Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) (14 page)

Wondered, too, if anything alive was waiting for them to pass. She half expected an army to rise up from the trenches and charge toward them.

Quickly dismissed the thought as a fear-driven fancy, confidant that whatever waited for them was inside the town itself rather than hidden in the treacherous landscape surrounding the town.

Her eyes swept further across the gloom-drenched land, searching for sign of the nine she was hunting, but saw no signs of life.

No tracks. No trees.

Just grey stone and white snow as far as she could see. It looked like a shimmering sea of salt surrounding the doomed town.

“Doesn't look inviting,” the spellslinger said. “You know, even if I hadn't been told demons were running amok inside that place, I still wouldn't want to go there. Looks like a trollish whorehouse. Can't we go around? You really think those bastards you're chasing are stupid enough to go inside? And who are they, anyway? What did you mean when you called them the Bloody Nine? Is that some kind of gang name? We get gangs in Doom's Reach, too.”

“They were Musa'Jadean. A guild of honoured warriors. The Bloody Nine are led by a feller named Raste. He took them to fame, fortune, and the King's favour. All that bullshit. But favours change, and all it takes is one mistake. The Nine made theirs when they butchered a town down to the last child in ways even the Jukkala were revolted by. Town wasn't even Caspiellan. The Musa'Jadean expelled them. Jutta would've put a price on their heads. But Raste's family is powerful. Reckon that's why the king settled on exile instead. It was a long time ago,” she spat irritably at a skull half-buried in the ground. “Figured they'd gone their own way. Disappeared up north or something. Seems they stayed together. Or, could be Raste just kept the name. Likes to make an impression, does Raste.”

“If not soldiers, then what are they now? Or don't I want to know?”

The elf shrugged. “Bandits? Mercenaries? Who gives a fuck? Just another pack of vicious bastards roaming the Deadlands. Plenty more fellers like them out here. They're nothing special.”

“Nothing special,” he echoed, obviously not believing her words any more than she believed herself. “Since when do a bunch of mean bastards responsible for a massacre translate into nothing special?”

“Relax, Chukshene,” she said tightly, kicking the mare forward. It responded with a sullen lurch. “I'm meaner.”

They rode side by side down the path. While she didn't believe the Bloody Nine would be stupid enough to go into the town, there was enough of a possibility they had.

They'd need fresh supplies. That they'd taken one of her goats was sign of how low they must have been. And, out here, there wasn't much else to eat unless you figured on eating each other.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself it was also very possible they hadn't survived. That they were already dead. If not by whatever haunted the town, then by any number of savage creatures which roamed the land. A group of nine could attract all kinds of hungry evil out here.

Rage trickled through her veins like mercury through water at the thought of being cheated of her vengeance. She would have to live her life feeling she'd failed Talek.

Again.

Her jaw steeled. If they'd entered the town and whatever was in it had killed Raste and his band of murderers, then she swore she'd kill every last demon in the place.

Kill everything in the Deadlands.

Still smouldering in hate, she didn't notice the mage growing more and more disturbed until he started muttering to himself and flicking through the pages of his grimoire. She glanced at him as he held his hand up toward the town, feeling it out.

She'd seen enough of magecraft to know what he was doing. Scrying, they called it. Tasting the air.

An acrid smell wafted on the frozen wind and the elf wrinkled her nose. The smell of magic. Her guts twisted as the stench of it made her think of Talek's shattered body and she fought her instinct to pull a knife. Wrench his head back and slit his throat.

The spray of blood, she snarled inwardly, would be most satisfying.

Tearing her gaze away, the elf returned to staring at the town drifting closer. Its walls were blackened as though smeared with smoke. But she couldn't see any evidence of a fire. It was as if the walls were stained with something darker than shadows.

She didn't like it.

Her fingers dug deep into her pocket and wrapped around Talek's box. She was getting used to the feel of it nestled in the warmth of her jacket and there was something vaguely comforting in its presence. As though Talek was with her in some small way.

The icy coldness of it felt strange between her fingertips, but it didn't feel the same as the icy coldness of the wind gnashing at her cheeks. It was more fresh. Somehow a little more crisp.

One fingertip found a light groove in the wood. The alien runes. She traced them absently, her mind drifting like the snow peppering the air.

Her thumb pressed against one of the iron straps.

Softly, almost tentatively, Talek's box pulsed.

Shocked, the elf froze and her horse breathed a soft whinny as it felt her sudden shift in mood. Her heart raced as she remembered how the box had felt before. And now, in her fingers, it was growing colder again. Colder than ice. Perhaps cold enough to burn her skin.

It pulsed one more time.

Possessed with the sudden urge to pull it free and break it open, she scrambled to drag it free from her pocket. Her mouth opened and her brain, though it screamed at her to leave the box where it was, fumbled for an explanation as to what was happening.

“There's something wrong,” Chukshene said, shattering everything.

The elf froze, her heart stopping. “What?”

“The town,” he jerked his head toward the stained walls. “I'm not sure, but there's something wrong. Very wrong. It doesn't feel right.”

Shaking her head to clear the fog from her mind, the elf let go of the box and slid her hand from her pocket and rested it on her thigh. “Yeah, well. It wouldn't feel right. It's full of demons. They ain't known for feeling right.”

“That's just it,” he said quietly. “I have to tell you something, Long-ear. I've been lying my ass off to you since we met. Told you I'm not much of a mage. That's true. I'm shit at it. I came out here to study, and I don't mean fireballs. That was an accident. See? You do get a little truth from me sometimes. I came here because it's said this place is cursed. That there's more demons here than anywhere else in the world. So, who'd notice if someone summoned a few more, right?”

She halted her mount and glared at him. Her mouth was dry and a suspicion spiralled between her shoulders like a length of razorwire. “What the fuck are you talking about, Chukshene?”

“What do you know about magic?”

“Enough to know spellslingers are liars, assholes, and worse.”

“True enough,” he allowed. “But there are many schools of magic. Magecraft, of course, is commonly accepted. And who'd argue with someone who could melt your face off? And among the Fnords, there's more mages than anything else. They're the majority of spellcasters, if you like. They're more powerful than most. They're the cream. Caspiellans have more clerics than mages. Maybe a few wizards. We don't get many clerics because magic is god-aspected for the most part, and Grim was never much for healing. Our Dark Lord was always more cheerful around death. So we got Deathpriests instead.”

The elf shuddered at the thought of Deathpriests. She'd met one when she was young and had no wish to meet another. “What are you trying to say, Chukshene? You ain't a Deathpriest,” she said firmly. “I know that much.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I'm not. My skin's too pretty for starters. But there's other schools, too. Not so well-liked. In fact, we're hated. Even the Dark Lord hunted us down and killed us. Our magic is considered so foul that it's the only thing Grim and Rule ever agreed on. To be honest, it scares the fucking shit out of me. I'm a warlock, Nysta. Demon-aspected. So, while I know fuck all about magefire, I know about demons. And that town out there? Nysta, Rockjaw said there were demons in it. Well, I'm telling you there aren't any in there at all. There's none around for fucking days. Hardly any left in the Deadlands right now. I should know. I've hunted three of them already. Left the last one spread halfway across a mountain.”

Her eyes drilled into his. “This the truth, Chukshene? Or are you fucking with me again?”

“It's the truth,” he said. “And maybe you can see why I didn't tell you. If just one wrong person knows what I am, I can look forward to being burnt on a fucking stake somewhere.”

“Not a good way to die,” the elf said, her nostrils remembering the smell of Talek's burning flesh.

“No, it's not.” He turned toward the town and shook his head anxiously. “Whatever's in there, it's bad. I can feel that much. I mean, the hairs on my ass are standing up and my balls are shaking. But it's not a demon. I don't know what it is. And not knowing is making me want to piss my pants.”

“This warlock thing? It make you more dangerous than you look?”

His lips parted into a grim smile. “I know what I look like, Long-ear. I can guess what you think of me, too. But there's more to magic than magefire and there's a reason the gods didn't like us much.”

“There better be,” she snorted, leading them forward again. “I ain't carrying your ass.”

The spellslinger lifted his hand and spoke a word of power. Light flared. A bright pale orb with a sickly yellow glow. It hovered at his shoulder and he beckoned it closer so it hung over his book. “I can look after myself,” he said. “I might not know my way around these parts, but I've been around. And I'm still alive. Just didn't want to do anything in case you knew enough about magic to know I wasn't a normal mage. In case you knew I was a warlock and figured you'd prefer to cut my throat than let me live.”

“It could still happen,” she said lightly, her lip curling crookedly up toward the scar.

The elf allowed his revelation to sink in as she led the way up the crooked path. As far as she was concerned, she'd never much thought about the differences between spellslingers. Cleric or mage, they were all the same in her mind.

Still unsure if she could trust anything he said, she was prepared to accept he was what he said he was and, oddly, it settled a little more comfortably on her shoulders.

Now he seemed less like the Caspiellan mage who'd waded through the palace kicking up death and spewing fireballs into Talek's screaming body. She rubbed at her scar, feeling the rough edge of it. Could almost taste the steel which had stuck clean through her cheek.

As they rode, she listened to the buzz of Chukshene's mumbling as he flipped through his grimoire. What he was looking for, she didn't know. Glancing at him, she admitted the man who seemed so clumsy and useless suddenly looked capable of something more.

It was an odd moment, and she crossed her arms over her thighs as she leaned across the mare's neck to peer into the scratchings of light across the horizon.

Long shadows poured from the town like escaping ghostly fingers. Night was fast approaching and she felt a buzz of disappointment at the thought. The day had gone by too quickly with no sign of Raste.

Unable to penetrate the shadows of the town, the elf wondered what really lay inside. Whatever it was, she didn't feel it was going to be pleasant.

It would be mean. It would have to be mean to live in the Deadlands.

And tough.

Again, she looked at the spellslinger. Frowned. A quicksilver part of her had been screaming to kill him since they'd met. She'd almost been hoping he'd give her an excuse.

But now he was like her. An outcast among his own kind. Something which didn't fit into the world any more than she did.

She grunted, turning her gaze back to the haunted town in hope it would suddenly reveal its secrets.

The warlock looked up from his grimoire. His expression suddenly curious. “You know, I expected more,” he said. “I've only told a handful of people before. And they all looked like they wanted to run away. Frankly, I'm a bit fucking disappointed. And a little worried.”

“Worried?”

“Maybe you're waiting for me to turn my back? Maybe then you'll shove a blade between my shoulders?”

“I ain't afraid of you,” she snorted. “If I was going to kill you, Chukshene, I'd stab you in the eye to see your expression. Spit in your face, too.”

“Thanks,” he said drily. “I appreciate that.”

“You're welcome,” the elf yawned. Ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the knotted scraps of cloth brush against her palm. “You like the Deadlands, Chukshene?”

“Like it? How could I? Fucking place is a shithole.”

“I like it,” she said. “Know why?”

“Why?”

“My father was one of Jutta's advisors. Nothing too important, but big enough so I had everything I ever wanted when I was a kid. I still remember this pretty dress I had. Red. With peaches on it. Might surprise you, but when I was that young, I thought a lot about dresses. But everything eventually falls to shit, right? My world fell to shit when my mother died. Was a convenient time for my father. Maybe too convenient, I'm thinking. One of Jutta's cousins had reached an age, and the King was looking for someone to marry her off to. He felt sorry for my father. Figured a nice young bride would cheer him up. Did, too. Know why, 'lock?”

He gave a start at being called 'lock, but let it pass. “I don't think you mean what I'd be thinking, so not really. I suspect you're talking politics, and I don't know much about that. If I did, I wouldn't be out here gutting demons to see how they work. I'd be back in Doom's Reach whispering into some nobleman's empty head and fucking his daughter. Daughters, if I'm lucky.”

“Means he was a bigger shit than the shit he was before. Wormed his way into the King's Inner Council. Became a Duke. Got his own Hold. Talked about starting his own guild. Big things,” she spat bitterly. “But his new wife didn't like me much. Feeling was mutual. So, my father found a solution. Easy one, too. One night, he tossed me out onto the street.”

“Bullshit,” the spellslinger blinked. “How old were you?”