Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) (18 page)

“Pity it wouldn't be your mouth,” she said, and pulled harder.
 

He let out a startled shriek and then burst from the gap to fall in a heap at her feet. His torn robe slithered around his legs and she could see the glistening of blood smeared across his knee.

He held up a corner of the ripped cloth. “Ah, shit.”

“No,” she turned away with a tight grin. “Pooh.”
 

“What?” Blinking, the warlock struggled to his feet. Winced as he took a few steps. “Look what you've done to my robe.”
 

“Dress.”
 

“Robe. It's a fucking robe. And look what you've done to it! And my leg. I was caught on something. Now you've made me bleed. Look! I'm actually bleeding. Grim's tits, I could use a drink.”
 

“It ain't bleeding much. So I'm sure you can bear it. Now, get a move on, 'lock.”
 

He dusted off his grimoire before scurrying after her. “I can't wait to get back home,” she heard him mutter.

For most of her life, the streets of Lostlight had been her home. A home of vacant dreams and a jagged spiral of self destruction. Warmth was rare. Even the arms of strangers and the satisfaction of a few coins still couldn't heat her blood.

Home. What could the word ever mean to her?

A dream, always out of reach.

Then Talek had appeared. He promised an end to her life of survival and a chance at finding a real home. Maybe even a taste of redemption. Then he was blasted by a Caspiellan mage's fireball, leaving him horribly scarred and in constant pain. And Lostlight was a cruel place to be a cripple, so they left his Hold. Sought a small measure of peace far from judgemental eyes.

But this was the Deadlands.

And peace couldn't be bought in the Deadlands. Not for any price.

Her lips drew back into a grim line.

With so much blood on them, it should have been no surprise that death would be drawn to anything built with her cursed hands.

“I'm hungry,” the warlock said suddenly, cutting into her thoughts.
 

“Put your foot back in your mouth, then.”
 

“Funny,” he said with a disdainful sniff. “Would it hurt if we stopped for a minute? I'm not like you. I can't walk forever on an empty stomach.”
 

The elf sighed, but nodded. “I ain't got all day, though. Raste is still out there. I should've killed him years ago when I had my chance. But I let him go. My mistake. And I aim to correct it. I don't want him breathing longer than necessary. So eat quick, Chukshene.”

“You must hate him a lot,” the warlock said. He dropped gratefully to the ground. Shrugged himself out of his pack and began rummaging quickly in the enchanted depths. Not for the first time did she wish she had a few pouches with similar enchantments. “This Raste guy, I mean. The way you keep going on. You've got a one track mind. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm close to falling over and never getting up again. I know you elfs can take a shitload of punishment. You can walk forever. But given the hurt you've been taking lately, I don't think you can take much more yourself. It isn't your body keeping you moving now. It's your hate. So, it's got to be a lot.”
 

“More than that,” she said. “Could be hate's not a strong enough word. Maybe there ain't been one invented yet for how I feel about Raste.”
 

“I pity him, then.”
 

“Ain't right to pity the dead, Chukshene. Got to let them go.”
 

“Funny you say that,” he said with a sad grin. “When you've still got the ghost of your husband leaning on your shoulder.”
 

She felt a thrill at the thought. It hadn't occurred to her that his spirit might watch her. But however comforting that thought might be, she could only think of the guilt she felt at the terrible wounds inflicted on him.

And the violent death he'd been dealt at the hands of a man she should have killed so many years ago.

“Reckon he's got reason to wait,” she said, turning from the warlock's piercing gaze. She stared instead up into the darkness which throttled the tunnel ahead. “On account of Raste's head still sitting on his shoulders. Talek will sleep well when that red-haired motherfucker is dead.”
 

“Why'd you try killing him before? And why let him go? You feel sorry for him?”
 

The elf shook her head. “No. Maybe. Truth is, I ain't sure.” She ran her fingers through her hair. Touched the knot of cloth she'd taken from the corpse of Fenis. “I had my knife at his throat. Wanted to kill him real bad. So bad I could taste it in my guts.”

“Anything like what you did to that thing back there?”
 

“Nothing like it. With Raste, it wasn't him I was sore at. Was someone else. But when I went to cut him, I found I couldn't do it. He was so weak. Helpless. Bastard begged for his life.” She summoned a memory of that moment. Could even smell the perfumes he'd put in his hair. “It was before he joined the Musa. And I'd just started training. Hadn't yet killed many other fellers. So, I let him go. After that, I avoided him. Hard to do for a while there. He trained with the Jukkala. Never really saw him again. Not until Spikewrist.”
 

“Sounds complicated.”
 

“Not really. Just feels that way sometimes.”
 

“And back there? Why let that thing live?”
 

The elf scowled. “I don't have to explain everything I do to you, 'lock.”

“You like jokes, Nysta, I can tell.” He stuffed his face with something from his pack. She couldn't tell what he was eating, and didn't care. “So, humour me.”
 

She considered ignoring him. Considered also punching him in the mouth.

But there was something about the man she was beginning to trust, and trust didn't come easy for the elf. It was earned. And though he spent most of his time looking weak and fragile, he still possessed a power that made him dangerous.

Not only that, he had a determination she'd seldom seen in a human. He'd kept her pace with only verbal complaint. Even when exhausted. Hadn't run away or failed while in the grip of terror. Instead, he fought as hard as he could, pushing himself to the point of burning himself out.

Something she knew wasn't necessary. She had no doubt he could move on at any time. That there was nothing in the Deadlands he couldn't deal with in his own way.

Yet, despite the grip of trust on her shoulder, she still had to deal with the fact she couldn't quite shake the feeling he wanted something else from her.

And the more she thought about it, the more she figured it had a lot to do with Talek's box.

Cage, she reminded herself.

Whatever.

Adding to her confusion, he'd made a promise. A promise to help her find out what had been released. But could she trust him to keep his word? Or was he stringing her along? Was he trying to find out for her, or for himself?

Looking down at the smug expression on his face, she couldn't tell.

“I know a lot about failure,” she said at last. “My whole life has been a shining fucking temple to it. When I had that chain around his throat, I was ready to squeeze until his eyes popped out of their sockets. But I saw. In that moment, I saw something in him that scared the shit out of me. Made me realise something. And if I'd killed him then and there, I knew I'd end up regretting it. Another notch in my blade of guilt. And that blade is already fucking notched enough.”
 

He leaned forward, eyes sparkling in the putrid light of the yellow orb hovering near his shoulder. “What was it? What did you see?”

“I saw me.” She let him digest those words along with the rest of his mouthful. Then rubbed at the dull ache in her shoulder. Tried to push the pain of bruises on bruises away. And tried not to think about the fading scar where Torak's hook had punched into her flesh. A wound which had healed far too fast. “Every decision I ever made, 'lock. It was fear which drove them. Fear of everything. See, I grew up drowning in it. Streets aren't tough because everyone's angry. They're tough because we're all afraid. Afraid of losing what little we've got left to hold onto. And that fear followed me. Haunted my steps like a wraith. Soon, it's all you know. Sucks at you, pulling you so deep you can't see anything. Hear anything. Can't even feel. Bastard back there was afraid. Not afraid of me. Not afraid of dying. He was afraid of losing the only thing he had left to live for. The hope his master might return. So he clung to that hope to hide his fear.”
 

The warlock's gaze was knowing and his voice rasped in the tunnel as something occurred to him. “You taught him not to fear,” he breathed. “And that's why he's laughing.”

“Reckon he feels free now,” she said.
 

He thought about that for a while before asking, “Did you see that throne? Did you feel it as we passed?”

She frowned, put off by the sudden change in the warlock's direction. But she did remember the throne. Black as obsidian. Greasy-looking. As though it had been carved from a still-living pupil. And how it gleamed as they'd passed it. Like it was watching them.

She felt a shiver swim between her shoulders. “What about it?”

“Just wondered what you thought of it,” he said. “Because it gave me the fucking creeps. He said it was his master's. Who was his master?”
 

“If that old throne means that much to you, 'lock, feel free to go back and ask him. I got other shit on my mind right now.”
 

“Go and ask him?” He squeezed the last few scraps into his mouth and seemed to consider it for a moment before throwing a dismissive grin and beginning the process of closing his pack. “Yeah, fuck that. Black throne, though. Sounds familiar. Like I heard about it somewhere. Something about the old gods. Before Grim and Rule came.”
 

He kept talking to himself as they headed further up the tunnel, dodging a few minor collapses. Crude stairs were carved more frequently into the ground as the slope grew steadily steeper.

How long they'd been climbing, she couldn't tell, but she guessed it to be some time in the early afternoon. Maybe later?

It annoyed her that she'd lost track of time. Because time was all she had to measure her chances of catching Raste by. With no real idea of how fast or slow the sun was moving overhead, she couldn't tell if she was catching up or falling behind.

So it was with a sigh of relief that she caught the first breaths of cooler air hanging in the tunnel like silky whispers. Because cool air promised a way out of the oppressive tunnel.

Also promised another glimpse of death, if the chained creature was right.

Whatever he meant by the lights trying to kill him, she didn't reckon on it being so simple as a bit of sunlight. They'd already seen him walking around in daylight. So it had to be something else.

And he said there were many lights. Too many to fight.

The elf felt the edges of that ball of fear in her guts again as it started to roll with a determined rasp. But, as she'd told the warlock, fear was something she was born into. She let it freeze inside her. Knew already it would spark the fires of rage when she needed it to. So she draped her hands over the jutting handles of two blades and felt at ease with the shadows cloaking the tunnel.

Knew she was ready for any flicker of violence, and could counter it in kind.

“We're nearly there, aren't we?” The warlock sounded more relieved than concerned.
 

“Reckon so.”
 

“What do you think the bright lights are going to be? Trolls with torches, I'll bet. Or a school of Caspiellan mages ready to throw fireballs at us?”
 

She bared her teeth at mention of the mages and their cursed fire. “Wouldn't mind a school of mages,” she said. The tone of her voice made the warlock grimace. “On account I could learn a thing or two. And I'm a quick study, Chukshene. Reckon at killing mages, I could get to be top of the class.”

“Careful what you wish for, Nysta,” he said. “You might get it.”
 

She rubbed at the scar on her cheek. Could taste the sweetness of fresh air and saw the subtle glow of light ahead. Drawled; “Don't test me, Chukshene.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

At a signal from the elf, Chukshene dismissed the glowing orb which crumpled out of existence with a disappointed sigh.

She led him forward, slowly, around a steady knot of twists and turns until they finally caught sight of a narrow crack in the wall ahead.

They inched toward the opening, anticipating a flurry of movement from whatever might be guarding the exit. But they were greeted only by the sound of silence as sharp a razor blade.  

The elf grunted as she noticed it was early evening. The sky was a dribble of pale pink squirted against the horizon. Clouds, tossed against the star-speckled sky, skirted briskly south as though to escape the freezing wind shivering from the mountains far to the north.

They'd need a place to bed down, she reckoned. Maybe build a small fire.

And, looking around, they seemed to have found the right place. A few crumbling huts formed a circle of jagged stone ruins and offered decent shelter from the wind. At least, more than the wide open field beyond.

Flat and almost as smooth as glass, it was easy to see this was the base of a mountain which had been levelled off by a god. Her eyes scanned the strange empty land, but if there'd ever been other fortifications here, they'd long since been eroded away.

The crack they'd crawled from was carved into the only rise along the edge of the cliff. Clutches of steel and rotting wood formed a neat line of dots along with a few large boulders similar to the ones which had been tossed below. Her guess that this was where the catapults had been positioned seemed confirmed.

Given the height and the mist playing at the ledge, the view was stunning. In fact, it might have taken her breath away if she'd chanced a look down.

But she hadn't come for the view. At least, not the one behind. So, she kept her face aimed to the south and headed toward the small ruins. The warlock scuttled after, blinking toward the final blush of sunset. He blew hard into his hands. “Grim's frozen nuts, it's cold,” he complained.