Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (16 page)

“He doesn't look so good.”

“He's a mess,” Chukshene confirmed. “I told you. His face is all fucked up. Scarred horribly. One eye missing. His mouth looks like it was torn open and healed on its own. Some burns down his cheeks. And his jaw and neck. In fact, it looks like someone tried to remove his jaw from his head. He's got so many scars, you'd give him a gold coin if he was begging on a street. You know, I'll be his body's also covered in them. But don't let his walk fool you. He's no cripple. He cut down one of the soldiers who argued with him. I saw it. He's fast. Incredibly fast. And strong, too. Don't mess around with him, Nysta. If you see him, kill him. He's not the kind of man you get a second chance with.”

“We'll see,” she said, knowing she'd see the elf again.

Something scratched at her memory.

Something important.

Melganaderna winced, shoulder touching hers as she tried to see over the edge. “What'll we do now?”

“We can't go back,” Hemlock said from behind them. He sat against the wall and tried to hide how tired he was. Pushed his fingers against his temples and gave a shake of his head. “We have to keep going.”

The elf lifted herself to her knees, satisfied no more arrows would be sent their way just yet. Spat out over the edge. “Won't know where they'll be waiting for us.”

“You think they'll set up an ambush?”

Nysta let out a derisive snort. “Wouldn't you?”

“I don't know what I'd do,” Hemlock said, not taking offence. “I'm not really a fighter like you are. Before this, I lived in a castle as the guest of a king. Her father, in fact. You could say I was spoiled by it. I spent my life skulking around in libraries and making myself a nuisance to the kitchen staff. I've never had to face soldiers in a war. Never had to face them on the street. I've never been chased by local constabulary. I have absolutely no experience with this. That's why I asked.”

“I'm beginning to think you ain't much good for anything,” the elf said, regretting the cheap shot almost immediately. But she kept her head aimed proudly at him anyway.

“I haven't had the chance to do anything. Which, given what I
can
do, some might think is a good thing.”

Then his eyes met hers and in that split second she saw something which confirmed the Caspiellans' fear of him. Not necessarily the power he could, or would, wield. Nor the eagerness he no doubt felt to discover more about the forbidden art of necromancy.

But a growing resolution to do what had to be done despite his previous protests.

Where Chukshene might consider running, Hemlock would think only to stand. He would cast until he could no longer cast. Until his body broke. And, though he might regret it afterward, he would show no restraint. And he would never yield.

She realised she'd misjudged him. Had been fooled by his apparent weakness.

She'd figured him as nothing more than a young mage still learning his power and who'd already reached the limits of his capabilities and driven himself to weariness. Maybe a man still impressed by his little steps and thought them leaps.

Instead, she caught the look of a man who knew he was doomed to be hunted by a god and was determined to flee to the darkest corners of the world not in search of a table under which to hide, but the knowledge he would need to turn around.

And, if he had to, face that god.

So, when her lip curled toward the scar on her cheek in a crooked grin, it was an acknowledgement of her growing respect. She turned completely toward him.

Squatted down and examined his query as an equal.

“He'll want to ambush us. Even if he didn't want to feel our blood between his fingers, he can't afford to leave us alone. Feller knows if he doesn't get the jump on us, we'll get the jump on him. Sure, he's focussed on the end prize. On whatever treasure is hidden inside that Keep. Maybe it'll distract him enough that his ambush isn't as well-planned as it could be. But I wouldn't count on it. Didn't see much of him, but he didn't look the type to give a shit about treasure. He's probably just working for that bastard cleric.” She absently touched a rag of cloth tied to her hair. “No, this feller knows the sooner he deals us out of this game, the better for him.”

Hemlock's brow furrowed. “Then he could be anywhere.”

“Shit,” Melganaderna muttered.

“He's got the advantage, for sure,” she said. “Like you say, he thinks we're going to be more careful. That we'll hug the walls and jump at our own fucking shadows. Gives him time to dig himself somewhere nice. Somewhere we won't expect. Somewhere he can call the shots.”

“So, we move fast?”

The elf's smile was wolfish. “If we rush in, his archers will shoot us down. Before the kid here even got close enough to swing that over-sized tree-cutter of hers.”

Melganaderna looked offended. Frowned as she glanced at the broad double bitted head of the battleaxe. “Tree-cutter?”

“Sorry if I'm not understanding,” Hemlock said, gaze piercing. “But that means we can't go slowly, or he'll have time to set himself up. And we can't go fast, because we'll run right into his arms. If I'm getting you right, you're saying we've got no hope.”

“Always got hope.”

“You're not making much sense, then. What do you think is our best option?”

“I'm still thinking that through.” She rubbed her jaw with the back of her hand as she spoke, trying to judge the kind of man Willem might be. Judge him not based on her own knowledge, because she didn't know him. But based on Chukshene's fear. And his belief that Willem was cold. Tough. Probably smart, too. Also she had to consider if the believed the warlock to be a good judge of character. “He knows about the 'lock here. But he figures Chukshene's fangs have been pulled now he's lost his spellbook.”

“I still know a few things,” Chukshene protested lamely.

“But not enough to fill the place with demons?”

“No.”

“Don't sweat it, 'lock. He won't trust what his cleric knows about magic, so he'll get his archers to shoot you first.” She smirked as he winced. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Great. Yeah, thanks for that. I feel so much better about being here.”

She cocked her head at Hemlock and waved a hand. “Question is, whether he knows who you are. Whether he saw you well enough. Could be he got a look at her axe and made a few guesses. Given its size, it ain't exactly unremarkable.” She eyed him close, trying to confirm her recent judgement. “But what will he know of you?”

The necromancer chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, puzzling it out. “About me? Not enough,” he said at last. “Everything they know about me is just a guess right now. I'll bet he's thinking I'm a mage. He'll have been told that much. He might even know I'm a necromancer. But none of them know what that really means. They don't know what I can do. I mean, if I don't know everything I can do, how can they? Maybe he'll overestimate me? Or underestimate? Either way, if you're right, he'd want me dead right after Chukshene here.”

“That's what I figure. You'll be second on his list.” She grinned wider. Glanced at the young axewoman who was watching Hemlock's face with concern. “Which leaves you.”

It was Hemlock who spoke first. “If it were Black Blades down there, they'd target her before they even thought about me. They helped train her. She's good, and they know it. Let her get close, and she'll chop them to pieces. But Grey Jackets? They've got their own ways. Their own disregard for what a woman can do. You know more about that, of course. Personally, I think they'll discount her long enough to regret their mistake, even if they see the axe and recognise it. You see, no matter what Rule told them about
Torment
's powers, they'll think it looks impressive, but will see it as a toy. You should hear the soldiers in the castle talk. They thought it was stupid. Too big to be efficient. And, let's be honest, it looks frightening, but it also looks like no one can use it with any speed or accuracy.”

“That's more or less right,” Melganaderna confirmed. “Even Gormen had no respect for it. The thing is, enchanted weapons are rare. It's been hundreds of years since anyone could enchant anything. It's a lost art. So is the art of using them. I mean, I've got
Torment
. I've got some of its benefits. For me, it's light and agile. When I'm fighting, it barely weighs a thing. Yet it cleaves through stone as though it weighed more than steel. If you tried to lift it, you'd hardly get it off the ground. But that's a small part of its enchantments. To really use it? To let the enchantments trigger their other supposed benefits? Well. That's not something anyone can teach you. And it's not been in any of the books we could find. So, mostly it's considered collectible junk.”

The elf scratched at the scar on her cheek, wondering about
A Flaw in the Glass
and not knowing what was true. Talek had said he'd paid to have the blade enchanted. But if it was such a lost art, how could he have paid to have it enchanted?
 

True, she'd never been sure what it was supposed to be enchanted to do. And he'd never really hinted at it being anything more useful than the killing tool it was.

Maybe she'd misunderstood him.

Maybe he'd bought it with the enchantments already in place. Maybe the blade really was older than she'd thought.

She wished, not for the first time, he was still alive to answer some questions she should have asked him a long time ago.

Pushing her thoughts aside for the moment, she nodded at the young couple.

Decided not to confuse things by asking about her knife. Instead, shared her gaze between them. Settled on the necromancer. “A while back, the 'lock and I passed through a town. Down near the south border. Called Grimwood Creek.” She spoke evenly, unconcerned by the sudden panic in their eyes. “Chukshene here raised some Hell. Took out a lot of Grey Jackets. Broke apart a lot of their town until a cleric chased us out. But that ain't important. A feller I met, called Storr, said the town was reduced to rubble. Now, at first I thought he was talking about us. Seems he meant you. Anything you got to add to that? Given where we're going, I'd like to know what I can count on you for.”

Hemlock looked down at Melganaderna, who nodded. “Might as well tell her, Hem. She's not exactly going to hand us over to them.” She smiled widely. “Besides, I like her. So she can't be all bad.”

“Actually,” Chukshene wagged a finger at the young woman. “She can. If you think she's not all bad, then I'd get your brain seen to when you get a chance. Because, like her, something's broken in it.” Then he glanced at the elf. “No offence.”

“You don't have to stick around,” the elf offered. Jerked her head toward the edge and the promise of a long fall. “Can drop you off any time.”

“Funny,” he said, but shuffled himself a little out of arm's reach.

“You're right,” Hemlock said when Nysta's stare returned to him. “We were in Grimwood Creek. After you, I guess. We saw something of what you did. We didn't know it was you, of course. From what rumours we'd heard, we thought the Deadlands was always like that.”

The elf nodded. “It is, mostly.”

“They weren't exactly waiting for us. So, we were fine for a while. But then a runner came from the men sent to find us, and we were trapped in our room. I had to do something,” he said. Looked at Melganaderna, who took the necromancer's hand as he sighed. “So, I did. I know what you think about me, Nysta. I know you look at me and see some weak little kid still playing with things he doesn't understand. And in lot of ways, you're right. I am. But if I don't play with them, I won't understand them. And I need to understand them. Need to know them. Fast. I don't have time to be gentle about it. I need to push myself. As hard as I can. If I take even a moment to relax, or let my guard down for a second, then I've lost. And this is something I can't afford to lose.”

“Couple of fellers seemed to think you were pure evil. So powerful that you'd break the world one day. Kill us all.” She didn't smile as the young couple began to blush. “I don't think they were joking.”

“Really?” Hemlock recovered fast, realising she wasn't mocking him. “What did they say?”

“Just that. If you want to know more, maybe you'll get the chance to ask. One of them is down there right now, I reckon. Bastard's got the 'lock's book.” She paused. “But you didn't answer me. What I need to know, is how good you really are. I ain't playing distraction all the time. That ain't my way. Especially when I don't know what I'm distracting for. Now, I've seen the 'lock in action. And if he had his grimoire, I'd maybe trust him enough to throw myself into the mouth of a waiting trap and let its pieces fall where they may. But I don't know you, feller. I don't know what you can do. Or how fast you can do it.”

Chukshene's eyebrows shot up as she spoke and his voice was incredulous. “You trust me? Really?”

“Not enough to hope you'd keep your mouth shut when I'm talking,” she growled.

He grinned at her in response, happy enough to move away and lean back against the wall while looking smug.

“I'm not fast,” Hemlock said. “But necromancy is a slow art. I have two spells I know enough of their effects to cast if you're planning to spring their trap. You see, the problem with this spellbook is it's got a lot of spells, but no explanations. It was written by someone who already knew what they were doing. It was a personal grimoire. Not one for an apprentice. Which, technically, is all I'm qualified to call myself right now. I've had to just try them and see what happens. Which has already had its consequences.”

“Tell me,” the elf said, leaning forward. Her violet eyes glittered. “Tell me what you can do.”

He took his pack off and pulled out his spellbook. Opened it up and spun the tome around to show her the spidery script. Pointed at a few runes halfway down the page. “Well, if you see here-”

Shaking her head, the elf clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Reached out and closed the book in his hands. “Just tell me, Hemlock,” she drawled. “No need to spell it out.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It would be a race to the bottom, and the elf knew it.