Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) (4 page)

He hadn't reached for her. Had just knelt there, waiting. Watching.

Why he'd bothered to help her, she didn't know. Even now. But he had. And saw in her more than she ever did. Without him, she'd never have worn the black uniform falling apart on her body.

A uniform she'd once been proud to wear.

Why she still wore it, she couldn't say. Only that perhaps it reminded her of how far she'd come. Of how she'd fought so long and hard to reclaim what was rightfully hers. Her soul.

No one recognised the uniform out here in the Deadlands.

Who could?

With all the patches, it hardly resembled what it had once been. And even if it did, not many alive had seen it for what it was.

She touched her fingers to her hair, feeling the small ribbons of cloth tangled up in her locks. These, too, were part of her path from the street to salvation.

She snorted at the thought. Now it served as a reminder of her failure. Her mistakes. A suitable burden to bear when faced with his horrific wounds.

“Fucking cold,” she repeated, rubbing her hands together. One of her palms itched and she scratched at it before blowing hot air into her cupped hands. Feeling the heat thrill the inside of her hands. The heat, though, wasn't strong enough to warm her knuckles. The ache in her joints forced her to ram them quickly back into her pockets.

She stifled a yawn.

Then realised what had been nagging her.

Head snapped up to look sharply toward the cabin. The chimney. Usually smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

But today the sky was empty of that lonely black trail.

Had he fallen asleep on the porch without keeping the chimney going?

How long had it been cold?

Had he fallen?

Had he-? She couldn't bear to think of what he might have done.

Her heart began to beat faster. She squinted to see even the barest trace of smoke.

He loved that fire. Said the warmth made him feel more relaxed. That the nerves twisting constantly in his body seemed dulled when he pressed against the pipe. It was a ridiculous thought. How could he enjoy the heat after all that happened?

“Stupid thing to do,” she'd told him many times. “Get away from it. It's too hot.”

He always smiled, refusing to move. “So? What can it do to me? Give me another burn? I already got enough. What's a few more?”

She was never able to look at him then. Never saw his sorrow as he noticed her discomfort, but she felt it. Felt the helplessness ooze from him. Couldn't think of anything comforting to say.

Now, looking at the cabin, fear prickled the back of her neck.

The shadows leaked across the valley, lapping at the light.

Where was he?

She half expected to see him hobbling along the path toward her. Sometimes he tried to walk further than the porch.

Maybe he'd managed to walk further today. Maybe he wasn't near the house.

She scanned the land looking for any other sign, and saw nothing.

Quickening her pace, the elf chewed hard at her lip, the rising panic drumming in rhythm with the ache in her head.

And then she saw the hoof print in the mud.

Horse.

She knelt beside it and the thrumming in her brain stopped abruptly as her mind kicked into gear.

More than one horse.

Up to a dozen of them.

Heading toward the cabin.

She caught sight of a few bootprints too, half-hidden by a thin layer of slush.

The sudden rush of horror enveloped her heart.

“Talek,” she croaked. Began sprinting toward the cabin. “Talek!”

No answer.

She sprinted, ignoring the winding path to dash into the fields. She ran like a crazed goblin, dodging ditches and leaping the larger boulders.

Nearly slipped on a patch of snow but caught her balance and kept running.

The tight grimace on her face grew harder. Fear swelled in her guts, dragging her forward. Dizziness ate at each step as alcohol, still sitting comfortably in her belly, surged through her blood.

She could smell it.

Not the stale vomit. Not the wretched stench of her own body. But the quiet dry stink of death.

And even before her eyes made out the crumpled shape on the shadow-drenched porch, she knew what she would see.

“Talek!” she screamed. Her throat was raw and her vision blurred as tears clawed from her eyes. Up the stairs without noticing them. Tugging at his corpse and scooping him up into her arms, eyes wide in disbelief as she saw the handle of the knife buried in his chest.

“What the fuck?” Her hand circled the handle, but she couldn't bring herself to touch it. Couldn't bear to remove it, as though pulling it out might cause his body to disintegrate in her arms.

Instead she let out a soul-cleaving sob and pulled him close. Nostrils filling with the smell of him and the poisonous stink of old blood.

He was cold.

Horribly cold.

She wept freely, gripping him so hard as though trying to absorb him into her.

The elf's sobbing was a river of grief, bubbling violently through her.

“I'm sorry,” she said through a curtain of tears. Every sound she uttered felt like she was trying to push her fist through the eye of a needle. “I wasn't here. Again, I failed you. I'm sorry. Talek. So sorry.”

She rocked him in her arms until a small part of her mind clicked into focus and told her to let him go.

How long she'd knelt there with him, she couldn't say. But it felt like days. Was probably only minutes. Her mind, an overwhelming fog inside her skull, acknowledged he was dead. Reluctantly, she lay him gently on the cold porch.

Death was nothing new to her. She'd seen the Old Skeleton's face and felt the dry breath of the Shadowed Halls blow across her spine many times.

But this was different.

This was Talek.

The back of her hand brushed his cheek, amazed by the emptiness which existed within his body.

It was a shell. A container.

Whatever had been inside to form the man she loved was gone. And it would never return. No matter how much she held him.

The warmth passing from her body into his did nothing to turn meat into living flesh.

The elf's jaw tightened.

Slowly, she rose. Rolled her shoulders and entered the cabin.

Saw the mess, but didn't register it. Found a blanket and took it outside to cover him while she worked.

Got a shovel from a small locker on the porch.

Walked a small distance from the house. Near a stone he'd liked to sit during the summer while she worked the farm. Remembered his eyes following her every movement. Like bees buzzing around her back.

She'd hated his gaze on her.

Now, she'd do anything to have him look at her.

Just one more time.

Began to dig.

The snow sighed around her. Lightly at first, it eventually obscured her vision.

But she kept digging.

The frozen earth resisted almost every attempt to dig the hole, but even had it been made of steel she would have persisted.

By the time she'd dug a hole big enough she was surprised to see night had completely consumed the land. She hunted for a small lamp which had miraculously survived the ransacking of their cabin and lit it on the porch to bathe the yard with a warm yellow glow.

Shivering in the cold, she dragged his body to the makeshift grave. Slid him along the ground as gently as she could. His boots scraped across the ground, leaving two thin lines.

Her eyes blurred and she wiped at the rippling tears with her shoulder as she struggled with his weight. Even though the burns had taken much of his muscle, Talek was large for an elf. Almost as big as a Fnord.

She rolled him easily into the hole, noting with regret that it wasn't long enough and his knees had to bend a little for him to fit. She paused, thinking how fragile he looked. How lost. She lay the blanket over him and stared into the grave.

She wasn't just burying her husband, she thought. She was burying her life.

Her past.

Her future.

Everything she'd ever been was tied to him. She owed him more than she could repay and as she knelt above his body, she wept again. Not for her loss, but for the fact she never had a chance to tell him. Tell him she was to blame.

To beg for forgiveness.

The protruding handle poked up through the blanket's folds. She frowned.

Reached slowly into the grave and took a tight grip on the knife.

Tugged.

It refused to give.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered to his corpse. “I've given you so much pain in your life. But this, I swear, will be the last time.”

And sobbing with the horror of it, she tore the blade free. The smell of old blood made her gag but, lifting the blade free of the freshly dug grave, she eyed the hook knife with professional curiosity.

Not the kind of blade a professional would normally use to stab through the sternum. It was too curved for that.

An amateur, then.

Or, she thought coldly, Talek had pissed them off enough they'd used the first thing which came to hand.

She preferred the latter excuse.

Pulling herself to her feet, she stared down at the covered body of her husband and wished for words fitting the moment. But she'd never been much for words. And those words she knew well enough were bitter.

Instead, she ran her fingers through her ragged hair and allowed a few more tears to fall. Lifted her hand in helpless salute. A poor imitation of the one used by the Kulsa'Jadean he'd loved so much. Then shovelled dirt back down onto the body. Sweat poured down her face and arms. Her breath erupted as steam and even the thickening snow couldn't cool her down as she worked in a frenzy.

When it was done, she looked around the yard. Saw the goats milling around nervously in their pen.

Sighing under her breath, the elf headed toward them, shovel in hand. Unhitched the gate and flung it open. “Get the fuck out,” she growled. “Go on, you dumb animals. Move. Move! Out!”

Bleating nervously, they skittered through the gate and away. Jogged toward the side of the cabin and danced around each other, keeping her in view.

The elf brought the shovel down hard. Dug another hole in the centre of the small pen. Ignored the smell of goat shit and piss as she kept digging.

Deeper.

Then the shovel hit something with a dull thunk.

She scrubbed at the ground to reveal a small chest, which she heaved out of the rancid soil with a grunt. The lock on the side was heavy but broke free after a few good hits with the shovel.

Inside, a small box lay half-wrapped in oilskin. Beside it, also in oilskin, a large sheathed knife.

The knife she already knew intimately and felt no need to unwrap it. She tucked it into her belt. The box, she held in her hand.

It fit snugly into her palm. Her fingers rubbed against the metal ribs and along the alien runes. Something about it had always given her the creeps so it wasn't hard to accept Talek's insistence it should remain hidden.

He told her it was dangerous. Powerful.

Told her his family had protected it for generations.

And now he was dead, she was determined to keep it with her. Though she couldn't explain why, she knew it was the right thing to do.

Shoving it into her jacket, she turned back to the skittish goats.

“Go where you like. Stick around the house for a while until winter moves on. That's my advice. Take it or leave it,” she smiled a wry smile whose humour didn't touch her haunted eyes. “You ain't kids no more.”

One of the shaggy goats gave a forlorn bleat, but she was beyond caring for their future. Until she gave an absent count.

One was missing.

Cocking her head, she noticed marks close by the small barn. Following the trail, she found blood and what was left of the goat. Figured Talek's murderers had dragged it into the barn to butcher it. They'd taken the easiest cuts and left the rest.

She wondered if Talek had been killed over a goat. But if they were so desperate for food, why leave the others? It made no sense.

Annoyed, the elf knelt beside the bootprints.

There were at least four sets. One was big. He seemed to have done the deed, judging by where he'd been standing and the angles of blood sprayed over the walls and ground. The cuts in what was left of the carcass suggested an axe.

Strange choice, she thought.

Another pair of boots were about her size.

The bootprints looked to be pretty much the same and she guessed they were part of a uniform. Something about them looked familiar, though she couldn't quite place it. New, too. Their prints were clear and well defined.

Maybe soldiers of a new guild she hadn't encountered. Plenty of guilds cropping up these days as Lostlight's internal politics made and destroyed ties both old and new.

Or mercenaries? Lost in the Deadlands?

She grunted in annoyance. They could be anything. Could be Caspiellans for all she knew.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked around for something else.

Anything, really. Any hint. Something helpful.

Found nothing.

Why they'd come here if not for the goat was a mystery, and whether Talek's death was their goal or an effect, she couldn't tell. Did they get what they wanted? She couldn't be sure of that, either. But she would find out.

One of them would talk.

She had no doubt about that.

The trail led southward, along the winding track leading out of the valley. Further into the Deadlands. Given the nature of the valley and the lack of decent tracks or towns for them to head for, their decision wasn't much of a surprise. They could only have gone north or south. They'd chosen south, and now so would she.

And, out here, there was only one place they'd likely be heading toward. Grimwood Creek. A large town known for being a hive for mercenaries, smugglers and worse. And that was just the tavern.

Before that, maybe two or three small trading towns depending which trail they took. Spikewrist would be the obvious choice. She would start there.

Staring out through the falling snow, the elf spat from the corner of her mouth and headed back into the house. Kicked the door shut behind her.