Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7) Read online

  “There ain’t a bit of you not made to kill.”

  But there was less heat in her voice. More curiosity as the elf shared something she wasn’t used to sharing.

  And the barmaid, who’d listened to bullshit for most of her life, recognised truth as the elf saw it.

  “It’s so no matter how I fall, I can pull one free. No matter how they beat me down. How they get the drop on me. I can get a knife. And I can fight back.” Violet gaze was calm. Tone matching. “It ain’t about getting first drop. It’s about being the last standing. That’s what all this is about. I don’t go hunting for trouble. A life spent picking a living on the street just taught me to be ready for it is all.”

  “But you like it! I’ve seen you kill. Seen you spill blood, and you grin. You smile! It’s evil to see. If you could see yourself…”

  The elf shrugged. Muscled shoulders bouncing laconic. “Gamblers love to win, Myrna. A drunk loves to drink.”

  “You’re saying you’re addicted.”

  “I’m saying I’m a fighter. It’s what I am. Maybe I was made into one. Maybe just born that way. Whatever. Makes no difference. All that matters is it’s what I am. What I’m good at it. I like surviving. Sometimes surviving’s like winning a crapshoot.” The elf took a sip, relishing the taste. “No shame in enjoying what you do, if you get good enough at it.”

  “It’s brutal.”

  “Didn’t make the world. Just trying to live in it is all.”

  The woman ran her fingers through her hair and offered a sad look. “All that death around you, Nysta. That’s not living.”

  “Surviving, then,” the elf growled. “It’s all the same.”

  “No. No, it’s not. And I hope you find that out, one day.” And with that, Myrna left the room. Left the plate on the stool beside the door.

  Nysta stared at the door for a while. Expressionless.

  Motionless.

  Drip of water from her hand.

  Eventually, she sucked a deep breath and let it out through her teeth.

  Said; “Shit.”

  Lay back in the tub as best she could. Let the heat soak deep into her bones. Could feel the shadowy worms inside her body as they moved sluggish.

  Not quite exploring.

  More like probing.

  The elf drank more. Maybe, she thought, she was going mad. Maybe she was still in the Deadlands. Inside the shack. Pressed against the door, eyes squeezed shut and fists pressed to her ears.

  Maybe everything that’d happened since finding Talek’s body had been a dream.

  Shuddering, she sucked more beer and shook her head to clear the paranoia creeping into her brain.

  Looked across the room to the plate of cold meat.

  Out of reach.

  She’d have to get up.

  The water was too warm for that.

  Flutter of sound.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If that’s you, Bograt, you can come in. If it’s anyone else, I’ll kill you.”

  The door cracked open and the goblin kicked himself into the room with a sheepish grin. “Me see if Knifehand okay? Me find blood in shirt. Knifehand need alchemist?”

  “Don’t sweat it, feller. If any of it was mine, I ain’t feeling it yet.”

  “It good, then,” he said, visibly relaxing.

  “You can bring that over here, though,” she said. Pointed to the plate. “I’m hungry.”

  Pleased to help, he grabbed the plate. Took a half-step, then realised there was nothing near the tub to put it down on. Used his foot to push the small stool closer. Soft screech of wood on wood as it scraped closer.

  Chewed on his tongue as he worked to not fall or drop the plate.

  Finally managed to position it where he wanted and set her food down.

  “There words on street, Knifehand,” he said. Reluctantly. Unsure whether he should say anything. “Lots of words. Bad words.”

  “How bad?”

  “Alley Rats say Red Claws want Knifehand bad. Say a hundred silver! Just for Knifehand’s ear.” He frowned. “It big coin for streets. Me never had elf ear before, but Eventide say it not tasty enough for big silver.”

  The elf sipped. “Figure you want to try for it?”

  “Try for-?” Genuinely confused. Then he laughed. “Me not need big coin, Knifehand. Me goblin. What me do with big coin?”

  “Buy new boots?”

  He lifted a withered old foot bound in scruffy leather. The laces were doing their best and failing. “What wrong with Bograt’s boots?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Wear what you like.”

  “Me like boots,” he said. “They best boots ever. Boots take Bograt all over Fnordic Lands. Ravensholme. Icespike. Me even run from ogre in Lifeblight. Well. Maybe not in Lifeblight. But it close enough to see big broken wall.”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about, so she nodded. Cocked her head. “Then why’re you telling me?”

  “Me not know,” he shrugged. “Eventide say Knifehand need know. He say tell Knifehand the words. Bad words.”

  “Obliged,” she said.

  “He say ask Knifehand if Bograt help.”

  “Sure, feller. You know a way into the Red Claw volcano? So they won’t see me coming?”

  She asked lightly, mind moving with a lassitude gifted by hot water and cold beer.

  “What Knifehand want in Red Claw place?”

  “Looking for an alchemist,” she said.

  “Me know alchemist. He help Alley Rats.”

  “Particular one, feller. Calls himself Damis. Probably hiding out somewhere in the tunnels under Red Claw turf. Maybe got a workshop somewhere.”

  “Tunnels?” He scratched his head. “He like inn better. Why he in tunnels? They magic tunnels. Lots of magic there, Knifehand. You stay out of tunnels. Even Alley Rats not go there. He have workshop, though. It smell bad. Bad place. You not go there.”

  The elf blinked slowly and faced him.

  Reached slowly to put the beer down near the plate.

  Then out to his shirt.

  Grabbed a fistful.

  “I just spent a day crawling through their fucking tunnels. Nearly got myself killed. Got some other feller killed instead. Had to run like fuck just to get away. Got covered in shit. Nearly shot through with arrows. Now, are you telling me Damis ain’t even there? Do you know where he is?”

  “Damis in Red Claw volcano for sure.” Bograt kept calm, unaware of the rage bristling through the elf’s veins. “He have workshop. Me just say this.”

  “Shit.” The elf groaned.

  “You want see Damis? Me know secret way in. No problem.”

  “Yes,” she said through her teeth. Tears of rage or frustration edged her eyes. Maybe even guilt as she heard the ghost of Fludd’s song. Half rose from the tub. “I want to see him. I want to put a knife right through his fucking eye. No. Not his eye. His eyes. Both of them. Both at once, or one after the other, I don’t give a shit which. Fuck, Bograt, I could’ve done with knowing this fucking yesterday!”

  “Me not know,” he said. Held himself straight beneath her anger. Stamped his foot. “Knifehand not tell Bograt! Knifehand not tell Eventide! How me know what Knifehand looking for?”

  “Now you know,” she hissed. “So, spill it. What fucking level is he on?”

  Regretted the question as soon as he held up three fingers and said; “Two. Maybe three. You go in big gate. Take stairs. Many stairs. Fight many Red Claws. But there secret way in. Bograt knows secret way.” The feral grin spread quickly across his green face. “Me show Knifehand where?”

  “Last feller to guide me anywhere ended up dead.”

  “Me careful. Me not die. Eventide say so.”

  She didn’t want to take him. Didn’t exactly like the goblin, but also hadn’t much liked Fludd.

  Still, she regretted the old man’s death.

  Enough to want to keep her promise to see Noster dead.

  And the key to killing the Red Claw leader and his pet
alchemist was standing in front of her, wide grin getting wider as she sighed heavily.

  “Alright, Bograt,” she growled. “We’ll leave tomorrow after sunset. You got that?”

  He nodded. Vigorous and determined as he set aside the feral grin and made a fist with one hand. “Eventide say you kill Red Claws. He say you best there is.”

  “He say anything about you getting the fuck out of here until tomorrow?”

  Bograt didn’t need to be told again.

  He scurried to the door.

  Looked back. “Me bring clothes soon. They dry near fire in kitchen. Me take Knifehand tomorrow. Kill all Red Claws. Me know how. You see. Eventide say me help Knifehand and get good seat at table. Maybe give words to her.”

  “Who?” Not really interested. Mind already moving. This time, she decided, she’d not go in like a crazed streetkid. This time, she’d go in like what she was trained to be.

  A murderous assassin of the Jukkala’Jadean.

  “Mother,” he said. Hushed with awe. “Me talk Mother.”

  The elf’s violet eyes thinned as she thought of her own mother. Fragmented images of a woman dying. Dying slow and cruel. Voice a curdle of whispers and moans.

  And her father.

  Tall in the shadows, refusing to even speak to his wife or the daughter who mourned her.

  Licked her lips as leftover spots of rage speckled her heart. “Sounds real fucking nice.”

  “Me can’t wait. Talk to Mother!” The goblin danced out the door. “You see, Knifehand. Tomorrow best day ever!”

  “Sure, Bograt,” she said softly. Sank back into hot water and closed her eyes. “It’ll be real momentous.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  She slept most of the day.

  When she wasn’t sleeping, she lay on the side of the bed staring down at patterns in the floorboards. Feeling thoughts buzzing through her skull. Each glittering brightly before flashing into the dark.

  The room was warmer around midday as sunlight cascades into the city. Warm enough for her to sweat.

  Droplets beaded on her face.

  On shoulders. Dribbled down arm. Off fingers to drip to the floor.

  She didn’t notice.

  The buzzing in her mind swarmed so much she didn’t notice Myrna slip into the room to take the empty plate. The barmaid stared for a few heartbeats then placed a fresh mug on the ground beside the elf’s unmoving hand.

  Muttered something about alchemist potions and left.

  Dragonclaw, the elf reflected dimly, was a city at war. Constant war. With a tide of tribal gangs. Each clawing at the closest rival in search of greater pasture.

  By her own account, she should be rich by now. Swallowed her pride and joined a gang. One as big as the Shivs would be ideal. Risen in rank by cutting down anyone stupid enough to get in her way.

  Then working on rival gangs. Whittling them down.

  With her skills, her name should be whispered in fear by now.

  Instead, she was running away.

  Slinking back to Powell’s, tail between her legs.

  Whipped. Beaten. Bloodied at the nose. And a price on her head.

  Failure.

  Hideg had to know it by now. Know she’d fucked up.

  The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced he’d sent Vikter. To watch her? Or to slide a knife between her ribs? Either would have worked. Only, she’d seen him coming.

  Had scared him off.

  What would Hideg do now?

  Send his strange ork?

  Something about the ork wasn’t right. Something was staring her in the face and she couldn’t see it.

  Which kept her falling back on the fear.

  Fear of another failure.

  Fear she’d lost her edge. Gone rusty.

  Or getting old?

  No. She was too young to be feeling that way. Sure, she was old for a human. But she wasn’t human. She was an elf.

  Or was she?

  What had Talek’s Cage done to her? Maybe the darkness was eating her from within. Maybe it was consuming her. Was she getting slower because of it?

  She remembered the power it sometimes pushed into her muscle. The speed it pulled from her body. If anything, she should feel tougher. Faster.

  But that wasn’t it.

  It was the impatience.

  Impatience would see her dead. Others had tried telling her this. Her trainers had called her stubborn more than once. Had told her she’d never survive her training. Never gain the uniform of the Jukkala’Jadean.

  She thought she’d learnt how to be patient. How to be cold.

  Because there were worse things than death.

  Failure.

  She’d be swallowed into the Shadowed Halls with the burden of failure on her back. How could she look at Talek then? He’d forgive her, she knew. But she’d never forgive herself.

  Every time he spoke, she’d feel the same pain she felt when he was alive.

  The pain of letting him down.

  Of being responsible for his death. She should have been there!

  Now there was Fludd. Another old man past his prime. Broken of body, but not of spirit. He’d gone to the Shadowed Halls with a song on his tongue. A filthy crude song.

  But a song.

  A song which guaranteed an entrance none could forget.

  Still, he should be alive. Should be relaxing in a teahouse, sipping tea to warm the memories of a time when he could run the streets faster than any other. Meaner than most.

  And Bograt. Was she leading him to his death?

  Another goblin could die because of her.

  Quietly. An image of the small goblin dragging himself up Storr’s cursed blade. Shattering the enchantment with his own blood.

  How had he done that?

  Why had he done that?

  The goblins’ enigmatic god must be sick of the dead she was sending him.

  One chance, she thought. She had one chance to make her mark on Dragonclaw. To put her foot down and tell them all that this town was hers now.

  To leave something which guaranteed a reputation. Maybe even a line of employment aiming deeper into the city’s seedy heart. Perhaps even into the circle of power which clutched the court of Dragonclaw.

  Everything rested on the Red Claw. On Noster and his alchemist, Damis.

  She had to kill them.

  Had to.

  Tonight. No more excuses. No more running away.

  Kill them. Both.

  Word of their deaths would spread fast. The fact they had a bounty on her head and she came to kill them for it? Well. That’d forge a reputation she could work with.

  Who’d fuck with her then?

  Nobody.

  And the gold would come. She’d make sure of that. Hideg had promised a lot to start with. Whether he trusted her or not, she’d do his job. Then take his gold. Use it to rise even higher.

  Finally, the elf moved, pulling fingers into fists then reaching for the warm beer.

  Sweet and dark, it filtered her thoughts. Smoothing blisters which seemed to be forming in her skull as everything inside went round and round in a chaotic race of burning questions without answers.

  Desires without form.

  Dreams.

  Slowly, she drained the mug. Slid from her bed.

  Reached for clothes the goblin had returned to her room while she slept.

  Dressed without hurry.

  Then sat on the end of her bed, knives in a heap beside her.

  Began sharpening their edges. Smoothing nicks and notches.

  Cleaning them. Murmuring their names.

  Sliding them home.

  One by one, she felt their souls. Was calmed by the cool of their steel.

  She worked without effort. Face impassive. Fingers steady.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for the sun to settle and shadows to ghost through the streets again.

  For the gangs to scuttle back to their volcanoes and blockhouses, leavi
ng night crews to patrol their turf.

  A few guards would sift the worst areas, shaking down the younger gangs. Maybe rap a few knuckles of those getting too long in the tooth.

  Testing.

  Searching for weaknesses.

  Everyone was searching for weakness.

  It was the glue which kept the city from collapsing. Strongest survived. Weakest were litter for the bodymen.

  She picked up A Flaw in the Glass last. Her favourite knife. The green enchantment lighting the room. Staring at it, the elf admired the fluid green ropes which seemed to slither around the blade like venomous snakes.

  If she looked hard, she could see the runes glittering within their bodies. Tied to ethereal skins.

  Imagined each glowing thread had a mouth, baring fangs.

  And remembered when Talek had gifted it to her. With his knife on her hip, she’d never felt so much pride. Had never owned anything before to be proud of.

  She lifted herself to her feet and moved to the window.

  Stared into the city. At tall crisp lines of volcanoes and towers.

  Squat square warehouses. Everywhere she looked, lines so sharp and unyielding. Brutal in structure. Reinforcing the unyielding strength of Dragonclaw’s people.

  Unconsciously, wiped her uniform as though cleaning it more than the goblin had been able to. In Lostlight, those who’d known the uniform’s origin had feared it.

  They were right to fear the Jukkala.

  To fear the Jukkala was as natural as fearing death.

  Rolling her shoulders, she curled her lips into a small wolfish smile. A smile which twisted the scar on her cheek into a cruel and savage line.

  Dragonclaw would learn, she promised.

  The whole city would learn what it was like to fear the way of the Jukkala.

  No more running.

  No more hiding.

  “Knifehand?” The small voice pivoted through the door. “You wake now?”

  “Yeah, Bograt,” she said. “I’m up.”

  He opened the door with a hesitant push. Stuck his face around and nodded when he saw she was dressed. “Me think Knifehand need help. But you ready now.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Still, she answered; “I’m ready.”

  “You sleep too much. Me sleep too much once. It make head hurt.”