Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) (4 page)

The elf's face was impassive as she struggled with the boiling need for revenge on a man who already seemed too far away, and the fragile thread of loyalty she felt she owed a stranger. A stranger she knew had secrets of his own.

She remembered the moment she'd first seen the spellslinger. A clumsy-looking apprentice, she'd thought. Slumped in the snow in fear of his life, yet unwilling to go on the offensive. How weak he'd seemed. Like a lost puppy.

Then there were those first words, chosen so flippantly. A wife. A child. Appeals to the last grain of empathy left in her heart. How incisively they'd cut while lost in the torrent of emotions following the loss of Talek.

But they were bullshit. Bullshit which proved she couldn't trust anything he said.

So, back to her first question.

Why not leave him? Why not cut his scrawny throat? Dump him in a trench and let the Draug have his body.

Because he hadn't tried to hurt her. She'd accepted his word that the fireball had been an accident. Accepted it because she knew if he'd meant to kill her, she'd have been dead. He could have exploded the land around her when they'd met. Same as he'd done to Gaket's Lichspawn.

Sure, it'd have taken time for him to cast. Time enough for her to perhaps drag a blade over his throat, but he hadn't tried those things.

He'd tried to talk to her. To apologise for a mistake.

Her teeth pressed hard against each other as she turned that thought over in her head. In the time since their meeting he may even have saved her life more than once. Or at least made it easier for her to save her own.

She ran her fingers through her thick locks of hair. Rubbed irritably at the scar on her cheek. And resisted the urge to plant a knife in his guts.

For now.

Behind, the warlock staggered a few steps before steadying himself with a shake of his head. Muttered rapidly under his breath. Hefted his pack further onto his shoulders and used one hand to lift his robe slightly while the other clutched the grimoire.

For her part, the elf rested her hand on the hilt of
A Flaw in the Glass
. Listened to the bitter wind creeping over the mounds of loose stone. Looked up at the blue sky which had disintegrated most of the clouds.
 

And wondered how long until he tried to kill her.

Caught in her thoughts, the elf didn't notice the glint of steel until she was close enough to almost step on it. Then her eyes widened in surprise before a brutal grin spread slowly across her face.

Kneeling on the loose stones, the elf lifted the object lightly in her hand. Balanced it across her fingers and let her eyes casually scan the closest hill.

The warlock dropped gratefully beside her, showing only partial interest in what she held. “What is it?”

“Knife,” she told him. “One of mine.”
 

“Yours? How'd you lose it out here?”
 

“Didn't,” she touched her hand to the stones nearby and lifted her finger to show him a few spots of red. “Left it in a feller's ribs back in Spikewrist. Nice of him to return it. It's one of my favourites. Reckon I should thank him. Come on, Chukshene. One more hill to go.”
 

“One more?” he groaned. “Seriously, Nysta, I don't know if I can.”
 

“Sure you can, Chukshene. Just put one foot in front of the other.”
 

“Easy for you to say.”
 

“And do.”
 

The elf approached the hill with caution, though the slivers of shale under her boots didn't lend much to a silent approach. She still held
Bamboo Bones
loose in one hand and slowly drew
A Flaw in the Glass
with the other. Felt comforted by the hesitant flare of green as the enchanted blade hummed in her hand.
 

“Be careful,” the warlock said anxiously. “I've got nothing to help you with.”
 

“Won't need it, 'lock,” she said, nodding to the dark spots forming a red trail over the hill. It zigzagged erratically. “Reckon he's beyond fighting.”
 

“What about the others? They could be hiding. Waiting for you. Waiting for us. This is a bad idea.”
 

“If they were, we'd be dead already. I know the Musa. They'd have put arrows in our eyes a long time ago. Besides, I ain't seeing any horse tracks. Do you? Means he walked this way. Or was carried. Most likely walked. Tough walk for a wounded feller.”
 

The blood trail thickened suddenly at the top of the hill and a long wide streak led down the other side. A black shape lay huddled at the base and the elf's eyes narrowed to glittering violet slits while the warlock struggled loudly with the last few steps up the hill behind her.

He looked down and saw the unmoving form swathed in a thick black cloak and shook his head. “Poor bastard,” he said. “Must've been desperate to walk this far.”

The elf said nothing and sheathed her knives. Then allowed gravity to dictate her pace down the shallow slope. Shale slithered down like snake scales and clattered to a halt against the dark shape. It didn't move.

She squatted beside the cloaked figure and rolled him onto his back. Stringy black blood stained his cloak and he let out a thin groan. The kind of groan which comes as much from the soul as the body. The kind that drew the pitiless gaze of Death.

She eyed him critically before standing tall to scan her surroundings. Looked for sign of an ambush.

Just in case.

“You think they're hiding?” The warlock called down from the top of the hill.
 

She shook her head. Called back; “Nope. Reckon he was left behind. He was slowing them down.” She nudged the dying elf with her boot. “That right, fuckhead? They leave you behind?”

Blood bubbled over his lips and he tried to roll away.

The elf rested a boot on his thigh, pinning him in place.

His body shuddered as he gave up trying to resist. “Please,” he breathed. “Help me. I'm dyin'.”

She sat close beside him, crossing her legs. Cocked her head.

He looked older than Raste. A little younger than herself. Not too ugly. But even if it weren't for the deathly pallor of skin and slackness of expression, there was something about his face she didn't like. Something that told her she wouldn't want their roles reversed.

Thin chainmail glittered against the dark shirt and pants. A pin clasped the cloak beneath his neck. Made of silver, it was carved to resemble an earless face. A human design, then. Odd for an elf to wear. Especially one of the Musa'Jadean.

Several sheaths clung to his hip and thigh. Short blades. So, in this way, he was like her. But many Musa who'd trained with the Jukkala preferred small blades as they aped those who'd taught them. A few sheaths were empty, and one caught her eye.

Her jaw tightened as she drew the hooked dagger she'd pulled from her husband's corpse.

Slowly, almost reverently, she slid it home in its sheath on his hip. A perfect fit.

He didn't notice.

A slick puddle of blood seeped into the stone beneath him, staining a few sparse patches of nearby snow. Pain wracked his body as he suffered a small coughing fit. Blood was no doubt leaking into his lung.

He didn't have much life left to cling to. In fact, it was amazing he'd made it this far. But, she thought grimly, the Jukkala taught the Bloody Nine belligerence in the face of death.

Still clutching his grimoire, the warlock finished his achingly slow descent. He rolled back onto his ass and leaned against the hill. Red-faced and gleaming with sweat, he watched with tired eyes but said nothing. Perhaps sensing the rising hate boiling in the elf's heart as she touched her fingertips to the scar on her cheek.

Her eyes were hard as they bored into the dying elf. Yet, despite the hatred clawing at her heart, she kept her tone neutral. “What's your name, feller?”

“Fenis.”
 

The name meant nothing to her. “You a soldier, Fenis? Musa'Jadean, right?”

“Was.” His breath came in wet ragged sobs.
 

She touched her hand to the pin. “Interesting design, this. Looks Caspiellan. Want to tell me why you're wearing it?”

“He gave it to us.”
 

“Raste?” She glanced southward as a bitter wind crept around them.
 

“No,” the young elf shivered.
 

“Who, then?”
 

“You think he's the enemy, but he's not. He forgives,” Fenis spoke quickly, forcing his words through the pain. “You just gotta ask. Make sacrifice.”
 

The warlock muttered something dark. Spat into the wind and began pulling himself free of his pack.

She pulled
A Flaw in the Glass
and slid the tip of the blade across the pin. “Reckoned I've seen it before,” she said. “On a bunch of Grey Jackets. Didn't think much of it at the time. Was busy killing them. That was a long time ago, Fenis. And not a lucky day. But that's my story. Seems you can relate to it, though. On account of your luck being pretty fucking bad today, too. See, Fenis, I've made a habit of missing a lot of good chances. Reckon I ain't gonna do that again.”
 

“I'm dyin',” he rasped. “Really dyin'.”
 

“Yeah.” She looked out across the thin patches of snow dusting the shale. Death had a smell of its own, and that smell was on the air. “Yeah, you really are.”
 

“You're the one,” he said through clenched teeth. “He spoke about you.”
 

“Who?”
 

“That other feller. One we killed.”
 

“Talek,” she said. Felt a molten force of rage crawling up her arm and it took every ounce of will to not punch the blade into his chest. She still had questions. Had to know more about Raste's plans if she wanted to hunt down the remaining members of the Bloody Nine. “His name was Talek. He was my husband.”
 

“Yeah, that's right.” His voice was dry and cracked. “Raste called him that. Talek. That was his name. Raste said he was special.”
 

“Was Kulsa'Jadean.”
 

“Really?” The dying elf spat blood. “Didn't seem that tough. He said you were, though. Didn't believe him. Do now. You really a raghead?”
 

She sucked her teeth and leaned closer. “Fenis, I'd like you to tell me if Raste is still headed to Grimwood Creek?”

“They left me behind.”
 

“You slowed them down.”
 

He gave a pained shake of his head. “Not that. It came. Out of fucking nowhere. Took us by surprise.”

“What came?” But she already knew the answer.
 

“Big thing. Fucking chains killed my horse. It was like something from the Shadowed Halls.”
 

“It kill them?”
 

“Who?”
 

“Your friends!” she hissed. “Did it kill them?”
 

“Don't think so.” He sounded confused. “Everyone split up. Fucked if I know. Neckless headed this way. Maybe the Twins, too. Can't be sure. Figured I could catch up. Can't get far with Torak like he is. If he's still alive. We're both dyin', raghead. Maybe a matter of who bites it first?”
 

“They plan to hole up somewhere on the way?”
 

“Tubal and Spirik wanted to wait,” the dying elf said. “Wanted to fight you. Raste said no. Said you weren't a real raghead. Must be a trick, he said. Said you probably went mad out here. No way you could be a raghead. Hair too knotted. Too much cloth, he said. You probably thought they were pretty bows. Besides, he reckoned you were dead back there.” He struggled to move. She put her hand on his chest and held him down. “Said you were a whore. Didn't believe him. Saw your eyes. You're fucked up. Worse than us.”
 

“Why Grimwood Creek? What's there?”
 

“Nothing.” He let out a long whine as fresh agony made his face convulse. “Shit, raghead. It hurts so much. Just do it.”
 

She tapped the blade gently against his chest. “If he ain't going to Grimwood Creek, then where's he headed?”

“South!” The word pulsed from his mouth like a rupture. A splash of blood hit her arm holding him down. “Headed south. Meeting our escort at the town. Then south. That was the plan. But I ain't making it, am I? Too late.”
 

The elf frowned. “South? There ain't nothing south for him. They'd kill him on sight. He can't hide there forever.”

“Told you. Lord of Light forgives. Just got to ask,” Fenis closed his eyes. “Raste's crossing over. Shit. We all were.”
 

An icy stillness bloomed inside her at the words. She looked up at the warlock, who caught her eyes with a firm gaze.

The Bloody Nine had proven to be not just mercenaries, but traitors of the worst kind. Traitors willing to run into the arms of the Caspiellan god. Her mouth formed a hard line as she returned her gaze to the dying elf. “Crossing over? He can't be. Do you know who he is?”

“We got the word. Rule wants us back. All of us. There's more of us than you know, raghead. And he wants us in Leibersland. Important. Time to leave north.”
 

Chukshene pushed forward, almost shoving her aside. “What task?”

Fenis gave a weak shake of his head. “Won't tell. No, hurt all you want. But won't tell. Tell you where he is, though. Raste. Do what you want to that bastard. And Tubal. Fuck him. They left me behind. Could've saved me, but I saw his eyes. Raste chose to leave me. It's why I headed after the twins. But I won't tell you nothin' else. Lord of Light protects me now. He cleanses me of Tainted Blood.”

The warlock glared at Fenis with almost as much hate as she herself was bottling. He raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged in response to the unspoken question. “Don't reckon he'll talk,” she said. “Not that he's that tough. But he ain't got much left. He knows it. He'll finish bleeding out before he speaks.”

“That's right,” Fenis said between gulps for air. “Tell you something else, too.”