Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) Read online

  Annoyed, the elf knelt beside the bootprints.

  There were at least four sets. One was big. He seemed to have done the deed, judging by where he’d been standing and the angles of blood sprayed over the walls and ground. The cuts in what was left of the carcass suggested an axe.

  Strange choice, she thought.

  Another pair of boots were about her size.

  The bootprints looked to be pretty much the same and she guessed they were part of a uniform. Something about them looked familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it. New, too. Their prints were clear and well defined.

  Maybe soldiers of a new guild she hadn’t encountered. Plenty of guilds cropping up these days as Lostlight’s internal politics made and destroyed ties both old and new.

  Or mercenaries? Lost in the Deadlands?

  She grunted in annoyance. They could be anything. Could be Caspiellans for all she knew.

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked around for something else.

  Anything, really. Any hint. Something helpful.

  Found nothing.

  Why they’d come here if not for the goat was a mystery, and whether Talek’s death was their goal or an effect, she couldn’t tell. Did they get what they wanted? She couldn’t be sure of that, either. But she would find out.

  One of them would talk.

  She had no doubt about that.

  The trail led southward, along the winding track leading out of the valley. Further into the Deadlands. Given the nature of the valley and the lack of decent tracks or towns for them to head for, their decision wasn’t much of a surprise. They could only have gone north or south. They’d chosen south, and now so would she.

  And, out here, there was only one place they’d likely be heading toward. Grimwood Creek. A large town known for being a hive for mercenaries, smugglers and worse. And that was just the tavern.

  Before that, maybe two or three small trading towns depending which trail they took. Spikewrist would be the obvious choice. She would start there.

  Staring out through the falling snow, the elf spat from the corner of her mouth and headed back into the house. Kicked the door shut behind her.

  They’d killed Talek.

  They would pay. In blood.

  A goat bleated. She heard them scuttle up onto the porch, looking for a place out of the icy wind and snow. Their hooves thudded on the wood.

  She settled on the edge of the bed she’d shared with her husband and imagined he was there behind her. Moaning in his sleep.

  Her fists gripped the blanket and knuckles whitened. She bit her cheek and tasted blood.

  Exhausted, the elf closed her eyes. Aware she could go nowhere in the snow. Also of the strong pull of of sleep. She was unconcerned with the pace of Talek’s murderers. Reasoned they would also need to hole up somewhere in this weather. Probably in one of the trenches dug along the valley’s lips. Or, if they were further out, an old abandoned mine.

  There were enough of them across the high plains.

  Both Rule and Grim had needed metal to make swords during the thousand years the gods and their armies had fought in the Deadlands. The scarred land, product of this war, was now a barren wasteland as cracked and blistered as her husband’s flesh.

  Her expression settled grimly into place.

  Snow was a relentless shushing noise which made her pulse trip and tumble as the impatient need to kill slowly eased from her body. She rubbed the scar on her cheek and lay back on the bed, listening to the world freeze outside the cabin.

  She hoped by morning the snow would have eased. Knew if she didn’t catch Talek’s killers before, then she could make Spikewrist in two days and hopefully they’d still be there.

  Her memories of the town were vague, but enough to remember being unimpressed. It was a slightly bigger town than Highwall, and the tavern which watered its beer.

  Good enough reason for her to prefer Trollspit.

  The hook knife lay on the table in front of her eyes and she stared at it as she was washed to sleep by the dull effects of alcohol and grief. Achingly slow, the icy wreath around her heart began to melt. Heated by a ball of rage glowing deep in her belly like a volcano’s heart.

  Thoughts of her belly made her stomach growl and she realised she hadn’t eaten since morning. And that hadn’t been much more than a shred of cheese and bite of bread.

  She thought again of the animal Talek’s killers had butchered.

  The meat they’d stolen.

  And as her eyes closed, thought she muttered; “Now they’ve really got my goat.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nysta woke to the sound of thudding.

  “Talek,” she groaned, clutching her head. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Rolled sideways, feeling several knife handles dig into her side. Realised she’d gone to bed armed. And why.

  “Ah, fuck.” Covered her eyes with one arm and realised the thudding was the restless goats stuttering back and forth on the porch.

  Her brain felt thick and greasy with leftovers of alcohol induced dreams still clinging to her brain like a gang of goblins. She could hardly remember the dreams, but most of them involved watching Talek burn.

  Seeing his skin melt.

  Feeling his eyes on her.

  The floor was cold and she pulled her boots on quickly. Moved toward a small jug of cold water drawn from the stream and splashed her face while looking through the misted window. The white blanket covered the valley. It looked plush and soft, but the elf wasn’t fooled.

  It would be cold. She was bound to hate it.

  Hate it more now Talek’s grave was hidden beneath it as though his death hadn’t happened.

  She knew if she ever returned here, she’d have a hard time remembering where she’d buried him if it weren’t for that stone. She wished she had time to make a marker.

  But Talek’s killers were moving further away. She couldn’t allow them to escape.

  She turned back to a small chest torn open by whoever had ransacked the room. Clothes were strewn across the floor and she dug through them to find a thicker undershirt which she swapped quickly with the one she’d been wearing the past few days.

  Caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and noted the ragged appearance of her hair. The drawn look on her face. The scar burning on her cheek with fierce heat. She rubbed at it and gave her reflection a tight scowl. “You look like shit,” she told it, running her fingers through her hair and scrubbing at her scalp.

  Checked her knives next, absently brushing her fingers across the butt of each handle.

  Drawing the one still wrapped in oilskin, she placed it tentatively on the table beside the hook knife recovered from Talek’s chest.

  Slowly, almost nervously, she unwrapped the knife.

  It was long and wide-bladed. A jagged spine with an evil curving belly that swept up to a vicious point. Of the two blades, hers was the more sickening to look at.

  Sickening because of the enchantment which gave the knife a venomous green glow around the blade. The kind of glow which made many feel uneasy just to look at.

  Talek had bought it for her. Had it made by the Royal Swordsmith, Arit Sugo. It was a work of art and function with the enchantment guaranteeing the blade would never break or need sharpening. Sometimes it had other effects, too.

  The cost of the knife had been high. Even now she was shocked at what he’d done to afford the blade. In part, it’s why they’d had to retreat to the Deadlands to survive instead of heading north to the Fnordic lands beyond the Great Wall. With so little gold to their names, they’d had no choice.

  He’d chosen to bury the box in the goat pen. For safety, he said. Who’d want to dig up goatshit?

  She’d laid the knife beside it. “I don’t need it anymore,” she’d told him. “It’s not who I am now.”

  He understood. Even seemed a little pleased.

  Though he knew she needed the blade before, he’d secretly hope
d that moving to such an isolated place might give them both a chance for the peace they’d lacked in Lostlight.

  But Talek had never really understood the merciless nature of the Deadlands.

  Looking around at their meagre possessions tossed contemptuously across the floor, she realised peace was something she was bound to never get the chance to feel.

  She sheathed both blades, giving herself no more time to reflect on the past. Her belly bubbled in need of food, but she ignored it. She couldn’t bring herself to eat. Felt it would only make her vomit.

  She hauled Talek’s old cloak from under the bed and wrapped it around herself. The black wyrmskin was lined with wolf fur and would keep her warm. Its hood could be drawn up to keep the snow from melting into her hair and dripping down her head and neck.

  Gave the interior one last look and turned her back on it. Stepped out into the bitter morning air.

  A goat made small noises as she emerged onto the porch and she nodded calmly in its direction. Left the door open for them to use the cabin’s interior.

  Stepped off the porch and allowed her eyes the chance to drink in the view one last time.

  It was beautiful here.

  Empty and like a patchwork ocean of white and grey stretching toward the high ribbed walls of the valley. Hard to believe that this was where the Godwars were fought. That Rule and Grim had personally wrestled here.

  That armies clashed with such fury that their bones had fused with stone and everything as far as she could see had been scorched with magefire.

  Wiped her eyes with the back of her forearm and turned south.

  Looked down at the the barely visible path. And started walking.

  Snow crunched underfoot and the crisp air made her head feel lighter. As she moved further from the house, there was something refreshing about the silence. As though the world was mourning the violent end of her husband.

  It was fitting.

  She glanced back only once, and this as she wondered what’d happened to the cat Talek had seemed fond of. She couldn’t remember seeing it.

  Could’ve been driven off, she thought. Run away scared.

  She didn’t blame it.

  Mist covered the northern end of the valley and it seemed to be crawling eastward. Thankful to not be walking into it, she aimed herself at the southern end. Her ears felt numb and she wondered if Fnords had the same problem in the cold with their short ears.

  Her hands burrowed further into her pockets and the elf muttered darkly as she walked.

  The snow had hidden all traces of the men who’d killed Talek. But she’d chosen this valley for the very reason there were only two easy ways out. With Talek’s firm belief someone would one day come looking for the box, she figured having somewhere they could see them coming would be a good thing.

  Building the cabin had been a chore. Talek, unable to lift more than simple tools, could only offer verbal assistance and the process was slow. Painfully slow. Especially as she didn’t have much talent for building.

  More than once she’d bitten back a curse at his inability to lift anything useful and now those moments of anger sparked fresh waves of grief as she realised she’d never see him again.

  He was gone.

  Buried in a frozen hole in the ground.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. It was unreal.

  A dream, perhaps?

  Maybe she’d wake in a minute. Find him beside her. Maybe if she concentrated real hard, she could open her eyes and everything would be fine. The nightmare would be over.

  “Stupid,” she hissed at herself and shook her head angrily.

  Stomped faster down the winding path. Not that she needed the path. Could have cut a straight line across the rippling landscape instead. She knew every inch of the valley. Had made it her first priority to scout the surrounds. Just in case.

  In case of what?

  She lifted her scarred face to the smooth clouds.

  In case of this.

  At the far end, the path lifted across a gentle incline and thin clumps of twisted trees raked the sky. A spear of sunlight shafted into the ground and the elf eyed the crack in the sky as though wanting to break it.

  The world, she thought bitterly, didn’t deserve sunlight today.

  The feeling of loss was something she wasn’t used to. She’d never had much in her life to lose before now. In some ways she wondered if fate had played a hand. Given the number of lives she’d taken, it felt like some kind of cosmic balance had shifted against her.

  Grunting, she told herself she’d given up on a belief in fate years ago. When the Dark Lord Grim was slain by his brother, Rule.

  At thought of the two gods, Nysta eyed the terrain more carefully. There were many trenches dug around here. And a few tunnels still burrowed under light layers of rock and dirt. One wrong step and she could find herself trapped under collapsing earth.

  Even though she figured she knew where most of the tunnels were, she could hardly be completely certain.

  She could hear the gurgling creek off to her right and remembered Talek saying local legend was the creek had been formed not by water but by blood of those who’d fallen. Such was the toll. Her eyes slid over the inhospitable landscape and she found it hard to disbelieve.

  Further up the incline, the path seemed to press in on itself as the rocky walls loomed and the trees grew more common. Though they were diseased or dead, they offered a fragile promise of life where the valley had offered only isolation and a sense of despair.

  But, thought the elf miserably, the promise of life was an illusion.

  Life didn’t matter. It didn’t last long enough to mean anything.

  All that mattered was survival.

  And revenge.

  It took her most of the morning to make it to the top of the valley and she was following the unkempt path toward Spikewrist when she felt her shoulders and back tighten. The narrow path winding through the graveyard of trees made her feel like she was back in the tight alleys of Lostlight. It was why she usually headed to the more open northern side and the town of Highwall.

  Her eyes skipped over the shadows, peeling them back to expose any sign of threat which might need to be countered. It was a habit she’d learnt quickly in the murderous alleys and one which had been further honed in the years of training afterward.

  And, while those who knew her often remarked that she was paranoid to the point of madness, none would deny she was often the first to spot trouble and deal with it. Her paranoia had saved the lives of many in her former guild.

  Fingering the long thin-bladed throwing knife called Entrance Exam at her hip, the elf narrowed her eyes to slits and considered leaving the path. Of sliding among the shadows between thick trees and ancient brush.

  She stepped into a small clearing.

  Scratched at her palm.

  Paused.

  Said; “Fuck!”

  And leapt sideways as a ball of magefire as big as her torso erupted from the trees. It flashed past with a roar of heat and crackle of magic. Exploded as it splashed into another tree behind where she’d been standing. The boom of it echoed in the clearing.

  At the same time, she heard a cry of surprise and caught a glimpse of a human female in a black dress.

  Snarling, Nysta rolled into a ditch out of view of her attacker. Paused long enough to figure the mage had no idea where she’d ended up. Then carefully bellied along the ground, keeping her head aimed at the clearing as she tried to circle the human before the spellslinger could pinpoint her position.

  Why the mage had tried to kill her, she didn’t know. And neither did she care. Perhaps the mage had something to do with Talek’s death. Perhaps not. Either way, the elf thought as she drew Entrance Exam, she hated spellslingers of any kind. And their magefire. An image of Talek’s burning flesh pierced her mind and she set her jaw.

  Killing this one was going to be a pleasure.

  “Hey! Long-ear?” The v
oice surprised her because it wasn’t a woman’s voice. But a man’s. She wondered for a second if there were two of them. Or more. It seemed unreasonable that up to a dozen men and horses were hiding in the trees, but maybe they were better than she allowed. “Long-ear! I didn’t mean that! Look, we can talk about this, right? Long-ear? Shit. I didn’t kill you, did I?”

  Nysta’s lip curled crookedly toward the scar, making her grin seem more cruel. Keeping silent, she moved slowly around to where the voice had come from. It wasn’t easy with the brittle remnants of brush hidden under the snow, but she took her time. Padded carefully through the snow, inches at a time. Her hands were numb with cold, but the elf kept tight control on her patience despite the ball of hate growing in her belly.

  “Long-ear!” the voice sounded nervous. Odd for a mage to be afraid, she thought. “We don’t have to kill each other. It was an accident. I promise you! I didn’t know you were there! Please, Long-ear!”

  He soon realised he would get no reply and she heard him moving about behind the trees. The spellslinger had a talent for finding every twig. And he couldn’t step on them without letting out a curse.

  Circling him proved an elementary task.

  She found him easily and eyed his back, watching as he crouched behind a fallen tree. He kept lifting his head to look across the clearing to where he figured she was still hiding. Kept muttering to himself. Opening his grimoire, looking for a spell to cast. Closing it with a moan and then opening it again as if he couldn’t decide what to do.

  He was young. Barely out of his white apprentice tunic, she thought. Certainly a Fnord judging by both his skin, which wasn’t as pale as the southern Caspiellans, and the dark purple runes shimmering down the side of his flamboyant robes. The runes were in a language created by Grim himself and no mage in service to Rule would profane himself with them.

  She stifled a bark of laughter at his comical appearance. It was rare for mages to wear robes and this was why she’d mistaken him for a female. He was obviously trying to look the part, but managed only to look like a lunatic with a flair for the melodramatic.