Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) (8 page)

“Not this kind. This is old magic, Nysta. And I'll bet both my balls it's from before the gods.”
 

She led him upward, seeking the source of light.

It turned out to be the windows inside a large room. Thick velvet curtains, long since rotted, left wide holes for the dank air to sweep into the room. The warlock stepped up to the curtains and nudged them aside.

Following his example, she peered out at the dark fingers which enclosed the fortress. Light still speared between the fingers, but not much of it. And soon, with the late afternoon lending itself to dusk, there wouldn't be any light at all.

“It's a fortress within a fortress,” he said dully. “Too high to climb. No way in. No way out. We're stuck.”
 

“Looks like it.”
 

The warlock frowned. “I'm liking this less every second. It's worse than when I got stuck inside Lifeblight. Two days, that was. I remember-” he broke off, jaw falling open in horror.
 

“What is it?”
 

“Look,” he pointed out the window, his arm shaking. He looked ready to throw up.
 

“What?”
 

“Just look at it.”
 

She stepped up beside him, but couldn't see anything through the gloom exciting except the wall and brief glimpses of the cold landscape beyond. Thought she caught sight of a few shadows moving about among the smaller buildings, but decided it was just her imagination. Shrugging, she made to turn away, but he grabbed her shoulder and jabbed a finger toward the outside wall. “Don't you see them?”

Frowning, she considered stabbing him in the face for touching her, but the urgency in his voice made her look again. The glistening wall looked unsettling, but didn't invoke the horror in her that it seemed to in the warlock. At least, not until she allowed her eyes the chance to really take it in.

It wasn't just slime which formed the webbing between the ribs.

It was people.

Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of silently screaming people, twisted around heavy stone ribs in a macabre sculpture of death. Their skin peeled away to expose their organs. The glistening she had seen was simply the wetness of their flesh covered in foul sludge.

More horrifying, they looked fresh enough to still be alive.

Which was impossible. Unless the magic which made the walls also kept them alive. Her heart lurched and she took a step backward in revulsion.

He followed suit, leaning against the closest wall before sliding to the ground. Brought his knees up to his face and dropped the grimoire beside him. “That's it,” he announced. “We're fucked.”

The elf shook her head. Looked around the room. They were in some kind of office. Military, judging by a few stained banners still clinging to the wall on their last threads of honour. Caspiellan, probably.

Cobwebbed shelves. A heavy wide desk. high-backed chair. Empty fireplace yawning cheerlessly against the wall near the slumped warlock.

“You stay here,” she told him. “I'll look around.”
 

“We should stick together.”
 

“You're exhausted and you'd slow me down,” she said bluntly. “It's going to be night soon. And we ain't finding our way out by creeping about in the dark. So, whether we like it or not, we're here until morning. Like to be sure nothing's going to sneak up on us while we wait. While I'm gone, you keep quiet. And careful. Don't want to end up like them fellers out on the wall. So don't drink anything.”
 

He gave her a puzzled expression, but already his eyes were drooping low as the promise of sleep clawed at his mind. Even the terror he was feeling couldn't serve to keep him awake much longer. “What's drinking got to do with anything?”

“Look outside, 'lock. Figure they've all been where we're at. They were here trying to survive. Just like us. So it could mean that if we ain't careful then all in all we could be more bricks in the wall.” She curled her lip crookedly up toward the scar. “And that's got everything to do with what's in Waters.”
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leaving the exhausted warlock, Nysta padded up the stone stairs.

Rubble from fallen debris made stealth something of a challenge, but the constant dripping of water from holes in the roof high above masked the slight sound of stones shifting with each step. It wasn't an ideal situation, but she accepted if it was difficult for her, then anything lurking in the shadows above would have similar problems.

Tremors made the walls vibrate. Not for the first time since leaving the warlock slumped in the room below did the random quakes force her to pause. Each one robbing her heart of a few beats. Waiting to see if the tower would suddenly collapse on top of her.

More and more, the grinding sound seemed to be coming from the cliffs behind the entombed fortress than the ground below. What this meant in the long run, she couldn't yet guess. But she didn't think it was going to be good.

Her fist worked the hilt of
A Flaw in the Glass
as she headed up, knuckles flexing before releasing slightly. Ready to draw and strike at the slightest hint of threat.
 

The third level held nothing of interest, but it was darker on the fourth and a sense of malignancy hovered in the crumbling walls. Her violet eyes widened as they sucked at the vagrant light, searching for sign of movement.

Could smell rot and mould.

And something else. Something more familiar.

The tip of her tongue slid across her lip. Ears starved for sound. She took a step toward the doorway where the door itself clung desperately to its frame by perhaps the barest thread of metal hinge. Cracked open wide enough to permit a glimpse inside.

But all she could make out was a sea of sodden gloom which revealed nothing of the interior behind the door. Shadows gathered sullenly around its edges.

Nysta moved with deliberate care, eyes latching onto something which appeared to confirm her need for caution. Crouching, the elf touched the cold stone ground. Kept her gaze firmly fixed on the doorway.

Fingers moved slowly over rubble and found splashes of wet. She lifted her finger to her nose and her eyes glittered at the rusty smell of blood.

The elf picked her way forward with care, taking her time. Slow to avoid disturbing the rubble at her feet, though there seemed less of it as she passed the stairs leading upward and in front of the doorway.

Angling sideways, she placed a hand on the ancient wood. Probed the iron ribs binding it together. Didn't push on it, though. Just felt it. Willing a sense of the room beyond to somehow transmit up her fingertips.

But felt nothing.

Wondered if anyone was waiting behind the door. Sword raised. Ready to split her down the middle.

Or an archer, opposite the doorway. An arrow in the chest might be waiting.

Or nothing at all.

Maybe the blood belonged to something which had wandered further up the stairs. A rat, caught in the falling debris and crawling away to die?

Impatience bubbled away in her belly.

Twisting her fear into a ball of fire. She battled the desire to kick the door down and rush inside.

A muffled sound intruded on her thoughts.

Cough?

It was the far side of the room, though. Not close to the door.

Her palm itched.

She started to slide forward, to push on the door. Then tried to throw herself back as she caught the barest whisper of noise from behind. But froze as cold steel whipped around to press hard into her throat, angled firmly against her jaw.

“Well, now,” a thin voice cooed into her ear. “Didn't figure to catch me a raghead so easy as that. Guess Raste was right. You're just a whore pretending to be something you ain't. Now take your hand off that blade before you cut yourself. And let's go inside, shall we? Someone's waiting for you. Real eager to meet you too, he is. Ain't stopped talking about you since we made it out of Spikewrist. Wouldn't want to disappoint now, would you? That's it. Arms out. Come on.”
 

The elf scowled as she lifted her arms away from her sides and let him guide her forward, rigid with fear pulsing hard in her chest between the drumming of her heart.

She'd been stupid.

There wasn't enough rubble on the ground around the door. Should have noticed it straight away.  He must have cleared it so she wouldn't hear him coming. Waited on the stairs above the doorway. And she'd walked right into it like a rabbit.

She could feel his triumph as he prodded her forward.

Annoyed, she kicked the door with her boot. The door swung open with a splintering of wood and slammed hard into the wall.

For a moment, she thought she could take him. Thought she'd got him off-balance.

But he was quick. His free hand snatched a fistful of her hair. Jerked her head back and hissed into her ear; “Don't do that again, bitch. I'll let that one go. Reckon you know you ain't making it out of here alive. And that's gotta be a disappointment. But there's more than one way to die, if you get me?”

She said nothing.

Nudged into the room, she expected to see Raste gloating. Instead, a crumpled shape huddled in the corner. She couldn't immediately see his features, but she'd know Raste even if she was in an alley with her eyes closed. And this wasn't him.

This one looked to be in a bad way. Was probably wounded, she thought, which would explain the blood.

The short sword at her throat didn't move even a hair. He kept pace with her, but his body inched just slightly back from hers to allow some room for him to move without giving his stance away. His spare hand hovered somewhere near her head. Any move she could make would be easily countered if he was any good.

And she figured he'd be good enough.

So she waited.

A steady rumble under the ground made the walls tremble and he paused with her as they shared a moment of mutual anticipation. The ceiling above creaked and the large wooden beams dropped puffs of grit and dust.

Whatever was outside, it wasn't finished.

The trembling faded and the swordsman behind her cleared his throat. “Torak? Wake up, boy. I got her. Told you I heard something. It was her, wasn't it?”

“You got her? You ain't fucking with me, are you, Neckless? You really got her?” The voice was wracked with pain, but hardened as the wounded elf found strength in hate and the joy of potential vengeance. “Yeah. That's the bitch. Can tell from here. You hurt me, you fucking whore. Fucking hurt me.”
 

Her mouth was dry and a drop of sweat slithered down the nape of her neck. The muscles on her shoulder twitched and for a moment, she thought they would cramp. Frowned at the sensation.

Then the shape staggered to its feet. In the dim light, she could see a stained rag covered half his face. A face which had once been handsome but which was now marred forever. Blonde hair hung lank around his head, stained with blood and muck. She felt a twinge of disappointment. Wished it could've been Raste.

He edged closer, hunched over in pain. In one hand, he gripped
Fulci's Last Joke
. She gave a grunt as she recognised the blade.
 

“What's that?” the wounded elf rasped. He was close enough for his breath to wash over her like a cloud of rancid air. “Lost for words?”
 

“I'm sorry,” she said.
 

“Sorry?” he cried, reeling back. The blade flashed in the slender ray of light peeling through the dark from the curtained windows. “I've only got one eye, you bitch! I'm half fucking blind! And all you say is you're sorry? Piss on your sorry. I'm gonna kill you bad. Fucking bad. Your being sorry won't change a fucking thing.”
 

“Ain't sorry I got your eye,” she said evenly, feeling the man behind drift closer as he shifted on his feet. But the sword didn't move. “Sorry I missed your brain. Weren't my fault, though. Was a small target.”
 

Neckless gave an amused snort. “Feisty cunt, ain't she, Torak?”

“Sure,” Torak spat in her face. “Feisty. Yeah. I get that. Well. This is what I think of feisty.”
 

His fist powered through the dark. The blade at her throat prevented her from avoiding the blow so she was forced to accept the punch. Knuckles smashed into her cheek and glanced off her nose. Pain shot into her brain and the muscles in her shoulders knotted and twitched recklessly as she rocked sideways, held on her feet thanks to Neckless grabbing her roughly by the shoulder.

She stayed slumped, though her eyes thinned to dangerous slits. Spat a thick stream of blood at Torak's feet and sneered. “That's it? Best you got?”

He showed his training by not responding. Instead, leaned close. Almost touched her nose with his own as he stared deep into her eyes. Seemed to be trying to read her mind.

She would have spat again, but couldn't work her mouth. Her cheek already swelling. So she settled for glaring back at him.

“I'll show you what I've got,” he said calmly. Pressed the tip of
Fulci's Last Joke
against her scar. “Don't you worry about that. I'll show you everything. And then, when you've had it all, I'll kill you. Neckless? You want to get my pack? I got a few things in there I think this bitch is gonna love.”
 

“She's dangerous,” Neckless said, unwilling to remove the blade from her throat. “Look at her. She's a raghead, Torak. I let her go, and you're asking for trouble. Don't be a dickhead. Just stick her and be done. Cut her a little if you like. But don't fuck with her. The Jukkala trained us, yeah? Remember that training now and don't let her get to you. We ain't got time for this shit. We need to find out what's going on here. And we need to get out. Grimwood Creek, remember?”
 

“Piss on Storr and his fucking timetables. We've got time,” the one-eyed man growled. “I want the hooks. I want to hang her up and peel her fucking skin off. I want to pluck out her eyes and I want to hear her fucking scream!”