Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4) (7 page)

Yet, there was one thing more powerful than death.

One thing which soaked so deep into her flesh that it seemed to have replaced her very blood. Her heart sent litres of it jetting around her body. And sometimes it seemed her brain could think of nothing else.

Hate.

Hatred so dynamic that even when she thought she was about to die, she couldn't give in. Couldn't bear to leave the world without killing her way out of it.

It was, then, with a roar of pure rage that the elf rose from the darkness of void and entered screaming into the wakefulness of life.

Hands searching for the handles of her knives.

And not finding them.

Eyes snapping open, she saw the massive broad-bladed battleaxe in the armoured fist of the woman seated directly opposite.

Chukshene, mouth open and squatting against the wall.

The pale-faced stranger sprawled, lost in semi-consciousness next to him.

Her knives, a steely heap glinting dangerously between them all.

She licked her lips. Flexed her shoulders. A spider on the edge of its web, angling for the fly.

The woman tightened her grip on the long handle. Knuckles white.

And Chukshene held up his hands, “Nysta! Wait. Stop. It's not what you think.”

Her fingers twitched, and the rage coiled molten arms around her heart. “You took my knives,” she growled. To the woman who watched her with a newborn killer's eyes.

“His idea,” she responded with a nod of her head toward the warlock. “He said you'd come out of it angry. Said you were fast, too. You already showed me some of that.”

“Not enough.”

“No,” the woman's smile was genuine and lacked mockery. “Not enough.”

“They're with us,” Chukshene explained quickly before the elf could retort. “Sure, it didn't seem that way, but they thought we were Grey Jackets. That's an easy mistake to make, right? The light wasn't too great. It was just a fuck up, okay? It's fine now, though. Right?”

The elf's violet eyes slid from the pile of knives toward the warlock.

Across the nervous-looking stranger. To the woman and her battleaxe. She looked like she wanted to use it.

Slowly, the elf nodded and settled on her back, looking up at the impenetrable darkness above. Let out a sigh. “Just don't touch my knives again, Chukshene. Or I'll bury them in you.”

“Sure. Of course. Goes without saying, really.” He grinned at the two strangers and looked more comfortable. “See? I told you she'd be fine. Nothing to worry about. Just a little misunderstanding.”

The pale-faced stranger shifted. “What's happening?”

His voice was barely a croak. Almost a whisper. He was dressed in black. Hooded coat, the hood half-drawn around his head. Tunic, also black, which fell to just above his knees. No belt. Dagger in a sheath inside his boot.

His face was slightly feral, hinting at a scholar's cunning. Blue eyes wide and bloodshot. Patches of a youth's first beard forming rough edges around cheeks and jaw. Black hair streaked with thick white lines bleached by the trauma of horrors beyond description.

The woman, younger than Nysta had first thought. The elf watched as the woman turned toward the stranger. Concern open on her face. “It's okay, Hem.”

She was built tough, with the look of someone who'd spent her life training for war but lacked the scars to show she'd seen battle. Slender rings of mail over a heavy jerkin. Dark pants. Thick bracers rimmed with fur. Iron-clad leather gauntlets.

Heavy boots tipped with steel.

Knife strapped to her thigh. A sensible knife.

The elf liked it.

Then there was the axe. Big and brutal, she carried it in one hand, but would need both to wield. Its twin blades looked ready to cleave stone. It radiated death. As such, it looked out of place with the young woman whose face looked made for humour and games rather than violence and killing.

Gold hair cut short around muscular shoulders. Wide mouth trying to repress the natural grin. And something in the way she sat, in the way she held herself, spoke of confidence. Not just in herself, but in those around her.

The kind of confidence found only in those who'd been born to the heights of power.

The woman turned back toward the elf as Chukshene bent over the fallen man. Held out a hand to Nysta, offering to help the elf to her feet. “My name's-”

“Melganaderna,” The elf finished. “Reckon he's the spellslinger who helped you flatten Grimwood Creek a few months back. Don't recall if I was told his name. I was a bit tied up at the time and wasn't thinking straight.”

That shocked them, and it was the elf's turn to grin.

“How'd you know that?” Melganaderna tensed, ready to fight. The hand, while not withdrawn, froze in place. Poised to snap back to the axe's thick handle.

“Met a few fellers looking for you,” she said, accepting the offered hand. Tried not to let the dizziness show as she made it to her feet. Stared into the woman's dark brown eyes for a moment before limping toward her knives. “They figure they're rescuing you.”

“Rescuing me?”

“From your kidnapper. Evil bastard, he's supposed to be.” Her lip curled slightly as she looked over at the young man. “Doesn't look very scary right now, though.”

Keeping her movements deliberate, she began sliding her weapons into their sheaths as the young woman eyed her fallen companion with a worried glance.

“You seem to know a lot,” the young axewoman said.

The elf's grin was slight. “A wise feller once said that a person's life can often depend on a mere scrap of information.”

Melganaderna raised an eyebrow at the warlock, who shrugged. “Don't ask me,” he said. “We only met up again a few hours ago. And she's never really been the sort of person who shares her thoughts. I didn't know anything about you until a few minutes ago.”

“Hemlock,” the young axewoman told the elf. “That's his name. Martin Hemlock. We grew up together. And whatever he's growing into, it certainly isn't my kidnapper. Do I look kidnapped to you?”

The elf glanced at the battleaxe again, wondering how heavy the enchanted weapon was.

It looked heavy.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Melganaderna snorted. “Kidnapped. Shit. That'd be my cousin's story. Always good at stories, he was. Especially for my father. Always whispering into his ear. Bastard. No, Nysta. This is worse than a kidnapping. This is an escape. An escape from everything the throne of Cornelia has come to stand for. By rights, it should be mine. It never would have been, though. Scarrow already saw to that. But he wants me back. Wants to parade me like a trophy in front of the Council. Wants Rule himself to bless our union so he can legitimise his claim. Then he can finally say he owns me, body and soul.” The fury simmered in her dark eyes, and the elf was surprised to feel a twinge of respect for the young woman. “He'll never get that satisfaction. I'll kill him, and anyone else who tries to take me back. My heart lies with someone else. It always has.”

Moaning, Hemlock rolled onto his side. Let out a few soft moans.

Chukshene glanced at Melganaderna and shook his head. Then turned to the elf. “He's not good. Something in this place is affecting him.”

“He was fine until we made it to the caves at the back of the tunnel,” Melganaderna said. “Happy, even. He loves to study things. And that door out the front made him jump around like a kid. He says it's older than anything he's ever seen before. I tried taking him back outside, but he refuses. He says we have to go further. But we couldn't move fast. He wasn't able to stand for long. Then we had to hide from the Accepted.”

“Accepted?” Nysta's eyes narrowed at the word.

“Yes. They were searching the caves. There's a cleric with them. I thought he'd find us, but Hem managed to keep us hidden. It was casting that spell which drained him so much.”

“He'll be fine,” the warlock said, brushing his hands against his robe. “I think he just needs a bit more rest. I've seen this kind of thing in apprentices who cast too much in a short time.”

The young axewoman seemed to relax a little. “Thank you, mage.”

“Yeah,” Chukshene's words stumbled across his lips. “Well. Sure. Any time, I guess. I suppose we can wait with you, for a short while. Make sure he's okay. We're headed inside, too, you know. I mean, it's not a race. But I'm worried what that cleric might find. And what he'd do with what he finds. This place is special. A place of power.”

“That's what Hem said.”

“He's right. And we have to stop that bastard cleric from disturbing anything.”

Nysta snorted. “That'd be
your
job. Wouldn't it, 'lock? The looting?”

“Let's not get into that again,” he muttered.

Sliding the last of her knives home, the elf looked at the mail-clad axewoman again. Could see the concern on her young face as she watched Hemlock's chest rise and fall in a ragged rhythm.

“That's a big axe,” the elf said. Her fingers explored the swelling on her forehead, above her temple. The stinging made her wince but the tendrils of numbness moving through the bruises made her think of worms sliding between her skin and her skull. Not a pleasant thought, and one she could live without. She dropped her hand and grunted. “And ugly. You usually so gentle with it? Might want to swing it a bit harder if you plan on killing someone with it. Maybe use the sharp edge. That's what it's for.”

“I only saw your ears at the last minute,” Melganaderna said. The young woman had to work had to tear her gaze from Hemlock. “You're lucky I did. Or you'd be dead. I've killed a few men with this thing already. Yeah, even with the flat of the blades. When I first swung at you, I was trying to cut you in half. I couldn't stop after I started, but I managed to turn my wrist. Even so, you should be dead. Should have crushed your skull. Now, it seems you know who I am. You even know why we're running. But it looks like there's still some secrets here we haven't shared. Want to share them with us?”

“She's got a hard head,” the warlock grinned. “Filled with rocks. You'd have more chance breaking this mountain than her skull.”

Silently, she agreed with Melganaderna. The battleaxe should have obliterated her skull.

Should have sent her howling into the Shadowed Halls.

Instead, she was alive. And, other than a throbbing headache, she felt mostly fine.

Remembering back to when she was young, the elf had been hit on the head before. A few times. Fights were common in the ruthless alley shadows. Sometimes after being hit, she'd feel sick for days.

The swelling would be a lot worse.

And there'd be more blood.

She looked down at her hands. Saw grime streaking her fingers. Felt the light crawl of insects over her skin, and looked up into Melganaderna's searching expression. Was about to say something, though she wasn't sure what, when Hemlock let out a deep groan and tried to sit up.

Which took the young axewoman's full attention away.

The elf's gaze caught Chukshene's, and he nodded slightly as though acknowledging how close she'd come to telling the young woman about Talek's Cage. As though something had been saved by Hemlock's timely movement.

Maybe it had.

She still didn't like thinking about what invaded her. A gift? A curse?

Something stirred as the warlock held her stare. Something irritated.

She looked away.

“Hem? Are you okay?” Melganaderna moved quickly toward the struggling young man. She tried to help him sit up.

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm fine, Melgana. Fine. It's just I heard her again. That voice. Screaming in my head. I couldn't block it out. It was too much.”

“Whose voice?” Chukshene asked.

“Sorry?” Hemlock blinked at the warlock. “Who are you?”

“I'm Chukshene. Don't you remember trying to cut my throat? It was lucky for me you fainted before you could slit a vein. Lucky for you, too, in a way.” He cleared his throat and edged closer, an intent expression on his face. “You said
her
voice. A she? Does she have a name, this voice? Or are you just a few birds short of a flock? You know. In the head?”

Hemlock pressed his palms against his eyes and grimaced, unaware of Melganaderna's arms around him. “I don't know. She never says anything. Just whispers and cries. Cries and whispers. It's almost like she's asleep. Dreaming. And all her dreams are nightmares. But she's not to be trusted. There's so much hatred hidden beneath her sorrow.”

“Huh.” The warlock shot a smirk toward Nysta. “Sounds like someone I know.”

“We need to stop them,” Hemlock said, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of the warlock's robe. “They're already waking her. I don't think we want that. No. It would be a terrible thing. A terrible thing.”

Slowly prising Hemlock's fingers free of his robe, the warlock remained calm. “Of course we don't. We don't want to wake up anything. I'm against that sort of thing. Especially in old ruins and tombs. Best to let sleeping ghosts dream. Right, Nysta?”

The elf grunted, but said nothing. Ignored Melganaderna's puzzled look.

“She's not a ghost,” Hemlock said, his face pale and his eyes beating open and closed like the wings of a moth. “She's something else. Something worse.”

“Really? And how might you know that?”

“I know them.” His eyes opened wide for a moment. Then closed. “I've studied them. The dead, I mean. I'm a necromancer.”

Chukshene nodded, as though satisfied with his private guesses. “Of course you are.” He looked up as the young necromancer slid back into unconsciousness. Locked his gaze with Melganaderna and smiled. “Wouldn't have picked him for anything else. I mean, look at him. All dressed in black. Only those of us with our fingers in darker pies can wear the black with such class.”

“You're no ordinary mage,” Melganaderna accused, making to lift the massive battleaxe to defend Hemlock if needed.

“Don't get excited,” the elf said. Her lip curled slightly. “We might be the makings of a good party, but now ain't the time to be raising hell.”

CHAPTER SIX

It was Nysta who decided they would remain with the young couple, defying the warlock's insistence they should continue alone. It would be faster, he argued.