Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

She worked without urgency to free the warlock, producing a pick from one of her many pouches to wrestle with the padlock's rusted tumblers.

Her cold fingers didn't make it easy. Nor did the fact she hadn't picked a lock since leaving Lostlight. She grunted when it snapped open and tossed it aside as he worked his arms free of the heavy chains.

At some stage in the past few years, an old pine had fallen along the edge of the clearing. The warlock had watched the soldiers use it as a place to rest and he watched as the elf did the same.

Perched on top of the dead trunk, she tried on one of Delfar's boots. Found it not as comfortable as her other, but decided it was better than the blood-soaked rag she'd been using. Then sat there, sharpening her blades with a small stone.

Her heart slowed its pace, resuming a plodding rhythm as the anger she'd felt receded on a reluctant tide. Though she showed nothing of what she was thinking, her thoughts were buzzing in her head.

Since leaving the Deadlands, she'd crawled across the Bloods like a wounded cockroach. Lost a boot somewhere along the way. It'd fallen from her foot during a long climb and she didn't have the patience to go back for it.

Gained a few more fresh wounds. Some of them deep.

But the biggest change had been inside.

The crippling headaches and dull fog which smeared her brain for the months before had disappeared only a few days into her journey. As though they'd belonged solely to the Deadlands and the distance from that cursed place was serving to heal.

Only, she didn't feel healed.

She felt angry.

Unlike any rage she'd ever felt. Compared to the battle rage which often consumed her, this was something else. Something alien. Something not quite her own.

And it scared her.

As she honed the edge of
Entrance Exam
, she pushed the thoughts aside. Tried to box them up. Cage them, she thought with an ironic twist of her mouth. 

Her violet eyes, revealing nothing of the war she was waging with herself, followed the warlock as he knelt beside the two packs left by the soldiers she'd just killed. He rummaged through them, looking for something he obviously didn't expect to find.

He hadn't changed much, she thought. Maybe got a bit skinnier if that was possible. Gaunt and almost fragile-looking. Black hair looked a bit more dirty, and his jaw was coated with a scratchy layer of stubble.

His flamboyant robes had seen better days, too. Like her own clothes, they were torn and teased at the edges. The dark purple runes which once glittered proudly along the edging appeared to have faded.

He looked less like the impressive mage he wanted to appear and more like the travelling spellslinger she'd always taken him for.

The only thing missing was his grimoire.

Which, she figured, was probably what he was searching for.

None of these observations answered the unspoken question.

Why was he here?

Last time she'd seen him, he was aiming to catch ship to the Fnordic Lands. He should be home in Godsfall. Or enjoying himself in his precious Hatejaw with one of his supposedly endless string of wives.

Not out here in the shadow of the Bloods.

He lifted himself from the last pack and glanced at the bodies as though considering searching them, too. And it was in that moment that the elf realised something had changed about him after all. Something unseen. He looked tougher. More sure of himself.

Less afraid.

Nibbling his bottom lip, the warlock curled his fingers and turned to her. Eyes skipped away from her gaze and up toward the sky. Steel grey shot through with blue.

“Hello again, Nysta,” he said at last. And, when he realised she wasn't going to respond; “Fine. If that's how you want it. I won't lie and say I missed your conversational skills.”

The elf showed her teeth in a humourless grin. “If you don't tell me why you're here, I won't miss you, either,” she said, spinning
Entrance Exam
in her fingers. “Not at this range.” 

“Or your threats.” He showed only a trickle of doubt as he moved closer to the fire, seeking warmth. “Didn't miss those one bit. I swear to Grim, Nysta, those are like the only language you know. I'd write a book about it if I thought anyone would read it. Shit, I might write it anyway. I'll call it
The Eloquent Threats of an Elf Thug
. It'll only have one chapter, of course. After that, they'd only get boring.” 

“Don't fuck with me, 'lock. I ain't in the mood.”

“And I am?” His eyes were slightly wild. “Look at me! Look what they did to me. They kicked the shit out of me for days. Weeks, maybe. Could even be months. I don't fucking know how long to tell the truth, but it was a long fucking time. And I'm cold. I've been sitting against that tree so long I can't feel my fucking legs. Or my arms. Or my fucking ears. Hardly feel my mouth moving, to tell the fucking truth. You want to kill me? Grim's frozen ass, Nysta, right now that'd probably be the best thing you could fucking do for me. What I'm trying to say is I feel like shit. Just let me get my fucking bearings before you start trying to get answers to questions I can't fucking answer, okay?”

“Longer I wait, the more lies you invent,” she snapped back, pointing the knife at him. “Don't pretend you're too tired to talk. I know you enough to know you love flapping those lips of yours. Can't keep quiet most times. Feller like you? The only time you shut your mouth is when you can't tell your lies from the truth. So don't piss me about because I ain't fucking around when I say I'll happily slit your fucking throat and leave you with these other dead assholes for the Dhampirs to gnaw on. Won't lose a minute of sleep over it. Might actually leave me with some nice dreams for a change, too. And judging by the way you've been creeping around this camp, you've lost your precious fucking book of spells. Which means you ain't about to put up much of a fight. Now, out with it, you spellslinging motherfucker. Right now. Before I really lose my fucking temper.”

The warlock scratched at the stubble on his jaw and looked away from her.

Back at the fire.

“You're right,” he said. His voice was calm. Unmoved by her threat. “I've lost my grimoire.
Sharras Exilium
. But I'll get it back. And give the bastard who took it from me something to remember me by. I owe him. I worked too hard and lost too much getting that book to just let it go. You remember what that's like, Nysta? To owe someone? You owed Raste. Owed him a death. And you gave it to him. I watched. I even helped you with that. You can't say I didn't. So, in a way, you also owe me. That's how this works with your kind, right?”

The elf leapt from the dead tree, a snarl erupting from deep within. Sprang at him, jerking him back by his throat. Slammed him onto his back and stuck
Entrance Exam
millimetres from his eyeball. Hissed at him; “Don't you fucking dare try that on me, you bastard.”

He didn't struggle. Just lay there, flinching beneath her with his hands held up in front of him. Her fingers tightened around his neck, squeezing harder as he choked his words through trembling lips. “You owe me, Nysta!”

“Bastard,” she spat. “You fucking bastard. You're just like the rest of them. Mages. Fucking mages and your fucking manipulative tricks.”

“I wouldn't have to if you'd act like a fucking human for a few minutes.” He winced. “Sorry. I mean an elf, of course. Not a human. What was I thinking? You're not human. Not even a little. But I've met enough elfs to know you're different from them, too. Most of them were polite. Nice, even. One cooked me dinner. I liked that. We talked about the stars. I like stars. They're like diamonds in the sky and all that shit. Look, I wasn't really trying to fuck with you. It's just I'm kind of desperate. And here you are. Like a fucking gift from Grim. All wrapped up. Only not very pretty, of course, and you already know what I think of your bows. But tough. And I need tough right now. Need it bad. I can't do this on my own. Not like this. Not without my grimoire. Please, Nysta. Just listen to me. For a few minutes? And maybe stop squeezing my throat so much? I think I'm about to pass out. Please? Nysta? Come on, please. I'm begging, if it helps.”

Blinded by a blizzard of stars popping angrily across her vision, the elf wanted nothing more than to keep squeezing. Especially when something crawled across the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Shivers she chose to ignore. “Why should I? Why should I trust you?”

“I didn't kill Talek,” he forced through strangled throat. “I wasn't even there!”

Talek.

His name formed, but never made it across her lips.

She let the warlock go with another growl and spun away to stare up at the crisp lines of the mountains as the rage leaked slowly from her veins. Her mind replacing the hate with blurred images of her dead husband.

She rolled her shoulders, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. “Damn you, Chukshene,” she said. “Damn you to the Shadowed Halls. That was unfair.”

He lifted himself up onto his side and looked up at her. A smile tried to emerge from his twitching mouth, but in the end gave up.

“You gave me no choice. And I'm sorry,” he said, rubbing at his neck. Bright red splotches where her fingers had dug hard. “For what it's worth, I really am. But, you know. There could be a positive side to this. Sure, you didn't kill me now, but that just means you can still kill me later. Where there's life there's hope for death, right?”

There was an edge of hysteria to his voice which made her want to hit him.

Instead, the elf closed her eyes, still submerged in her memories. “What is it you want from me, Chukshene? Just to get your book back? That it?”

“That's it. You can leave the bastard cleric to me.”

“Cleric?” She frowned and her eyes snapped open at that.

Of course he'd have survived. He'd have run like the rabbit he was.

And of course the two Grey Jackets must have been with him. She should've expected that. If only her brain didn't feel so exhausted, she would have done.

She remembered what Sharpe had said. That enough of the Grey Jackets fled into the mountains. She'd expected they'd have turned south at some stage and headed back to Leibersland with their tails firm between their legs.

Never expected them to cross the Bloods.

Had taken the two guards for deserters, not General Storr's men.

“Yeah,” the warlock looked down at a fresh tear in his robe and sighed. “A real vicious prick of a man. His name is-”

“Hyrax,” she said, finishing his sentence and making him blink.

“Yeah. Hyrax. That's him. How did you know that?”

“We've met,” she said. Shrugged and turned on him. “Then where is he, Chukshene? Why isn't he here? Camp looks like it used to be bigger. But there were only two men. One tent back there. Two packs. So, where's this cleric now?”

“He left. With Willem.”

“Willem?”

And Chukshene's smile finally appeared between bruised lips. “You saw Hyrax, but not Willem? I guess not. Willem's pretty unforgettable, given the circumstances.”

“Don't piss me off again by talking in riddles, Chukshene.”

“Willem's like you, Nysta. In more ways than one. I mean, sure he's mean. Hard. Tough as nails and seems to like using his knives. Hits harder than the others, too.” He licked his lips, thoughtfully. Wondering how much she knew. “But he's an elf. Did you know that? An elf who's not just travelling with them, but leading them.”

“Leading them? An elf?” She couldn't keep the doubt from her voice, but Pad's words echoed in her head.
Can't miss an elf's ears
.

“Surprised the fuck out of me, too. But it's true. Ugly bastard. Got scars all over his face. Looks like he's been chewed on by a troll.” The warlock grinned. “I'll bet the troll choked on him. They're following him, alright. Not that they like it. But I heard them say Rule himself told them to obey him, and you know what Grey Jackets are like. Fucking devoted to Rule. They don't like it, but they're doing it. So far.”

The elf's eyes thinned.

She knew Raste had tried defecting to the South. Had stopped him outside Grimwood Creek before he could meet with General Storr. Rumour had been spreading through Lostlight for years of elfs betraying their own. She couldn't understand why. Rule hated elfs. He hadn't ever tried to hide that.

He wanted them dead. All of them.

Why would he accept them?

And what could drive an elf into the arms of their most powerful enemy?

It didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

She shook her head. Spat a wet stream at the ground between her feet. “Bullshit,” she said finally. “Has to be bullshit.”

“Does this look like bullshit to you?” The warlock jabbed a finger at his bruised face. “He did this. Sure, he wanted information from me. At first. Then he did it just for kicks. Beat me like a fucking drum. Look at me, Nysta. It hurts. If you were hit like this, wouldn't you remember the face of the bastard who hit you? Well, I do. I remember it well. And, in the years to come, it's going to make me want to vomit when I'm sitting down to eat leftovers because he was an ugly son of a bitch. Grim's gangrenous asshole, he was ugly. Half his nose is gone. You can see the snot.”

“How many?”

“I don't know.” The warlock looked confused. “Snot's sort of a fluid, Nysta. You can't really count it.”

“The Grey Jackets, you fool. How many does he have?”

“Oh. I don't know,” he admitted. “Best guess? Twenty. Maybe a couple more than that. They knocked me around a lot. And some of them drifted in and out of camp. They were pretty spooked out here, with the Dhampirs and shit wandering around. Not that I blame them. Have you seen a Dhampir? I have. They're evil. Pure fucking evil. One day, I'm going to come back here and drop a bunch of fucking demons on this place. Big demons. With horns and everything. Wipe those blood-drinking fuckers clean off the face of the world. Yeah. You'll see. Fucking Dhampirs. I hate them. Hate them all. Worse than fucking caterpillars.”

The elf pressed her fingers to her skull, not sure she wanted to ask. Did anyway. “Caterpillars?”