Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

Nysta #1: Revenge of the Elf
Lucas Thorn
 

For:
My patient wife, Kyungsil

First Digital Edition, published in June 2012

by Lateral Books

Copyright
©
Lucas Thorn 2012 

ISBN-13: 978-0-9873421-0-2
 

www.lucasthorn.com

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This book is a work of love.

A love for fantasy books not often being retold. Where action heroes forsake all pretence at playing the reluctant mercenary and seek out danger with an enthusiasm matched only by their skill with a sword. Or, in Nysta's case, a knife.

It is swordpunk for the new millennium and I feel influenced as much by Spaghetti Westerns as the Fantasy genre. Nysta is certainly the culmination of many years of dissatisfaction in the presentation of female characters in fantasy.

As such, Nysta will never heal anyone with amazing healing powers. She will never drink tea and discuss dresses. She will not stand back and watch her boyfriend fight the monster.

She will not be rescued by a
hero
, because in my book, she IS the hero.
 

Our Lord divided Caspiella into Four Kingdoms. To each, he gave an army.

The Black Blades of Cornelia patrol the border between the north and the south. They are unmatched in strength of arms and have sworn to bring down the cursed Wall of the Dark Lord which bars our way to the Fnordic Lands.

The Grey Jackets inhabit the mountains of Leibersland to the south-east and live a monastic life. Stout of heart, their holy zeal is unquestioned. It is said that for our Lord they would march even into the Shadowed Halls.

Cunning and enigmatic, The Star Swords of Linkata control the seas to the west. What secrets they find in the embrace of the Seas of Blood we can only guess, for they keep their secrets well.

Farthest to the south in the heartland of Caspiella, lies Jalavnia, home to the Green Arms. They defend our borders from the barbarian hordes of Sharra who will surely receive our fullest attention once Fnordland is Cleansed of the Tainted.

- from
In Defence of the Realm
by Lux Corepith, being a crudely translated extract of a Caspiellan text,
The Tower of Light.
It did not sell well outside of Doom's Reach and many were quickly turned to pulp. 

CHAPTER ONE

Talek opened his eyes to slits and stifled a yawn as he peered out across the snow-spotted valley from the shadowed shelter of the porch. He sat with his back to the stone chimney, feeling the warmth bleeding through his scarred flesh and into his bones. He knew he should go inside before the sun burned too low beyond the grey clouds, but he ignored the silent admonishing of his absent wife and chose to enjoy the crisp air.

Winter had descended early on the Deadlands, scattering pockets of snow which left the elf remembering stories of his childhood. How snow was the icy spit of Grim, the Dark Lord of the North. Old stories, he thought. Stories being quickly forgotten now that Grim was dead.

As though aware of the elf's mind turning toward the fallen god, the shadows behind him shifted and a bitter wind cut across the valley to rake at the small cabin.

It wasn't much of a cabin, he allowed. Nothing like the Hold he'd grown up in. But it was comfortable. And the smoke drifting from the chimney at his back hinted at the warmth the interior promised were he inclined to shuffle back indoors.

His wife, Nysta, had chosen the location of their cabin. It was, he thought proudly, the perfect choice.

Perfect because the nine figures which flickered into view were unable to find an angle of approach with any stealth regardless of their intentions.

His gaze drifted toward the small ginger cat hunched on the steps. A dishevelled ball of mottled orange fur with a crooked tail and no name.

Where it came from was a mystery. It'd shown up in the middle of the night to mew at the door, and only Talek's amusement saved it from one of his wife's many knives. She claimed not to like cats, but sometimes he caught her touching the creature's fur with a haunted expression on her face.

The cat's ear flicked toward a small pen of goats beside the cabin. And, as Talek eased himself into a more upright position, it glanced at him with sparkling emerald eyes.

“Reckon they're friendly?” he asked the cat. Talking to the little animal was becoming a habit, he thought with a sardonic smile.

The cat returned its gaze to the approaching black shapes and rolled its shoulders as it settled into a patient crouch. Its sharp ears flicked nervously and the crooked tail twitched.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Me neither.”

He hauled himself painfully off the bench, using one withered hand to steady himself against the wall. His flesh was not withered by age. But instead by burns which had chewed deep into his skin.

Beneath his simple clothes, his skin was horrific. He knew this for a fact not just because of the constant pain, but because he'd seen Nysta flinch every time she helped remove his shirt.

His leg, too, had taken heavy burns and much of the muscle vaporised and never returned.

Silently he cursed the spellslinger who'd thrown the fireball at him. Not for throwing it. But for not having better aim. For leaving him alive.

It would have been easier on Nysta if he'd died, he thought.

She shouldn't have to see him in such pain. Shouldn't have to look at the monstrosity he'd become. He found his thoughts more often turning toward ending it. To cutting his wrists and letting his life bleed out.

Anything to spare her the burden of supporting the wreckage he'd become. She was young, he told himself. She could recover. Move on.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Not yet.

He had one final responsibility.

Talek ran one twisted hand through his hair. Though it grew in patches over his burnt scalp, it was enough to hide much of the damage to the back of his head. His fingertips travelled the grooves in his skull and he no longer noticed as his arm passed through the ghost of the pointed ear melted clean off by magefire.

He kept his eyes on the nine shapes as he hobbled to the edge of the porch. Fingered a narrow sword leaning against the rail and pressed against it to keep himself upright.

Wondered if he could still draw the blade.

Afraid to fail, he hadn't tried since the mage had devastated his body.

The nine were elfs. He could make out the thin ears jutting from their heads like sharp spearblades. Could tell their hair hung in a military style of long plaited locks. Also saw they were armed to their teeth.

He grunted, looking down at the cat bumping against his leg. It wasn't purring.

He wondered when Nysta would return. He knew she needed time to herself, and never pressed her to return quickly. It was one of the reasons they were so comfortable together. They were much the same in this way. But right then, he would have given anything to know where she was.

As they reached the clumsy gate, the strangers paused to peer silently up at where Talek leaned on the porch.

He gave them no sign of his own intentions, though he doubted any of them felt even a brief thrill of fear.

Coolly, they drifted through the gate, led by a red-haired elf. The others kept a respectful line behind him, one busying himself with stowing a cloak in his pack.

Feeling uncomfortably fragile, the elf studied their approach with a mix of jealousy and nostalgia. Remembered his life among the Kulsa'Jadean. He'd strutted with the same calm confidence. Their hands crept around the pommels of their weapons.

So it was he, rather than they, who felt the first trickle of fear slide over his neck and around his guts like a frozen wyrm. His gaze moved over the valley, half-expecting to see Nysta rising out from behind a rock or twisted tree stump.

Was disappointed when she didn't.

He wanted her near.

Just having her at his side was enough to make him feel immortal even in his damaged condition.

A wave of dizziness licked through him without warning and he cursed his damaged body. While he'd been crippled long enough to come to terms with his sudden bouts of giddiness, they were still a constant source of frustration.

The men were soon close enough for him to note the finer details. Three of the nine looked to be barely blooded. One so nervous he kept glancing at the red-haired elf for some sign as to what to do next.

But the rest were veterans. Their weapons functional and with little or no decoration on the hilts. They wore plain grey tabards draped over armour as though trying to hide their squad's origin. Perhaps they were deserters, Talek thought with distaste.

But this was the Deadlands. There was worse living in this barren wasteland between North and South than soldiers sick of fighting for a few meaningless coins.

All the same, he couldn't keep the frown from forming as the red-haired elf halted within speaking range.

The elfs behind him stopped as one. A well-oiled team despite the few nervous cogs.

Talek locked gazes with the leader, intrigued by the nagging feeling that he should know him. “Morning, feller,” Talek said. “Help you with something?”

The grey eyes of the the red-haired elf barely registered emotion as he motioned the others to take another step back. Which they did without hesitation.

The stranger draped his hand over the hilt of a long dagger at his hip. The kind of dagger Nysta would find irresistible. There was something about the stranger's manner which reminded Talek of his absent wife. He realised it was the way his palm rested on the hilt of the short blade echoed her.

Figured it meant the red-haired elf knew how to use the short blade.

“Maybe.”

“Well's out back if you want to bring your horses in. Ain't much food so won't offer you any,” Talek said. Licked his lips and eased them back into a rueful smile. “Reckon you ain't here for that, though.”

“Reckon not,” the red-haired elf said wryly.

“Fucking cold, Raste,” the nervous kid muttered. “We get this over with?”

“Until I ask your opinion, Doket, I reckon it's best you keep your trap shut. Or I'll cut your tongue out. Feed it to the cat,” Raste said. As he spoke the threat, his voice was dull. Neither warm nor cold. A voice which made the pores under Talek's arms begin to squeeze droplets of sweat. The red-haired elf hadn't shifted his gaze from Talek. “She around, Talek?”

He felt like Raste had hit him in the chest with a hammer and knew right then and there that he was going to die. Couldn't decide how he felt about that, but was suddenly more aware than ever of the invisible ties binding him to his wife.

He let his hand drop away from the sword, hidden from view.

Rubbed his shoulder to ease the sudden spikes of pain. Once, he might have rushed them. Even bare-handed he knew he might have killed them all. Because no matter how much he respected their training, he knew he'd been trained by much better.

When guilded, he'd been Kulsa'Jadean.

The King's Guard.

But that was a long time ago.

Nowadays he found it difficult just to get out of bed. A near impossible task to dress himself.

He deliberately turned his back on them, ignoring the sound as they went for their weapons.

His body shuddered in pain as he limped to the bench. Lowered himself on it, his eyes drawn to the cat whose tail swished as it studied the nine strangers. He wondered if it realised what they were or the danger they carried and, not for the first time, he envied the animal.

Turning, he saw Raste was the only one who hadn't drawn a weapon. The red-haired elf studied Talek's every move, his expression giving nothing away.