Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8) Page 8

  “Find them!” He clutched her jacket, snatching with urgency beyond his age. “I don’t care what you do to me. But find them, elf. Find them and kill them. If you don’t, they’ll draw her gaze!”

  “Who?”

  “Find them. Kill them. The whole world will be hers again if you let them live.” He tightened his jaw. “When you’ve killed me, go back. Tell them you did your job. Then tell them what you told me. Tell them! They’ll agree. Even with their power fading, they’d never dare meddle with Ancient Magic. Never. I can’t believe it. That anyone could master it enough to summon! I can’t tell you how much dread I feel right now. But it’s enough to make me run to the Lord of Light. Throw myself at his piss-stained feet and beg for his cursed protection.”

  She let go of his neck. Prised his skeletal hand from her jacket. No strength in his fingers to resist.

  The fear was in him. A living thing. Staring through the black glass of his eyes, gnashing teeth and clawing to get out.

  Shrieking gibberish.

  The spellslinger’s moans turned to weeping. Cries of frustration as he struggled beneath her and accepted he was nothing more than a victim.

  And she should’ve killed him earlier.

  Should’ve slit his throat before he’d started talking.

  But the darkness beneath her skin was cold. A frigid wave paused in the act of crushing the shore.

  It held itself there.

  Breathless.

  Absorbed utterly by what the old man was saying.

  She asked again; “Who? Whose gaze?”

  “Names,” the old man croaked. Tears glistening in his eyes. The brew was coursing hard through his veins now. “They’re meaningless. Ever notice that? We can change them like socks if we want. I’ve had four. Maybe five. I can’t remember my first. Nevil, I think. Or was it Jon? Did my mother give it to me? My father? When I meet the Old Skeleton, what will I tell him when he wants to know who I am? Dark Lord blind me, I don’t know what I’ll tell him.”

  “Who is she, you old fuck?” Wasn’t sure why she needed to know, but the worms. The worms were pressing against the inside of her skull. Nuzzling at base of her spine. Wrestling with her heart. She had to know. “Veil? Are you talking about Veil?”

  “Veil?” Gurgle turned into giggle. “Don’t you know anything about history? I thought elfs knew everything. That’s what they say. You’re the oldest. She knew you better than the rest. Knew your kind. But, Veil? Veil is younger. Much younger. Before her, there was the Mother. Before the Mother, the Vampire Lords ruled the Night Age. Before that? Ancient. I won’t say any more. I won’t. Can’t blame me for you not knowing any history. Research it yourself. That’s what libraries are for.”

  She lifted him by his collar, pressed nose against his.

  Tried to make her voice cut through the fog which turned them slippery in his brain.

  “You’ll tell me. Tell me now. Or you won’t like what I’ll do to you. You think some fucking Caspiellans were afraid of you? You ain’t nothing to the Jukkala. I’ve seen seasoned soldiers piss themselves when they saw us coming. I watched mercenaries squeal like fucking pigs while begging for a quick death. I’ve pulled spies to pieces with my bare fucking hands. What I’ve done, you piece of spellcasting shit, would turn your hair fucking white if it weren’t so white already. Now, tell me. Who?”

  “You’re going to kill me,” Maskelyne said. Brutal calm. All quivering ceased. The brew griped him utterly within ethereal clutch. He rode its whisper like a slide. Gave in to its kiss with the full depth of his soul. Smiled, wrinkled lips pulling back to reveal the few teeth he had left. “Do what you like, long-ear. I can’t feel a thing now. You don’t have time to wait for me to come back from the Doors of Perception. Do what you like. Cut me to pieces if you have to. I won’t feel it like this. But I won’t die with her name on my lips. I’ll go to the Shadowed Halls proud. There’s no way I’m drawing her eye so she can pull me into her domain. I was loyal. Hear me, Dark Lord? I was loyal. I fought. Fought at Godsfall. And I was fast. So fast. I destroyed armies, long-ear. Destroyed them all with a wave of my hand and words of power so beautiful they crushed my mind. My voice. My voice changed the world. What will yours change?”

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  Then shut it fast as she heard a sound. Soft.

  From outside the door.

  Snarled.

  Knew she had no more time.

  She could come back later. Maskelyne wasn’t going anywhere. Wasn’t going to tell anyone anything. And, as messed up as he was becoming, who’d listen to him if he tried?

  Leave him be for now.

  Her hand moved.

  Red flashed and arced, bubbling and bursting from the old throat.

  He might have screamed.

  Might’ve let out one last yell of terror.

  But her hand clamped hard over his mouth as she cut. Drove the dying head as hard as she could into the mattress. Rage wanting her to shove him through the bed. The floor. The earth. Felt the force begin to flex bone. Didn’t let go.

  Couldn’t let go.

  His eyes, wide and bright inside old sockets, bulged. Hoping if they reached hard enough they could suck air into drowning lung.

  They searched.

  Saw something she couldn’t see.

  Rolled.

  Then lost all trace of life as the Old Skeleton reached with bony hand and clawed another soul from the edge of the elf’s enchanted blade. She could almost hear the withered chuckle of his claim.

  When it was over, she pushed herself from the corpse. Used the sheets to wipe blood from her coat.

  Waited a few breaths. Tongue rested on the edge of her bottom lip as though testing air for movement. A viper poised to strike.

  Didn’t hear anything.

  Maybe a shrieked laugh from somewhere far away. Answering roar.

  “Reckon you got your pay out,” she said, cutting a sliver of his shirt free. Began knotting it into a lock of hair beside her cheek. “You might’ve cheated me, but in the end it was me who gave you the sharp and left you flat.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  With Maskelyne dead, the glowing orange thread gave a pulse before unwinding itself and snaking back into the corridor. A living thing only she could see.

  She watched it go, unsure where it would lead.

  Sure of one thing, though.

  She wasn’t going to like it.

  Back down the stairs, the thread burrowed deeper into the castle’s interior. Worming through the darkness without a sound.

  As she followed, the elf rubbed her eyes. The red light throbbed, casting shadows along the wall which flickered and danced. Soon, it’d give her a headache. Knew it.

  Could feel latent pain coiled like a nut inside her brain.

  Growing.

  Echoed between her teeth was the taste of Tantalon’s brew.

  “Could’ve just given me a fucking map,” she muttered.

  She thought about Maskelyne’s words. The old spellslinger had told her he was powerless. Had he been lying? Had he been waiting for her to drop her guard for a moment?

  Had his tongue been poised to spit words of dreadful power and unleash blasts of magical plasma? How close had he been to blasting her head from her shoulders?

  How much of what he’d said was a lie?

  Trickery and cryptic lies was something she expected from his kind. They lived in a world where their power had made them feel so far above everyone else they didn’t think twice about manipulating them. Or destroying them.

  By his own account, he’d slaughtered thousands.

  Sure, they’d been Caspiellans, and she’d have done the same. But she remembered the look in his eyes. A look she knew well. A look which recalled the drunken cruelty of the moment and revelled in it.

  He’d been good at it, he’d said.

  Very good.

  Then it had been ripped away from him and left him like this. Powerless. Weak.

  No wo
nder he’d turned to the brews of alchemists to drive the demons of his suffering back into the dark. Less wonder that he hadn’t struggled at the end.

  Could she trust what he’d told her, or was it just a game he was playing? Vengeance on the mages he figured had sent her here to kill him. Did he hope rumour of their powerlessness would spread?

  How much of what he said was true?

  And if so, what about Chukshene and Hemlock?

  If Maskelyne was right, they were playing with dangerous powers. Powers the mages in their towers were afraid of.

  Too many questions.

  Too many riddles.

  She hated both.

  As though feeling her frustration, the worms inside darted with erratic dashes which made nerve and muscle twitch and lurch. More than once she found herself sliding against a wall, chewing her lip as panic began to rise.

  What was happening inside her body? What had that brew done?

  Only when she thrust all thoughts from her mind to turn them entirely to the pulsing thread in front of her did the worms calm.

  Her heart thudded its beat. Steady and hard.

  She’d sheathed A Flaw in the Glass to bury its light, but kept the comfort of Forging Market Curves in her right hand. The narrow blade would be good against guard armor. Because, now and then, she heard sounds.

  Sounds she thought could be footsteps. Or conversations. And not outside. From inside the corridors. Out of sight.

  But sometimes close.

  It made the journey slow. Kept her pressing tight against corners before slipping around. Low to the ground. Creeping.

  Her legs weren’t used to it anymore. Weren’t used to the need to move silently in a place where the slightest sound could get her killed.

  They ached and complained and she stopped more often then she’d have liked. Worked muscle with her hands. Tried not to think about the soft wriggle beneath her palms as worms rolled from beneath with the hard press.

  Helping?

  Or getting out of the way?

  Either way, it made her shudder.

  She was pressed against a corner, kneading the meat of her calf when she heard him.

  Alone.

  Slow steps.

  Not trying to be silent.

  Shuffled.

  Half-sideways, he crabbed along. Heavy mace held in one hand. Lamp in the other. The mace was too heavy for him. It dipped in his fist. Wrist no doubt stiff and sore.

  He wiped at his face often.

  Sweat of fear.

  Fear of dark places.

  As he inched closer, she pulled back around the corner and tucked herself in. Lifted the blade so its steel edge kissed cold to her cheek. Found herself smiling at the tang of steel in her nostrils. A tang so close to blood there sometimes seemed no difference.

  Closer.

  Could hear whispering between clenched teeth as he worked to keep himself from giving in to the fear of the unknown.

  “…is bullshit. Grim’s tits, this is shit. Should’ve listened to Fulfar. He said they were fucking stupid. Should’ve listened. Why didn’t I listen? Because they seemed like alright fellers. Bit of free grub now and then. Free booze on Sixthday. Good enough, right? Good enough. Fuck, though. It ain’t worth this. This is shit. Ain’t even got a partner. Or a fucking map. Just stuffed alone in this fucking shitho-”

  That was enough.

  The lamp spewed light in front of her eyes as he emerged from a passage in front of her. Head thrusting ahead of his bent body, he tried to peer past the shining beacon into the gloom.

  Blinded by the unfiltered glow, he didn’t see her.

  His uniform was too small. To force a fit, the tunic had been cut. Sewn back together with thick leather laces.

  Wide gap around his side.

  It was into this gap the elf shoved Forging Market Curves. The thin blade hit rib and glanced upward to splash into racing heart.

  The impaled muscle gave one last pump.

  One last clenching squeeze of life as she pushed it further inside with a second brutal shove of arm.

  A couple of thin metal plates fumbled loose from his uniform as he fell. Crashed across hard stone floor. Loud in her ears and she struggled to catch the lamp while slamming her hand over his mouth.

  Pushed him down. Like she’d pushed the old spellslinger.

  He made a sound.

  A tight sound from somewhere in the back of his throat.

  Maybe the last sound he’d ever make.

  But she had to be sure.

  Lifted his head and slammed it back down into the ground. Wet crunch enough to spray wall with blood. A puddle glided out from under. Searching for a way out of the dark.

  Alone.

  He’d said he was alone.

  Was he?

  The crash should’ve been enough to bring someone running.

  She listened. Ears close to bursting as she strained to catch even the slightest intake of breath.

  Nothing.

  Looked down.

  He was younger than she’d expected. Barely a squeeze of hair on his chin. No way he’d begun shaving. Dead eyes swirled lamplight, soaked in death and the pale gaze of the void.

  She didn’t bother to close them. Set the lamp down next to his face.

  Lifted herself over his unmoving form and moved down the corridor, plucking each step behind the glowing thread.

  Cleaned her knife with a rag.

  Dropped it.

  And stole each step as fast as she could, maintaining catlike grace.

  Mind filled with fragmented memories of the Jukkala’Jadean.

  Walk like this. Crack of wooden stick against her thigh when she failed.

  Walk.

  Crack.

  Walk.

  Crack.

  Walk!

  Better.

  Crack of wood anyway. They’d never been satisfied.

  Train harder.

  She could smell the sweat of the training floor. The dried blood. How many times had her face been pressed against it? Feel of cold wood against dripping cheeks. Blood forming crimson snake from nostrils.

  Each time, they thought her broken.

  Each time, they mocked.

  And every time, she got to her feet.

  Lifted fists.

  Do it again.

  “Can’t break me,” she murmured. And, as she moved, kept a mantra she’d hardly used. “I am tested. I do not break. I am tested. I do not break.”

  It felt strange to hear the words moving across her tongue. During her training, she’d said them daily. Then she’d stopped. An abrupt change of focus on the day Talek had been burned by a Caspiellan mage.

  Crowlee was right.

  She’d forgotten a lot.

  And it would take time to remember.

  The glowing thread made an abrupt turn to plunge through the wall just ahead. Halfway down the passageway. A small torch hung in its sconce to mark the spot. Unlit and draped in cobwebs.

  The elf studied the wall.

  Sighed.

  And began searching for the right stone.

  Kept working when she didn’t find it. Wasn’t sure how big the doorway would be.

  Didn’t find it.

  Tried again, thinking she’d missed something.

  Nothing.

  Stepped away, pressing her back against the opposite wall and trying to hold the frustration at bay. Trying not to let it build into anger. Trying not to lash at the stone with her foot.

  Think, she told herself.

  The secret tunnels under Veil’s Temple had been worse than this. Tunnels the Jukkala had used to set trainees loose in. Loose to be hunted by older students.

  No maps. No alchemical threads.

  Had to learn her way in the dark through repetitive adventure.

  There had to be something…

  “Oh, for fuck sakes,” she growled.

  Rolled her violet eyes.

  Grabbed the torch, which naturally couldn’t lift free
. But it did turn to the right, letting loose a soft click within the wall’s guts.

  Pushed on the hidden door to open into a room even more lush than the spellslinger’s.

  Wider. More decorative.

  Walls painted with bright murals. Mostly flowers and trees. A few naked nymphs darting behind slender trees. More nymphs standing to their waist in small glittering pools.

  A wide wardrobe, doors ajar. Clothes kicked to the floor.

  A narrow desk. Mirror set into the wall in front. Jars of powders and paints lined neat. Brushes lying to one side. Tidy.

  Lit by a few candles drooling off a holder bolted to the wall beside the door.

  Plush couch close to the window. Velvet curtains drawn.

  Thick fur rugs sprawling across the ground.

  Fireplace burning low. Just embers huddling in a mound of ash. They’d already warmed the room and, so far, the heat was still clinging to the air.

  Pair of boots abandoned in the middle of the room. Woman’s boots.

  Underclothes.

  Bed. Heavy pillars embraced by silk and velvet clutching a thick mattress. Blankets turned down. Sheets awry. Pillows. Two on the floor. Three on the bed. One more in the doorway leading to a washroom.

  Smell of perfume.

  Smell of sweat and sex.

  Sound of water splashing. A gentle hum. A pretty tune.

  And the glowing thread homed in on it, sliding across the abandoned pillow and out of sight.

  The elf paused.

  Follow it?

  Or wait for whoever was in there to finish?

  Sex.

  Where was the lover?

  When would they return?

  “Shit,” she breathed. No time to plan. No information on who’d be around.

  She might as well be blind.

  Led on a thread like a bull on a ring. Just as clumsy.

  How to proceed? Hideg’s Order had given her nothing. Just mystery and a demand for obedience. Wasn’t enough.

  She took a calm step forward.

  Froze as her ears picked something from the quiet. Three steps in, and she half-turned to head back into the hidden passage.

  Silence pulled taut. The icy ball of fear in her belly began its familiar churn. Slow and cold. Frigid edges scraping against her spine.

  Nostrils, filled with the sick sweet stink of perfume.

  Blood pumping hot. Slick with the kerosene of rage. Ready to ignite.