Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) (10 page)

A thin line of blood dribbled loose. She watched it form a quiet puddle.

Touched her fingers to the latest hole in her back and felt the shy throb of blood squeezing out of her body. Figured she was lucky it hadn't driven into the bone. The tough wyrmskin had prevented most of it from piercing flesh and saved her from a wound which might have rendered her arm useless.

But the bruises were spreading, opening like bloody flowers under her skin. Her eyes closed and she wanted to slump to the ground. Wanted to rest there. Just for a minute.

Close her eyes, maybe.

Just take a few moments to breathe.

But she had to keep awake. If she slept now, she wasn't sure she'd wake. So she chewed hard on her lip, and forced herself to move. Hunched and limping, dragged herself back toward the stairwell.

Leaned hard against the wall and left a thick trail of red as she headed back down.

Step by agonising step. Nerves gorged on pain.

Looked back only once. This to aim a bloodstained globule of spit at the room which had nearly claimed her life.

The elf's thoughts were of Neckless and the anxious weight of his belief that someone was always trying to kill him. “Reckon you had too much on your mind, feller,” she murmured, managing a crooked smirk. “Shouldn't let it all get on top of you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The elf was almost on her knees by the time she made it back to the room in which Chukshene lay snoring, his head pillowed on his grimoire. Felt a brief spark of irritation on seeing him. But recognised the kind of exhaustion that had driven him far beyond a deep sleep and into something which was more akin to a coma.

She figured to let him sleep. Shouldered the old door closed and crawled toward the corner closest to the warlock. Buckled against the wall.

Stifled a low animal sob of pain in the back of her throat.

The hole in her shoulder was an angry hive of hot rushing sensations extending down her arm. As though boiling worms squirrelled through her flesh. Her cheek added an extra dose of punishment she didn't think she needed.

But which she endured simply because she had no choice.

Tugging a ragged strip of cloth from one of her many pouches, the elf dropped the shoulder of her jacket to reveal her damaged skin. Pressed the rag hard against the leaking wound caused by Torak's hook. Held it for a moment while it soaked blood, then balanced it in place as she leaned back. Winced. Left the cloth pressing between her open flesh and the wall.

Figured she'd use the ancient furniture in the room to set a fire as soon as she'd passed through the vicious curtain of agony to a point where her nerves had swollen into numb acceptance. At that point, she'd be able to move. Slowly, but without feeling like the pain was about to strip her guts clean of meat.

She winced as she reached up to touch her fingers against the old scar on her cheek. The fresh bruising below appeared to be just that. Bruises.

She'd feared Torak's punch had cracked the bone, which would have meant a long delay in healing. Wasn't sure her body could take much more.

She'd gotten lucky, the elf thought. If not for the sudden distraction given by the quaking ground, she reckoned she'd be strung up on Torak's cursed hooks and screaming as he peeled the skin back from her body.

With a shudder, the elf accepted she'd come too close to death.

A few years ago, she'd never have made that mistake. Never have walked into an obvious trap. The half-closed door. The relatively clean floor in a dusty old ruin. The muted cough as bait.

It had been a stupid decision brought about through impatience and desperation. She wanted to kill Raste so bad she could taste it not just in her mouth, but in the marrow of her bones. And she was experienced enough in the art of hunting prey to know that impatience and desperation only got you killed.

She had to hold on. Had to keep alive.

In the meantime, she sat motionless as she waited for the wound to calm its savage throbbing. How much time passed, she couldn't say. There was nothing to measure it by but the uncertain threading of her pulse as she listened to the warlock's sawing breath.

Her gaze travelled the shadows creeping across the dusty stone floor.

Tried to divide her chaotic thoughts into something coherent.

After the explosion of violence and the resulting loss of blood, the elf's coffee-coloured skin was pale to the point of ghostly. But in her violet eyes there was a glint which hinted at an untapped source of strength left in her lean frame.

That strength hadn't always been there.

Her first years scrounging on the streets of Lostlight were years of constant fear and exhaustion. She'd wandered like a mindless undead corpse for much of it. But she learnt her lessons. And found once the door had been opened, it could never be closed. So she learned to be ruthless.

And that ruthlessness had saved her life many times before tonight.

The elf rubbed at her eyes, scrubbing away the grisly echo of bloodshed and wiped the sweat and grime from her face with the back of her fist. Gave no more thought to the lives she'd so recently taken. Instead managed to channel her thoughts back to the wound in her shoulder. It beat angrily at her flesh and bone.

Reached back to remove the makeshift bandage which had been soaking the blood.

And frowned.

There wasn't enough blood.

Dropping the wad, she touched her fingers to the wound. It wasn't as bad as she'd thought. Which was strange in itself, because the pain had been so severe it'd almost crippled her as she'd descended the stairs. She explored the edges of the narrow tear in her flesh. Wetness leaked, but not as much as she'd expected.

Still, bruises surrounded it. And those bruises had swollen tight up against bone.

She remembered the last time she'd taken such a bruising to her back. A fight with an ork. Talek had used some kind of unguent on it for days until the bruising faded. His strong hands massaging the muscles of her shoulder.

Neck. Her back.

Pressing the places between the bones of her spine.

Squeezing her eyes shut, the elf felt a shudder of grief at thought of her husband and realised something so beautiful in its simplicity.

That she missed him.

Missed the genuine warmth of his smile.

His solemn-spoken advice.

She could use his advice right now.

“Ah, Talek,” she whispered. Her voice rasped gently through the shadows. “I wish you were here.”
 

Tears bubbled like acid in the corner of her eyes and she shook her head angrily.

He was dead.

Gone.

A memory. A ghost bound in ethereal chains within her head and heart.

“Nysta?” the warlock yawned, lifting his head. “Everything okay?”
 

His voice made her jump, though he didn't notice. It was only then that she realised the light in the room had slowly increased, infiltrating the shadows as dawn chased the night away.

How long had she been sitting there? It felt like only a few minutes. But it had been hours.

Had she slept? She didn't think so. Was she going mad?

Kept her voice flat and unemotional. “Fine.”

“You didn't sleep?” His eyes were bright and he looked ready to attack the day with a level of positivity she was quickly finding annoying.
 

“How's anyone supposed to sleep around you, 'lock? You snore loud enough to scare ogres away.”
 

“Seriously? I snore? That's new. Huh. You want anything to eat?” The warlock undid the straps on his pack and shoved his hand into the depths. “Think I've got a few things in here. Drink? I've got a little water. Maybe. Shit. What's this? Well, I don't know what it is. It's a bit fucked up. Looks like applecake. Yeah. That's what it is. Smells okay. Just wipe the mould off. It'll be fine.”
 

“Figured you ran out ages ago.” She raised an eyebrow. Mentally added this new information to a growing list of the warlock's lies. “That's what you told me, remember?”
 

“Yes, well. Never travel without food, that's my motto. A man needs to eat. I thought if I told you I didn't have anything, you wouldn't try to steal it. Let's face it, Nysta. You don't look the most honest sort of woman. In fact, I'd say my first impression was you looked like a stone cold killer wanting to cut my throat just to rob me of my buttons.” He passed the applecake and a small canteen. Tapped a finger to his robe after she accepted his offer of food. “And I like these buttons. In truth, I've got a little more food. But not enough to keep us going for too many more days. Let's just say, it'd be good if Grimwood Creek's got a store.”
 

Betting he had another canteen hidden away, she dropped the applecake into a pouch and slung the canteen over her right shoulder. Winced as her shoulder let a few ripples of pain wash outward. “I can go a long time without eating, Chukshene.”

“Ah, yeah. Elf endurance. No wonder Rule hates you. Personally, I pity you for it. Eating's one of my favourite things to do so I like to do it as often as I can. Guess that's why this trip's turned out to be so fucking awful. Ever been to Dragonclaw? They have the best food in all the Fnordic Lands. Such variety! The meatballs. I remember the meatballs. Slap those fuckers on some noodles and smother in red sauce. Bit of fucking cheese. Delicious. And spicy as fuck, too.” He rubbed his belly and gave it a slap. “I can almost smell it now. Ah, Nysta. You really should go to Dragonclaw for the meatballs. Really. Give me food, I say. Good food. And lots of it. Especially if I'm casting. And I've got a feeling you'll have me casting a shitload more real soon. I swear, you're more trouble than a gang of goblins in the Imperial palace and you've got more enemies than the Emperor himself. It won't surprise me at all if there's a fucking army of assholes out there right now. Sharpening their swords and cursing your name.”
 

“Could be right,” she said, glancing at the rotting curtains. “Got a hunch we'll have to fight to get out of here sooner or later. Sooner would be better. Get it over with.”
 

The warlock got to his feet, dusting himself off and pushing the curtain aside. Sneezed.

Sneezed again, before squinting out at the grotesque wall.

Nysta didn't want to look at the wall again. Even in the pale light of day, she was sure it'd look horrific. For his part, the warlock did well to suppress his revulsion and instead held out a palm, murmuring quietly to himself.

Scrying it.

Searching for a weakness. A hole. A way out.

But needles in haystacks are hard to find, so he didn't have to say anything for her to realise he'd found nothing. Silent and frowning deeply, he tried to understand what had happened. Why there was a wall in the first place. What magic had dragged it up from the bowels of the earth.

And what magic it would take to hammer it back down again.

Shifting his attention to the small buildings circling the tower, the warlock scratched his head. “It makes no sense,” he said at last. “I can't feel anything. Just a big wall which might as well be made of stone. But I can see it's magic. Smell it's magic. Fuck, it even tastes like magic. So it's got magic right up its fucking ass. But feeling it out... There's nothing there. Which is impossible.”

The elf leaned hard against the wall as she slid to her feet. Felt a stab of pain down her shoulder and arm. The little finger tingled as she massaged her elbow. The nerve was kicking, but otherwise she felt as good as she was going to get today.

Licked her lips and hobbled toward the large desk. With every step, she felt surprised to feel stronger. Figured it meant she just needed to stretch the pain away. But was still feeling the sting of cuts and bruises as she reached the edge of the desk. Had to hold herself against it as a dizzying rush slipped behind her eyes.

Took a few quick breaths.

Then dropped into the ancient chair, half-certain it would crack under her weight. It held, giving only a dull creak of surprise.

Under the thick layer of dust, the desk nursed a plate. Hard lumps of desiccated food lay in the middle of the plate. A fork dropped beside it. Goblet lying dry on its side. A few scraps of brittle paper. A battered helm. Few bits of rubble from the ceiling. Cobwebs strung themselves over an old candlestick and a thin spider with long legs and narrow back loped awkwardly away from her.

Whether it was a latent aura, or something else, she figured the disorder was the result not of recent movements in the ground, but of the final frantic moments spent by the room's former occupants.

“Left in a hurry,” she muttered.
 

“What's that?”
 

“Whoever was here. Everything is pretty much in its place. Looks like they were eating. All dried up now, but there was food on that plate. And they were reading something. Just scrap now. Reckon they got up and left without taking their helm. Means they weren't thinking straight. Cared more for their skin than their head.”
 

“You reckon this happened to them? Maybe they're part of the wall now?”
 

“Wouldn't bet against it.”
 

“Fuck.” The warlock frowned harder, his brow pushing hard against the bridge of his nose. “I'm liking this less every second. Poor fuckers. A bastard of a way to die.”
 

“Better them than us,” the elf said quietly. Then swept the dust from the desk and began rummaging through the drawers. The handle broke off the first one. She tossed it over her shoulder.
 

Inside were more papers. Some more preserved than others.

The writing was Caspiellan.

A few gold coins. Accepting that it wasn't stealing if the owners were long dead, she dropped them into one of her pouches.

Everything else was junk.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, still staring through the rotting drapes.
 

The elf shrugged. Slammed the drawer shut and put her feet up on the desk. Leaned back and clasped her fingers behind her head. Gazed at a few cracks in the wall and noticed an old painting was hidden under dust, almost perfectly blended into the grey stone wall. It was hung at a slight angle. “Nothing, I guess.”