Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (2 page)

They were still afraid of him. Even as helpless as he was. Bound and gagged, they were still afraid of him.

And so they should be, he thought.

If only he could work himself loose, he'd show them. Show them all.

Even the one called Willem.

The prisoner remembered him clearly enough. It'd been a shock. Not just to see that, beneath the horrendous scars which covered his face, he was an elf. But that he was here, in charge of a small group of soldiers who didn't belong on this side of the Bloods.

Caspiellans. Fifteen, maybe twenty, of them. Including the cleric, who was a worse bastard than Willem in many ways. Nasty eyes. The kind of eyes which belonged to a torturer.

From snatches of conversation, he'd discovered the small group had travelled across the Deadlands. Hunting a dangerous mage, they said. For a while, they'd mistaken him for the mage they were looking for. A mage who'd kidnapped a queen.

Or killed her. They couldn't seem to make up their mind on that.

They thought they'd found their prey at a fort somewhere south of the Bloods. But then they'd been sent running into the mountains with an army of goblins at their heels. The prisoner wasn't sure what to believe about that.

He couldn't see why this many soldiers would run from a handful of goblins.

Stranger than that, they didn't seem to be talking about trying to make their way back to their homes. Seemed to be wanting to keep going north. Beyond the Wall and into the Fnordic Lands if they could.

He shifted his head a little, trying to get a better look at the two men. His neck shot comets of pain into his skull, but he managed to peer through the morning mist at the glowing promise of warmth.

He was cold.

So cold his body had stopped shivering and his limbs felt numb.

Though the snow had eased in the past week, the pine trees which protected the small clearing from the savage winds were dusted with white. Fragile shards of ice clung to the mountain's splintered flesh. Untidy splotches of snow spattered the ground, raking the dark stone and moist earth.

He wished he could sit in front of that fire.

Just for a few minutes.

Long enough to let his nose thaw. Though, looking at the way the flames coughed and sputtered, he wasn't sure the meagre campfire was giving off much warmth.

Tilting his head upward, he pressed against the tree's soaked trunk. Eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled awkwardly in their sockets. He tried to focus on the ice-gripped mountains rearing up in front of him.

Cruel and jagged. Unyielding slopes screaming mute defiance at the bitter onslaught of cold.

History, soaked in blood. Drowning in it.

Myth combining with fact to produce wild legends which intertwined with recent events to promise only one thing to anyone foolish enough to venture this close to those treacherous bones of the earth.

Death.

Something the prisoner felt wasn't far away.

Because he knew Willem and his cleric would find what they were seeking. Knew also that Willem would want to head north straight away. He was impatient, that one. He wanted to get to the Wall. Wanted to see Doom's Reach. Wanted to complete a mission known only to him and his god, Rule.

How an elf could choose to betray his own kind and bend knee to the Lord of Light was a concept so alien the prisoner was still wondering if his eyes and ears had played a cruel trick on him while he was unconscious.

Unable to keep his head lifted, he was about to let it drop when he saw a flicker of movement in the trees. A sleek shadow which chilled his spine to its marrow.

Another Dhampir?

There were many hunting the northern side. Unlike the southern slopes of the Bloods, the north was lush with life and its forests filled with animals the Dhampirs could prey on.

Thinking there might be one stalking them right now made him wonder if it would be better to die at the hands of such a creature than the slow and sadistic death the cleric had promised him.

The bickering men hadn't noticed anything.

He still hesitated to warn them, unsure if it was worth it.

Their bickering closed their ears and eyes to the obvious. The prisoner winced. He couldn't decide what to do.

His decision was made for him with the loud crunch of undergrowth which sent the two guards scrambling to their feet. Lopan tore his sword from its scabbard and aimed it at the hidden source of the sound.

Delfar struggled with his own weapon. Screamed at the trees; “Who's there? Show yourself!”

A demand ignored by whatever haunted the forest.

The prisoner rolled his eyes.

“We're armed,” Lopan growled. “So best you speak up, stranger. Before we come in there and dig you out. Won't be very fucking friendly about it, neither.”

“Ain't looking for a fight,” a voice called evenly from the trees. The kind of voice which made the prisoner frown. Something in the tone of the voice defied the truth of these words. “Just looking to share the fire is all. I've been cold for longer than I like.”

“Fire?” Delfar glanced at his partner for guidance.

Lopan shrugged, but kept his sword in a tight grip. “Come out slowly, then,” he called. “Maybe we'll talk about it. But we ain't trusting anyone who skulks in the trees like a bandit. Come into the open.”

Delfar licked his lips, the sword uncertainly held in one hand. “And don't try nothing!”

The figure in the trees thought about it for a second, but not much more than that. With a shuffle of feet, she broke free from the dark to quest slowly into the light. The glow of the beckoning dawn nudged at her features to highlight long ears jutting from her head like twin spearblades.

The prisoner's eyes widened.

Of all the things to come crawling down out of the Bloods, she was the last thing he'd expected.

She wore loose-fitting pants and jacket of wyrmskin. Two bracers, one on each arm. Left only loosely tied. A style of light armour which belonged in the alley of a city whose belly burst with violence. Shades of dark green, black, and charcoal. Already heavily patched, her clothes showed sign of needing attention and her coffee-coloured skin could be seen shivering through ragged holes and cuts.

Oddly, she wore only one boot. Her other foot was wrapped in a blood-soaked rag.

As she limped closer, the prisoner could clearly make out the gleaming handles of knives. So many knives. Sheathed all over her body so no matter how she moved, her fingers would always find the hilt of a cruel bringer of death.

Small for an elf, he thought. Slim, too. But not weak. Strong shoulders. Muscles coiled and tense. His first impression was of a snake on legs. But more deadly.

Without waiting for invitation, she squatted in front of the fire. Ignoring the shared looks of the two men, she held out her hands for warmth and obviously relished the radiant heat. Her features relaxed and he thought he saw a flicker of shadows dancing against her throat.

Quickly figured it for his imagination.

Then, as her violet eyes lifted across the fire to catch a glimpse of him, her mouth curled slightly. A wolfish grin made cruel by the scar which began at the corner of her mouth. It tore up to a point just below her eye before jagging out toward her ear.

He couldn't decide if her face, marred as it was by the scar, was beautiful or ugly. The grin, whose humour never quite reached her eyes, was gone as swiftly as it'd come. Replaced by an impassiveness which suggested cold disregard for his predicament.

Surrounding her face was a heavy mop of long hair in thick twisted locks the colour of burnt wood. Rags of cloth woven into the ropes of hair like bows. On any other woman, they may have looked like tattered scraps of ribbon. Remnants, perhaps, of a more privileged life. Perhaps a concession toward vanity which her clothes worked hard to deny.

But on this elf, there was nothing decorative about them. Each strip of cloth had been torn from the body of a corpse. A corpse she'd made. Trophies of fights she wanted to remember for one reason or another.

The prisoner held his breath and knew hers was a face he could never forget.

It would haunt his dreams. Sometimes turn them into nightmares.

“Shit,” Delfar blurted suddenly. Nearly dropped his sword in shock as he got a better look at her. “It's her. She's the one! The one Willem kept talking about. The one from that fort. It's fucking her, I tell you!”

Lopan wasted no time. He flashed to her right, lunging with the long blade in his hand.

He'd guessed her relaxed. Defenceless. Figured if he was quick, he could pin her to the ground and be done with it.

Triumph already hot in his veins, he celebrated victory with a roar of joy before the blade had even found its mark.

Delfar, still frozen in place, struggled to decide which way to move around the campfire. Terror had scattered his thoughts.

But the elf had no doubts.

No hesitation.

Even before Lopan's muscles had tensed for him to throw himself at her, she was already in motion. Already whipping two knives from their sheaths. One, slender and light. The other, vicious and heavy with a wide belly which curved up to a wicked upswept point. Made more evil by the venomous green light flaring around the blade.

The prisoner recognised the enchantment but didn't have time to think about it. His mind was consumed by awe as she glided into Lopan's attack. She moved with the kind of graceful brutality which sent shudders of terror into his guts.

The heavy knife left a ribbon of light in its wake as it streaked through the air.

Buried itself with a solid think into Lopan's shoulder. Drew a howling scream from the man which echoed through the mountains on the frozen wind. His own strike slid loosely past her torso.

The prisoner's heart pounded in his chest and he hurt his neck further by looking around swiftly. Searching for signs of other soldiers returning from their search.

But, other than the fading echo of the shrill scream, the forest was silent. As though it was poised to witness the outcome of the battle playing out within its embrace.

Eyes bright with growing hope, the prisoner's gaze flicked back in time to see the elf throw the smaller of her blades in a powerful underarm toss. Steel drilled into Delfar's chest, left of centre. Blood spurted from wounds, torrents of crimson let loose in raging streams. Sword lost to his numb fingers as he dropped to his knees.

Delfar made no sound. No whimper. No scream. His eyes held no pain. Instead, he stared in slack-jawed disbelief at her as she strode coldly toward him.

She'd drawn another knife. Long and straight, with a jagged spine.

“No,” the fallen soldier managed to gasp before she brought the knife plunging down into his throat. Tore the blade free with a callous snarl before stabbing him again in the back as he slumped forward.

Brought it down again.

And again. Shredding his back in a frenzy of quick strikes which picked between his ribs and pierced his lungs, drowning him on pain and blood.

The prisoner want to vomit through the gag. Nearly wet himself when he caught sight of her violet eyes burning with rage. Could almost see an army of demons fuelled on her hate, screaming from the depths of her soul as they cried their lust for violence until her mind drowned in it.

She's lost it, he thought. All control.

Then she stopped with a suddenness that gripped the silence by its throat as she heard Lopan make a small movement.

The elf's eyes narrowed. She spun away from her fresh kill toward the bleeding soldier trying to drag himself away. The glowing blade, still buried to its hilt in his shoulder. He let out a stricken cry as she leapt on him.

Moving like a cat, the prisoner thought.

But not like a kitten. Nothing so cute. More like the breed of mountain cat which lived in the mountains further east. Heavy paws and slavering jaws. Boundless strength driven by the hunger of a predator starved for meat.

Incredulous, Lopan squeezed his last words between agonised groans. “How'd you do that? How were you so fast?”

Blood poured from the wound on his shoulder. She dropped on top of him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Lifted him slightly off the ground so she could hiss into his face. “Ah, Lopan,” the prisoner heard her say as she brought the gore-flecked blade down into the centre of his chest. It split his sternum and chewed through his heart to send his life reeling into the mocking gates of the Shadowed Halls. “It's all in the reflexes.”

The prisoner's heart drummed crazily in his chest. A bird trying to break from its cage.

Then he had to breathe again, and his breath whistled around the gag. The sound, which couldn't have been loud, drew the elf's attention.

And she turned. So slowly it chilled him to the core. She lifted herself from the corpse, knife in her fist pulling free of Lopan's chest with a horrible sucking sound.

Then she limped toward him

Blade dripping spots of red.

Crisp mountain air swirled through the camp, making the fire flap crazily for a moment. The tree at his back shivered.

She nodded as she approached, answering questions only she could hear. Something in her eyes wasn't right. There was too much hate there. Too much rage. All aimed in his direction.

The elf crouched in front of him.

Violet eyes bored into his. That mad hatred still boiling in the recesses of her pupils. He knew what she was thinking. Could see her mind weighing the decision which would send the knife spearing into his chest.

He tried to beg. Tried to plead through the muffled gag. Offer something. Even a lie. Anything to save his life.

The knife flickered bright as it lunged toward his face and he let out a muffled squeak.

But instead of flesh, it cut the cloth binding his mouth.

Still shocked to see her, he spat out shreds of rag. Tried to stretch his stiffened jaw and wet his mouth so he could speak.

Managed a few gurgled croaks before she used the knife to tap the heavy padlock on his chest and drove all thought from his mind as swiftly as the words abandoned his tongue.

“Kind of like old times,” she said. “You being out here in a place you ain't meant to be. And me not sure whether to kill you or not. Now, I figure I ain't thinking straight to begin with. Had a long trail through the mountains behind me. Maybe that's got me on edge. But maybe I also got a reason to be worried? Figure I got a choice to make. In the long run, it doesn't mean much to me. Short run? Means everything to you. Because either way, Chukshene, I reckon you're about to be unlocked.”