Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (18 page)

“Hem's right. You've got a bleak way of thinking, Nysta,” the young woman said. “But maybe that's not such a bad thing. Hem's had a different kind of life, too. You remind me more and more of Gormen. He thought like you. Everything was bullshit to him. My father wanted to give him a title. Sir Gormen. Wanted him to have his own lands. But he refused. He said he was just a fighter. That only assholes looked for gilded seats to rest on.” She smiled broadly. “I liked him a lot. I think he'd have liked you, too. Well. Maybe if you weren't an elf. He never liked elfs, I guess. Me? I always wanted to meet one. I don't know if they're all like you, but it might explain why every time we tried to take Lostlight, we got our asses handed to us.”

The elf answered the young woman's smile with one of her own. “You're lucky they ain't all like me,” she said. “Or there wouldn't be any Caspiellans left alive.”

“You hate us that much?”

Shrugging, the elf scanned the winding path again, searching for movement in front of the small torches. Their meagre light revealed nothing but flickering shadows which served only to heighten her already growing concern. “At first, I never cared. Can't hate someone you never met.”

“What happened to change that?” Melganaderna's voice was light, but cautious. Like she didn't want to push too hard.

“A mage came. Stole into Lostlight with a bunch of Grey Jackets. King Jutta let them come. He wanted to flush out a traitor, and we figured to let them get close to the palace. Close enough the traitor might show his face.” She closed her eyes, remembering. Could almost smell the crisp air trembling with violence. “We found them near the markets. Followed them through the streets. I was just meant to watch them. Make sure they didn't do anything unusual. They did. Split up. The mage went one way, the soldiers another. Reckon the soldiers were supposed to be the distraction. Even knew it at the time. I had a choice. Follow the mage, or follow the soldiers. I picked the soldiers because I was afraid.”

Melganaderna shot a look at the two spellslingers, still absorbed in their own conversation. “Mages always scared me, too,” she said, keeping her voice low. “When I first saw what Hemlock could do, I nearly wet myself.”

“It was the first time I ever let my fear turn me away from a fight.” The elf sighed, feeling the rippling of grief shiver down her spine as her memories began sliding toward the one moment which still haunted her dreams. “Told myself at the time it wasn't fear. That I was following the larger force. Doing the best I could. Knew I was lying to myself. Killed them anyway.”

That surprised her. “All of them? On your own?”

“Yeah,” she reached up and rubbed her scar. “Got tagged for it. Thought it made me some kind of hero. But I fucked up. The mage got through the palace gates. Made it to the throne room. I didn't expect him to get that far. My husband, Talek, was there. He stopped the spellslinger. But not before the bastard hit him with magefire.”

“That's horrible.”

“Weren't pretty,” the elf said, opening her eyes and looking up at the ceiling squatting above. “But he survived. The scars covered his whole body, but he survived.”

“He must have been tough.” The young woman picked her words carefully.

“Yeah.” Nysta flashed her crooked grin. Sheathed the small blade in her hand. “He was that. And more.”

“And that's why you don't like us?”

“Reckon that's about it.”

“I guess if anyone burned Hemlock like that, I'd hate them too,” Melganaderna allowed. “Probably kill as many as I could. So, what I don't understand is, why don't you kill us? You're the coldest killer I've ever met, even by your own definition. Yet, you didn't kill me. You fought with me. Maybe saved my life back there. Why?”

“The 'lock says it's because I think I'll need you.”

“But what do you say?”

The elf's violet eyes shimmered as she again felt the squirming behind her shoulders. More so than ever before. She clenched her jaw, resisting the call to violent action. “Maybe I want to make my own decisions,” she said at last.

“I don't understand that, either.”

“Don't sweat it, kid,” Nysta said, climbing to her feet. She looked out across the edge of the path, down at the glowing river far below. Everything else was still a murky knot of shadows and glittering torches. “Sometimes I confuse even myself.”

Melganaderna hefted the battleaxe, using
Torment
's long handle to lean on as she pulled herself up. Stood facing the elf, expression amused. “You know, I don't think you're as cold as you try to be. I think, under all that, you're actually the kind of person who always does the right thing.”

The elf frowned suddenly.

She wasn't sure what it was that sent the worms squirming across her shoulders.

Not a footstep.

Or the creak of string.

It was animal instinct which forced her to move.
A Flaw in the Dark
screamed free of its sheath as she launched herself at the young woman with a snarl forming wolfishly between her cheeks.

At first, Melganaderna made to bring the axe up in a brutal arc toward the elf, eager to defend herself. Just as confused by the elf's sudden leap as Nysta had been earlier. Then she caught sight of something over Nysta's shoulder and swore.

The elf's shoulder slammed into the young woman's torso and sent her sprawling. The three arrows which speared from the darkness missed them both, though one whistled through Melganaderna's blonde hair with a frustrated hiss.

As they rolled, dangerously close to the edge of the treacherous path, the elf caught Melganaderna's eyes and growled through her teeth; “Yeah, I'm real fucking conflicted.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Darkness exploded into life with a shower of battle-hungry cries.

Hemlock had no time to consider magic and instead drew a long dagger at his waist, slashing wildly. Chukshene darted away, heading back up the path away from the sudden rush of soldiers.

They'd forsaken their armour and instead wore cloth shirts stained with dirt. The elf grunted as a shimmer of magic glittered and died around them. The cleric must've worked to conceal their ascent. She cursed herself for not paying more attention, but had no time to reflect on how close she'd come to death.

While there were only seven of them, the elf couldn't dive forward without getting herself cut to pieces. Swords, freshly drawn in their fists. Eager for flesh to bite into.

The path was too narrow. It limited her options to defensive ones. Options she had no time to consider as she was forced to reel to her side when a sword licked out at her face.

Torment
clanged like a leaden bell as it roared out of nowhere to take the sword. Chopped right through the smaller blade, sending its slender tip spinning away. Then Melganaderna wrenched hard on the battleaxe to shear into the soldier's shocked face.
 

He dropped as though desperate to dig himself into the ground. Brain spilling like yolk from a cracked egg.

The elf shot to her feet, forced to duck a second soldier's enthusiastic thrust.

Felt a moment's satisfaction as she whipped her body around to smash her heel into his knee hard enough for the crack of his bone to echo through the cavern until it was drowned by his scream.

A scream which didn't last long.
A Flaw in the Glass
tunnelled into his throat and cut all sound of his death from her ears. It took most of his cheek as she ripped the blade free.
 

She didn't relish her success. Had time only to suck a quick breath before she was forced backward by two men shouting promises of her death at her. Caught a glimpse of Melganaderna lopping the arm from one of the Grey Jackets.

A smile formed beneath the scar on her cheek. Cruel and lethal. And, for a brief moment, it was the smile which made the two men pause their attack.

Hemlock struggled to contain the young red-haired Grey Jacket aiming to kill him. The dagger wasn't much good for blocking a sword, and all that kept him alive was the inexperienced young soldier's obvious indecision.

An indecision which quickly washed away as he raised his sword for a final stroke.

The necromancer gasped, the sound echoing sharp through the clutter of metal clashing on metal. But before Melganaderna could leap across the gap between them to protect him, Chukshene's rolling voice rumbled from behind.

Nysta drew her lips back into a grimace, the familiar acrid stink of magic filling her nostrils.

The young Grey Jacket had time to begin bringing his sword down. Then he was engulfed in flame as the fireball exploded from the warlock's open hand and burned through the soldier's torso.

Smell of burning flesh.

And Chukshene's sudden shriek of pain as he tried to hold himself upright while magic surged and crackled down his arms. Sparks of yellow light sputtered to the ground, ejected from smoking flesh.

As if responding to his magic, the wall spat sparks. Light pulsed like a glowing heartbeat beneath the stone before fading.

“Nysta!” Melganaderna threw herself next to the elf as the two tried to position themselves between the Grey Jackets and the stunned spellslingers. “If we keep them back long enough-”

“For your untrained child mages to save your filthy lives? A good plan,” a cold voice hissed from behind the Grey Jackets. “But one which is too late to save you.”

The voice made Nysta's eyes thin to slits. “Hyrax,” she growled. “You'd better run, rabbit. Because I'm real eager to skin you. Right to the fucking bone.”

“Not this time, you Tainted cur,” he called. “This time you'll be the one running. All the way to Hell. Well? What are you all waiting for? Kill her!”

Two archers, positioned beside the cleric, let loose another couple of arrows. But the elf had already moved, leaving the arrows to skate off the stone wall and out into the dark. Melganaderna, eyes wide but focussed, brought the oversized axe swinging through the murky light.

The foul stink of magic once more filled the elf's nostrils and she thought Chukshene was casting. But then the cleric was bathed in glowing white light which crackled and snapped electricity before shearing into the body of a dead soldier.

Who twitched.

His wounds closed and he let out a pain-wracked sob as his soul was returned to his body.

“Shit,” the elf spat. “Their heads, kid! Cut through their fucking heads! Get their brain!”

Then she was forced to reel away as swords sought her flesh.

Nyx Stalked the Sand
left the elf's fingers with a cruel snap of her wrist. The stubborn blade found the forehead of the closest Grey Jacket. Wrenched his life away with a burst of red she hoped was enough to prevent him from being healed by the scowling cleric.
 

Another soldier rose awkwardly in front of her. Stumbled hesitantly on his feet. Looked down in surprise at the sword still in his clenched fist while his other arm, chopped off his torso by
Torment
grew back within a solid wisp of arcane smoke.

Hemlock had given up trying to find something in his grimoire. Chukshene, still looking stunned by his own casting, was beside him, the two spellslingers wrestling desperately with a tough-looking Grey Jacket. The necromancer's blade flashed, drawing a cascade of red ribbons.

And the cleric cackled as he cast again.

Another soldier rose from the blood-drenched floor. Had Melganaderna already killed so many? The elf grunted in disappointment at herself.

“Back!” Melganaderna shouted. “Move back! Nysta, stay close.”

The young axewoman stumbled backward, soon regaining her position at the elf's side. They edged toward the spellslingers, three soldiers keeping themselves at a safe distance, trying to spread themselves thin to allow the archers behind them to take their shots.

Threads of gold light hummed from the cleric's fingers and attached themselves to the soldiers. Formed a bright web which made the elf's frustration curdle in her gut as she realised any wounds the Grey Jackets would receive would most likely be shrugged off so long as the gold threads remained attached to them. She wondered if even headwounds would bring them down.

“Nysta,” Hemlock called, choking on each breath. His knife was riddled with blood. He stood over the fallen Grey Jacket, face pale and haunted already. “We've got to get out of here. We can't stop them. Not like this.”

She grunted. Allowed he was probably right. Even if she could get close enough to start killing the soldiers, she risked getting an arrow in the chest. Or being overwhelmed by men too supported by magic to die.

The young victim of Chukshene's fireball screeched as his blistered flesh was healed. He gibbered to himself, agony shooting through his mind. Hyrax hadn't even looked at him.

Finally, he rose, still shuddering. Managed to grab his sword from the floor and, flesh still smoking, took a step toward the group. His eyes were wild.

The odds stacked so hard against her, the elf felt a flurry of insects wriggling under the bracer of her right hand. Forcing her fist to clench tight around
A Flaw in the Glass
.
 

As though sensing her building rage, the enchanted blade flared bright, its green glow making the Grey Jackets pause.

Melganaderna muttered, her own frustration evident as she struggled with her choices.

Hemlock kicked the body away from himself and let Chukshene pull him away.

The warlock threw her a frightened look. A look through eyes dimmed by pain. “Nysta?”

Her eyes flicked toward the cleric. Saw the hatred in them as he led his soldiers closer. Cautious, but determined.

“This is worse than fucking Draug,” she growled.

“I never thought I'd feel afraid of a cleric,” Melganaderna said, shifting the blade in her hands and keeping the soldiers back. “We can't run. There's nowhere to run to. Can't kill them quick enough. He's keeping them alive. You got any ideas, because I'm all out?”

The elf's violet eyes shivered in their sockets. “Maybe,” she said. “Chukshene? When I tell you, you reckon you can cast a fireball at the fellers on your left? Try to melt their heads.”