Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (12 page)

The warlock. Again, she should kill him.

She hated spellslingers.

She had every right in her eyes to slit his belly and leave.

But he, too, was an outcast. Maybe he was running to power, but he was also running from the judgement of his own kind. When they found out what he was doing, and they would, she knew they'd try killing him. It wouldn't matter his reasons were to protect his beloved Fnordic Land from Rule.

He'd need every scrap of information from his grimoire to survive his own kind.

And, deep down, he knew it.

She looked from one to the other. Why were they still alive? Why hadn't she killed them? What was stopping her? It would be so easy. Two weakened spellslingers. And Melganaderna would never expect it. Not now. She was too young. Too trusting.

That made her weak.

The worms slithered through her heart. Soaking up blood and channelling it to her brain on thoughts of killing.

“I must be getting soft,” she murmured as the warlock stepped close.

“Yeah,” Chukshene said, eyes on the couple. Patted her on the shoulder. “I know. It's good seeing two people in love-”

Her fist hit him hard on the jaw and he dropped like a sack of rocks.

Didn't move.

Something inside the elf giggled in satisfaction.

That felt good. As though some of the rage had been let out.

She was grinning, she realised, as she looked up at the shocked couple. “Told him before not to touch me,” she said. “Reckon he figured I was joking.”

Melganaderna raised an eyebrow and pulled away from the necromancer, suddenly aware of how close they were. She looked down at the unconscious warlock. “I don't think he'll find it funny now.”

“Sure he will,” the elf drawled. “He got the punch line.”

CHAPTER NINE

Beyond the cavern, the cave's tunnel narrowed again as it drilled into the mountain. In some places, crude stairs were carved into the grey rock to make the descent a little easier, but mostly it was a struggle to stay upright.

Small stones and loose soil kept them stumbling until the trail vomited them into another chamber. This time, instead of the more natural looking cavern they'd found before, it was perfectly square with high vaulted ceiling and tiled floor. The wall along one side had partially caved in, dropping a mound of sodden brick and rubble into the room.

There was no furniture. No sign of it ever having been used for anything. And the only light was from the warlock's sullen orb which hovered into the middle of the room and waited. Shadows cast high into the reinforced ceiling shivered and murmured against each other.

“Let's stop here,” Hemlock said, helping Chukshene make it to a place against one of the walls. The two battered-looking spellslingers looked ready to collapse. “He looks like he needs rest.”

Still shaky from the blow, and not yet recovered from his previous beatings, Chukshene muttered his thanks before resuming his quiet study of the elf as he slid to the ground and hugged his knees to his chest. He dabbed at his bloody nose with a rag Melgana had taken from the Grey Jackets for him.

He hadn't said anything since he'd woken, but she'd felt his gaze on her back.

Could almost hear his brain working.

Wondered what he was thinking.

Was he contemplating some kind of violent reply?

She'd hit him without thinking. Responded to a hidden urge she couldn't fathom, and the rush of satisfaction had overwhelmed her. Kept her heart prancing for some time.

“I think we all need rest,” Melganaderna said, dropping her heavy pack. She lay the battleaxe down and sprawled on the ground beside it. Looked up at the dark shadows crawling across the roof. “I know I'm completely fucked.”

Though she didn't want to admit it, the elf agreed. Every fibre of her body ached not just from the day's exertion, but the months of pent-up fear. Fear which had left her mind submerged beneath a fragmented fog of indecision that had only recently dissipated. Replaced by something which smouldered inside like embers only seconds from flaring into a flame-drenched serpent and lashing out at anyone. Anything.

This conflict of emotions made her more uneasy, so instead of dropping to the ground like the others, she moved to the rear of the hall and peered down the corridor leading out. Unsure what she was searching for, and thinking she was maybe just looking to distract herself.

Couldn't see anything.

Just more of the stifling blackness which was beginning to leave her impatient to get out. She wasn't yet close to panic, but the elf was beginning to suspect she might be more prone to claustrophobia than she'd thought.

Hemlock moved away from the warlock and squatted beside Melganaderna. Dropped his pack down between them. Rummaged through its hidden depths. Pulled out a featureless clay bowl and set it down. Kept digging. Didn't look at Nysta as his tired voice rasped; “Do you see anything?”

She clicked her tongue. Rubbed the scar on her cheek and shook her head. “Nope.”

Then she returned closer to the small group. Stood looking down at them for a moment. Found she couldn't meet the warlock's thoughtful gaze.

Noticed a larger block of fallen masonry a little further away and moved to sit on it.

Drew
Under Melegal's Hat
and a sharpening stone from one of her pouches. Began stroking the blade.

The steely sound drew Melganaderna's attention and she groaned. “I have to clean this thing, too. Shit. Forgetting all my training already.”

“It can wait,” Hemlock wheezed.

“No. It can't.” The woman sat up, rubbing her shoulders and stretching her neck. “Look at her. She's tired, too. She hides it well. But she is. Yet she knows to look after her weapons. Gormen always said you should take care of your gear. Look after it. If you don't, you can't connect with it. Can't feel it's a part of you.”

“She names all her knives,” Chukshene said softly. “Every one. There's a lot of names on her. You'd think she'd forget a few of them. But she doesn't, do you, Nysta? You even remember the names of the ones you've lost, I'm thinking.”

The elf's lip curled slightly at what was more an observation than an insult. She aimed her words at Melganaderna. “Feller who told you that was right. If you think of them as just tools, then that's all they'll ever be. Bits of metal you might as well use to slice bread because they'll be useless for anything else. Besides, if a blade loses its edge, you'll regret it. Only regret it the once, though.”

Melganaderna let loose a weary smile. In the depths of her mail-clad soul, the young axewoman recognised the truth of the elf's words. So she didn't sigh as she claimed a large steel from her own pack and hauled the unwieldy axe across her lap.

“My people have a name for this,” she told the elf. Her fingers ran along the glowing runes with a reverence the elf found unsettling. “They call it
Rule's Blessing
. But its enemies had another name for it. The name I chose to know it by. They called it
Torment
.”

The warlock blinked. “That's
Torment
? Really?”

“It's a good name for an axe,” the elf allowed.

“But you've never heard of it?” Melganaderna's expression was surprised.

“Nysta grew up on the streets of Lostlight,” Chukshene said. Tone matter-of-fact rather than mocking. “They're cut off from most places. Sometimes she surprises me with what she knows, but history's a big mystery to her most of the time.”

The elf shrugged. “Lessons I learned weren't from any story.”

“In many ways, that makes you lucky,” Melganaderna said. “There's a lot of things I've learned from stories which I wish I hadn't.”

“You can never have too much knowledge,” Hemlock said.

Chukshene grinned wide. “I'd drink to that. You know. If I had anything to drink.”

The young axewoman kept her eyes on the elf. Studying her. Perhaps assessing her. Wondering if she was really as ignorant of history as she claimed. “It was made by Rule,” she said at last. “It's said he brought metals from Heaven just to make it. That he then forged it in the belly of the sun. The enchantments he placed on it were also his own. No mage has ever understood them. And many have tried.”

“It wasn't Rule's work,” Hemlock said, repressing a cough. “I found a book which says the axe was made by someone else. By someone called Sorrow.”

“Sorrow?” Chukshene frowned. “I've heard that name. Somewhere...”

“The book I read it in was a journal, of sorts. Written by a Captain of the King's Guard before the Godwars. He secretly recorded all the conversations he heard between the Dark Lord and Rule. Most of them are confusing. The language is archaic. Sometimes strange. But from what I can make out, Sorrow was a builder for the gods. He made weapons for them. And their armour. The enchantments, too. Rule didn't like those. He kept telling Grim not to trust Sorrow's enchantments. I don't think he liked Sorrow.”

“Rule doesn't like anyone.”

“Its purpose is to find Vampire Lords,” Melganaderna continued, speaking to the elf. “And kill them. You see, they were hard to kill. They were the gods of this world when the world was still Night. When the land was covered in ice. Some legends say they were stronger than all the gods, in the beginning. That's why Rule and Grim were forced to work together despite their own hatred of each other.”

“Then I don't understand why you're afraid,” Chukshene said. “Let it do what it does. Let it kill them.”

“That's not how it works,” she said patiently. “You see these runes? It's said that if the person wielding the battleaxe can connect with it, the runes glow brighter than the sun itself. Until then, it's just an axe to me. Maybe a little lighter than it should be, but still just a hunk of sharp metal. Which means any Vampire Lord this thing tries to kill is only going to laugh it off. The minor runes seem to work for me, though. That's why I can carry it. They make it feel lighter in my hands. But that's it.”

“And you can't connect with it?”

“Not yet.” The dark purple runes ebbed as she traced the lines along the twin faces of the battleaxe's double blades. “It's as if there's something stopping me. A barrier between us. It's difficult to describe, and maybe I'm just making excuses.”

“You'll figure it out,” Hemlock said. He reached for her hand and squeezed lightly. “You always do.”

She smiled at that. Then looked up at the elf again. “It looks cumbersome, I know. Ridiculously big. Maybe even stupid. Especially for someone of my size. I trained on much smaller blades, of course. Swords, mostly. I'm afraid I made a hopeless princess, which my father didn't mind. I think the bastard was hoping for war to come and always wanted a son who'd charge off into battle for him. I was the next best thing, I guess. When we left, I felt it calling to me. Like it wanted to leave with me. I don't know why. I've never heard it before. It wants something, I can feel it. But, so far, I don't know what.” She glanced down the tunnel, eyes glazing over. “All I know is I need to figure it out soon if there's a Vampire Lord haunting these caves.”

“I'm not sure there's one still alive in here, Melgana.” Hemlock furrowed his brow. “I really can't see Urak, even in death, allowing someone else to use his Keep. The Vampire Lords were fiercely territorial among themselves. They fought relentlessly, and by all accounts their King was worse. He ruled out of strength, not wisdom. It's why they couldn't form a single army to fight back. Why they fell to Rule in the end. ”

“And Grim,” Chukshene said. “Don't forget the Dark Lord was there, too.”

“Sorry. I keep forgetting. That's not the way we were taught, I guess.”

The warlock snorted loudly. “Rule lies. It's why Caspiellans are so stupid. No offence, but it's true. The Dark Lord was always honest. He believed we should learn. Not just from our successes, but our failures. It made us strong.”

“But he was called the Dark Lord for a reason,” Melganaderna said quietly. “He embraced magic and darkness. He brought winter back to the land and let loose the Shadelings. He brought the world so close to another Night Age. He twisted life. Created the orks. And then there's the Deathpriests. Everyone knows their magic is foul. Unholy.”

Chukshene's face was blank. “No more foul than necromancy.”

She opened her mouth and shut it again, not knowing what to say as her cheeks reddened.

“He's right,” Hemlock said, smiling easily as Melganaderna shot him a surprised look. “No, Melgana, he is. It's something I thought about for a long time. It's why I went to the High King's crypt in the first place. I wanted to know, you see. Was it magic or was it man which was evil? I still don't know. But I don't feel like the Lich I'm supposed to be.”

“You're no Lich. Don't say that.”

“It's said that's what necromancers are doomed to become.” But he chuckled as he said it. Flicked some ingredients into the bowl and snapped a few words of power.

Magic swirled in the room like an acrid tornado, focussed on the bowl. Hot red flame burst into life above it, flooding the room with a cheerier glow than the warlock's globe.

As the warmth spread, the elf slowly relaxed.

Chukshene, who'd been watching carefully, gave an admiring shake of his head. “I like that,” he said. “All my flames come out looking sick. Green or yellow. Like molten pus.”

“I'm not very good.” Hemlock looked embarrassed by the warlock's praise. “But I'm getting there. The first time I cast that, I nearly blew a hole through the castle wall. As it was, I got scorched rather badly.”

“I know the feeling,” Chukshene said. He leaned forward, holding out his hands eagerly to sap the warmth. “You know, this one time, when I was still an apprentice, I set my wife's horse on fire. No, really. Whoomph! Up it went. Char-broiled in five seconds flat. Best thing I ever saw in my life. What? Why are you looking at me like that? It was great. I can't fucking stand horses.”

“That's awful,” Melganaderna said, not sure whether to believe him or not.

“Is it? That's kind of what my wife said. But she was a real . . .” He trailed off, eyes widening as a thought occurred to him. “Oh, fuck me. Grim's dead fucking toenails, I've been stupid.”