Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (14 page)

Chancing another look, the elf saw the young couple were still.

Unmoving.

The rise and fall of their chests beneath Hemlock's coat draped across them. They'd succumbed so quickly to the call of sleep.

The flickering magefire coated them both in its purifying glow. Their faces, troubled by dreams, smoothed to contentment as they clung to each other.

Melganaderna murmured his name.

The elf rubbed the scar on her cheek, feeling the weight of her burdens press down on her.

Turned herself toward the corridor and continued her study of the dark.

Nothing moved.

Perhaps Gul'Se was content to let them make their own pace. Which meant there would be no escaping the mountain's prison now. No chance to find another path from its bowels. In fact, the elf suspected there was none.

The main corridor leading from the room most likely led straight to the demented Vampire Queen. Its smooth walls gave no sign of treachery, but the elf knew enough to know the journey through the dark would be tough.

Absently, she wondered what had happened to the other Grey Jackets. Were they caught in Gul'Se's web, too? Did the Vampire Queen's words disturb their dreams? Were they being channelled into the mountain's belly?

The silence hung around her head. Teasing with its lack of warning.

Lulling her.

Telling her it was fine.

Nothing was there. Nothing was stalking her. Nothing prowled the inky blackness.

Shadows prickled the doorway leading from the room.

So engrossed in the diluted movements of light around the corridor's mouth, the elf didn't notice the warlock carefully shift to his feet and creep over to her. Eager not to disturb the sleeping couple, he tiptoed slowly enough that he made almost no sound.

Until he sat just beside her. Tucked his knees up and rested his head on them. Stared at the chiselled doorway with her. “I just wanted to say I was sorry I touched you,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I know you're pretty touchy about that kind of thing. No joke intended. And I didn't mean anything by it, you know.”

“I know,” she said. “And I forgave you when I hit you, Chukshene.”

He smiled, absently brushing fingers against the fresh bruise on his jaw. “Yeah. You've got a great punch. I know a good one when I feel it, you know. I've been hit quite a lot in my life.”

“Surprises me.”

“I bet it does.” He sucked on his front teeth for a moment. “You know, Nystat, I knew someone like you. A long time ago. Grew up all hard and angry. Angry at the world. At himself. Some people mistake that kind of shit for toughness. Others recognise if for cruelty. But you know what I think?”

“Reckon you'll tell me anyway.”

“I think it's just fear.”

“Never said I wasn't afraid, 'lock,” she said, eyes still drilling into the darkness. She didn't trust herself to look at him. The rage tickled the edge of her awareness. Rising like a kraken from the deep. Tentacles drifting. Curling. Reaching out. Exploring her emotions. “Just learnt to use it is all.”

“Did you?” He stifled a yawn and scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Or did you let it rule you? Because from where I'm sitting, you never relax. You never slow down. And I don't think you can. Sure, you do a great job holding tight to it. Keeping it reined in like a wild horse. But one day, it's going to slip through your fingers. You know it will. And then you'll have nothing to hold onto. And the fear will chew you up. Spit you out. What will be left of you, I wonder? Something hard? Or something fragile and alone?”

Irritation made her voice cold. “You don't know me, 'lock.”

“No, I don't. You've worked hard to make sure I don't. I'll bet no one really knows you. And whose fault is that?”

Her fingers tightened into fists. The bracers creaked as her forearms bunched up. His voice made her bones vibrate more with irritation. “You want another smack in the mouth, Chukshene? Just keep talking.”

“Sure. That's your way of dealing with everything. I'll tell you something else, though. You think you're real good at hiding your feelings. You think you're all mysterious. Think I'm blind to everything except magic. But I see you. You wear every thought on your face. I think it's because you grew up on those mythic streets of yours. And they're a barbaric place. Me, I grew up as an apprentice. To mages whose power was waning and who needed to find other ways to control power. So I've even dabbled in courts all across the Fnordic Lands. I've been to the Imperial Palace in Doom's Reach, too. More than once. I even managed to survive meeting the Imperial Princess, and that's not an easy thing by all accounts. She's a great woman, for an abomination. I guess I'm trying to say I'm good at reading people. I know I look like a fool, but you don't get where I got by being stupid.” He'd kept his voice low, and he lowered it further. “I saw what you were thinking. You thought to kill us. All of us. You think without us, you might stand a better chance. You see us as weighing you down. Keeping you from doing what you want to do. Which, knowing you, is probably stab the mountain itself. Stick your knives into every rock. I'm surprised you're not already running in search of something to kill. Funny thing, Nysta, is that you don't understand what you need most right now if you want to get out of here alive. And it's quite simple really.”

She turned her head slightly. “Oh? And what's that?”

“Us. Yeah, that's right. You need us. Don't get me wrong. We both know you can fight. But you're in way over your head here. This is ancient magic which is manipulating us right now. Magic so dark it thinks we're just fucking insects beneath its boot.” He paused, letting her drink his words. “You need us, Nysta. It's probably best you try to remember that.”

“You ever think, 'lock, that maybe that's why you're alive? I sure don't keep you around for your personality.”

“Actually, I think there's also a part of you that's always trying to do the right thing. No matter what that other part of you wants to do. I'm just trying to remind that selfish killer part of you that we're not your baggage. We might just be the thing that saves your skinny little ass.”

“That all you came over here for?”

“I think so.”

“Then piss off back with the others, Chukshene.” Her cheeks flushed with heat. Belly boiled as the molten core rolled inside her guts. It pushed her hand to the hilt of
A Flaw in the Glass
. Fingers toyed with the jutting handle, seconds from tearing it free to plunge the enchanted blade deep in his chest. “You need all the sleep you can get. Soon, we'll head on down that tunnel right there. There'll be a lot of fighting, I reckon. If you're actually going to be useful to me, I need you to be less tired. And a lot quicker on your feet.”

He shook his head, offering only a sad look. “You'll need me, one day. More than ever. You really will. Now, I've already made you a few promises. And I'll keep those. I'll find out what was in the Cage. I'll give you that. But I have a feeling you're going to need more than just words when that time comes. The knowledge of what's inside you won't be enough to save you. You'll need help. The question you might like to ask yourself is whether I'll be in any mood to help.”

She let him go, not trusting herself to speak.

With each word he'd uttered, the molten core in her belly had grown hotter, threatening to consume her. The stirred memories of Talek's death only served to remind her of her hatred of spellslingers.

And of her failures.

It was getting harder, she realised, to see the fine line of difference between Chukshene and the mage who burned Talek's flesh and sent him on the tortured trail to his death in the Deadlands.

She looked back at the flickering magefire for a moment.

Slow-moving flamed calmly floating above the delicate bowl.

Chukshene's sickly yellow orb hovered in the corner. The warlock had rolled on his side and wrapped his robe tighter around himself. Back deliberately aimed at her.

Magefire.

The very stuff of her nightmares.

And she hadn't blinked when Hemlock had cast it.

Why not?

All Chukshene had to do was open his mouth and the rage boiled in her blood. Yet Hemlock managed to cast magefire and all she'd done was wrinkle her nose at the acrid stink of magic. Of the two spellslingers, Hemlock was the one she should hate more. He was a Caspiellan. No matter that he was running from them.

What was it about the warlock which was directing her fury?

She drew Talek's Cage from her pouch and studied the spidery runes on the small box. They seemed dull and inert. But something about them had begun to look familiar. Almost as if she could read it. Like a word poised on the tip of her tongue.

Frowning, the elf traced their pattern with her fingertip and pursed her lips.

The small box flipped open easily now. Showing the blackened interior. Nothing special. Just some kind of wood. She sniffed at it. Could still taste the bitter residue of magic on the air.

Pocketing the Cage, she tried not to think any more about the day it opened.

The pain shooting up her arm.

The relentless cold.

Squirming. Like an ocean of frozen worms.

Remembered waking, and seeing the look on Chukshene's face. A cool look. One which looked too interested in what might be inside her.

Would the warlock really tell her anything? He had too many secrets already. One more wouldn't kill him to keep.

Maybe he already knew something.

She eyed the sleeping trio.

A rueful smile played crookedly at the corner of her mouth. “Reckon it's only natural to feel paranoid,” she murmured. “On account of everyone lying around me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The necromancer looked more refreshed when Nysta woke them a few hours later. He'd also regained some colour to his pale face. He shared some food he'd been saving in his pack, soaking chunks of rough bread in water from his canteen. Passed some to Melganaderna before offering to the curious warlock.

“It's not much,” he said, handing Nysta the canteen. “We'd hoped to reach a town by now.”

Feeling thirst clawing at her throat, she took it and sucked a mouthful before almost spitting it out. He'd mixed the sour wine with his water and the resulting flavour was like thin vinegar. In Lostlight, she'd tasted her fair share of bad wines. But this, she thought, was the worst. She shook her head as he held out some of the bread. “Obliged. Reckon I'll pass.”

“It's an acquired taste, I'm guessing?” Chukshene asked, face screwed up in distaste as he struggle to chew on the hard bread.

“It's not pleasant,” Melganaderna said. “But it's a soldier's rations, and as such it lasts. We carry enough flour to cook the hardbread every few days. You don't normally eat it on its own.”

The warlock turned the chunk in his fingers. “Because it tastes like shit?”

“Because it'll break your teeth.”

“If your soldiers have teeth after eating this, then I think we should just surrender now and save us all the fucking hassle. They must have jaws like fucking ogres.”

Hemlock paused in front of the elf. “You sure you don't want something to eat?”

“I can live longer without food than you can,” she said, though she wasn't sure how true this was anymore. Her stomach was complaining silently, but she didn't think she could eat the sour-smelling bread. “I reckon we've got a long way to go before we get to that town you're dreaming of.”

“I hope not,” he said with a wry smile. “I'm already on the last hole in my belt.”

When they'd finished, the elf led them further into the dark.

The corridor was narrow. So narrow they had to walk behind each other.

Nysta kept to the lead, allowing Chukshene's orb to float ahead of her. She let it drift far ahead so its muted yellow glow speared deep enough down the tunnel's throat without being too close that it dazzled her eyes.

The ground angled downward, more steep than before. Sometimes close to being almost vertical. But there were stairs carved irregularly into the stone and, surprisingly, some hand holds. Small hollows chipped into the wall to make the journey easier.

Not that this stopped the warlock from complaining. His muttered rambling continued, making her grind her teeth as she repressed the urge to smash his jaw with her fist.

“How deep do you think we are?” Melganaderna asked after a while. She sounded tired, but hadn't asked for another stop. Her muscled legs were covered in sweat, making her pants stick to her skin. Still, she didn't remove the heavy mailshirt.

Her axe hung loose in her fist, the heavy head sometimes tapping against the earth with a dull thunk. She swapped it from hand to hand more often.

Also feeling the heat, Hemlock stowed his coat and wiped his brow. “Pretty far, I think. Which makes sense. Urak's Keep was said to be deep within the earth. Maybe not as far as the core of the world as the poets wrote, but probably well inside the mountain's heart.”

The warlock winced, looking up at the low-hung ceiling and shuddering. “Fuck, I hate this place.”

Silently, the elf agreed with him. So much weight above her head. Pressing down.

The walls on either side of the corridor sometimes brushed against her shoulders, teasing her with the nightmare of them crushing inward suddenly. Burying her alive.

The air, slightly musty and warm despite the feeble breath slithering up from far ahead, made her want to pant.

She craved room to move.

And crisp mountain air.

Would even prefer the frozen temperature of the high mountain peaks to the growing humidity.

“The door,” Chukshene said suddenly, snapping his fingers. “At the entrance to this shithole. I wanted to ask you about that. Did you open it?”

“Yeah,” Hemlock ran his fingers along the smooth rocky wall. Feeling its texture. For a moment he looked entranced by the wall. Then he pulled his fingers away. Rubbed them together to clear the moisture. “The enchantments were failing when we got here. The lightning in the mountains was a good sign of that. I just helped them along.”

Melganaderna snorted. “Nearly killed us, more like. The fucking thing exploded. Chunk of rock nearly took his fool head off.”