that. Not at all.”

  “How grateful?”

  “There’s a pouch on my desk.”

  “That ain’t for the name you wanted?”

  “Forty years ago, I had the leader of the Order of the Iron Day in my dungeons. I strangled him with my own hands. I was stronger then. After that, the Order remained a rumour. Nothing more than that. I think we both know the name. But it would’ve been nice to have it confirmed. I think when you kill Hideg, there’ll be no more Order. Not for a while, anyway.” He smiled. Closed his eyes. “You don’t have to confirm that. Your eyes told me everything.”

  She stepped up beside him.

  Knife in hand.

  “Nysta,” she said.

  “What?” Puzzled.

  “Figured you should know my name, feller.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll tell everyone about you.”

  And she killed him with a savage thrust to his eye. The heavy blade plunged deep into his brain. Killed him before agony could register.

  Leaving the twitching body, she grabbed the pouch on his desk. Peeked inside at more than a few glittering gemstones. Some large. Worth a bit more than Hideg’s life, she thought. Especially if his promise of gold turned out to be a complete lie.

  And if it wasn’t a lie?

  An added bonus she wouldn’t refuse.

  Stuffed them into a pouch.

  Checked the desk’s drawers. Had to prise a lock open to find only a few empty vials, a small ingot of iron, and two apples shrivelled against a crumpled wad of paper.

  Kicked them shut and headed back to the body.

  Ripped blade free with a grunt.

  And began cutting. A brutal task. Had to put her feet against the wall to get leverage. Felt her shoulders bunch and muscle stretch.

  The crack and pop of bone and gristle.

  Blood choked loose into sheets already sodden with gore.

  Tore a corner of the blanket to wrap the gruesome bundle. Wrapped well before tying off and dropping it into a pouch on her hip.

  Headed back into the Halls where Klista waited.

  The young girl was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Studied the elf’s thoughtful expression. “Well, that sounded unusually pleasant. What kind of person waits for you to kill them like that? Didn’t even try to fight.”

  “Reckon he liked me enough not to give me a hard time.”

  “Liked you?” The Shiv snorted. “I doubt it.”

  “Maybe more than liked.” Patted the pouch. “Gave me his heart.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Fulfar watched as the elf tore five guards to pieces.

  Watched as the other Shiv ripped into three more.

  He knew he was supposed to care. Supposed to go running in and give the kids a chance. He was, after all, a part of Unified. All for one, Anj told them. One for all. Sentimental shit he had no intention of dying for this close to the end of his shift.

  After which, he wasn’t ever going to talk to those clowns again.

  Leaned back in the shadows and watched men lose their organs to the flashing blades. Realised with casual amusement, that he honestly didn’t give a shit for any of them.

  Most had only just been hired. Handed over to him to train at the beginning of his shift. His first day in the Halls, and he was supposed to teach them the ropes at the same time?

  Bullshit.

  “Make them just like you,” Anj had said. With the kind of smile Fulfar long ago recognised as a token to unfelt humanity. “We want them to be the best.”

  Fulfar knew he was good.

  Doubted he could kill the elf on his own. She was frighteningly quick.

  But he could take the other Shiv. And maybe slow the elf down long enough for someone to stick her in the face with a spear or something.

  Not that anyone had spears.

  Or pikes.

  Fulfar liked a good pike.

  A lot of guards had pikes. Not really very useful in alleys, but they came in handy if you had a bit of room. Could keep a piece of shit like this elf out of reach long enough for her to be surrounded.

  Then a few quick jabs, and she’d be dead.

  Or dying.

  He watched the men ignore everything he’d told them about working as a team. Watched as they each figured they knew how to bring her down and pretty much leapt onto one of her knives.

  Nearly made him laugh.

  He’d been with Anj for a while. Had followed them over when Bran took on the courier duty. Figured it was going to be bullshit, but Bran was sure they’d make a fortune out of it.

  “Think of the opportunities, Fulfar! They’re endless.”

  The old guard shouldered against the wall and shook his head.

  Oppor
tunities.

  What an empty pile of shit.

  He’d spent most of his time helping couriers put on their boots before being sent to stand in front of some fucking warehouse for a night or some shitty pointless job. It was like he was looking after his sister’s fucking kids.

  Wash them behind the ears, Fulfar.

  Wipe their noses, Fulfar.

  Try not to get them killed, Fulfar.

  What a pile of shit.

  Meanwhile, Anj had just bought himself a new horse. Jorg had told him he was even getting a saddle made for it. Ivory studs and all.

  Ivory.

  And here Fulfar was, still trying to figure out if it’d be turnips or rutabagas for the stew this week.

  Ivory.

  One stud probably cost more than his fucking pay for a year.

  “Hope it hurts his ass,” he murmured as Cog went down with a knife between his teeth.

  Looked painful.

  Bran had a new house. Had bought three in the past year alone.

  Three houses.

  The fuck did someone do with three houses? Sure, one was an apartment, but that didn’t matter. You can’t live in three houses. And he’d heard Sagg talking to Anj about buying a place in Moontide.

  Because Sagg wanted to go there once a year.

  Buy a house to live in for a few days a fucking year?

  What the fuck was wrong with these people?

  The gap between him and them had gotten so large so fast. They no longer seemed like the friends he’d once thought them to be.

  That, too, had most likely been a ruse.

  A mask they wore to ensure loyalty in men they had no intention of treating as friends. If they had, Fulfar would be buying a horse. Not that he knew what to do with one. But that wasn’t the point.

  He’d have one.

  And a house.

  He’d see it as reward for years spent guarding other people’s properties.

  The last straw had come this afternoon when Sagg asked him to guard Bran’s house over the weekend. As a favour. Not for coin. For loyalty.

  His house?

  Why?

  They were having a gathering, Sagg said. Having a few guests over. Friends from high places, Sagg said with a grin. It was going to be the party of the year. Everyone would talk about it for the rest of the season. Might get some opportunities out of it.

  Friends.

  Rich friends.

  Not poor friends like Fulfar, who was only good for menial shit.

  First thing he did after that was take a walk down to the Bodyguards Guild and put his name in their pot.

  Sparred a bit with one of their vets, who’d said he was worth his weight in gold.

  Signed a piece of paper.

  That was that.

  He wasn’t a fake bodyguard now. He was a real one.

  Had the badge in his pocket to prove it. And a single brass coin. An advance, they called it. More tradition than anything. He’d make more than Anj offered while doing what he loved most.

  Training kids whose loyalty lay in an alchemist’s bottle wasn’t the life Fulfar had planned. Could already see in Anj’s sly sideways looks that those same kids would be taking his job as soon as they learned what he knew. And the Idiot Trio, as Fulfar had learned to think of them, figured there wasn’t much to know to be a decent guard.

  How to put on a uniform.

  How to stick a sword into a sack of straw.

  That’s it, they thought. An easy job. Just stand around looking tough. Nothing to it.

  It’d been a long time since they ever actually did any work themselves. They forgot all the little things. Like what kinds of lamps worked in a place like the Halls. They’d given the kids some shitty beacons which half-blinded them to anything three feet from their faces.

  Which is how the elf had managed to get so close before they’d seen her.

  But Fulfar, deliberately trailing the crew, had seen her.

  Seen her with plenty of time to duck to into a cobwebbed alcove.

  And watch.

  Blood sprayed wall.

  She killed like a monster, he thought. A cruel one. Tore into flesh with reckless abandon. Hints of some training, but mostly berserk. He’d seen men fight like her before. Most burned out young. Those who survived were scarred creatures whose eyes regarded the world as a feast to be consumed. More beast than human.

  They had no friends.

  No family.

  Trusted only their weapons and their skills.

  He watched her chop into Figjam’s head. Used her heavy knife like an axe. He could hear the skull split open.

  Winced at the sound.

  Wanted to turn and run, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Knew enough about elfs to know they had sinister ears. Could smell an ant fart, is what his sergeant had told him.

  So, he stayed where he was.

  Breathing real slow.

  And trying not to fart.

  The young Shiv finished her last kill. Whirled full-circle, looking for another.

  Hungry.

  A young shark, he thought. Getting her first real mouthfuls of flesh. That girl would be something to see in a few years. Especially if she stayed close to the elf. Gang thugs didn’t usually impress him. But this one had potential.

  Fast.

  And good with a sword.

  He wondered who’d shown her how to handle it. Filth, most likely. The old man liked the young ones. And the young ones liked what he could teach.

  He’d seen Filth fight, once. A lot of years ago.

  That’d been something to see, too.

  Must be old now, Fulfar thought. Older. Slower.

  Looked down at his own gnarled hands.

  Was he slower?

  He didn’t feel slower.

  Juck let out a warbled squeal. Fulfar looked up in time to see the young man get a blade to the guts.

  Saw the elf’s face. Clear as anything. Grinning.

  Grinning as she ripped the blade.

  Ripped it.

  Right up.

  Had to press a hand to his mouth to stop a curse choking loose. He’d seen a lot of death, but not anything so cold. It was like she took pleasure in the brutality.

  Energised on raw fear.

  Violence.

  Her face stuck in his mind, and he worked hard to etch it there. Knew right there that, if he ever saw her again, he’d walk the other side of the street.

  Fuck fighting her.

  He wasn’t stupid enough to believe in the honour of standing your ground. He’d run. Run like fuck. Standing wouldn’t get you drunk. Standing wouldn’t get you laid.

  All it guaranteed was death.

  Especially when the one you were facing refused to slow down.

  Refused to stop.

  He’d place a wager at that moment with the Dark Lord himself that the elf wouldn’t stop even if he’d stuck fifty pikes into her guts. Maybe not even a hundred.

  She’d keep coming.

  Shuddering, the guard tried to press further back into shadow as the young Shiv swept the corridor with hooded eyes.

  Did she sense him?

  If they were gonna come this way, he’d be in trouble.

  The stairs, he shouted silently. Go up the fucking stairs.

  Go now, so I can get the fuck out of here. I ain’t coming back. Ever. Fuck the Halls. Fuck Anj. Fuck Sagg. Fuck Bran. The Idiot Trio and their whole stupid farce of a troop.

  Fuck their United dream of circle jerks and gold drenched in the blood of their own.

  Fuck them all.

  He hoped she found them.

  Found them and tore them apart.

  Piece.

  By poisoned piece.

  “If we keep stopping to kill everyone, we’re never going to get out of here,” the Shiv said.

  The elf’s reply was a soft grunt as she knelt to wipe her knife on Bilter’s thigh.

  Fulfar couldn’t suppress a grin as she left a stain on his pants. />
  Bilter was proud of those pants. When Sagg gave them to him, the little fuck had almost pissed himself with joy. Was still grinning even when Anj told him they’d be docking his pay for a few months to cover the cost of the cheap kit.

  Charged the kid double what they were worth.

  Fulfar knew.

  But Bilter hadn’t cared. Had stripped out of his courier stockings and straight into the pants and boots.

  Thought it made him a man at last.

  But Fulfar knew, as he waited for the elf to leave, that what made a man wasn’t a uniform. It wasn’t a snappy salute. Wasn’t a clean-shaved face or polished sword.

  What made a man was knowing when to get the fuck out.

  The elf’s head moved slow, but aimed straight at him.

  He could see her eyes glittering.

  See them pinned to his own.

  He didn’t dare move a hand to his weapon.

  Didn’t breathe.

  And she just stared at him. Cold clipped gaze seeming to judge the worth of killing him. Squatting above Bilter, she shifted on her heel.

  Tense.

  He’d thought he might slow her down. Had allowed himself that much. Now, with the chill creeping down his neck on a sliding finger of sweat, he knew he’d have as much chance as Bilter.

  Her lip curled. Feral cat eyeing a mouse.

  And the Shiv squinted down the passage. Trying to pick him out. “You see something?”

  “Thought I did,” the elf said. Waved a hand dismissively, heading for the stairs. “Reckon it was just something on the wind.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Stink of sewage.

  Magelights glowed sullen.

  Tied across her face, the wet rag did nothing to stop the stomach-churning stench.

  Klista, two steps behind, muttered dark. Struggled to keep her own mask in place. Often lowered it to spit bitterly at the moist ground.

  The narrow path ran crooked, sometimes forming a skinny bridge over sluggish rivers of swollen effluent. Rats skipped the edges, screeching as they fled back into the shadows.

  Bats flapped in spiralling arcs, snatching insects from the air.

  Spiders toiled in nooks and crannies.

  Big spiders.

  Some bigger than her hand.

  “They say there’s gators in the sewers,” Klista whispered. “Knocker said he saw one. Big yellow eyes, he said. Teeth like fucking daggers.”