Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (17 page)

She decided quickly that to waste time with caution would give Willem time not just to set his trap, but to perfect it. The best choice, she figured, was to give him less time to put himself into position.

Guiding the small group swiftly down the winding ledge, the elf quickly lost sight of the Grey Jackets. While she could guess their general position, the fractured light inside the massive cavern made it difficult to pinpoint them accurately. The flickering torches made the light creep and crawl naturally across the smooth walls between heavy expanses of shadow.

Chukshene's greasy yellow orb did little to improve it. And motes of dust were thick on the air rising up from below. All this combined to give a smoky, almost ethereal gloom to the cavern.

She gave up trying to spot them. Accepted that if Willem was the kind she figured him for, he'd know the narrow path was no place for an ambush. Nowhere for him to hide. He'd find better possibilities on the ground. So she reckoned he'd move with speed.

Nervous anticipation crept into her veins even though she knew there was a long way to go. Because the path wound in a zigzag pattern around the internal wall of the mountain, they'd have to stop a few more times before they made it to the lower level.

They had no choice but to stop, because with the pace the elf was trying to set, even Melganaderna was breathing hard.

But Nysta still wanted to push it. Her lips drew back into a snarl as she felt each thudding step to be one more step closer to killing.

In her ears, Chukshene's ragged breathing.

Hemlock staggered against the wall, letting out a muted sound of disgust as he found the stone slick with slime and filth from the drooling roof.

Melganaderna breathed through her teeth. Teeth grit hard in effort as she tried matching the elf's pace.

Nysta heard all of this, and it served only to make the steel in her heart grow stronger.

Willem was down there. And his cleric.

They needed to die. Had to. Not in a few hours. Not even a few minutes. They had to die now.

Right now. She couldn't bear to be slowed by a small group of humans. They were holding her back. Keeping her from her prey.

She could abandon them. It would be so much easier...

The warlock muttered a curse. His voice struck deep inside her like a bell. Rang a note of hate through her heart.

Her hand fisted around
A Flaw in the Glass
and it was only as the warlock stumbled to a halt that she managed to get a grip on the boiling hatred churning in her guts. Whirling around, she caught Chukshene's suddenly fearful look.

Knew what he was thinking.

He thought she was about to snap at him. About to demand more speed.

And, seconds before, he'd have been right. But Melganaderna's face, sheathed in sweat, kept the elf's mouth from spitting words she knew were sourced from somewhere deep inside her frustrated soul. Somewhere near where something more dark and frightening was pounding at her chest as it tried to escape.

Violet eyes bright, the elf simply nodded and said nothing as Hemlock slid gratefully to his knees. The warlock mumbled another curse. Hemlock sprawled beside him, the pair of spellslingers clearly exhausted.

Melganaderna leaned on
Torment
, its twin blades digging into the ground, and wiped sweat from her cheeks with a rag from her pack. “How much further?”

“Reckon that depends how easy the path is,” she said, though her tone was neutral. Her own heart raced and she was surprised to feel the ache of exertion creeping down her bones. Elfs were gifted with more stamina than humans. But right now, she felt more exhausted than she should. She kept her voice calm. “If it stays this easy, then a couple of hours, maybe.”

The woman knelt near the edge of the trail and peered off down into the dark. Shook her head as she realised she couldn't make out any movement which might show the position of the Caspiellan soldiers. “What about them? Do you think they're down there now? Setting themselves in position?”

The elf squatted beside her. Scanned the sullen depths. The glow of the green river of sludge failed to illuminate much.

She thought she caught a shadow move across one of the torches. But while she stared hard at the area for a few more moments, the soldiers still did not reveal themselves. They were good at moving with stealth, she admitted silently. Almost grudgingly. They knew to pass quickly through the dull beacons of light.

Something she should have passed on to the others herself. But she'd been too absorbed in getting down. Too focussed on seeking bodies to plunge her knives into.

In hindsight, she began to wonder if she'd made a terrible mistake.

She grunted. “They've still got a while, I think. They'll be faster than us, on account of not having any spellslingers to slow them down.”

“Hey,” Chukshene called in a hurt tone. “I heard that.”

“Maybe we're going about this the wrong way,” Melganaderna said with a note of hesitation in her voice.

The elf glanced at her. “Got something on your mind?”

“I'm not sure. It's just something Gormen used to say. About waiting for something to happen. He said it was the worst thing about soldiering. Those moments when you knew the enemy would come, but you didn't know when. Or from where.”

The elf nodded, thinking about Tannen's Run. The fear everyone had felt along the wall. Not knowing what would happen next. “You think it's a mistake,” she said. “Running in before they can set up.”

“I didn't say that,” Melganaderna said quickly. A sliver of doubt, mingled with fear, showed in the young woman's eyes. As if she was afraid of how the elf would respond.

“Don't sweat it.” The elf rubbed at the scar on her cheek, briefly recalling the feel of the sword slicing flesh. “Could be you're right. Could be I wasn't thinking straight. And thinking like that always leads to mistakes. Reckon you're right. I figured it out all wrong. We're moving too fast. We'll slow down. Let them stew for a bit. But not too much to let them get set.”

Melganaderna smiled. “You know, I think that was a tough thing for you to admit.”

She found it hard to resist replying with a grin of her own. Settled instead on spitting out into the void to force her lips from curling. Gave a light half-shrug and settled back on her rump to look up at the ceiling so far above. “Ain't all that hard to admit when you're wrong. It's how you learn.” She closed her eyes for a moment and could smell the streets of Lostlight. Tainted with rotting filth and splashed with blood. “Where I'm from, if you can't admit your mistakes, you can't recover from them fast enough. Can't learn to do the right thing next time. Fuck up like that too often, and chances are you'll be dead.”

“I envy you.”

“I don't see why.”

“I grew up in a castle. Just like in the stories. You probably already figured out most of my life just by me saying that.” Melganaderna lay the battleaxe aside and began kneading the back of her neck with her knuckles. “Spoilt brat. That's what I heard the soldiers call me. No matter how hard I trained. No matter how much I beat them with their own weapons. They always figured I was just a showpiece. You know? A novelty. That my skills were for play. A princess playing with wooden swords. I never killed anyone until the night I left the castle. I wonder what they think of me now?”

The question made the elf's brow deepen for a moment as she wondered what her father would think if he'd known she'd joined the Jukkala'Jadean. Maybe he did know.

She'd seen him a few times in the King's court before she'd left Lostlight. Had thought he'd seen her, too.

“Reckon they'd be surprised,” the elf said easily.

“More than you know,” the young woman puffed out her cheeks before sending the air jetting out with a pop. Clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Then turned toward the elf and stared intently. “You said they told you something of why they wanted us. How much did they tell you?”

“Not much. If they did, I didn't care much to listen,” Nysta said. “Other than what I told you earlier, I seem to recall something about your father being dead and you being the new queen.”

Melganaderna's laugh was soft, only lightly coloured by something close to hysteria. “You got that much right. He's dead. Dead as you can get when
Torment
cleaves you right through your middle. Yeah, you heard me right. I killed him with it. Grabbed Hemlock and left as fast as we could run. Does that surprise you?”

The young axewoman's words, spoken almost in challenge, ignited a vision of her father in her mind. His features obliterated by shadows as he stood in front of his Hold, watching his ancestral home burn to the ground. Fists at his sides. Back rigid with shock as the flames echoed his rage.

He'd lost everything that night.

The night she left Lostlight with Talek.

Many times since, as she lay awake staring up at the ceiling, she'd wondered what had stopped her from creeping up behind her father that night. She could've done it. He was isolated. His guards too busy rescuing trinkets.

The fires, turning the night into a cascade of inky shadows and florid reflections.

Wouldn't have taken much to draw a blade across his scrawny throat. Would've been easy.

She'd told herself it was because she wanted him to suffer. To witness the end of all he'd struggled to build.

But, nestled somewhere inside her chest, a frightened child had been too afraid to stalk her father from the dark. Too afraid he might turn around and see her. Then what would he say?

Instead, she'd drifted away. Melted into the night like a ghost.

The black smoke had stained the sky as they shuffled from the city. Talek, leaning hard on her while struggling to use his sheathed sword as a kind of crutch.

Never said anything, but she could tell he knew what she'd done. What he thought of it, he'd never told her.

Now, looking at Melganaderna, she could see a woman who'd worked hard to toughen her heart as much as her body. Who'd struggled as much against the weight of her upbringing as Nysta had. Could see the casual manner with which she announced the murder of her own father.

Yet, in those wide eyes, the elf could also see the frightened child. Shivering in the young woman's pupils. Scared and alone. Still afraid of actions and their consequences.

And it was this fear which was eating her from the inside. Teasing her.

Tormenting her dreams.

The elf rolled her shoulders and grimaced, uncomfortably aware of how alike they were. Uncomfortable because of how deeply it challenged her opinions of Caspiellans. “Reckon there ain't nothing in the world that surprises me any more,” she said.

“He didn't even scream,” Melganaderna said. “Just stood there and waited for it to happen. Like he expected it. Didn't look angry or anything. Just waited. Like he was waiting for a servant to fill his mug. Fuck. I hated him. Hated him so much. Why didn't he scream?”

The young woman's body was like a coiled spring. One touch and she'd snap. But which way would she fall?

“A feller faces death in his own way,” the elf said, not knowing what else to say. “I've had to kill more than a few. Seen them try to fight it. Seen them try to run. Cry. Snivel, beg, and plead. Others don't know what to do. Just die without a whisper. Ain't no telling what someone will do at the moment of their death until the Shadowed Halls open right in front of their eyes.”

“Do they come to you? At night, when you're sleeping. All the people you killed?”

“Nope.”

“They come to me.”

“Only because you let them.”

“How do you stop them? They're already dead.”

“Exactly.” The elf wasn't enjoying the sudden change of mood. Her back was itching, like a dozen worms were wriggling between her skin and her shirt. Cold and clammy. Exhaustion, too, still gnawed at her awareness. “They're dead, and you ain't. They're just dreams, kid. Only there because you've been trained the wrong way. Sure, you've got the skill with weapons. Seen you swing that thing, and you do it better than most I've seen with a piece of shit that big. But somewhere down the line, you weren't taught what it's like to kill a man. It's not a lesson most people like to learn, though they've been told it. Ain't one many can teach you, neither. But I reckon there's plenty of people in the world who know the practical ways to kill. Ain't too hard a thing to teach. Give a feller a sword, or an axe. Point them in the right direction and tell them to start swinging. That's what most armies are made of. Bunch of fellers scared close to pissing themselves while swinging blindly at any feller stupid enough to get within range. When it's over, they're mostly crazy. Can't handle the shit they've seen. Can't forget the feeling riding up their arms as the sword they swung went through another feller's bones. Scream at night when they think they're being followed by ghosts. Then there's another kind. The kind who ain't so much able to kill, as being killers right to the depths of their soul. A lot of people think a killer enjoys it. Loves seeing pain in another feller's eyes. Thinks the screams of the dying are music to the ears. Maybe there's a few out there like that, but they ain't as common as the tavern talk. Because that that ain't what a killer is. Ain't about getting a kick from spilling blood. It's about learning that one lesson which makes all the difference between a feller who kills, and a killer.”

The young woman leaned close. “What's that?”

“That's it's all about survival.”

“But that's what all the soldiers say,” Melganaderna sighed, clearly disappointed. “That's no secret.”

“Never said it was a secret, kid. But you're right. It's what they say. That's why I said it's one they've been told, but they don't like to learn. You see, most soldiers will say it's all about survival, but if it was, then why're they dying on the field? They're there because they believe in something. Or they're trying to protect something. You've seen them talking before a battle? Most are swapping letters they want to send to their loved ones. Kissing amulets. Rubbing lucky stones. Shaking like a forest of leaves. They're thinking about life. They're thinking about what it is they're about to lose. And, looking out at a bunch of other fellers advancing on them, they're still wondering if anyone's gonna step forward and stop the killing with talk. Like talk ever solved anything for longer than it took to line everyone up again. They're already dead before they even take to the field. For them, it ain't about surviving because they're already dead in their minds and if they do survive, they'll think it's luck. Or the blessing of their god.” She slid
Hurruq's Choice
free and twirled the small blade between her fingers. “A killer ain't thinking of any of those things. Ain't thinking about family. Ain't thinking about dying. Ain't even raising a sweat just yet. Because violence will come, kid. All about when and where. All about how you deal with it. And their goal ain't to protect some lord's dream of holding onto his dirt pile. Ain't about justice. Or some bullshit prophecy told by a scabby mage bent over a fucking book written by madmen or fools. Ain't about any of that. That shit's just the story told to make the soldiers line up to die. It's all about surviving. Feller who wants to survive the most, will always be the last one standing. And if you get to look into that feller's eyes, all you'll see is the eyes of a killer. Cold and clear.”