Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (22 page)

Then stared hard at the elf.

“I'm not your enemy,” he said, loud enough for only her to hear. “No matter how fucked up you are right now. Try to remember that.”

The rage billowed like a hot wind.

Rushing through her soul.

Coals glowing hot in the ashes as she took another step toward him. “You're still alive, Chukshene,” she told him. “Reckon that says everything about what's on my mind.”

“And I'd like to keep it that way.”

A sliver of ice tried to cut through the fire. “Then keep your mouth shut as much as you can. And stay out of my reach.”

The warlock sighed. “You know, Nysta, I don't think it's your knives which will kill me. It'll be the day we can have a conversation without you resorting to constantly threatening me with death. Because that really would be too much for my heart to take.”

“Chukshene,” Hemlock called, excitement driving the fatigue from his voice. “Hurry. Look at this. You're not going to believe it.”

Without another glance at the elf, Chukshene scuttled inside. His eyes were shrewd and alive with curiosity as he sensed the necromancer's sudden change in attitude. His hands rubbed absently at his flapping robe, fingers still itching from the loss of his grimoire.

She watched him go, flesh tingling as anger slid just beneath the surface like a swarm of eels. Their electric bodies making the hairs on her skin stand on end.

Her fingers searched along the edge of one of her bracers. Scratching at her forearm, though she didn't look down.

Unconsciously afraid of what she might see.

Melganaderna looked resigned to being forgotten as Hemlock waved Chukshene further into the room. Both spellslingers began studying the ancient runes skittering across the wall, getting more animated as they worked together.

Their voices merged into an excited hum.

“Here we are, stuck in a haunted castle,” Melganaderna said, rolling her strong shoulders as she moved closer to the elf. “With a Vampire Queen sniffing for our blood. A bunch of Accepted running around trying to kill us. And who knows what else is lurking in the shadows? But look at them. Throw a few lines of old words on a wall and they might as well be safe and warm in a tavern somewhere.”

Nysta kicked a small chunk of stone, sending it dancing back into the shadows.

Her frustration was growing. Because Melganaderna was right.

The Keep was a maze of magically hidden doors. A spiderweb of dust-filled hallways. And Gul'Se was the spider sitting unmoving in the centre. Beckoning the flies.

Add to that, the Grey Jackets were somewhere. Anywhere. They could be so close.

Maybe just behind this wall.

There was fighting to be done. Killing to be had.

And she was stuck waiting on two obsessed spellslingers to pull themselves together and choose a door. Their boundless search for knowledge, even in the most dangerous of places, bordered on the ridiculous.

She held her temper. Barely.

“They're probably still more concerned with looting the place,” the elf said, a little more bitterly than she'd meant. “Fucking spellslingers.”

“I know you've got your reasons to hate mages. And I understand them. Hemlock is different, though,” Melganaderna said. There was something fierce in her tone. Defiant. The elf's mouth twisted as she realised the hot nail driving through her heart with those words was jealousy. “He's not like any of them. Trust me. I've met a few. My father seemed to collect them. I don't think Rule approved of that, but his wealth was vital to maintaining the Lord of Light's armies. Hemlock isn't really after power. It might seem that way to you, but what he really wants is to get us away. He says he knows a place we can go. Far to the north, there's a tower. He says in the
Chronicles
it was called the Tower of Lornx. Do you know it?”

“Never heard of it.”

“He says it's protected. But he thinks he knows a way past the wards.” She looked down at her battleaxe, an uncertain frown playing at her brow. “We'll be safe there. Far away from my cousin. Maybe even far enough from Rule.”

“There any place safe from a god, kid?”

“We won't know until we try.”

The elf accepted this with a sigh, still stinging from the realisation that she could feel jealousy in the face of the young axewoman's defence of the necromancer. A defence spurred by love. “Good for you.”

Ignoring the elf's outward disbelief, Melganaderna looked toward the two spellslingers. Chose to try moving the conversation back to the present. “Think they're any closer to opening it?”

“You're the one searching for miracles,” the elf reminded her.

The axewoman's expression bounced between offended and confused. Settled on curious. “What would you do, then? If you were me? Hunted by a man desperate to marry me just so he can claim a stupid throne. And by a god who wants to keep the fiction of the royal line going. To both of them, I'm just a pawn. A nothing. Something they want to sweep under their rug after they're done with me. You're a tough woman, Nysta. Maybe the toughest person I've ever met, and I've met some real veterans of battle. But would you run back and fight a usurper with the Black Blades of Cornelia at his control? With a god at his back? Would you do that, knowing you would die? Or would you do what we're doing? Would you look for a place of your own?”

Thinking of the small cabin she'd built with her own hands, the elf set her jaw.

Remembered the night she'd fled Lostlight with her husband. Knowing King Jutta might want to send men after them. Men to murder them in the night.

Maybe even the Jukkala'Jadean.

The first nights spent shivering in fear and expectation. Burning with frustration at feeling so helpless. Talek still nursing his horrific scars. Bleeding from fresh wounds. Listening to the insect noises.

Cringing at the slightest sound.

Too afraid to light a fire, they'd clung to each other for warmth. Breaths mingling as mist. Frost crawling along the ground with long white claws before trying to cover them in its frozen blanket.

They could have turned back.

Could've limped home to Lostlight and endured. But having been cut off from his friends, he'd refused. Said it was better to try to live than to turn back toward death.

Was it a coward's way?

Talek, ever the fighter, claimed he was simply bending rather than breaking.

As Chukshene finally murmured the words which broke open the wall to reveal a brightly lit room, the elf shrugged. “Feller I knew always said you should move toward hope. That life was something to treasure.” She gave a curt nod to Hemlock when he beckoned them to follow. Felt the familiar surge of insects crawling across the flesh of her back. “But some of us weren't made for that kind of life, I figure. I ain't judging you, kid. What you do is probably right for you. Could be I wish my husband was alive so we could've found a place like that. What was it? A castle somewhere? Reckon that sounds nice. A real storybook ending. Well, I hope you find it and it ain't full of rats and Draug. For me, though. What would I do if I were you? I reckon you've seen enough to know I walk other paths. Maybe it's fate. Maybe it's luck. Could even be choice. Whatever it is, I'd probably stop running. Turn around. Kill them first, or die trying. That's what I'd do.”

“It doesn't sound like much of a life to me. Always fighting.”

The elf showed a hint of her teeth behind a crooked smile. “It ain't all good, I guess. But it sure beats being dead.”

Melganaderna suddenly looked serious. Her mail clinked as she followed the elf toward where the spellslingers waited. The ominous battleaxe held low in one fist, and her other hand clenching and unclenching as she stretched tired fingers. “I don't have many friends, Nysta. I'd like to count you one of them.”

Strangely, the elf felt awkward by the young woman's sudden words.

“I'm dangerous to be around,” she said, feeling her lips fumble for the words. “Everyone I ever get to know always ends up dead.”

“I knocked you down when we first met, remember? Nearly killed you. I think I can take care of myself. Look, I can see you've got a hide thicker than plate steel. Stubborn as a stone, too. But I can also see you're hurting. Really hurting. It's times like that you need to know one or two people who aren't going to stick a knife in your back when you turn away, right?” She held out a calloused hand and let the impish smile reveal itself. “I bet you never thought you'd have a Cornelian offering their hand in friendship to you.”

“Never thought I'd take it,” the elf said, frozen in place. Finally she reached out and took Melganaderna's grip. Sighed. “Could be we've all spent too much of our lives following the words of gods. Reckon it's time I wrote my own tale.”

“Sounds like you're still looking for a fight.”

“Story of my life,” the elf said. “I don't reckon that'll change, neither.”

Melganaderna chuckled in the back of her throat and rolled her shoulders as she hefted
Torment
. Headed toward the new opening, matching the elf stride for stride. “I still think you'll get a happy ending, Nysta.”

The elf rubbed at the scar on her cheek. Allowed the young woman to enter the brightly lit room first. Turned slightly on her heel to scan the shadows behind them. Felt the prickling sensation of insects slithering down her shoulders while her mind imagined the gaze of Gul'Se burning through the walls.

Murmured softly; “Not on my account.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The room reeked of death.

Old death.

Its decaying echoes hung ripe from the shadows and the walls looked greasy. Streaked with yellow stains from the torches carefully positioned to illuminate the room's contents.

Contents which had the two spellslingers practically squealing in excitement as they crawled around the large space like two rats. Noses twitching and eyes blinking rapidly. Hands shooting out to snatch and inspect before dropping with disappointment or to grab the next new thing.

Books.

Thousands of books.

The intoxicating smell of yellowed paper filled her nostrils and triggered a sense of awe and wonderment the likes of which she'd rarely felt.

Once, this room had been a library of a size she'd never seen before. Even the library in Lostlight, which contained ancient scrolls and books from all over the world, couldn't hope to match what this had been. It stretched far into the distance, laid out like a shrine to knowledge.

Melganaderna raised an eyebrow at the elf, who shrugged in response as her awe gently disintegrated on a wave of disappointment. Because despite the two spellslingers' enthusiasm, this was a library impressive only by the hints of what it had been. Not for what it contained.

The books lay strewn through the wreckage of shelves which had been smashed and burned by the passage of men who cared nothing for their contents.

Some of whom still lay among the destruction.

Their bones, wrapped in steel armour and draped in dust, rested uneasily.

Chukshene spat a curse as he threw aside another book ruined by flame. Specks of ash snowed around his feet. What little remained of its pages had been eaten by rodents.

He paused, scratching his head. Glanced over at the necromancer who was wearing a similar expression of growing dissatisfaction. “Find anything?”

Hemlock sighed. His body, still bowed by exhaustion, carried him a few more steps through the scorched rubble. Held up the crumpled remnants of an old spellbook and shook his head. “It's not looking good.”

“Trust Rule to burn all the books,” Chukshene muttered. Then he noticed Nysta standing at the edge of the debris. Made irritable by the defilement of a once-great library, he snapped at her. “Hey. Would it hurt you to help?”

“I'm busy, 'lock,” she said.

“With what?”

“Waiting.”

He studied her for a moment. Carefully chewed his bottom lip, choosing to say nothing. Then began rummaging faster. Fingers delving deep into the muck and filth.

Searching.

Nysta watched the torches. The small flames flickered and danced, but they would never exhaust their fuel. Kept alive by the same magic which seemed to permeate the Keep, they'd illuminate this room until the end of time.

She angled her head, listening to the silence which crept down the halls.

A solid kind of silence.

Like the silence held between breaths.

Eyes still scanning every shadow, every part of the wall. Wary of movement. Behind her, the door remained open. Caught within a yawn.

Hemlock found something of interest and tucked it away inside his robe.

Chukshene frowned at a book the size of his hand. It seemed to have escaped the ravages of the fire and the slow crawl of mould. Its small pages didn't seem to be encouraging him, though.

Melganaderna slowly took
Torment
in both hands, unconsciously aware of the looming silence, and feeling in it the same quiet dread which was making the ball of ice in Nysta's guts begin to churn. Torchlight glinted off the crescent blades.
 

Previously, the sound of water dripping. The creak of walls struggling to bear their burdens. The shuffle of flame from torches. A subtle breeze whispering.

Now, nothing.

Only the muttering of the two spellslingers.

The elf met Melganaderna's eyes. Nodded. Moved slightly adrift from the doorway and began inching around the edge of the room.

The young woman followed suit, only she took the other side. Her mail clinked. Heavy boots announced each step, made louder than they had before by the rising tension in the air.

Licking her lips, Melganaderna's gaze flicked often toward the elf. Searching for some sign from her as to which way to move next.

But the elf offered nothing. Kept her eyes on the doorway. Only when she was close, did her eyes move from the doorway and onto the warlock. “Chukshene?”

“Hmm?”

“Close the door.”

“What?”

“I said, the door, 'lock,” she hissed, keeping her voice low. “Close the fucking door.”

“Why?”

“Well, it ain't to keep the fucking cold drafts out.”