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

Tears burned her eyes as they squeezed free like seeds from a pod.

“It's okay,” she heard the spellslinger's voice in her ears. He sounded afraid. “You're fine, Long-ear. You can wake now. It's gone.”
 

The elf cracked her violet eyes open to slits and looked up at him. His face was gaunt, the skin stretched and pale. Drenched in sweat despite the cold and his breath hung in the air like puffs of smoke. An expression of concern frozen on his face.

Or was it pity?

The sharp stink of magic made her nose hairs curl and pain beat at her flesh. An intense ache hovered just behind her eyes. And each breath made her ribs creak.

The elf winced.

Didn't want to think about the bruises which no doubt purpled her body from head to foot. Tried to roll onto her side. A kittenish moan slipped through her teeth before she wrenched it into a low growl of irritation. “What the fuck?”

“It's gone,” he repeated. He hugged his grimoire tight and stared out across the plain. “Whatever it was.”
 

She lifted herself awkwardly into a sitting position. Ignored the stabs of protest give by her ribs and other parts of her body.

Her guts felt like they'd been trampled.

And her wrist hurt like dogs had gnawed on it. Then she remembered. Looked down at her arm. Chukshene had tried to remove the bracer so it now hung loosely around her wrist. But her coffee-coloured skin looked normal. There was no sign of the darkness which had poured into her flesh. No sign, too, of the wound Gaket's tendril had made as it ate into skin. If not for the pain, she might have figured it'd been a dream.

She flexed her fingers into a fist and frowned. Her arm tingled. She squeezed the fist.

Squeezed and released.

Again and again until the tingling stopped.

Then looked at him. Confused. “What happened?”

Chukshene licked his lips and thought carefully before replying.

She could see something in his expression she couldn't understand. But humans often wore expressions she couldn't figure. Nonetheless, something in his eyes made her hand drift slowly toward the hilt of one of many blades jutting from the dozens of sheaths littering her tattered jacket and pants.

“I won't lie to you, Nysta,” he said, hesitation making his voice crackle. “It went inside you. Tried to take you over. I'd pretty much given up. There was nothing I could do. I think those things of Gaket's, and whatever that other thing was, fought over which would drill into your brain first. Not a pleasant experience, I'm thinking? I think their aim was to take you over. So when you woke, you wouldn't be you.”
 

“I ain't feeling any different. Just beat up. Like an ogre danced on my head.”
 

“I'm not surprised. You took a lot. Not just from the Lichspawn. But afterward. Whatever it was, you fought it. While you were out, you screamed. With wolves and worse creeping about looking for easy meat, I had a hard time keeping you quiet. Even harder time keeping us out of their bellies. We nearly didn't make it. I admit I nearly left you to your fate.”
 

“I don't remember.”
 

“Wouldn't expect you to. I did everything I could to stop it taking you. But it wasn't pretty,” he said, throwing her a tired smile. “So, no difference. You're still ugly.”
 

She scowled. “You stopped it?”

“No.”
 

“No?” Panic fluttered up her throat and she tasted bile. Began to pat herself down, searching. Though she couldn't say for what.
 

“Relax,” he said. His eyes glittered in the light of approaching dawn.
 

The warlock waited for her to calm, as though listening to the driving rhythm of her heart until it slowed. Then leaned forward slightly, peering deep into her eyes.

As though searching for something.

“What is it? What's there?”
 

With a shake of his head, he leaned back. Forefinger tapping steadily on the top of his grimoire's spine. “Nothing. It's okay.”

“Then where is it? Why couldn't you kill it?”
 

“There was nothing I could do,” he said. “I expected it to gut you, to tell the truth. Was ready to run as fast as my fucking legs could carry me. But then it disappeared. Like a shadow in the sun. Could be you fought it off? I'm fucked if I know what it was. But whatever it was, it was old. I could tell that. Ancient, even. While it was strong enough to destroy Veil's Gift, maybe it couldn't fight your will?”
 

“Make sense, 'lock! Is it gone?”
 

“I really don't know. Maybe it's still in there, crawling around inside. Too small for me to find. Could be it's just waiting. Waiting for the right time to emerge. Whatever it was, Long-ear, I can't find it in you now. So maybe it's really gone,” he said, but there was reluctance in his voice. “But not knowing what it was makes it difficult. Weirdest thing I ever saw. Tell me, Nysta. Do you know what was inside that thing you opened?”
 

Her mouth was dry. So dry it felt her tongue might crack open.

All she could remember was the  hideous sensation of a river of slick worms sliding up her arm from the box's icy heart. Drilling into her flesh.

She shook her head. “No fucking idea. It was Talek's. Something his family protected since the Godwars. Even he didn't really know what it was. Just figured it was some kind of puzzle box.”

He drew the box from one of his pockets and held it in his palm. Looked at it with a spellslinger's curiosity, a frown pulling at his brow. “You know, since dragging you here, I've been looking at it. I can't quite understand it. You know what I find more strange than anything else?”

“Give it to me,” she demanded firmly. Reached for it, but he pulled away from her.
 

“It doesn't open. You say it might have been a puzzle box, but it's not. There's no trick to it. It's a box not meant to be opened by anyone less than a mage. Maybe more than one. In any case, a good mage. Better than me, though that's not difficult. And yet, it opened for you.” He traced his fingers along the crisp alien runes. “And what's this writing? I've never seen anything like it. It's in no language I've ever seen, and I've spent years in the Library of Hatejaw. I've studied goblin, ork, dwarf and elf writing. Seen languages you don't even know exist. Since before the Gods arrived. And this is nothing like any of them. Where did Talek's family get this? Do you know? And how did you open it?”
 

“It's mine,” the elf hissed, overwhelmed by the speed at which the warlock shot his questions at her clouded mind. She lurched forward, but the pain in her side made her flinch back and let out an involuntary moan. “Give it to me, you spellslinging fuck! Or I swear, I'll cut it from your corpse!”
 

He eyed her calmly, apparently unmoved by her threat. Then, casually, tossed it to her. It bounced once in the moist earth and came to a rest near her hand.

The elf snatched it with a snarl and stuffed it quickly into her jacket.

“Just remember this, Nysta. Whatever was in that box, I didn't save you from it,” he said. “If I were you, I'd take it to Doom's Reach. Maybe even Godsfall. Give it to the mages. It's too powerful for you. It should be studied. You should make sure that whatever it was, it's not still inside you. Somehow, that thing is important. Too important for you to run around carrying in your jacket.”
 

“Fuck you, spellslinger,” she growled. “It's mine. You can't have it.”
 

“I don't want it. Believe me, Nysta. I really don't. It gives me the creeps. There's something about it which says it shouldn't be here. It's wrong. Whatever was inside, it got into you and wrung the life from that Lichspawn shit. And if Gaket was right, that was a gift from Veil. Strangled. Then spat out of you like dust.” He licked his lips and leaned forward, almost desperate to get through to her. “Whatever it was, it did that. And if that doesn't frighten you to death, then it should.”
 

“I don't give a fuck what it was, Chukshene. It's gone. And I've got other shit on my mind. Raste is getting away. He's halfway to fucking Grimwood Creek by now and that means he's almost out of my reach. And I ain't having that. I won't fail again.” The elf felt a surge of rage hotter than anything she'd felt in her life. Her eyes felt like they were glowing with hate. She didn't want to think about Talek's box. Didn't want to know. Not yet. Time for that later. “I've failed too many times in my life. No more. I'll find him. And I'll have his fucking head!”
 

“You're the most stubborn woman I've ever known, Long-ear. And that's really saying something. Did I ever tell you about my wife? One of them. Well, either of them. Okay, let's not start that again. Let's just say you're stubborn.” He waved his hands in annoyance. “You know, you might not believe it, but I do kind of give a shit about you. Not much. A little shit. Like, one that squeezes out your ass, but it's not quite the whole shit? Just a little fucking ball of shit? You know the kind. But it's enough of a shit to care about whether some fucking thing eats you from the inside out or not. So I'm telling you, you should get help. Not from someone like me. My magic doesn't run that way. A mage. A real one. I might even know a few who'd help.”
 

A flash of fear and anger shot through her as she thought of spellslingers. A mage had crippled Talek. It was a mage who had ruined any chance at happiness she had.

“Don't talk to me about spellslingers, Chukshene,” she said through her teeth. “Not if you want to keep your tongue inside your head.”
 

The warlock tapped his book in frustration. “I know you don't like mages, Nysta. I know why. And it's a fucking good reason you've got. But it was a Caspiellan who torched your husband. Not a Fnord. There's a big fucking difference. And you should learn that difference quickly, because your life might depend on it. I'm serious now. If it's still inside you, it could do worse than fucking kill you. You need to be sure it's gone. You need to be examined.”

She struggled to her feet, feeling the stiffness in her legs give way to the pain of swollen wounds. “Whatever,” she grunted. Rolled her shoulders. Began strapping the bracer back onto her arm and checking her weapons.

“What are you doing?” The warlock shot her an incredulous look.
 

“Taking your advice, 'lock.” She started limping south, following the treeline. “I'm checking myself out.”
 

CHAPTER THREE

South of Spikewrist, the land grew more treacherous with every step.

Cracks in the ground which had surrounded the town grew deeper. And the shale skirting along the trenches made for uncertain footing. There was nothing beautiful in the long undulating dunes of brittle stone and everything to fear in the sullen echoes of a hellish war.

Ice and snow clung to boulders and shredded stones, promising a cold grave to careless travellers. The odd bone here and there were testament to this.

Forced to leave the relative cover of the twisted treeline, the elf led the warlock along the path winding crookedly through the trenches. Her eyes glittered as they caught sight of the heavy tracks left by the Bloody Nine. They were pushing their horses too hard, she reckoned.

Perhaps the fear felt by the younger men had infected the more experienced soldiers.

Fear of her, she thought with a tight grin.

Raghead, they'd called her. So now they knew what was on their trail. They would ride those horses to death, she figured. And then they'd run to the town. Where their ultimate destination lie, she couldn't say. But she knew once they made Grimwood Creek, there'd be little chance of catching them after that.

They'd disappear.

East or west?

Most likely east. Toward the coast. Catch ship to anywhere and lose themselves in any city in the Fnordic Lands. She'd hunt for decades and never find them.

She couldn't risk it. She had to move quickly, too.

Which meant moving off the path and taking a more direct route toward the bordertown. It was a slim hope. One she knew depended on her luck in avoiding any sudden shifts in terrain. Or worse, any Draug haunting the shadows.

Inwardly, the elf groaned in anticipation of a few more scrapes and bruises.

Always a few steps behind, the warlock kept muttering to himself. An irritating noise given the pounding ache behind her eyes.

An ache which didn't seem to want to fade.

As her thoughts turned toward the warlock, she realised with cold certainty that she couldn't trust him.

Spellslingers could never be trusted. They were dangerous. Even the weakest could kill with a wave of their hand. And he'd managed to kill more Lichspawn than even she could have.

All with a few words.

And then there was his story about what had happened while she was unconscious. But what had really happened?

She looked down at her wrist. A few specks of dried blood were all she had to show. Not even a scar. Something so powerful as the cables of solid shadow Gaket had unleashed couldn't just disappear. He had to have done something. Must have. So what really happened? And why would he heal her and then tell her he didn't?

And what did all that have to do with Talek's box?

She'd been gripping it in her fist since reaching the path. And despite the warlock's insistence that only a mage could open it, the lid flipped open easily enough even now. Her fingers explored the empty container and her mind puzzled at the absent contents, though she didn't yet remove it from her pocket.

All she'd wanted was something to remember him by. A token of a the love she'd found so difficult to reveal, even to him. But which she still felt burning in her chest every time she thought about him.

About his eyes. His wry smile. The sound of his voice.

His smell.

Hands, cupping her face.

The elf's expression hardened, and she pushed thoughts of her husband aside.

The box, once a symbol of the chains which had bound them together, had become a curse.