Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) (19 page)

She could almost feel his blood pumping over her fist. Squeezing between her fingers.

She caught her breath and her lips bared back into an animal grimace. “Fuck,” she snarled. Staggered back with a guttural shout of anger, slamming
A Flaw in the Glass
back into its sheath.

She aimed a half-hearted kick at him, but missed, sending powdered snow spraying over his shaking torso.

Flinching, the fat man cringed away from her and gave a whimper as he rolled into a sobbing ball.

The lava flowing through the elf's veins cooled abruptly.

Her fingers touched one of the knots of rag in her hair. Felt the material coiling between her fingertips. Let her breath escape in ragged clouds of mist. Each breath pushed the hate further and further into her belly.

Bottling it up.

Tightening the lid.

Her eyes burned.

“Had enough?” the spellslinger asked quietly. “If you want to maybe poke him with some hot irons, I might have something in my pack you can borrow if you like.”

Sucking air, the elf spun on him. He held her glare with a calm expression that irritated her even more. “Good idea,” she hissed. “Hand it over. I can shove it up your ass. Maybe it'd stop that shit coming from your mouth.”

“All that rage. All that anger. You can hardly control yourself, can you?” he held out his hands to the fire and rubbed them together. Slowly. Aware she was on a razor's edge, but determined to have his say. “My guess is you're still in that alley, Nysta. A frightened little girl trying hard to convince herself she's not afraid anymore. That she's strong. In control. But no matter how many pretty little knives you cover yourself with, they're not much for armour. Won't stop the fear from taking over. All your hate. It's not helping, is it? You want revenge? Sure. I get that. But even though you seem to have someone to chase, you can't help looking around for more. Look at him. He's a pathetic ant.”

“Thanks,” the fat man sniffed, sitting up. He scrubbed at his eyes with his forearm.

“You're welcome,” the spellslinger grinned, his eyes still on the elf. “And there you are, Nysta. Bullying him. What for? For information you already know. The town's full of assholes who eat people. Wow. Big news. We got that just spending five seconds at the fucking gate. And they're hungry. Got that there, too. All you're really looking for is a reason to cut him to ribbons. That's all. And you want to know something? That's what I find most interesting about you. First, that you think you need a reason. That you don't just do it. No one out here will see, and if they did, they wouldn't care. But you need a reason. Second, that you let me live. I still don't get that. That excuse of yours about me distracting you was just bullshit. With all the poison filling you so much you're close to choking on it, I don't know why you didn't. Killed those wagoners quicker than blinking. So now you're looking to kill Mccabe here. What's stopping you?”

She stood rigid in the fire's suddenly chilling glow.

The fat man stared fearfully at her face as it shifted between outrage and defiance before settling into an impassive mask rendering it impossible to wonder at the thoughts rushing turbulently through her head.

“You might be right, Chukshene,” she said. “Maybe I'm afraid. Maybe fear locks me up so much I need hate to keep moving. And you're right I want to kill this piece of shit. And I want to kill you, too. And every time you open your mouth, I want to kill you more. Why don't I? To tell the truth, I ain't so fucking sure myself.”

The spellslinger nodded, suddenly wary as the elf slowly lifted her fingers to her face and began rubbing at the vicious scar.

“Are you going to kill me?” the fat man's voice was a thin sound, like he expected to die and was almost at the point where it didn't matter to him anymore.

“Horse on the left,” she said. “The mare.”

“What?”

“Get on it and fuck off before I change my mind.”

Mccabe blinked. Glanced at the warlock, who gave a sharp nod. Then scampered through the snow toward the horse.

Surprised by the fat man's sudden approach, the mare gave a low snort and pranced sideways until the fat man managed to haul himself onto the docile beast's back. Taking a fistful of mane, he cast one last glance at the elf and licked his lips.

“Long-ear?” he croaked into the brittle wind. “Want you to know I think you're the meanest fucking bitch I ever saw. And you got some bad shit running through your head. I ain't stupid enough to hang around with you. But, thank you. You saved my life. We meet again, I won't forget that. I owe you. Spellslinger? Ain't sure you're a clean mage, if you get me. But I don't much give a shit. You did right by me. Tell you something for free. I reckon you should fuck off, too. Before she gets you killed. Or kills you herself.”

And with that, he wheeled the horse sharply and kicked his heels in to send it springing out into the darkness.

They waited around the fire in silence, listening to the thudding hooves fading quickly into the distance. The gelding snickered, stamping its hoof uncertainly as the mare disappeared.

“Fucker'll probably follow them soon,” the spellslinger sighed, nodding at his horse. “I got nothing to tie it down with.”

“We don't need it,” shrugged the elf.

“Says you,” he snorted. “My feet hurt.”

“Shouldn't keep putting them into your mouth then.”

“Funny. Now what?”

She turned toward the town, feeling its magnetic pull. The gelding gave another nervous snort and trotted tentatively into the dark after the mare.

“You can do what you like, Chukshene. Me? I'm going into Spikewrist to see if they're there. Kill them if they are. Kill anything that gets in my way.”

“Guessed you would,” he sighed, watching the horse leave. “Can't wait until morning, I suppose? Whatever's in there is probably stronger at night no matter what you think.”

“So am I.”

“Great. But I can't see shit. And now I have to walk. I have blisters, you know. These boots are fucking killing me.”

“Then stay here.”

“And if you get yourself killed, what am I going to do?”

“I don't much give a shit, 'lock. Sit there forever for all I care. Or head north.”

“Do I look like a human fucking compass?”

“You could follow the fat man. Move quick and you can catch your horse before it gets far.”

“If that fucker makes it out of the Deadlands alive, I'll eat my fucking robes. I'll stick with you for now. Because he was right. You're the meanest thing I've seen since I got here. No offence. So if anyone's getting me out of here, it's you.”

“Told you I'd take you to Spikewrist,” she said, waving a hand toward the ghostly town. “And there it is. Who said anything about leaving the Deadlands? This is my home. 'lock. Why would I want to leave this shithole?”

“Because it's the way of the world, Nysta,” the spellslinger said in a tone that made her eyes narrow to glittering slits. “Things change.”

She slipped her hands into her pockets as a fresh gust of wind billowed around them. Immediately found her fingers wrapping around Talek's box. It was as cold as a block of ice and for a moment, she thought it was pulsing slowly in her palm.

She needed to see it. Just a glance.

Surely a glance wasn't against Talek's rules?

Her fingers were tight against the metal ribs.

“Right, then. Coming? It was your idea, remember?” The spellslinger gathered his pack and stretched his arms before starting toward the inky black blob on the horizon. He gave a negligent wave of his hand and the fire behind him flared once before snuffing itself out like a blown candle. Added, almost cheerfully; “Oh. By the way. If we die, I'll haunt you forever.”

“That's the spirit,” she muttered, watching his back. Her emotions swirling unsteadily through her as she battled a burning desire to pull Talek's box from her pocket and an almost manic sense of suspicion as the warlock's cryptic words rolled around her skull.

He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, you like riddles?”

The elf grunted sourly as his words cut her indecision. She slid after him, draping her palms over the handles at her hip. “Not really.”

“Well, we've got a ways to go, so how about this one?
What has roots as nobody sees; is taller than-
”

“Just shut your flaphole and keep walking, 'lock,” the elf growled. “What's in my pockets ain't your business.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

After directing a hurt look at the elf, Chukshene lapsed into determined silence. He broke this only once as she shoved past him to take the lead, and this just to clear his throat.

It was easy for the elf to ignore the warlock's response to her lack of social skills.

She'd faced worse and lived through it. Few had endured her sharp mix of temper and sarcasm for long, and only one ever figured there was anything worth knowing under the thin layer of bitterness.

And he was dead.

At thought of Talek, she remembered not his face, but the feel of the earth as she dug his grave in the frozen soil.

The impact of the shovel.

The sound ringing out across the valley. A solid, yet clean sound. As though she'd been hacking through the bones of the earth.

Her eyes scanned the terrain as they moved cautiously across the thickening layer of snow. It'd begun to fall heavier since they left their brief camp.

Not enough for her to bother pulling the hood of her cloak, though. If Talek were here, she thought, he'd be calling her stupid for walking into the obvious makings of a blizzard.

The elf's jaw tightened and her teeth pressed so hard against each other, she thought her jaws might lock permanently.

She hadn't put up a marker.

It kept bothering her. No stone circle to mark his passing.

No name.

“Raste,” she muttered darkly under her breath. “I'll have your head for his marker. I swear.”

The wind scraped its frozen fangs over her face with a sudden howl and she knew enough about the weather in the Deadlands to know that, while it was not often as cold as this Winter was turning out to be, there was a certain viciousness to the storms which that seemed to echo the chaos that tormented the land for so long. As though the past presence of two raging gods damaged the weather and gifted it with spite.

Each step closer to the town made her boots sink deeper into the snow and she snarled a curse as her foot sunk deep enough she had to jerk her leg free. She heard a muffled snort, and she flashed the warlock a warning look which he took with a twist of his lips.

He said nothing, though. Plainly, he wanted to keep his silence.

Which suited her.

Her training prepared her for stretched periods of silence. It wasn't uncommon for members of her teams to speak only in hand gestures for lengths of time which lasted weeks. Sometimes as much as a month.

At thought of her training, the elf ran her fingers through her ragged hair. Felt the bumps of cloth and wondered what her life would have been like if Talek hadn't found her.

Likely she'd be dead. A corpse in an alley. Food for rats.

Shuddering, the elf pushed thoughts of Lostlight's alleys from her mind and concentrated instead on the only good thing she'd found in that cursed city. Talek.

A smile almost touched her face as she remembered how he'd pretty much badgered her into marrying him. Their marriage, while unconventional, was always a comfortable one. He liked to talk, and took her silence for listening.

The odd sharp comments she tossed into the stream of bullshit seemed only to fuel his need to talk.

Her mouth parted slightly as she realised his words had seldom penetrated her mind and she couldn't recall much of what he'd spoken about. It all seemed like breezy nothingness. A constant buzzing in her ears at the time.

Yet, far from being irritating, she'd been calmed by his voice. His presence.

Given her past, it was a miraculous thing. Made more miraculous by how effortlessly he often made her forget what she'd been.

But now it felt like she'd betrayed him even more. Just the simple act of not having paid attention to his attempts to connect with her brought a flush of red to her cold cheeks. A flush which rode the tightening of her face.

The guilt was getting too much to bear. It was like sliding down a rope. A rope which was tearing the flesh from her hands.

Soon, she would fall. To her death?

But she wouldn't blame herself completely.

No.
They
were responsible. The Bloody Nine.

And they would pay.

Pay screaming.

Muscles knotted across her shoulders and she ground her teeth hard.

“Nysta,” the spellslinger broke his silence with a reluctant gasp. “Please, slow down. It's not easy walking through this slush. Especially in robes.”

She bit back a snarled retort as she realised the sudden rush of rage pumping through her veins had quickened her steps. She motioned for him to stop beside a shattered tree, which he did with a grateful sigh.

But, squatting in the snow, she told herself it wasn't for his benefit. It was simply to get a better look at the town which appeared more solid behind the curling wall of fog and dusty speckles of snow. She could make out a few buildings built higher than the walls. One had a large pitched roof and a small glow of light bruised the darkness.

The inn, she recalled. It lay in the centre of the town.

“Can you see anything?” he breathed. “They coming?”

“Not yet.”

“Thank Grim.”

“Dead gods can't help you here, 'lock,” Nysta said softly.

“Well, the alternative is thanking Rule, and the only thing I'd thank that bastard for is if he cut off his own head so I could shit down his neck.”

She nodded absently. The Gods never played much role in her upbringing, so she'd never given them much thought after her first tear-stained prayers went unanswered.

Before his fall, the Dark Lord wasn't known for protecting street urchins. That role belonged to his sister, the enigmatic Veil. But she'd fallen to Rule centuries before the battle at Godsfall.