Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) (26 page)

“If you ever did at all,” the red-haired elf glowered. “You don't fool me. You lived on the street too long. Even if it's true that those raghead motherfuckers accepted you. Nysta, inside, you're still just a whore. And like all whores, you ain't got no heart. Closest thing you got to a heart is the purse you keep your fucking coppers in.”
 

She nearly killed him there and then.

Knew she could.

But something made her hesitate. She thought of the creature which had buried itself in the heart of a fortress in the shadows of the coldest corner of the Deadlands. Thought of the chains which had bound it, snaking between its ribs and around its heart.

And she felt those chains herself. Chains which had been formed at birth. No matter how she tried to deny the tug and pull, she could feel them as strong as she'd felt them the day she burned her father's Hold to the ground.

Raste shared her blood.

So, she waited.

“Hope you've got a heart, though, Raste,” she said slowly. “Big one, too.”
 

He wrinkled his brow, eyes glancing at the box, then back at her. “Why? You think I'll forgive you now? Think I'll cry for you,
sister
?” He gave her a disgusted look. “Well, I won't. Good riddance, I reckon. Another whore gone where she belongs. You got here easy so far. But don't think you can kill me as easily as the others. Because when you left me alive, you made the biggest fucking mistake of your life. I swore that would never happen again. And I've practised. I can throw this knife right through your fucking eye. I don't miss anymore. I was trained by the best. The Jukkala know their shit when it comes to knives, don't they? But I went beyond them. I took this thing to war. And I duelled on the streets, too. And beat the best of all of them. So I know I'm faster than you. When I kill you, and I will, I'm gonna spit on your corpse and leave you here for the fucking Draug. So, fuck you. For you, you Tainted bitch, I ain't got a heart at all.”
 

“We'll find out how good you are in a minute, Raste. But that ain't what I meant.” She scratched her palm, her gaze drifting lazily over the hidden shadows beyond the trees. “Just my fingers are cold. And my shoulder's still bleeding. Might not be as accurate as I was yesterday. Could use a big target is all.”
 

He let loose a snarl as he shot to his feet. “Then let's get this done,
sister
. No more fucking around.”
 

Nysta rose unsteadily, right arm hanging limp and useless. Her fingers curled painfully, refusing to move. The wound slicing down her back from the fight in the inn throbbed and burned. A spark of agony zigzagged across her back and shoulders.

Bruises, like apples in her flesh, sent more subtle waves of pain washing over her body. A body she'd pushed far beyond its limit.

Couldn't stop the gasp of pain emerging from her throat.

“Didn't think this through, did you?” He smirked.
 

She lifted her head slowly to face him. Knew she looked like shit. Which was kind of funny, because she felt like shit, too.

His stance was loose and some of the tension left his shoulders as he watched her struggle to stay upright. Yet, despite the confidence, he still couldn't keep his eyes from flicking toward the shadows pressing against the dead trees around them. “I'll give you a chance, Nysta,” he said. “Just one. Leave the box. Piss off while you can. Call it pity for all those years you spent sucking cocks on the street.”

“Weren't that bad,” she countered, swaying on her feet. Rolled her aching shoulder, feeling the deep wound break open and the warmth of fresh blood trickle down her back. She'd have to use her left hand, she realised. “Taught me to recognise a dick when I saw one.”
 

Her violet eyes glittered as she crossed her left arm over her body to touch
Go With My Blessing
.
 

It wouldn't be the first time she'd used this particular blade with her left arm, but it wasn't going to be the smoothest draw. She could have chosen another. But
Go With My Blessing
was her best throwing knife. It wouldn't let her down. She could almost feel it humming as it anticipated flying like a hawk through the air.
 

She licked her lips.

Could smell the snow holding itself inside the clouds above as though afraid of being the trigger to the inevitable violence.

“When you're ready,” she said. Beckoned him forward with a crooking of her fingers.
 

He gave a curt nod and began circling. He thought to stay on her weaker side. Smart of him, she allowed, to remember his training. She followed, step for step.

Around the small box which waited on the ground between them.

It was a magnet to his eyes. Working to constantly wrench his gaze from her. He had to struggle to keep his eyes on her. Had to fight his urge to lunge for it.

Meanwhile, Nysta kept her gaze firmly fixed on his hands. On his feet. On his eyes. On the rhythm of his dance as he worked himself up, trying to get the courage to go for his dagger.

She wondered how much of his style had been learned on the streets with duelists. There was something too fluid in the way he moved. More fluid than the style taught by the Jukkala, who preferred brutality over finesse.

He'd had the gold to afford the best teachers, and she didn't doubt he could throw his blade with matching skill to her own. It was one reason he hadn't brought his sword. That, and he trusted the years he'd spent honing his craft.

But the Jukkala didn't believe in duels. There was never any guarantee of winning them. All it took was a slip on a stone. One distraction. A bird leaping from a nearby tree. Fingers slipping on the handle. And you were dead.

Better to strike from behind when it wasn't expected.

All the same, she'd been forced to duel before. Her pride had refused to let her back down from the bitter challenge of a rival student. Meeting in secret, they fought a short and savage fight.

And she'd lost. Walked away with a knife buried in her side and an ugly scar across her breast. But, Talek had reminded her often enough, she'd walked away.

This one, though, wouldn't end with both of them walking away. It wouldn't be a fight to first, or second blood. It would be to the death. As it was always going to be.

His fingers circled the pommel of his dagger. A nice knife, she thought absently. A bit too long and heavy for throwing. Not what she would have chosen. But the way he touched it showed his ability.

Still, he seemed reluctant to pull the blade. As though waiting for something else.

His finger rubbed the brass sphere which acted as a counterweight. It glinted. Caught the light and reflected it into her eyes. Not sharp enough to make her blink, but bright enough to narrow her eyes.

She matched his breathing, feeling his ribcage expand and contract. And, for a brief moment, it was as if they were joined. Lashed together by chains of hate so much stronger than the feeble bonds of blood.

He pulled his mouth back into a grimace as she allowed her own to curl cruelly up toward the scar. Inching into a smile that revealed nothing of the fear pounding in her chest and running like black torrents of thick oil through her veins.

One spark.

Just one spark.

And she would explode.

But she was determined it would be her brother who started the final drift into the maw of Death. Determined that spark should come from him. Give him that chance. That chance she never had. Not for him, but for her. So she could be sure those chains of blood were truly broken. Not by her, but by the family which had driven her into the foul embrace of the Lostlight streets.

Let him break the last link with her past.

With each step he took as he circled her, he grew more and more panicked. Sweat squeezed through the pores on his forehead and slid down the side of his face. His eyes flicked from her, to the box, and then to the trees. More and more to the trees.

He muttered to himself.

Gnawed the inside of his cheek.

Scowled.

And finally shrieked; “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

But his words weren't aimed at her. They were aimed at the trees.

The elf paused, heart hammering in her throat. She expected an arrow in the back. A fireball to the head.

Something.

Anything.

Heard a footfall behind her and Raste's eyes widened again.

“Me?” Chukshene's voice was grim. “I'm waiting for you to die, asshole.”
 

His voice was music to her ears and she felt the smile expand on her face, stretching the scar and making her brother freeze as a wave of terror rammed home harder than any knife she could throw into his body. His jaw dropped and a wet choke broke across his lips.

“You get him?” she asked the warlock, without turning.
 

“Yeah. Was as you said. The cleric came, too. Wasn't expecting me to sneak up behind him.”
 

Raste's face was pale. His fingers twitched over the handle of his blade. “How'd you know?”

“Know you better than you know yourself, Raste,” she said evenly. “I'm Jukkala'Jadean. A raghead. We know patience. Sure, we taught you, Raste. But not by choice. Besides, I watched you, remember? You always were a backstabbing little bastard. No way you'd have the guts to come alone. You can't help yourself. Always got to have someone to do your wet work. Reckon that's what drove you here. To lick Rule's balls. Because at heart, you're a coward. You can keep that bullshit about trying to save our kind. It ain't about that. Never was. It's about hoping he'll give you a pair of your own. Well. Seems you won't be making it. I'll be sure to send him a card with my fucking regrets.”
 

“You fucking-” He drew the blade in one swift move. His speed caught her by surprise. The world screeched as it braked into slow motion. He pulled his arm back. His form was smooth. Fluid. The blade flashed in the light. “Whore!”
 

His blade glittered in the air. She saw it clearly, plunging toward her heart. Her body screamed in agony as she twisted on her heels. A torrent of wet worms rushed up her spine and clawed at the muscles in her back. She felt the dagger hiss through the air. Nearly found her head.

Buzzed past her ear to spear into a tree directly behind her, its handle quivering hungrily as it sank into the trunk as though unaware it had missed its target.

Nysta's aim, however, was better.
Go With My Blessing
sailed from her fingers and splashed into his stunned chest, left of centre. Blood arced across the snow.
 

He dropped with a cry. His fingers, sapping strength, scratched at the earth. He pulled himself across the frozen ground toward the box. Left a thick crimson trail. Eyes flared as his fingers wrapped around it.

“Now,” he croaked, triumph rearing its reptile head above his agony. “I'll show you, you cocksucking bitch. I'll fucking show you.”
 

The box opened with a cheerful click.

And he looked inside.

“Reckon what you're looking for ain't there, is it?” She sat down beside him, crossing her legs. Rummaged through her pouches for a few bandages she carried. “And those teachers of yours, Raste? Reckon they weren't as good as you thought they were.”
 

He worked hard to look up at her, eyes haunted and afraid as he saw the Shadowed Gates yawning open for him. “She'll come for you,” he choked.

“Yeah.” Her smile was cruel. “Reckon she will. And I'll be waiting.”
 

Raste tried to say something else, but blood bubbled too quickly over his lips and his eyes rolled hard back into their sockets as Death ripped the life from his body.

She ran her fingers through the dead elf's red hair and sighed.

It wasn't a sad sigh, but one which carried away with it many years of jealousy and regret. Jealous because he'd always had everything she felt was stolen from her. And regret, because there was always a part of her which had yearned for family. Which had always wanted a brother.

A brother who might have protected her.

Maybe loved her.

“Who?” The warlock slumped beside her. His robes were soaked with the cleric's blood. He reached out and took the box from the dead elf's lifeless hand and gave it to her. She took it without a word and shoved it back into her pocket. “Who's gonna come after you?”
 

“Raste was always a momma's boy,” she said. “Figure he meant her.”
 

The warlock dropped
Entrance Exam
on the ground. She took that, too, without blinking.
 

“I used the knife like you said.” He sounded sick. “You didn't tell me how awful it was gonna be. He cried at the end. Had to stab him in the throat. He couldn't get the words out to heal himself. Fuck. His eyes. He knew he was dying. He was younger than me. Just a kid.”
 

“Not good, uh?”
 

“How do you do it? I mean, with magic, I don't feel their life leave their body. With this, I felt it. It was so vivid. So close. I fucking
felt
him die.”
 

She shrugged. “Reckon it's what you get used to. Raste was right, maybe. Could be I don't have a heart. I never felt that way, 'lock. I guess I figured the world had given me so much pain, I could afford to give some back.”

“That's fucked up. Really. That's so fucked up, I don't think I can even find the words to tell you how fucked up it really is. And I knew soldiers who grew to love their shit. Loved killing Caspiellans. But you're so far beyond them. You're like ice. I don't know whether to be revolted, or pity you.”
 

“Yeah.” She let out another sigh to take the last splinters of hate she'd been carrying. Slumped forward and stared at the bandages in her hand, too tired to try wrapping her wounds just yet. Wasn't sure where to start, anyway. “I'm a real cut above the rest.”
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Nameless Mage stood alone on a large platform suspended over a pit. Whether the pit led to anywhere, even he couldn't tell.