Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8) Read online

  Muffled laugh.

  Footsteps overhead. Heavy wooden heels click clacking.

  Droning conversations little more than a bubbling hum.

  Clank of pans.

  The ground was dry. Uneven, but tidy. She remembered what Tantalon had said.

  They were normally guarded.

  But Hideg told him they’d be cleared out.

  Empty.

  Hideg had lied.

  She heard them before she saw them. Slid around the corner and waited.

  Clink of armor gave them away.

  Her own boots nearly gave her away as the sound of her heels clacked across stone. She wished she still had the boots given to her by the Jukkala. And only then did she feel a stab of guilt at the patches covering her old uniform.

  Pushed those thoughts away. Turned them outward. Feeling the silence.

  Touching the air with her breath.

  Waiting.

  Then saw a vivid glitter of light.

  They carried lanterns.

  And, though they whispered, their words bounced from shadow to shadow and amplified by stone.

  “-Fayna says I should suck it up. Just keep working. She says Sagg’ll promote me to Captain if I just prove myself. But working down here every day? Dark Lord’s ass, it’ll kill me, Denk.”

  The other snorted. “Sagg won’t promote you anyways, Barl.”

  “Sure he will. I got tenure. I’ve been with him for five years now. More than most.”

  “Captain’s spot is already taken.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. I heard Fulfar telling Jorg. Anj is gonna announce it tonight. That’s what the drinks are for. You didn’t think they had us setting it all that shit up for fucking laughs? Old times? Fuckin’ joke.”

  “Who? Who’s better at it than me? I been leading this pack for three years. You all respect me, right?”

  “Sure, we do. You know more than anyone about the grounds. And you ain’t one of these fucking delivery boys, neither. You never led us wrong. But Bran knows a feller who he grew up with, right? Feller who’s got a pa with a few coin he can rub his balls with. You know how it is.”

  “What the fuck? What’s he even do, this feller?”

  “Do?” Another snort. Closer. “He don’t do nothin’. Pa’s a showpony for the Duke. That’s why Bran’s giving him the job. Got his eye on the little cunt’s family jewels, right? Ain’t personal, Barl. Just business. That’s what Sagg calls it, remember? Business.”

  Barl spat. He sounded heavy. “Fucking bullshit.”

  “I know.”

  “What am I gonna tell Fayna? She thinks I’m goin’ places. I gave up my spot in the Guard for this shit. United fucking Bodyguards? Bollocks. What’s united here if we’re not even given a chance?”

  She didn’t find out what he was going to tell Fayna.

  Neither did he.

  Threw herself around the corner. Was maybe six paces from them and didn’t stop moving. Right arm sang a fluid motion to cut short his thoughts with a sudden explosion of blood and steel as Go With My Blessing buzzed air and burrowed deep.

  As he dropped, the lamp crashed and rolled. Shocked, the light flickered and danced wild.

  In her left, Ill Fate Over Price flashed reflections of fractured lamplight and caught Denk’s gaze. He was a thickset man. Hadn’t seen a fight in more than a year at least.

  Didn’t even try to lift the club in his hand.

  Had time to say; “What the-?”

  Then choked off as the slender blade rammed up under his chin. Slivered point erupted on a gush of molten blood through tongue and palate to find its home inside his brain.

  Left arm reached for her.

  Managed to twitch against her jacket.

  Then he was falling and she let him fall.

  Violet eyes lifting to peer into the blackness behind them. Were they alone? Had anyone heard?

  Silence answered her questions and she knelt to pluck weapons free. Cleaned on their uniforms. Tucked them away.

  Thought to check their boots, but they were too large.

  Two old men who’d been looking at the end of their career.

  Dreaming of recognition. A common dream among soldiers sick of bleeding.

  A broken dream, though. Soldiers bled. Then they died.

  Only rich men rise.

  This was a truth even Nysta had long ago come to terms with.

  Which didn’t explain why she was skulking through the dark on a promise of gold she hadn’t seen.

  With a grunt, the elf kept following the glowing trail as it led up a thin winding staircase. Steep. Carved into solid stone. The edge damp with reddish fluid.

  Not blood.

  Just water seeping through stone.

  She explored slow, aware of the slight scuffle sounds her boots made with each step. Ears tense for the slightest sound from above.

  Or the shout from below which might announce the bodies had been found.

  The stairs took her up at least three levels before she saw a doorway which the glow ignored to take her up another two. Where the stairs ended pressed against a wall of solid stone.

  “What the fuck?”

  The thread ignored the wall and drilled through, wriggling like a worm.

  She lifted her eyes, not wanting to think about worms.

  Figured there had to be a way through.

  More secret doorways, then.

  She began searching the stones.

  Couldn’t find it. Frustration made her shoulders itch. Maybe she could punch her way through?

  Kick?

  Shaking her head, she looked around. This wasn’t what she was good at. Why had the Order sent her into tunnels? She should’ve ignored the Taskmaster’s words. Should’ve just gotten the targets’ names.

  She could’ve found her own way inside…

  Inside where?

  Where was she?

  She didn’t even know that much.

  And, as that thought settled in her brain, she felt a cold droplet of sweat begin at the corner of her brow and slide down her cheek like a penny dropping into her brain.

  Rich men rise.

  Soldiers bleed.

  And not just bleed.

  Soldiers are expendable.

  Deniable.

  Her eye caught the top step. She hadn’t noticed, but it wasn’t carved into the stone. It was topped with wood.

  She knelt. Tapped it once.

  Sounded hollow.

  It lifted easily. A lid covering a small wooden handle. Looked like it was attached to a chain which disappeared into the guts of the stair.

  Gave it a pull and was rewarded with a subtle click as a hidden lock snapped open.

  Turned on her heels and looked at the door like it was about to fall on her head. Lips curling in distaste.

  Every step since she’d left Tantalon had felt like a mistake. Like she was being rushed into the mouth of a wyrm.

  Something was wrong.

  She could taste it like bile in the back of her throat.

  Turn around? Go back?

  Forward?

  She touched fingertips to the wall and it swung open on greased hinge with a smooth swish. Revealed a room opulent and wide where the glowing thread hovered. The end of its trail. Glowing end bobbing up and down.

  Plush bed against one wall. Wardrobe opposite.

  Desk near window. Wood surface carved and polished bright. Statue of a crow precarious on the corner. Wings tucked tight. Beady black gem eyes glaring at the elf.

  Flowers potted on the window’s deep sill.

  Fireplace. Lit and spewing cheery glow.

  Oil lamps placed around the room. Unlit.

  Magelight on the wall.

  Unlit.

  Books on a shelf.

  Fine rugs clean, like they were only just rolled out.

  Painting on the wall. A severe old man in a military uniform. Behind him, a pack of dogs frolicked on a hill. Muddy browns and dark
shades of green and blue. Gold frame too large. Carved flowers glinting.

  Thick velvet curtains. Red. Tied with ribbon. Open.

  She moved toward the window and stared out into a massive courtyard.

  Pale stone paving.

  Ornamental statues.

  Closed gates in the distance and a high stone wall.

  Turrets.

  Towers.

  And guards.

  More guards than she could count accurately. Marching through the courtyard. Marching across the walls. Strood straight at the gates. Hovering around a wagon loaded with barrels.

  Guards.

  Everywhere.

  And the elf’s back shivered cold.

  Palm itched.

  She knew where she was now. Knew without doubt.

  Rushing from the window, she moved as quickly as she could across the floorboards without making sound. Threw herself back into the darkness and pulled the secret doorway so it was almost shut.

  Just as the door to the room was flung open and an old man with a wiry beard stomped inside. Rich clothes. Clean boots. Gold rings flashing diamonds.

  Sniping loudly to himself.

  “Who the fuck does he think I am? Who the actual fuck? A fucking servant. That’s what. Well, fuck that. I’m not a fucking servant!” Throaty voice. Dry. A man used to drinking. He threw an empty glass at the fireplace where it shattered. Sent shrapnel skipping across the ground. “To the fucking Warp with you! Hear me? The fucking Warp! Just wait until you need me. Just wait, you little cocksucker. Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck! Cocksucker. You fucking impudent little cocksucker!”

  Through the slender gap she watched him totter quickly to the wardrobe with the imbalanced skill of a drunkard.

  Jerked the doors almost off their hinges.

  Lunged inside and came up with two bottles.

  One a heavy stone bottle. Expensive wine, she noticed.

  The other a small vial.

  Alchemist potion.

  Sneering, she watched as he worked the cork free of the wine with his teeth. Took a long slurp before setting it down on the desk and dropping onto the bed.

  Shoulders shaking, he kept talking. But he sounded weaker now.

  Less enraged.

  More bitter.

  “I used to be something. Damn you.” Sigh. “Dark Lord, I used to be… Ah. Fuck it.”

  He upended the vial, sucking each glowing drop until there was nothing left. Tossed it aside as he dropped back onto his pillow.

  Looked toward the ceiling, not really seeing it. Seeing beyond it, perhaps.

  Glitter of tears down leather cheeks. Mix of rage and something else.

  “Fireball,” he murmured as the brew took hold. “Dark Lord, just twenty years ago, I’d have melted his fucking face right off. Right off. Made him eat the skin.”

  And the elf froze.

  Spellslinger.

  They hadn’t told her that.

  How strong was he? Even drifting away on the wings of an alchemist’s dream, could he still cast? She didn’t know.

  Licked her lips.

  Spellslinger.

  She hated spellslingers.

  But she’d let Chukshene live. And Hemlock.

  Warlock. Necromancer.

  That was the lie she told herself.

  But this feller? Who was he?

  Was he worth leaving alive?

  No.

  He was a target.

  Just gold in her pocket.

  “Fuck you, feller,” she breathed. Then swept from the door and onto the bed before his addled mind could understand what was happening.

  Had her blade against his throat and staring down into frantic eyes.

  Seconds away from jerking A Flaw in the Glass sideways to send blood spraying all over the place. Grinned down at him, a triumphant burst. Triumph the worms inside silently ignored.

  He opened his mouth. Maybe to cast.

  “Forget it feller,” she growled. “Time to rest a spell.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You’re here to kill me?”

  “Good guess,” she said. Arm tensed, ready to push blade through the soft tissue of his throat. Hesitated only because, splayed across his chest, her palms still itched and the hairs on the back of her neck seemed to be reaching for the sky.

  Something.

  But the danger wasn’t the sack of futility quivering beneath her thighs.

  “At last,” he breathed. Sank back, eyes closed and a smile dragging itself across his face like a satisfied lizard. “I wondered when they’d send someone. It’s been too long.”

  Not quite the words she was expecting.

  Confused, she didn’t move.

  Just stared at him. Violet eyes cold and impassive. “You were waiting for me?”

  “Yes. You’re late.”

  “What’s your name, feller?”

  “They didn’t even tell you my name?” Brows smashed together and brown eyes sparked. “But I am Maskelyne!”

  Her violet gaze moved up and down. “You don’t look it, feller. Look too old to make that claim. How late you reckon I am?”

  “Oh, eighteen years or so.” Giggle. “What happened? You took the long route? Got stuck in the Trollspits?”

  She relaxed. So, he hadn’t been waiting for Hideg.

  “Why’d they send me after you? Old bastard like you doesn’t look worth my time.”

  “Who you calling old-?” Outrage woke his murky eyes and he looked ready to ignore the knife and make a play at casting.

  Nostrils flared and he worked his bearded jaw. Bony old body gave a twitch.

  And then it was over.

  Over before she had time to deliver another threat, he shrivelled back into the mattress. Suddenly fragile. Flinching.

  And utterly broken.

  “Twenty years ago, elf, you’d never have gotten into the room. And even if you had, you’d be a smear of ash and blood on the wall. I was fast. Faster than anyone. You might not know my name, but it struck fear into the hearts of many. Many! Why, at Godsfall, I killed hundreds. Thousands. Could’ve been even more, but I lost count. I burned through armies like a living inferno. Killed six clerics. And Dargathon. You never heard of him? Where the fuck have you lived? A fucking box in Icespike? Dargathon! Was Rule’s favourite pet mage. Bah. I fucked him up real good. Froze his fucking head with a blast of ice magic. Then another. Boom! Just a neck spitting red icicles. Best thing I ever saw. The power, elf. I can’t describe the feeling of it. Raw and saturating. That day, I thought I could take on the Lord of Light himself. But I was too far away. My place was to protect the Towers. Who knew he’d be defeated? Who could imagine the aftermath? And who’d dare admit it? Look at me. Helpless as any old drunk in an alley. Doubt I could singe your fucking ears if I tried.”

  “What happened?” Not really interested. “Get old, feller?”

  “Old? We all get old. Even you’ll be old, one day. If you live that long.” Snort. Then a deep sigh. “No. It started as soon as the Dark Lord fell. With the last blasted strike of Rule’s hammer, I felt it. Felt it deep inside. Like the ringing of a bell. A bell from the Shadowed Halls, even. And it’s been tolling ever since.”

  “Ah,” she said. Looked to the door, wondering if anyone might be outside. “You lost your mind.”

  “What? No!” His voice raised, then dropped quickly as she squeezed his throat. “No, I haven’t lost my sanity. I’m as sane as anyone who was there. More so than most. I don’t live my life in denial, do I? No, it weren’t my brain I lost. It was something else. Something much more important.”

  She leaned over him.

  Could smell acrid sweetness on his breath. Alchemical stink.

  What had he lost?

  Treasure?

  Enchanted items?

  As his voice trailed off, she suddenly grew interested.

  “What?”

  “Hmm?” The brew was tugging him down, and he had no will to fight it. “I said enough already. Far too much. I
shouldn’t tell. It’s bad enough I raised it at Assembly. That’s what got me sent here. To this doomed fucking ass-pit of a city.”

  She pressed harder on his throat.

  Watched eyes widen. “Tell me what you lost.”

  “Power,” he spat through tight lips. Then squeaked; “I lost my power. We all did! Some of us just not all at once.”

  The thought made her lip curl. “Good. It’ll make you easier to kill.”

  “You don’t understand. Without our power, we can’t defend the Fnordic Lands. Rule’s clerics will be unstoppable. And the few he trusts with magic will be as gods to us.”

  “They breathe,” she said. “They’ll die.”

  “It’s not me who’s lost their mind,” he said. “It’s you. You haven’t got any idea of a big picture, do you? All you’ve got is selfish fucking greed. You’ll do anything. Kill anyone for a few pieces of fucking silver. Scrounging your life inside a dream one day someone’s gonna piss gold right down the back of your neck. Well, I tell you. That isn’t gonna fucking happen. You’ve got to spend if you want that kind of piss. And you haven’t got that kind of coin.”

  Something else tripped her thoughts.

  Chukshene.

  “I’ve seen a spellslinger lately,” she said. “More than one. If your magic is gone, how come they can cast?”

  “His spells would be small. Limited. No better than illusions. The strong went first,” he said. “Lost everything. They said it was because we were getting old. But that’s not it. My master never faded in strength until he died. That’s not how magic works. Only those who were weak have kept some of their power. When I was sent away, they were desperate to hide it. Desperate to pretend it wasn’t happening. And, maybe, they were ashamed. I was proof of our doom.”

  “He summons demons. Is that strong?”

  “Demons?” The old man blinked hard. Squeezed his eyes trying to pull some coherency into his brain. “Like, real ones?”

  “Yeah. And another feller I met raises the dead.”

  “Necromancy! You’re lying.”

  It was her turn to sneer. “Where’ve you been feller? Caspiellans tried to take the Wall. They did what you said you can’t do anymore. Killed a fucking army.”

  “Forbidden.” His face paled and he barely breathed. “It’s forbidden. They must be stopped. Must be destroyed. There’s good reason the Ancient Magics were outlawed. Fucking good reason!”

  “Keep your voice down, old man.”