Scion of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 8)

by Lucas Thorn

  Rage at the Order.

  Rage at Hideg.

  Herself.

  This was stupid. What was she doing?

  And then she heard the music again. Far away. Muffled through stone wall and floor. A tripping rhythm made for dancing.

  Somewhere, a cheer went up and boots stomped ground for a short round of appreciation.

  And water splashed in the tub out of sight.

  Something snapped with the sudden sludge of noises competing for attention. Gone were smothering thoughts born in the silent dark. Gone the doubt of lost training.

  In its place the cold need of a killer.

  This was a job.

  It was all she was good at. Fuck the Order. Fuck Hideg. Fuck them all. She’d do what they needed done. Collect her pay. And then she’d see what Filth had to offer.

  And if she didn’t like it?

  The Fnordic Lands had other cities.

  She didn’t bother taking her boots off to stifle noise, but she moved quick. Knew the woman might think her a servant. Or her lover. Knew there was no way until she saw the elf that she’d scream.

  Cruel smile uncoiled across her face as she slipped into the washroom.

  A heavy copper bath in the centre.

  Towels.

  Racks along the wall with clothes drying.

  The woman was submersed to her neck in water which had lost its steam but not its vivid smell. Back to the doorway.

  “Bo, is that you?” Seductive purr. “How considerate of you. My neck needs doing.”

  The elf curled her arm around the woman’s throat and pressed a hand hard against the mouth which dropped open as The Ugly pushed flat against the woman’s cheek.

  “Must be all the music in the air, lady,” the elf whispered. “Because I feel real obliged to take that kind of final request.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I won’t scream,” the woman said. Low. Calm. Muffled by the elf’s fingers. Bitterness tucked into a too-pretty voice. “But I won’t die like a victim. I refuse. If you plan on killing me, make it the execution it is.”

  “I’ll kill you quick,” the elf hissed. “But you suck a breath to shout out and I’ll making fucking sure it’s slow. You get me?”

  Nod.

  The elf slid around the tub, trying not to hide her derisive smirk.

  A soft woman made softer by an easy life. Skin free of blemish or scar. Smooth face barely hinting at age.

  Beautiful.

  First impression was a toy. A plaything for rich men to fawn over.

  The woman let her arms drop over the side of the tub. Accepted her doom with a fatalistic ease the elf found more intriguing than she wanted to admit.

  Couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “His Grace didn’t have the balls to do it himself?”

  The elf shook her head. “You’d know more about that than me,” she said.

  “Yes, I would. So?” Fierce light flared behind pale eyes. “You think you’re better than me? You? Dressed like that? You murder for a living, and you think that gives you the right to sneer?”

  “Don’t sweat it, lady,” the elf said. Felt a tightness in her chest as she remembered her own life before the Jukkala. The choices she’d made to survive. “Ain’t your work which irks me. Perfume makes my nose itch is all.”

  They stared at each other for a few heartbeats.

  The woman struggling to decide whether the elf was mocking or not.

  The elf wondering why she was hesitating to deliver a killing blow. Wondering if she’d gotten rusty.

  The woman looked down first. At the bubbles cloaking her body. “My name is Hariat. My friends call me Hari. Am I permitted the name of my killer?”

  “Nysta,” the elf said. Shrugged. Poised to move fast if she had to. But still waiting for something.

  Kept her attention mostly on the doorway.

  “Nysta.” Hari let the word move through her mouth as though unsure of its taste. “Did he tell you why he wanted me dead? I mean, was it something I said?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s just, I know I told him I’d tell my father about us. I know I said that. But I just wanted more. He sneaks me in like this. Hides me away in this room like a loathsome secret tryst. Days at a time. I’m bored, Nysta. You hear the music. You said so. They’re having a party. And I can’t be there. Because if anyone sees us together, they might guess. And then they’d whisper. And my father would find out. You know who my father is?”

  The elf looked down at the patched leather uniform and twisted her mouth into a wry grin. “Dressed like this, lady?”

  “Ah. That was rude of me.” Hari nodded. “I won’t apologise, though. I’m sure you understand. My father is Duke Willson. Duke of Moontide. Have you been to Moontide?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If you like fog, you’ll enjoy it.” She sighed. “I never should have left. But Boreguard promised me everything, and I was so tired of everything. You’re lucky, you know. You don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not all the time. At court, though? Well. Sometimes, I wonder who I really am. When Bo found me in Moontide, he told me he’d treat me like the Imperial Princess. He lied, of course. I should have known. He’s not the first man I’ve slept with. My father has been shamed more than once.”

  “Then why’s he care, lady?”

  “He hates Bo. Maybe that’s why I agreed to come here. My father thinks I’m in Doom’s Reach. Thinks I’m trying to stay away from that awful advisor of his. Maybe some of that’s true, too. She’s a strange old witch. Well, I imagine Bo will use my death to shame him further. I’m to be a pawn in their stupid game. Ah. Fuck them both. Fuck them both to the Shadowed Halls.” Heavy swallow. “Please. May I have some wine? The bottle is there. Under my towel.”

  Nysta moved the towel. “Goblet?”

  “Don’t bother. The bottle will be fine.”

  It was an old bottle. A label carefully pasted to the dark green glass. She pulled the cork before passing it over.

  Hari drank a mouthful. Grimaced.

  Took another.

  “Probably a good thing to get drunk,” she said. “When you kill me, I really don’t want to feel a thing.”

  “Don’t shout, and you won’t.”

  “I promised, didn’t I?” Waspish. Then, after another gulp; “That’s my problem. I always keep my promises. What about you?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Don’t work too hard. It’s not worth it.” Waved a hand around the lush apartment. “All it gets you is a pretty cage until you’re too inconvenient to have around.”

  Water splashed over the side as the woman shifted in the tub.

  Just getting more comfortable.

  “You don’t talk much, Nysta?”

  “Not really. Ain’t ever seen the point. Most people just talk and talk. Ain’t really saying anything. Just talking to flap their gums it seems to me.”

  Hari giggled. A sound the elf figured was part of her appeal. “You’re right about that. Especially here. Bo talks a lot. Mostly it’s bullshit. But if you’ve got ears like I have, you can learn a few things you shouldn’t know. Secret things.”

  “Things which get you killed?”

  “Yeah.” Slumped back again. “That kind. You said you take requests. I think you were making some kind of joke. But, is it true? Do you take requests?”

  The elf stared.

  Hari’s face was trying to be calm, but underneath a storm was barely contained. A storm not of rage. Not anger. But grief.

  Grief for herself.

  A life she’d rushed through without thought of consequence.

  She’d lied for joy. Lived for herself.

  And now, faced with the end, she counted her choices poor. But couldn’t bear to face that fact. Inside her mind, no doubt she was counting them off. Remembering little things.

  The elf had been close to death many times and knew what she often found herself thinking about.

  Ta
ste of apples. Talek’s smile.

  A burned corpse.

  She wondered what Hari was thinking about.

  “Can’t let you live, Hari. Ain’t my choice.”

  “I know. I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about something else.”

  The elf cocked her head. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind. I’ll listen, but that ain’t promising anything.”

  “It’s nothing dangerous. Nothing big. But in the other room, near the bed. There’s a drawer. I have some letters.”

  “You want them delivered?” Image of a dying Raider filled her mind. Saja. She still hadn’t found her father. “I ain’t good at delivering news. Might take some time.”

  “No. Not delivered. Burned. Would you toss them on the fire before you go?”

  Nod. “Reckon I can do that.”

  “Good.” Closed her eyes. “Good. Thank you. They’re nothing special. Not to anyone else, anyway. I don’t want Bo to read them, though.”

  “Anything else, Hari?”

  “No, Nysta.” Opened eyes and looked at the bottle. Took another drink. Held out the bottle. “I’m guessing you don’t have much time.”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then I thank you for what you’ve given me. You’re not what I expected. When I first saw your face, I didn’t think we’d talk like this.”

  “You talked, Hari. I listened.”

  “A rare gift, Nysta. Such a rare gift.” Tears burned into the corner of pale blue eyes. “I’m ready now. Don’t let me die weeping like a child. I’ll have my head high for the Old Skeleton. I’ll-”

  The elf moved too fast for Hari to see.

  Go With My Blessing left her hand in a blur of steel and light to bolt into the woman’s left eye with such force it went in to the hilt. Cut her voice off with a startled gasp and nothing more.

  The corpse flopped, sliding down until her head was mostly submersed in bubbles quickly turning pink.

  Gently, the elf reached down and lifted the woman’s head to be sure she’d died as swiftly as she could. Saw nothing but her own cold reflection in the single remaining pale blue eye.

  Slid the blade free.

  Drank the last of Hari’s wine before dropping the bottle into the tub. It floated like a miniature ship lost in a red sea.

  “Didn’t mean to cut you off like that, Hari,” she said. “But I figure you’ll understand.”

  The letters were where Hari said they’d be.

  In a small drawer by the bed. A pair of scissors beside them. With a length of red ribbon.

  Red apple.

  Two pieces of gold.

  The elf took the gold.

  Threw the letters onto glittering coals, which ignited with a flush and crackle.

  She watched them burn. Made sure there was nothing but ash before following the glowing orange thread back into the corridor.

  Thought she heard someone stifle a cough outside.

  Ducked inside quickly and closed the secretive door. It snapped shut with a delicate click.

  And as she slunk away, considered the emotions tripping through her chest.

  What was it?

  Pity?

  No, not quite pity.

  Understanding.

  “We do what we have to. To survive,” she breathed. “All we can do.”

  There were three of them.

  Two tall. One short. All dressed in street clothes. Not guards.

  Sitting in the dark when she turned a corner. Resting. Probably more than a little lost.

  She stood there.

  Staring at them.

  Staring at her.

  “Shit, Karl,” one blurted. “It’s her.”

  “Fellers,” she said. Flat tone sucking cold from stone walls. Drew The Ugly and A Flaw in the Glass. Watched eyes widen as the venomous blade flared, cutting shadows to pieces. Frustration and conflicted emotion ripped like a whirlwind through her chest. “No need to stand on my account. Better for you to sit down and shut up.”

  “The boss wants you alive, long-ear,” the short one growled. Karl. “Me, I’m happy enough just to take him your fingers. Leave the rest of you here. So, how about putting down the stickers and we’ll take you in easy.”

  “Anything about me look easy?”

  “No. No, I guess it don’t.”

  “Tell you what is easy, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Spat a wet slug at the wall. “Dyin’.”

  “Shit, Karl. We make too much noise down here and-”

  “Shut the fuck up, Torg.”

  “But we’re-”

  “I know where the fuck we are. But I don’t reckon she wants to be loud about it neither. Do you, long-ear?”

  “You’ve already made enough noise, feller.” Curled lip toward the scar on her cheek. “Reckon it’s time you joined the quiet dead.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They were on their feet before she hit them. Still weren’t quick enough.

  Couldn’t stop a frenzy of savage fury.

  The Ugly tore into Torg’s thigh, just under groin. Sent a fountain of blood flapping into the dark. Mouth opened to scream, but A Flaw in the Glass splashed down into his throat. The impetus of the second blow bent him backwards and slapped him to the ground.

  Head hit, back of skull spreading a fresh meaty stain.

  She spun hard, not thinking.

  Driving thought from her mind as she allowed her body to move.

  Move faster.

  Harder.

  A Flaw in the Glass came free, singing a metallic croon as she accepted a club to the back of her neck. Felt the shuddering pain, but refused to let it stop her.

  Couldn’t let it stop her.

  One pause, and she was dead.

  Be tested, she snarled inwardly. Not broken.

  Could see Karl hopping over Torg’s corpse, trying to get an attacking angle in the narrow corridor. Spitting curses as his boot slid in blood. Hand out to catch himself. Dragged down the mould-spotted wall. Black smear handprint.

  Short sword not made for the confined space. He still tried to bring it up and get room to lunge in.

  The elf bounced against the wall, using it to pivot into the tall man who hadn’t yet made a sound other than a short series of grunts and snarls.

  Older than the other two.

  Eyes slim and vacant. Arms had once carried more muscle than they did now, and a rattling necklace of fingerbones told of a life of violence on Dragonclaw’s merciless streets.

  Rusted slave chains slung from his belt.

  Clank of old iron. A different kind of story.

  Club in hand, topped with a heavy steel ball polished mirror-bright.

  Flashed.

  Awkward.

  If he’d been able to swing it properly, it would’ve crushed bone.

  Instead, it clanged off the wall behind him. Tore out a chunk of stone before he brought it down.

  The Ugly didn’t need room. And the elf was small.

  Her arms were strong.

  The heavy blade found meat before he could complete his swing. She wasn’t sure where. Enough his torso vomited a gush of blood. Pitter patter as more drops followed.

  Enough to make him grunt again.

  “Fuckin’ hit her, Scrim.”

  But the tall man was already backing away as fast as his legs could send him. Clutching his side. Shaking head as he tried to cut his losses.

  She let him take those steps.

  Gave her room to throw herself onto Karl.

  He lunged.

  Quick.

  The elf barked a curse. Dropped A Flaw in the Glass and wrestled with his sword arm, while he grabbed her left arm to keep The Ugly from tearing into his face. They fell together, rolling across Torg’s unmoving body. Grimacing with near-identical snarls. Each trying to sheath their blade in the other’s flesh.

  Knees. Elbows.

  Hitting each other with anything and everything.

  No words need
ed. Just a shared hatred which recognised only one could walk away.

  The other would stay. Dead. Lost.

  Forgotten.

  The sword’s tip turned slightly toward her. Enough that he began to smile in vicious delight. Cold ice in her belly flowered out. Freezing blood with a feeling of rising hopelessness.

  “Got you,” he said through teeth. “I’ll take your fingers…”

  “Fuck you,” she returned. Headbutted his face. Forehead hit sweet and hard.

  Broke lips and teeth. Nose burst like molten flower. He arched his back but refused to ease up. Instead tried to yank her closer. Pull her onto the looming edge of his blade.

  Sword kept turning, wrist flexing as much as he could. Tip wobbling back and forth. A blind steel serpent sniffing for one deadly thrust.

  His breath, wet, spattered her cheek with blood.

  She twisted her left arm.

  Release tension. Let him have control. For just a second. A second of time which itself stripped bare to the bone.

  Then she jerked arm with all her strength.

  The heavy blade cut through his hand, severing all but one finger. Sending them rolling toward Scrim’s feet. Bleeding grubs. The big man took them as sign there was no hope of survival here.

  Not if he stayed.

  Began to shamble away, groaning.

  Limping hard.

  The Ugly turned.

  Darted in and met the flesh between Karl’s neck and chin. Stabbed upward, the elf twisting the blade to destroy any hope the man had at screaming.

  Rolled off his twitching body.

  Red bubbled loose to enlarge the puddle already formed by Torg.

  Her fingers found the first handle.

  Waiting for Jean. Drawn. Tossed with cool precision as she rose to her knee. A laconic bend of arm masking the power of experience.

  The blade turned.

  Tumbled effortless.

  A gentle arc flickering in the dark. Featherless wings fluttered.

  He didn’t hear it.

  Probably didn’t feel it.

  But it killed him anyway. Sank two inches into the back of his neck, severing spine.

  Collapse.

  And she went down, too. Rolled onto her back, fighting a wave of nausea.

  Finally reached to touch the swelling flesh on the back of her neck. Couldn’t feel the familiar wriggle of worms. Something twitched, though. Were they still trying?