by Lucas Thorn
And above the ache, dulling her thoughts, the ever-present drifting fingers of mist.
More snow had fallen during the night, partially covering the twisted bodies of the goblins. If an odd limb here and there hadn't been sticking up through the pale blanket, she might even have believed the skirmish had also been a nightmare.
Looking around the yard, she found a small well.
A waist-high wall had been built around the hole in the ground. Assembled with more hope than skill, the crumbling wall didn't look solid enough to take her weight. She leaned against it anyway.
Pursed her lips in satisfaction as it held. Looked down and saw stray sparks of light flickering off the water shrouded in shadows. A small wooden bucket lay on its side on top of the wall and she tossed it in with a casual flick of her wrist.
Heard the sharp splash of water. Ran her tongue across dry teeth.
Ice gripped the rope tied to the bucket and her hands were numb by the time she'd hauled up a full load.
Bracing herself against the cold, she speedily dipped her hands into the near-frozen water before splashing her face. It was so cold it was like she'd splashed glass shards against her cheeks. A gasp, torn from her lungs, exploded into the silence like bats taking flight.
Followed quickly by another curse.
Then she removed her jacket and bracers. Scowled at fresh bruises forming a broken ladder up her arm before continuing the uncomfortable process of washing in cold water.
She worked as quickly as she could, aware it was unsafe to stay this close to so many bodies. She'd already risked much just to get a few hours of sleep. Corpses attracted some of the worst monsters which lived in the Deadlands.
Especially this far north. Where the terrible shadows of the Bloods, a jagged mountain range forming the northern border of the Deadlands, clawed across the ice-scarred forests.
Trolls loved to hunt in the forests. Their hooting cries resonated often, announcing the pleasure of fresh meat. Draugs also haunted the trees.
And worse still, were the Dhampirs. Large misshapen creatures with a thirst for blood. They normally ranged across the mountains, but would drift down into the forests if the Winter was particularly cold. And this one had been bitter.
Long, too.
It'd been four months since she'd left Talek's grave. Four months of unending cold. Blizzards had scoured the Deadlands, freezing the very earth and raking its frozen fingers through her bones.
Talk in every town lately was that the Winter would never end. That maybe the Dark Lord lived again. That he once more spread his frozen fingers across the land from his entombed fortress, Winterkeep.
Everyone agreed there hadn't been a Winter like it.
Then there were those who argued that spellslingers, locked in the towers of Godsfall, were meddling with darker magics and could now control the weather. That, in their hatred of Rule, they sent storms raging southward toward the Caspiellan lands.
At thought of spellslingers, the elf frowned. And wondered what had happened to Chukshene. She'd last seen him muttering to himself as he headed east of Grimwood Creek in hope of catching ship to Dragonclaw. And, from there, making his way to Godsfall.
With a snort, the elf splashed more water along the back of her neck, ignoring the slither of something crawling over her skin.
Knowing the warlock, he probably fell overboard.
Was eaten by sharks.
At least, she thought with a curl of her lip, she could only hope so. She hadn't entirely trusted him.
In any case, she figured it wasn't the Dead God rising from his grave which kept the icy clouds spewing snow across the Deadlands. Nor was it the cursed mages of Godsfall unleashing magics beyond their control.
It was just weather.
Admittedly unusual weather.
But just weather. Nothing mysterious about it.
And it would end soon.
Although, looking up at solemn clouds the colour of dull steel, she knew it wouldn't be ending today.
Nysta sucked a mouthful of water from her cupped hand. Tasted sweat mingled with the subtle earthiness of the water. Her gums tingled in protest at the sudden invasion of cold and she ran her tongue over her teeth.
Her mouth felt fuzzy and numb.
Turning her gaze, she looked up at the Bloods.
The jagged mist-locked peaks tore through the land from the coast to a point too far in the distant east to be thought about. It wasn't hard to imagine them as the remains of an ancient god's spine. Pierced by countless spearblades.
Few paths were gouged through the Bloods. And the only one close was Tannen's Run. Called that simply because it was the name of the town which nestled between two large mountains heralding the beginning of the trail.
A trail known for the ruthless toll it took on those who attempted to travel it.
Because, deep in the heart of the Bloods, there were even worse monsters than Dhampirs.
Evils from the dawn of time were rumoured to live among the inhospitable peaks. From before Grim and Rule claimed the world for their own.
Evils so ancient they were unfathomable.
The elf sucked on her teeth as she stared up at the splintered peaks, accepting it would soon be a trail she would have to tread. And wondered how much more treacherous such a path would be with goblins snapping at her ankles.
Why they'd suddenly decided to hunt her with such unusual persistence bothered her. Goblins weren't known for their ability to concentrate long enough to follow their prey for more than a few hours, let alone days.
More incredible was the realisation it seemed to be every mob of goblins had a grudge. It felt as though all the goblins in the Deadlands had suddenly decided to converge on her. To hunt her.
It made no sense.
But then the last one called her a thief.
And that changed everything.
She tried to think when she'd last seen a goblin who hadn't been determined to kill her. Highwall, she thought. Twenty days ago.
Had something happened to make them chase her?
She couldn't remember anything. But she was having a hard time focussing her thoughts. And about all she could remember of her time in Highwall was the lukewarm beer and a few days of drunken stupor.
Also, a stew cooked by a cackling old woman who claimed the meat floating in stringy lumps was goat.
Didn't taste like goat.
Then there was a fight or two. Maybe three.
Six at most.
But those brawls had been with humans. An ork. Maybe a troll. But definitely not any goblins.
Her fists squeezed tight around the bucket's crude wooden handle.
She couldn't remember anything else.
The elf leaned against the well, stifling a yawn as she wondered what she should do about it.
Killing goblins was no easy thing. They were small. Fast. Tougher than boots. And those heavy goblinknives could take more than their fair share of flesh if they found their target.
She'd killed enough this past few weeks to feel she was getting good at killing them.
But that confidence was brief. Because she knew goblins weren't necessarily dangerous if they were alone. For someone with her training, handling small groups wasn't necessarily difficult most of the time.
But if a mob of six or seven jumped her? Eight? More?
Then, quite simply, she'd be dead.
She couldn't fight that many. Not at once. Even ogres had trouble with a full mob of angry goblins.
The last mob had come in two packs. First a group of three. Who'd been a challenge. Made easy only because the first had tripped on a shovel half-buried in the snow.
Then the two who'd heard the commotion and come investigating. Arrived only as she killed the last of the three. It was only luck that all five hadn't pounced on her at the same time.
Luck she hoped would hold a little longer.
Long enough to get to Tannen's Run. Then she'd pick up some supplies. Hike acros
s the mountains. And disappear into the Fnordic Lands beyond the Great Wall.
Her lips drew back into a sardonic grin. It sounded so easy, yet she knew it wouldn't be.
She gave her jacket a shake before putting it back on. The familiar weight of extra knives made the knotted muscles in her shoulders relax a little.
Absently massaged her shoulder as something unseen crawled across the skin.
The fog lining her brain stopped her from thinking too much about it, even if she'd been ready to think about what might be there.
Rubbing the scar on her cheek, she headed north. Angled back toward a winding path she knew lay beyond the trees. Rolled her shoulders as she walked.
Stretched her neck to clear a few twinges burrowing between the bones beneath her skull.
And realised she was hungry. Very hungry.
She hadn't eaten for a few days. For an elf, it was strange to feel so hungry so quickly. Sure, most elfs would eat every day if given the choice. But their meals would be small portions by human standards.
Many times in the past she'd gone weeks without eating. Mostly when she was a child struggling to survive in the city's predatory alleyways. Then later as an assassin for the Jukkala'Jadean.
She'd been good at it. Had always been able to control her hunger.
Lately it was getting to be she couldn't go more than a day. And the hunger seemed to be worse. More frequent.
She added this to the growing tally of things she didn't know how to deal with and didn't want to think about.
Raised in a city, the trick of catching game wasn't something she'd ever been good at. She wasn't that kind of hunter. Hadn't had the patience for it.
Knives were for a different kind of killing. And she'd never been hungry enough to eat goblin flesh.
Fruits and berries were also in short supply this far into Winter. And digging for roots?
Well.
She wouldn't know where to begin. The most she knew how to do was cook from the stores of food she kept in her pouches. All of which were now empty of anything edible.
What she wanted, she thought, was an inn.
One which served hot food. Steaming on a plate.
A mug of beer.
Fire crackling in the corner.
She licked her lips and felt her heart beat a little faster in anticipation. If she picked up her pace, she could be in Tannen's Run by lunchtime.
The smile stretched languidly across her lips.
Then turned into a scowl as the manic hoot of a wild troll echoed through the trees from the east.
Far enough away she didn't feel concerned. But close enough to remind the elf to keep her eyes scanning the encroaching trees.
“Thinking too much about fast food,” she growled. “Could end up being me who gets taken out.”
CHAPTER THREE
She saw the smoke not long after leaving the cabin.
It curled into the sky from within the forest's cryptic belly to be lost among the leaden clouds.
For a long time after seeing the smoke, the elf didn't move. When she did, it was with cautious stealth that she left the knotted path and entered the treeline to creep through the bristling undergrowth.
The forest, like much of the woodlands this close the Bloods, was mostly a riddle of densely cluttered trees, each with a trunk rarely thicker than her leg. But which reached high up toward the sky.
They yearned for space, jostling each other in the breeze in a slow fight for light and moisture. A fight measured in centuries and where death could last a decade.
Despite the branches wrestling above, snow still managed to slide down to wet the earth and spread in mottled patches.
Crawling from trunk to trunk, rivers of vine strangled the younger trees and nestled seductively up the older ones.
But it was the dense and tangled underbrush forming ragged walls which proved the difficult obstacle. While not often taller than her, they were made more despairing by the thorns which bristled like savage needles hungry for blood.
The journey through the forest, then, was slow. And gave her plenty of time to wonder at what might lay buried beyond the trees.
There had been too much smoke for just one fire.
And even if it had been only one campfire, she'd still be as careful in her approach. Because the Deadlands was unforgiving.
Expecting bandits, or perhaps more goblins, she kept silent and alert. Eyes scraping away the shadows. Peeling back the foliage to reveal the slightest hint of danger.
She moved slowly, crouching low and with one fist wrapped around Go With My Blessing's sweat-stained handle as she weaved through narrow gaps.
Didn't take long until she could hear a bubbling of voices. Couldn't make out any words yet, but her frown deepened as she recognised the basic pitch and tone of Caspiellans.
She saw a slight flutter of movement and froze.
Waited a moment, then dropped lower to the ground. Pressed her belly against the snow-speckled ground and lifted her head in the direction of the loping shadow.
A sentry, perhaps.
And not a good one by the noise he was making.
He approached from her left side, muttering curses as his grey clothes were snagged by the thorny bushes. The elf watched through the corner of her eye as he moved closer. Didn't want to move her head just in case he caught the movement.
He yawned loudly.
Found a tree he liked.
Gave a cursory look around, then waggled his hips as he fumbled with his trousers.
Unconsciously, his need for privacy had made him turn away from the camp. Which meant he had his back aimed almost directly at her.
The elf's violet eyes glittered.
If the man turned, even a little, he'd see her. He couldn't help but spot her.
Go With My Blessing shivered from its sheath and she slowly turned the blade in her hand, holding it in a reverse grip.
She'd have to be fast.
She licked her lips.
Heard his piss riddle down the tree. A satisfied sigh shook his body.
Then she moved.
The first two steps were silent.
The third touched dry twigs buried under a small patch of snow.
The crack of wood sounded louder in her ears than a scream.
He half-turned, still holding his dick in one hand. Aimed at the tree. Feeling safe enough not to clench and disrupt the flow of piss. Not until his gaze touched hers. And his pupils widened at the hatred burning in her eyes.
Managed a puzzled “Wha-?”
Then her arm wrapped around his head, hand pressing tight against his mouth. Her knee thudded into the small of his back, bending him back and slightly down. He staggered, venting a roar which was stifled by her firm hold.
Go With My Blessing flashed, spearing into the back of his neck, aimed upward. The blade entered at the point where his spine kissed his skull. It drove explosively into his brain and his body gave a wracking shudder as he slumped in her arms.
Bright blood sparked at first, then became a river down his back.
He crumpled so suddenly she couldn't hold his weight and, as he dropped, the knife was jerked from her grip.
Drunk on the kill, the elf swivelled to check for sign she'd been detected. Heart pounding in her ears and a killer's grin forming wildly. Saw nothing through the trees but shadows.
Heard no sudden shouts.
She sucked a hard breath, and let it free with a soft whistle of relief blending with satisfaction.
Knelt beside the body and tugged the blade loose with a sickeningly wet crunch of bone and meat.
Smell of piss and blood still steaming in the air, the elf turned away from the corpse and headed quickly toward the sound of voices. Felt an insatiable curiosity overriding the curdling fear in her guts as she approached the edge of the treeline.
She saw the flicker of fires through the brush. Cookfires preparing the first meals of the day. The smell of meat made her stomach clench.
/>
Inching forward, the elf licked her lips. Wondered if it might be possible to sneak closer. To steal food.
Hunger made her marrow ache.
She reached out slowly and pushed a few dry limbs aside, catching her first glimpse of those who had made camp.
More Caspiellans. Dressed in the drab grey uniforms of Leibersland. Grey Jackets, then. Fanatical and utterly devoted to spreading the word of their god through the land.
And to killing those they deemed Tainted.
Tainted simply for not being human.
Tainted like her.
She could see fifty or so of them. Maybe more. But certainly not less. Some worked at pulling down tents. Others attended the fires.
A few patrolled the edges of the camp, and the rest looked to be resting still. Waiting their turn to take up tasks. Oiling bright blades.
Their faces were mostly young, though a few grizzled elders littered the pack. At first glance, they appeared orderly and well-trained. But as she watched, she noticed a few signs of irregularity which puzzled her.
Such as scruffy uniforms and mismatched boots.
Not what she'd learned to expect from Grey Jackets, who normally had a reputation for working beyond enemy lines. For going where they shouldn't.
Also, there should be more sentries. More defences.
Given they were in the Deadlands and so close to the Bloods, they should have been more cautious. They hadn't dug ditches. No stakes or blockades. Nothing which was normal routine for a Grey Jacket force.
It was too easy. As if they didn't care at all who might see them, or attack in the middle of the night.
She wondered at the confidence of the men.
Yet despite their slightly ragtag appearance, the elf still felt sweat trickle down her armpits and soak into her undershirt. She imagined that at any second, the entire ocean of soldiers would pause what they were doing and their heads would slowly turn to where she was hiding.
“Shit,” she breathed, suddenly feeling the need to run away. There were too many of them. Some had bows, and she could easily imagine the thud of their arrows piercing her flesh.