Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) Page 4

  The warlock glared at Fenis with almost as much hate as she herself was bottling. He raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged in response to the unspoken question. “Don’t reckon he’ll talk,” she said. “Not that he’s that tough. But he ain’t got much left. He knows it. He’ll finish bleeding out before he speaks.”

  “That’s right,” Fenis said between gulps for air. “Tell you something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your man. I killed him. My knife. That’s why Raste didn’t give a shit what happened to me. He wanted something from your feller. Wanted Talek alive. I fucked it up. So, I’m the one you want, raghead.”

  “Already figured that,” she said coldly. Bared her teeth, the hunger to kill almost too much to bear. But she held it back. “What did Raste want?”

  “Stupid thing.”

  “What?”

  “A box. Said it was small. Had black runes on it. Important. Said Rule would give us a big reward for it. Maybe our own kingdoms. Didn’t believe him. Just a box. Can’t be worth shit. Not to the Lord of Light. The sun is his to command. What’s a box to him?”

  A sudden flush of blood rushed through her as her world reeled. So, Talek died for his precious box. She suppressed the urge to snatch it from her jacket and feed it to Fenis through his teeth.

  The warlock’s stare drilled into her, but she ignored him. Instead, took a tight fistful of the dying elf’s shirt.

  Fenis didn’t notice. “You gotta know,” he murmured. “Did this for us. For our kind. We’re losing, raghead. Lostlight don’t have long. Food is short. We’re almost cut off from the Great Wall. And Rule is coming. Here. To the Deadlands. Then he’ll take the wall. Take the Fnordic Lands once and for all. Who’s gonna stop him? Grim’s dead. And even if he leaves Lostlight alone, it’s ready to explode. Clans fight each other. It’s falling apart. King ain’t strong enough to pull them together. Not anymore. He’s old. And Lostlight is diseased with corruption. And what do the Fnords care what happens to us? Their Emperor hides like a coward in Doom’s Reach. Face it. We’re alone. Lost. But some of us can be saved, raghead. Our race can continue.”

  “As Rule’s slaves,” the warlock spat. “Are you so fucking stupid?”

  “Not slaves,” Fenis wheezed. Sounded almost urgent to convince her. A fanatic to the end. “Forgiven. He forgives. Make the sacrifice, raghead. Before too late. Don’t need to be Tainted. Can be cleansed. All forgiven!”

  The elf called Nysta leaned over him like a vampire over its prey. Pressed her nose against his.

  She tasted his breath. Stared deep into his fluttering eyes. She could smell the Shadowed Halls pulling at his soul. A soul which clung to its host on a fragile thread.

  A thread she was ready to cut.

  A Flaw in the Glass drifted venomously. “But it’s too late for you, Fenis,” she said. Her voice was cold. Like the slow approach of a glacier. Chukshene caught his breath as she bared her teeth at the dying elf and hissed; “Your god ain’t here. And I sure as fuck ain’t the forgiving kind.”

  The enchanted blade ignored the thin chain of Fenis’ armour to sink gleefully between his ribs. A cruel strike meant to draw as much pain from the dying elf as she could. Felt it push through his flesh like a wyrm’s fang before parting the ribs and cutting up against his thudding heart.

  In the wake of his shrill scream, Fenis’ breath came in awkward gasps like a beached fish. He sobbed incoherently as she held the blade perfectly still. His hand flopped over hers and their gazes met.

  Hers, more bleak than her surroundings.

  And his, wide in fear and agony.

  Then, with a savage twist, she tore the blade into his heart. Ended his life in a torrid explosion of blood and pain.

  Rising to her feet without looking at the body, she pulled the blade free with a horrid sucking sound that made the warlock retch.

  “Was that necessary?” He looked away from the corpse. “He was dying anyway. You could’ve just let him die. That was fucking awful.”

  “Wanted him to die by my hand, ‘lock,” she said, numb to the pain she’d just inflicted. “My way. Don’t believe in letting nature take its course.”

  “Grim’s withered cock,” he shook his head. “It’s still fucking brutal. Never seen anything so cold. You didn’t have many friends growing up, did you?”

  “Not really,” she shrugged. Wiped the glowing blade on the dead elf’s cloak. Absently, she cut a strip of the cloak free and toyed with it in her hand. “But friends always betray you in the end.”

  His eyes were caught, fascinated by the way she twirled the ragged strip of cloth between her fingers. Then widened as he suddenly realised the full meaning of why Fenis had called her raghead.

  “They’re trophies,” he breathed, voice a mix of horror and disgust. “You collect fucking trophies! Off everyone you kill?”

  The elf began twisting the cloth into a ragged lock of hair. A process made economical by the cool manner by which she did so. As though she were buttoning her shirt.

  “No,” she nudged the dead elf’s foot with a cold humourless grin. “Only the ones I like. That way I never say goodbye. Speaking of goodbye, it’s time to go. Could make another hour or so before we bed down for the night.”

  His tired expression was overwhelmed by pity. “How does someone get to be as cold as you?”

  “I ain’t so cold now,” she climbed to her feet, rubbed at her legs, and began walking away. “Snow stopped last night. I’m much warmer.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  The elf didn’t answer.

  He watched her strut away as the echoes of her brutality still trembled in the air.

  Then frowned suddenly as another thought occurred to him. Rushed over to Fenis’ dead body and shuffled through his pockets. Tried to keep his gaze from the ugly wounds.

  Quickly found a scrap of paper in one of the pouches and lifted it out. Unfolded it with care, though his expression was grim.

  He read the words carefully, translating from Caspiellan.

  “Motherfucker,” he mouthed.

  Looked up to see the elf standing some distance away, her hands on her hips.

  Her mouth twitched upward into a crooked smile. “You call me cold, ‘lock. Yet, look at you. Going through a dead man’s pockets. Takes some cold stones of your own to do that.”

  He held up the paper. “I was looking for this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter. From Rule’s favourite general, Storr.”

  “Shopping list?”

  “No,” frowned the warlock. “A letter of safe passage. It looks like Storr himself is meeting your friends. This is important. More important than your simple plan of revenge. This is big. We’ve got to stop them, Nysta.”

  “Aim to. And if you’ll shut your mouth and get moving, we might even catch them before they get to Grimwood Creek.”

  The warlock hurried, his exhaustion almost forgotten as he caught up to her. “Grim’s balls. What are they up to?”

  “Nothing more in that letter of yours?”

  He examined the torn page. “No. Looks like there might’ve been something else at the bottom. But whatever it was, he tore it away. Got rid of it. Fuck, I wish I knew what it said. What are those southern bastards up to now?”

  “Figures,” she ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the freshly knotted cloth. Drawled; “From a feller like Fenis, you were bound to get the one letter short of a dick.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They’d only mounted one more hill when the elf stopped. The warlock, still making his way up on his hands and knees, noticed her change of manner and paused. “What is it?”

  “Best you get up her
e and see for yourself,” she said.

  Muttering darkly, he pushed his body up beside her. Lay on his back, looking up to the sky. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m fucked.”

  “Could be right about that.”

  He twisted his head and took in the view.

  A wide expanse of icy grey shimmered like a dry lake toward steep dark cliffs. The flat ground was littered with large boulders, some the size of small houses. Many split dozens of times and spread open like giant stone chests spilling their rocky contents.

  She’d seen similar further east. Talek had told her that during the Godwars, siege engines manned by giants lobbed the massive boulders across the battlefields.

  The elf felt a shiver of sympathy for the armies forced to fight with such large chunks of solid rock raining down around them. It must have felt as if the very gates of the Shadowed Halls had opened above them.

  Chunks of ancient white bone nestled in many of the cracks and corners of the boulders like shards of death.

  Thankfully, she thought, the ground looked more even than the loose earth they’d been tramping on all day. It promised an easier journey.

  Which meant faster, and that pleased her.

  A few trenches lined her intended passage, but these didn’t seem deep. More like shallow ditches formed by rain rather than the necessities of war. Along the sides of the plain, more of the dead black trees were twisted into two impenetrable walls channelling toward the cliffs.

  A thick line of grey cloud swept its belly over the cliffs. Those clouds were rolling fast toward them and a slight gust brought a dusty smell to her nostrils. She had hoped she’d seen the last of it since moving south of Spikewrist.

  It seemed the cold Winter was determined to ravage her heels.

  But by far the most imposing thing about the sombre landscape was the broken black shape huddled against the far cliff. A ruined fortress by the look of it, and draped in mist. It didn’t look inhabited, but still promised shelter from what looked to be an approaching storm. Given its position, she also hoped it contained a passage through the ominous cliff wall. A tunnel, perhaps. The occupants would have needed a speedy way to make the top.

  Otherwise they were in for a torturous climb up the vertical face.

  The warlock tried to hide a yawn. “What’s that? A town?”

  “Looks like an old fort.”

  “Looks deserted.”

  “Could be.”

  “And therefore probably isn’t,” he sighed.

  “Relax, Chukshene,” she said. “It’s just another shithole. Plenty around the Deadlands.”

  “I’m not worried,” he lied blandly. “But face it, Nysta. You’re a magnet for trouble. Should I expect trolls this time? Or worse?”

  “Fucked if I know. But we can’t stay here. And we can’t go back.”

  “And can’t get over those cliffs.”

  “Won’t know until we get a closer look. We move quickly, we might get that look before sunset.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Look at those clouds, Chukshene. They ain’t come to give us shade.”

  “Ah,” he lifted his nose and took a lungful of cold air. “Fuck. I was hoping I was wrong about that. But you had to say it, didn’t you? Now that makes it true. I hate snow. Fucking hate it. I tell you that? This one time, I got caught in a blizzard up near Icereach. Holed up in a cave. Ended up having to dig my way out when it was over, and for a while I didn’t think I’d make it. Ever had to dig yourself out of a blizzard, Long-ear? It’s cold and fucking scary. I’ll bet that’s what dying feels like.”

  “Could be right,” she allowed, tucking her thumbs behind two jutting handles.

  The shale which covered the ground for the past day didn’t stretch far onto the plain. This allowed the hard stone ground to reveal itself. The flat terrain had another added advantage in that the elf was able to sweep her gaze over everything. Her view obscured only by the large boulders, but she’d seen enough from the hill to figure they didn’t hide anything more than a couple of stray ghosts.

  Nonetheless, her attention hovered for a moment over a few restless shadows flickering within the trees.

  Her palm began to itch.

  “Who was he?” the warlock asked suddenly. “Back in Spikewrist? It’s not just by reputation you know him. That hate in you. It’s old hate.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her face turned away. “You’re right, ‘lock. Was a long time ago. Before he was Musa’Jadean,” she said, seeing no reason not to tell him. “Last time I saw him, I had a knife to his throat. Chose not to bleed him out. My mistake. Know better next time.”

  “So, why’s he still alive?”

  “That’s between him and me,” she said. “Ain’t none of your business.”

  He looked ready to argue, but instead chose a different line. “Fine. What about you? Any headaches?”

  She frowned. “Headaches?”

  “Yeah. Shoulders hurt? Chest pains? Funny taste in your mouth? I notice you’re walking fine now. What happened to your bruises?”

  Surprised, she realised he was right. She felt nimble and any aches she’d felt seemed to have faded. And she knew, should she peel her sleeves back, the wounds which had marred her flesh would be gone. Only dried blood flecks would remain.

  A trickle of fear dribbled down her spine and began to drip across the tight ball of rage she’d been nursing in her belly.

  “Why all the questions?” she growled, trying to push that train of thought away. She wasn’t ready for it.

  Not yet.

  She had to focus on catching Raste first.

  “Just curious,” he said quietly. “You had a hard time. Fuck, I had a hard time. I haven’t slept, you know. Kept watch over you. Just in case. Probably a good thing. A few wolves looked for more to eat. And then there were all the other nasties hanging around. I killed a troll, you know? I think it figured elf meat’d taste better than Lichspawn. Then there was that thing with the chains. Took a bit to hide from that. Had to drag you halfway to fucking Icereach by the feel of it. My arms ache. Did you know, I think you weigh more than a fucking ork. Then there were more wolves. Had to fry a few before the rest got the message. Fucking animals. I don’t get why Grim liked them so much. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Nysta grimaced. She hadn’t even considered if he’d slept or not. Just assumed he had.

  No wonder he was tired. He’d stayed up all night protecting her. At great cost, because he’d already exhausted himself before she’d lost consciousness. And then he’d managed, somehow, to keep up with her all day as she marched him over a shifting ocean of shale.

  More guilt.

  Grudgingly, she admitted he might be tougher than she thought.

  Also admitted she might owe him.

  And she hated debts.

  “Obliged,” she grunted, unsure what else to say.

  “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “Stick it up your ass, then,” she said. “All the same to me.”

  But it wasn’t. The conflict of suspicion and obligation wrestled her emotions for dominance and the elf couldn’t tell which would win. She’d never been comfortable around other people, and everything about Chukshene seemed to underscore the very reasons why she chose to avoid making any ties.

  For his part, the warlock appeared unconcerned. Continued to stumble along behind her like a lost puppy. “Those rags in your hair. How many of those did you kill?”

  “Few more than some. Why bring it up again?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “It ain’t your business.”

  “So? Call me nosey.”

  “Prefer to cut your nose off, Chukshene. Stick it up your ass, and call you an asshole.”

 
; “Come on, Long-ear. Help me learn something. I’m not from around here, remember? Believe it or not, I’m not trying to fuck with you. Just trying to learn a few things about you and your kind.”

  The elf dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing the beads of sweat. Squinted into the distance.

  The headache was returning. She figured maybe she was allergic to his questions.

  “Ain’t sure you’re telling the truth, ‘lock,” she said eventually. “But ask your questions. Just don’t expect any right answers.”

  “Fair enough. So, why do you take them? Does it make you feel good remembering your kills?”

  “Good or bad, it means nothing. It ain’t a game, and I ain’t keeping score. You think these are trophies of kills? They ain’t just kills, ‘lock. Sometimes they’re just reminders I’m alive.”

  “Alive,” he echoed sadly. “Yeah. I guess you’d see it that way.”

  “That cryptic shit mean anything?” she snapped, irritated by the pity in his voice. “Or you just flapping your lips to keep your teeth warm?”

  “Just that you grew up on the streets. Of a city which might’ve been more than its fair share of tough. So, you wouldn’t look for happiness is all I’m saying. You’d look for survival. Don’t be so touchy. Maybe I’m trying to say I feel bad for you for not having any flowers in your hair when you were a little girl. You know what I’m saying? I’m sad for you. Not everything’s an insult. I still don’t think it’s a great excuse, though. Lots of people have tough lives.”

  “You ever gone against the odds, ‘lock? I mean, really gone against them? Not just one or two, but maybe a dozen. Just you in a dark alley, and a bunch of fellers keen to slit you up the middle. They’ve got hatchets. Swords. Daggers, or whatever the fuck. You’re outnumbered. Got no chance. You’re going to die. You can feel it. But you throw yourself in there, because what else are you gonna do? And ain’t nothing or no one is coming to save you. The only thing stopping you from getting killed is your own arm. Each thud of your blade in the flesh of another is a chance you’ll make it through the next few seconds alive,” she slapped a hand against the flat back of a boulder as she passed it. It stung as the cold bit into her palm. “Ever feel that, Chukshene?”