Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) (13 page)

Chukshene cast his gaze around, but slowly began to suspect the ork was mad. He glanced at the elf, expecting to see a grin on her face, but her glittering violet eyes were locked on Rockjaw.

“I don't get it,” the spellslinger said. “I'm missing something, aren't I?”

The ork slapped a meaty hand against a tree close at hand. The twisted branches shuddered and snow powdered down. “Look closer!”

And Chukshene saw it.

Hanging from the high branches, a skeleton covered in rot. Dusted lightly in snow, it blended perfectly with the blistered branches. It was like seeing a puzzle's solution for the first time. His eyes widened.

There were bodies everywhere, caught in the trees. Their limbs, broken or hanging loose. Scraps of clothing and rusted armor clung to their bones.

The scars of a once beautiful forest were a grotesque testament to death.

“Oh, fuck,” he gagged.

“They're everywhere,” the ork sighed. The sadness in his voice was heavy, and the elf wondered if he'd been a soldier himself. “Welcome to the Deadlands. The biggest graveyard in the world. This forest stretches for days to the west. The soldiers were dusted, spellchucker. By magefire. But the important ones. Emperors, kings, dukes and all their fucking merry men. Too good for dusting, weren't they? Good enough for soldiers to be dusted. They're just fucking commoners. Forgotten folks. Nothing. But ain't right to dust an officer, right? But there weren't the space nor the time to build tombs. So they dangled them from trees to keep watch on the armies. The smell must have been awful. Nothing new there. Officers all smell bad. All the shit they speak.”

“You said Spikewrist ain't safe,” the elf interrupted. “Why?”

“When were you there last?”

She shrugged. “Five, six months. Place is a shithole.”

“Won't argue that. But it's worse now. At least when it was a shithole, it was a town. With people in it,” he shivered, though probably not from the cold. “Things live in it now. Evil things. Don't get me wrong, the people there weren't always the friendliest. But whatever's in there now is evil.”

Chukshene tore his gaze away from the trees. “Bandits?”

“We're all bandits around here,” the ork said with a grim smile. “But it weren't bandits, no. I was lucky to get out alive.”

“What happened?” the elf asked, rubbing at the scar on her cheek. She lifted one leg and crossed it over the horse's back and leaned laconically toward the ork.

“Front gates were open. Should've noticed that. Didn't,” he shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Hollered for the guard. He didn't come. Got close enough to see the windows, though. They were black. So black, I thought they'd come alive, you know? Gave me the fucking creeps so bad. I was gonna leave. Right then. But then I saw him. This feller was standing on the porch. Didn't notice him before. He was looking right at me, though. And, I swear to you, Long ear, that man was a demon straight from the deepest chasms of the Shadowed Halls.”

“What'd he do?” Chukshene licked his dry lips.

“Nothing.”

The spellslinger sat back in surprise. Threw Nysta a glance before frowning at the ork. “Nothing? That's it? No flames spitting from his mouth? No fireballs from his fists? Just stood there? And you ran from that?”

The ork spat a thin stream of spit into the snow. Looked up at the mage and shook his head. “Ain't no right way I can explain it, spellchucker. But that weren't it. Wish it were. I was all froze up at the gates and then they started coming out of the houses. Slowly. So slow it was like watching the fog roll in. But it weren't fog. Were creatures. Creatures who looked like people, but they ain't. Coming out of the houses like the dead from their graves. Worse than the local Draugs. I tell you, you can get used to Draugs. So long as they don't get close. But this. Never. This was the fucking worst. Their eyes were empty pits. I turned then. And I ran like Rule and a horde of clerics was on my ass. Kept running until I heard you. Then I hid. You could've been one of them, for all I knew.”

His eyes grew more haunted as he spoke, and the elf felt a small pang of regret at drilling his arm. She looked away, her eyes skimming the trees.

“You see a bunch of fellers?” she asked slowly. “Probably nine of them. Elfs. On horseback. Bastard at the front has red hair.”

The ork shook his head. “Nope. Ain't seen shit.”

“And you kept the trail out from Spikewrist?”

The ork clicked his tongue and gave his head another shake. “Came through Hadrian Falls. Was the quickest route out of town. Only got back onto the trail an hour ago.”

“Obliged,” the elf said, running her fingers through her hair. Then added, reluctantly; “Sorry about the arm.”

He shrugged. “It'll heal.”

She accepted the graciousness of the ork with a nod of her head and kicked her heels into the horse to send it forward down the path without another word.

Chukshene scratched his head and followed.

“Hey!” the ork called. “You're not still going there? Didn't you listen to me, you fools? It ain't fucking safe!”

Ignoring the ork's shouts, the elf rolled her shoulders.

Chukshene looked back nervously, but kept pace with the elf. He brought his horse up close beside her.

The ork watched, an incredulous look on his face, then threw his hands into the air in resignation. Spat in their direction and stomped off into the trees, muttering to himself.

The spellslinger studied her determined expression. “Can't talk you out of this, can I?”

“Don't reckon so,” she said. “Trail forks soon. One heads east toward Locktooth on the coast. Ain't much, but a few traders use it. You can get a ride with one to Lostlight. Ain't hard to get to the Wall from there. Up to you where you go after that. I don't give a shit.”

“Thanks,” he said, picking at his grimoire. “But I'll stick with you.”

“Any reason, spellslinger?”

“Just that. I'm a, uh, mage. If there's something going on in this town like Rockjaw said, then I want to see it. I didn't become what I am because I had nothing to do. I had this disease called curiosity. Can't help it,” he sounded tired all of a sudden. “I'm just not sure I'll be much help to you.”

“You'll be fine,” she said, unsure why she was saying it. “Just be ready to melt heads.”

“That's the bit that worries me. Closest I ever got to melting anyone's head was yesterday when I nearly took yours off. And that was an accident. I'm not a good mage, Nysta. You could say my skills lie in other areas,” he licked his lips, obviously reluctant to say more. “But I'll do my best. I guess what I'm saying is I might not be the best partner you're bound to find out here, but I'm about all you've got right now. And if what the ork said is true, you're going to need all the help you can get.”

“Best you study while there's still light, then,” she looked up at the dark clouds boiling overhead. It would be getting colder soon, she thought. If it was possible for the air to be more merciless. Even the frozen flakes of snow shivered as they started to fall. “I reckon it's gonna be an exciting night out.”

He pulled his blanket close and blew into his hands. The steam puffed out through his fingers and he winced. “Doesn't sound like my idea of a party, though.”

With a grunt of agreement, the elf slid a small stone from her belt and began sliding it along the cold edge of
Entrance Exam
. Over the next few hours she planned to do the same to all her blades. Her mind cleared as she started to work, though her eyes still skipped actively over the ash-coloured ground.

The sound of the sharpening stone along the razor edge made the spellslinger shudder. “You have to do that?”

“Relax, Chukshene,” she said. “Tonight, the town's gonna be painted red. Best we have our tools ready so we're the ones brushing them all aside.”

“I get the picture,” he said drily.

“That's enough,” the elf drawled. “Don't draw it out.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nysta kept her troubled thoughts to herself as they rode the knotted paths toward Spikewrist. The lifeless trees cramped them in, and she was often reminded of the tight alleys of Lostlight. A similar feeling of dread and claustrophobia made the space between her shoulders itch. Enough so that, despite her thirst to catch Raste and his men, she forced herself to slow her pace.

There was a chance she would lose them if they passed the town before she did. Also a chance they'd fall to whatever evil had taken residence there.

But the elf had no desire to rush into a nest of unfamiliar demons without some caution.

In the Deadlands, encounters with demons were expected. There was no doubt in her mind that the ork had seen one or two in his time. Demons were drawn here by the magics unleashed by the warring gods.

It was thought they fed on it.

But something about the breed which infested Spikewrist had unsettled the ork. And she knew from experience that not much unsettled an ork.

To think an entire town might have fallen to demons wasn't something she would take lightly, but it still seemed unlikely. Demons preferred to hunt alone. They were savage by nature, and unwilling to share their kill. Whatever could force them to congregate would have to be powerful.

Or it could be that whatever waited in Spikewrist was something else.

And anything else was always bound to end up being worse.

She turned her mind back to Raste, summoning an image of him in her mind. His youthful face and red hair. Arrogant strut. Her teeth ground hard against each other and her fist absently gripped the hilt of
A Flaw in the Glass
.

Why had he come all this way to kill Talek?

Spite?

She wouldn't put it past him.

The fact there were nine of them made sense and she wondered how many of the stories were true. Snarled at the small flicker of fear which uncoiled inside her as she thought of their reputation. Knew it would be well-deserved, too.

The Bloody Nine.

A violent splinter in the ass of the Musa'Jadean. Trained by the most lethal assassins ever known, the Jukkala'Jadean.

She knew he'd risen in their ranks years ago. It figured. He always was a slippery motherfucker, she thought. Made it easy for him to climb greasy poles and she had no doubt it had been his intention to rise to the top of the Musa'Jadean.

Nysta found herself gnawing more and more on the skin inside her cheek as they squeezed along the cramped path. While not as efficient as the Jukkala, the Nine had earned a reputation for brutal combat.

Grudgingly, she admitted to the rumours he was supposed to be good with a knife.

His viciousness was a reputation Raste had taken one step further with the massacre at Logen's Run.

The Musa'Jadean had tried hiding his name. It was the only loyalty they showed him. But she'd always known it was him. He echoed the cold brutality of his father.

She wondered, for the first time, if she shouldn't just turn back.

Let it go.

Talek would understand.

“You sure you want to go there at night?” the spellslinger asked suddenly, breaking her thoughts.

“Demons are hunters of men,” she said with a light nod of her head. “Means they're only active when their prey is. Usually not awake much at night no matter what old wives say.”

The spellslinger threw her an odd look. “Usually? That's quite a fucking leap of faith,” he said carefully. “I can tell you know fuck all about demons. That they sleep at night like everyone else? That's your hope?”

“It's what I'm going with,” she confirmed. “Unless you got a better idea? Always willing to learn.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. Then shrugged instead. “I ain't got shit.”

“Guess there's nothing in your book that'll help, either?”

“Here and there,” he said. “Question is more how much time I get to cast. Some spells take time. More time than I think I'll get. I'm still not fast enough to cast like a master. Sorry.”

The elf said nothing. Uncomfortable as she was with mages, she pushed her feelings aside to save for when she'd need them. For now, she was willing to accept she might need him and, unproven as he was, he was all she had. Grimly, she set her jaw and told herself that to kill Raste, she'd use Rule himself.

The trees suddenly gave way as though a line had been drawn in the land. Chukshene breathed a sigh, relieved to be free of the ghastly embrace of the forest. The horses, too, seemed less skittish and took to the widening path with lighter steps.

“Glad to be out of that,” Chukshene said.

“Keep your eyes open, spellslinger,” she said softly. “Ain't much in the trees could hurt you, but out here, there's plenty.”

“Thanks,” he winced. “Just what I need. More shit to be afraid of. Like I don't have enough.”

“You're welcome.”

They rode over a steep, but small hill shaped like a squatting spider. The path zigzagged over its back and angled sharply down onto a wide plain where only a few splintered trunks remained to show it had once been a forest as thick as the one they abruptly emerged from.

Smacked into the middle of the plain, the town of Spikewrist was little more than a scattering of small buildings huddled together for warmth inside a tall stone wall.

A wide gate swallowed the path and the elf could see even from this distance that the gates were open.

Not a good sign.

Uneven and littered with steep hills and gullies, the ground was the same ashen colour as much of the Deadlands. Snow sprawled in ghostly clumps across the plain. Dry twigs stuck up from between many rocks but if there had ever been anything alive out here, it'd long since died and turned to dust.

There were, she figured, many places to hide in the trenches carved into the plain. Like scars criss-crossing an already wounded face, the narrow channels had been dug by armies long since dead and each line closer to the town had no doubt been carved at great cost in blood.

Scanning them with narrow eyes, the elf could almost feel the ghosts which surely haunted this place and wondered if perhaps they had tired of huddling in the damp ditches and sought the warmth of the town.