Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) (8 page)

Nysta ignored him and stared hard into the fire, her hands twisted together in a knot.

She'd figured they'd been elfs by their boots. Didn't feel too much surprise at the revelation. All the same, it disappointed her that Talek would fall to his own kind. She'd always thought if he had to die violently in the Deadlands, it would be to a renegade band of humans. An ork, maybe. Or pack of goblins. Or some kind of magic-twisted monstrosity created during the Godwars. Anything.

But not elfs.

She felt the stab of disappointment in her heart and sighed. “What they look like?”

“They were elfs,” Carter shrugged dismissively. “No offence, but you all look the same to me. I guess one was bigger than the others, like I said. Two looked identical. Could've been brothers? Another had a cut along his throat like someone'd tried opening him up and didn't do a good job. Not for lack of trying, I'd say. Awful looking thing. Worse scar than yours. Their leader, though. Come to think of it. He had red hair. That looked pretty strange. Don't see many elfs with red hair. Others looked just like I said. Normal bunch of Long-ears.”

The elf frowned. There were plenty of elfs in the Deadlands. Lostlight was decaying under the constant threat of attack from the southern kingdoms. The city slowly eating itself with fanged mouths of fear and mistrust as the guilds struggled to retain their sliding grip on power. With Grim no longer holding the combined peoples of the north together, old feuds had reignited.

Even King Jutta seemed unable to distance himself from the growing rifts.

Some of the smaller guilds had even quit the city. Headed north to beyond the Great Wall. Fewer still had been reluctant to leave the city and so came to the Deadlands to hide from their more powerful new enemies. Hoping to rebuild their flagging strength and return triumphant one day.

Something else, though, tugged at her thoughts and she looked up at the wagoner as suspicion gnawed behind her eyes. “Red hair? You sure? How red? Red like rust, or red like blood?”

The wagoner ran his hand over his stubbled cheek. “Blood, I guess. He stood out like an ork in a Ruleist church. I didn't like him. His eyes were too pale, you know? Like they were dead. They wore grey tabards, too, if that helps any.”

Her eyes thinned to slits. “Grey? Any insignia on them?”

“None I could see. But seemed to me they were covering something up. I don't know. Just the impression I got.”

“But there were nine of them? You're sure about that?”

“I'm sure. I counted twice because I didn't think Ollie'd have enough arrows,” he looked over his shoulder before whispering. “Or that he'd shoot fast enough to cut them down before they got to us.”

“Got anything to drink?” Chukshene cut in. He tossed the wrapping onto the fire where it flared intensely for a moment before curling into a tight wadded ball of black.

“Stream over there,” Carter jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where Ollie had taken the horses.

“Oh,” the spellslinger peered into the gloom at the trees. Their twisted trunks creaked at him and the sun, groping blindly at the edge of the world, shone its pale light through their scattered branches. The effect made him think a thousand eyes were watching him.

Waiting for him.

The spellslinger sucked on his teeth. Scratched his chin nervously and wrapped both arms around his book. “Well. I guess I'll be fine. It can wait 'til morning.”

“The others say his name?” Nysta asked quietly.

“Huh?”

“The red-haired elf. They give him a name?”

The wagoner shook his head. “Not that I recall, no. He didn't speak much. Just told the others to keep moving. They did like he said. Seemed to be in charge. Sorry, Long-ear. I can't help you much. They were just a bunch of mean bastards who rode past. Were there for less than a few minutes and didn't come back.”

Her mind raced over this information and an image of a face rose out of the murkiness of her memory. “Raste,” she muttered.

“Sorry?”

“Raste. If it's him, and of course it fucking would be, then the nine are the Bloody Nine. Fuck.”

“Bloody Nine?” Carter frowned.

“They don't sound friendly,” Chukshene said drily.

“They ain't.”

A shivering wind sucked at her cheeks and she suddenly felt so tired. The tension pulling at her face and shoulders as she struggled to push her ballooning sorrow and rage down into the dark pit of her heart was getting too much to bear.

She wanted to get up and run screaming through the trees.

Wanted to shout at the sky.

Spit curses to all the gods.

To close her eyes and weep herself to sleep.

Raste.

It would be him. She had no doubt of it.

“Nysta?” the spellslinger was looking at her oddly. “You okay?”

“Fine, Chukshene,” she growled. “Just life has a funny way of reaching round and biting you on the ass sometimes.”

Struggling to hold everything inside, the elf turned her face away and tore the image in her mind apart. Raste's face shattered. There was nothing she could do right now, she told herself.

But when she had him in her fists...

She felt her lips tug into a cruel smirk.

He was gonna bleed.

And bleed.

A second wave of exhaustion nudged her shoulders, carried on the sullen warmth from the fire. She'd walked a great distance today, even burdened by the mage. Her gaze flicked over to him as she suddenly realised he'd kept her pace all day despite his moaning.

He looked like shit. His eyes were drooping now that food filled his belly, and already he was swaying gently as though about ready to capsize.

Pursing her lips, she dug into one of the many pouches lining her jacket and pulled out a few more coins. Tossed them at the wagoner. “For the fire. And food.”

“You didn't have any,” Carter observed.

“Ain't hungry,” she said. And even though it was a lie, the rising bitterness tugging at her mind made everything feel tense. So tense she didn't think she could face eating right now.

He scooped the coins and dropped them into a purse at his waist. He hesitated for a moment. “Generous of you to pay for the spellslinger. Especially as you're both strangers. Don't see that kind of generosity in the Deadlands much.”

The elf grunted in reply.

“Well,” the wagoner stood and looked around, dusting himself off. “I better find Ollie. Then I reckon we'll get some sleep. Like an early start. The rest of our team is up ahead and they won't wait for us. Our leader, Kalel, is always trying to prove something. He's a competitive prick. We'd like to prove him wrong and catch him before he makes the Stonefist.”

“Bit harsh though, isn't it?” Chukshene asked over a yawn. “Leaving you out here in the Deadlands all alone? This place isn't known for being friendly.”

“No,” the wagoner nodded. “It isn't. But we made a deal with Kalel. And I'll honour it even if he doesn't. Matter of pride. I'd like to think we're better than him. Besides, we've travelled this way before. Nothing here we can't handle. And Ollie ain't as bad with his bow as you think.”

“Seemed a bit of a straight-shooter,” the elf allowed gently.

Carter threw her a puzzled look before touching his forelock in salute. “Well. Be that as it may. I'll leave you both to it. There isn't much room in the wagon and Ollie'd never allow you to share it with us anyway. But the fire will keep you warm. Sleep well, Long-ear. Mage.”

Chukshene nodded politely and watched the wagoner as he headed off into the dark, calling for Oliver. Turning back to the elf, he tapped the edge of his grimoire thoughtfully. Rested his head on it and eyed her steadily for a moment before speaking. “I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“Your loss.”

The elf waited, thinking he was about to say something more, but he left it at that and allowed the silence to stretch.

A log popped in the flame and she rubbed the scar on her cheek absently. “Thanks.”

“Can I ask you something?” He kept tapping the grimoire.

“If you have to.”

“Why'd you let me come with you? You could've left me. Could've stuck one of your toys into my eye. Or worse places. I don't understand. I mean, I don't know you. But I can see you're not the type to do things out of the goodness of your heart. So why'd you do it? Why let me live? Not because you like me. I can see that. Don't understand, of course. I mean, what's not to like?”

“It important, Chukshene?”

“To me. Like the little guy said. It makes sense to know who you travel with.”

She rolled her shoulders, feeling the knots loosen as she listened to the sound of his breathing mingle with the crackle of the fire.

Deep in the dark, a horse gave a low whinny.

The voices of Oliver and Carter crept through the night and the elf closed her eyes, but couldn't make out any words. The tone, however, was clear.

She sighed, scratching at the palm of her hand.

Opening her violet eyes, the elf looked hard at the spellslinger. “My husband was murdered yesterday,” she said. “Shouldn't have happened, but it did. Two years ago, I'd have come home to find a bunch of corpses in the sun and Talek whistling while he dug their graves. But not this year. Yesterday, I buried him. Took the knife that killed him from his chest. Keep it right here at my hip. I mean to give it back to the feller who left it behind. Only right to return a man's belongings. What's worse right now is I think I know the man who owns it. And if it's him, I should've killed him a long time ago. A moment's weakness. That's all. A moment's weakness and this is my reward for letting him live. Why'd I let you come with me, spellslinger? Because you piss me off. And while you're pissing me off, I can stop thinking how this is all my fault.”

“Your fault?” he leaned forward. “How is it your fau-”

“Freeze!” Oliver screamed, leaping into the clearing. His bow quivered in his hand, the arrow's tip glinting wickedly in the firelight.

His face was sharp and demonic as he struggled with the urge to let the arrow fly into her body and the last fragment of humanity which baulked at the thought of cold-blooded murder. The elf noticed the struggle and wondered if there had ever been a time when she herself had fought that struggle.

Behind him, Carter had his hatchet in one hand and a small dagger in the other. Though he looked reluctant to fight, there was a resignation in the way he carried himself beside the archer.

She didn't doubt the wagoners' determination and ability to kill.

Her eyes slid over them, slowly. “Cold word to use by a fire as warm as this one. You sure you want to do this?” the elf asked. “Just the two of you? Without your team?”

The archer bared his teeth. The bow creaked dangerously in his fist. “I can kill you just fine on my own, Long-ear.”

“Don't reckon you can,” she said, ignoring Chukshene's hiss of shock as she rose to her feet like a leviathan from the sea.

“Sit the fuck down!” Oliver shrieked, jerking his aim between the elf and the mage. “I'm warning you, you fucking Tainted bitch! I'll fucking kill you! I will!”

“Please,” the hawk-nosed Carter whined. “Do what he says. We don't want to kill you. Just want the rest of your silver. We need it to get to Lostlight. Our wagon's ruined. When I said we'd repaired the wheel, I lied. Look at it. It can't be repaired. We've been trying for the past two days and there's no hope. We're going to leave it. And our stock. We'll be ruined if we go as we are. But with your silver, we might make it. Please. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.”

The elf let her hand drop to the hilt of
A Flaw in the Glass
. The other drifted above
Entrance Exam
. She let her mouth curl into a twisted smile that left the archer in no doubt as to where to keep his arrow aimed. Ignoring the threat, the elf took a half-step closer. “You fellers should know two things, first.”

The archer's tongue flicked over his upper lip. “What's that?”

Two blades leapt into her fists like flashes of silver.
A Flaw in the Glass
flared venomously as her voice cut smoothly through the night. “I'm super pissed. And you're out of your league.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Streaking to her left, her eyes clamped onto the released arrowhead like magnets to iron. It buzzed through the air and drove hard into the log on which she'd been sitting with a frustrated thunk.

“Bitch!” the archer spat. He threw his bow aside as she whirled into range, sliding a brutal-looking knife from his hip and spinning it in his hand. “Come on then, Tainted slut! You don't frighten me! I cut up your kind plenty of times before.”

The elf circled slowly as the threat of the bow was removed. She wasn't eager to die.

Kept her eyes on the knife, aware of Carter standing back. The hawk-nosed man wasn't a fighter and looked unable to decide what to do.

Dismissing both the confused wagoner and the stunned spellslinger behind her, she focussed completely on the archer.

Could see how much he wanted to sink the blade into her guts. Could smell the hate wafting off him in waves as he revelled in thoughts of tearing the skin from her body. That he'd called her Tainted showed his sympathies and this hate of his meant that slender strand of humanity was being strangled with each passing second.

Soon, he would feel only a thin razor-sharp determination to kill. Hesitation would cease to exist inside him and reflex would take over.

She knew this, because she possessed the reflexes of a killer and virtually none of the hesitation. She'd been trained for it both as an urchin on the streets of Lostlight and, later, a raghead in service to the King.

So, she watched him. And kept her patience.

Searching.

For an opening.

“Cut up my kind, huh?” she grinned cruelly, knowing the hate would flare in him. Knowing that hate would fuel impatience. “You've got no fucking idea what kind I am.”

“Don't matter,” the archer sneered. “You'll soon be the best kind of Long-ear there is. On account you'll be the dead kind.”

She let him make the first move. A choice which nearly got her killed, because he was faster than she'd expected.