by Lucas Thorn
The cleric shuddered. “And if Grim hadn't so foully betrayed his brother. If he hadn't been so corrupted by your people, then he may have finished what he started. May have destroyed the Dhampirs when Rule killed the last of the Vampire Lords.”
She'd heard the stories before. They were the legends of the Deadlands.
How Grim and Rule had put aside their hatred to destroy the gods who'd ruled the world before them. Gods whose appetites were for blood.
And pain.
The Vampire Lords, the last of whom perished somewhere in the mountains called the Bloods.
What was his name?
Urak. That was it. An old story.
“Stories,” she growled. “For children.”
The cleric's eyes blazed. “Not stories. Truth!”
“Believe, or don't believe,” Storr's quiet voice was like muffled thunder. “It makes no difference. All that matters is what happens now. If you protect him, elf. If you allow him to escape north into your Fnordic Lands, you not only doom us. You doom yourself. For he will destroy you. He will summon armies of undead to feast on everything which lives. Armies worse than the Draug who haunt this place.”
“You think we care how we die, Grey Jacket? You tell me this spellslinger might kill us all? Well. From where I sit, that ain't no bad thing. Most people think now Grim's dead that your god will head north. Break the Great Wall. Shatter the Doomgate. Let loose your armies upon us and make rivers of our blood. I don't see why you slaughtering my people is any cleaner than what he's gonna do to you and yours. So, he summons undead? He doesn't sound so bad to me. In fact, I reckon I kind of like the sound of him. If I meet him, I'll wish him luck. Hope he kills you all.”
“You don't understand, elf. It's not your bodies his creatures will kill. It's your souls.”
“This is a waste of time,” the cleric said suddenly. “She obviously doesn't know anything of value. We must keep searching for him. He must be found.”
Storr held up a hand for silence. Hyrax blushed before giving a slight bow.
“Elf, I had hoped to appeal to whatever shred of goodness was left in you. I hoped you would respect the lives of those innocents doomed to eternal damnation. But I see you possess only a Tainted soul as Hyrax here believes. So I will now ask the questions. You will answer. And then, you will die. It was enough that I tried. But you could never be Accepted.” He looked resigned and rubbed at his forehead. “Tell me. What do you know of what happened at Grimwood Creek?”
A sliver of cold ribboned through her body. She'd suspected they were talking about Chukshene and the demon he'd summoned to kill so many of their kind.
Suspected, too, they'd assumed she was his protector.
But how could she convince them she'd only gone there for Raste? That there was no army of undead at Chukshene's control? That he was just an inept, if slightly talented, warlock?
Hyrax glared at her hatefully. His body quivered as he struggled with the heat of his emotions.
And the General sat, still and ready, waiting for answers.
Waiting to hear her spill the words which would doom her to a prolonged and tortured death. Because she had no doubt that's what they were planning. Not the quick release they'd promised.
Her death would be slow.
Agonising.
She knew, because that's what Grey Jackets did to the Tainted they found.
She'd seen it many times before. The horrid wounds designed to inflict pain rather than kill. The ghastly bodies burned and twisted beyond recognition. Worse than the horrible wounds she'd seen on the dead families this past few weeks.
Slowly, she turned back to face the General. Her swollen lip curled toward the scar on her cheek. “I might know something,” she said.
He stuck his neck out like a turtle from its shell, listening intently. Licked his lips, eager for information he suddenly looked to be starving for. “Tell me, elf. Tell me everything you know. Where are they now?”
“Can't tell you where Chukshene is, feller. But I'll tell you one thing. Most important thing about what happened there.”
“What?”
“That it was a mistake. And a big one, too.”
“How's that?”
And her smile was cruel. Injected with all the hate and rage she could muster. “Because I should've killed you all.”
His mouth dropped open and a look of confusion blinded him momentarily. He looked at the cleric, who looked equally disturbed.
But then a soldier swept into the tent, eyes wide and cheeks red. “Sir! Goblins! They're attacking the wagons!”
“The wagons?” He shot to his feet, a look of dismay passing quickly across his face. “They haven't taken anything?”
“Not yet. But there's a lot of them, sir. We're holding them back, but I'm not sure for how long.” His gaze flicked toward the cleric. “We've got wounded.”
The General motioned for Hyrax to go, and the cleric headed smoothly out into the light. The elf had the feeling Hyrax was more eager to witness the slaughter than to heal the wounded.
At thought of magic being used, she could almost smell the acrid stink of it and wanted to spit the taste from her mouth.
For himself, Storr paused at the opening of his tent. Looked back with a thoughtful frown. “We will speak again of this soon, elf. I have a feeling you know more than I had given you credit for. I'd expected you to tell me rumours of the land. Perhaps tell me you'd seen them pass this way. Not to admit you had a hand in the unholy rite and its subsequent massacre. Prepare your answers carefully. I lost some friends at Grimwood Creek. Our next meeting won't be so polite, I assure you.” He touched the sword at his hip. “And then you may not die at my son's hands after all. This time I might wield the blade.”
When he was gone, she began to wriggle in her bonds. Trying to wrench herself out of the ropes.
Snarling and grunting, she fought to free herself.
But whoever had tied the knots knew their job. And her hands couldn't reach the secret knife she felt pressing into her back. Frustration bubbled in the back of her throat, and the icy ball of fear shuddered in her guts.
Still, she refused to give in and strained with all her strength, imagining the ropes fraying.
Snapping.
She heaved. Muscles straining. Willing them to break.
“Fuck!” She let the curse jet from her mouth as she caught her breath. Wondered how she'd let herself get trapped like this, and felt a cold trickle of sweat down her cheek as the truth of her situation began to sink in.
She was going to die here.
And then a knife pressed to her throat and she froze.
“Don't make a sound, Long-ear,” a voice whispered softly, breath hot against the back of her ear. “I hope you don't mind if I call you that. It sounds better than Tainted. Although, I can call you Tainted if you prefer. Just guessed you'd rather I didn't. It's a bit offensive, after all. I need you to be as quiet as you can right now. I can free you. The knife is only for your throat if you make a sound. I can't be caught here. They'll kill you slowly, but they'll kill me worse. So, you have to be quiet. I'm sure you understand the value of stealth at a time like this?”
She relaxed, heart drumming in her chest as hope surged in her veins.
Even if it was a trap, she'd rather die free of the ropes than in them.
“Right now, feller,” she drawled. “I'm bound to agree with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
He was sixteen. No more than that, she decided.
A scrawny kid with an unblemished, and somewhat grubby, face. Frightened grey eyes drawn constantly to her ears as though mesmerised by them. His hair was cut short, but with a knife rather than clipped. It made him look unkempt and waifish, as though he belonged on the streets of Lostlight rather than the ranks of an army.
He was dressed in the uniform of the Grey Jackets. The shoulders of his jacket too large. The pants too baggy, and held up with a length of rope. Boots no doubt too big for his feet
, they creaked a little every time he moved and she was surprised he'd managed tp sneak up on her.
In his small fist, the knife he'd used to saw her free. A butcher's blade, not meant for killing live game. But in a pinch, she knew it could do a cunning job on a throat.
He tucked the knife away in the folds of his jacket and made to snatch at her arm. To drag her away toward the hole he'd made in the back of the tent.
“We have to go,” he explained as she pulled away with a frown.
She patted herself down, scowling when she felt most of her pouches were empty. “Where's my belongings?”
“What? Look, we don't have long before they beat back those goblins. We've got to go. Now!”
Still reeling from the heavy hits she'd taken to the head, the elf shook her head angrily. “My knives,” she hissed. “They're mine. I want them. And everything else.”
“I don't know where they are. You had them when they dragged you here.”
“Then they're here,” she growled, looking around the tent. Considered the crates first, but then decided the chests were more likely. She moved as quickly as she could, ignoring the waves of dizziness which tugged at her guts and brain.
And was lucky to find everything in the first chest.
The elf grunted in satisfaction as she slid into her jacket and quickly began sheathing the glittering array of knives and daggers. Murmured each name as she did so.
Other items went into their pouches. Mostly tools of her trade. Even a picklock she'd hardly used since leaving Lostlight.
Out here, all a locked door needed was a good strong kick.
Finally, she found Talek's Cage. Still wrapped in an old cloth. She opened it, even though she could see they hadn't unwrapped it. But she had to make sure it wasn't damaged.
The small box no longer felt icy to the touch, but there was something about it which still fascinated her. And she'd begun to realise that maybe she was keeping it not so much because of how it reminded her of her lost husband, but that because a part of her felt she needed it.
Though why, she couldn't say.
Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth as she tucked this last item into a sturdy pouch near her heart and turned toward the anxious young man.
“Now can we go?” He practically pleaded with her.
Nodding, the elf made a dismissive motion with her hand and watched as he scurried like a rat towards a slit in the back wall of the tent.
“Be careful out here,” he said over his shoulder. “Everyone ran to the wagons. The General's treasures are in those wagons. Everything he's managed to find since we got here. He collects magic things. He's obsessed with them. And he'd flog us all if we lost even one. But that doesn't mean there ain't a few guards still waiting out here. We're only a few metres from the trees. So, when we get out, just run. And keep running!”
Suspicion suddenly ribboned behind her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
He paused, reluctant to do so, but was caught between the guilt of letting her go and the thrill of doing something he felt was right.
“My mother,” he said softly. “She wouldn't like what Hyrax would do to you. She'd be ashamed of me if I let it happen. I've been thinking it's not right. Not right to kill you just because of your ears. There has to be more to it than that.”
The elf's violet eyes were narrow as she studied him, not paying attention to his words. Still considering cutting his throat anyway, she allowed the realisation that he'd saved her life to sink into her thoughts. And let out a bitter sigh. “Reckon I owe you, feller.”
“If you get out of here before we're seen, then we'll be even,” he said, cheeks reddening.
“Best you move faster then,” she said with a wry grin.
He checked her expression before shaking his head. “You make it hard to like you, you know.”
And, hearing a shuffle of movement outside the tent near where the guards had been posted, she used her foot to propel him out through the hole. “Ain't ever been accused of being easy.”
He cartwheeled out, landing on his face. Spitting mud and snow, he rounded on her in adolescent fury. But was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as she whipped out past him, face grim. Her hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt and she lifted him to his feet before hauling him toward the trees.
Heard shouts, but kept running, pulling him along with her.
“Oh, shit,” he panted. “They've seen us!”
“Just run, feller,” she said, her heart beating faster as the thrill of being free kicked in.
Smell of old snow and the dank mould of rotting leaves beneath her feet.
They entered the thick brush and were immediately snagged by thorny branches. But she tore free, leaving a spatter of blood behind.
She kept her grip on him, dragging him by his shirt. Aware he was slowing her down, but determined to bring him with her even though she couldn't think why she felt like protecting a Caspiellan.
Let alone a Grey Jacket.
But something about him. Something about the coffee coloured skin. The terrified yet defiant eyes.
He looked, she realised with a flush of shock, like a hundred other kids she'd known on the streets. Kids who'd never made it because their fear always won out over their desire to survive.
Always they fell victim to the single law of the alley. Kill or be killed.
Normally, she'd let him die. Let his own take care of him.
But he'd just saved her from torture at the hands of the Grey Jacket General and his sadistic cleric. So, despite his origins, she couldn't just leave him.
An arrow hummed past her ear into a tree beside her face. It spat splinters at her cheek before quivering in the cold.
“Fuck.” She felt her guts churn as she realised how close she'd just come to being dead.
Risked a look back and saw grey shapes bounding through the underbrush behind her. Caught the look of absolute horror on the young man's face and felt her heart turn to ice.
Sweat streamed down his forehead.
They hadn't run far, but it was plain he couldn't run much farther. Equally plain the men charging through the brush behind them would be all over her shortly. Like a plague of rats, she thought with a sour grimace.
Frowning, her thoughts raced as she weighed her options.
It didn't take long for the solution to rise from the shadowy tendrils coiling around her brain. Head pounding, the elf swiftly drew Entrance Exam and balanced it in the palm of her hand. Spun it into a backward grip and showed him a brutal smile tinged with pity.
“Tell them,” she said through her teeth. “Tell them you were behind the tent. You saw me come out. Tell them I took you hostage. That you struggled to stop me. That you pissed me off. That I tried to kill you.”
“But-?”
“Tell them,” she hissed. The scar on her cheek made her look even more cruel, and the young man blanched.
“I'll-”
“What's your name?”
“My-”
“Your name,” she spat. “Quickly. We don't have time.”
Already the Grey Jackets were converging.
They had only seconds. He knew it, too.
Another arrow buzzed between the trees.
“I'm called Daved,” he said.
And she stabbed him.
Hard and low. The blade ripped into his side to tear a gaping hole in his flesh. His blood gushed warm and wet down her fist and she kept his shocked gaze as he let out a sharp scream.
Lowered him gently to the ground before pulling the blade free. Began to turn away.
He reached for her, still trying to understand what had happened.
She gave him one last glance. Saw the look of confusion drowning in his mask of agony as he thought he was dying. Thought she'd killed him. And couldn't understand why.
“Hold on, Daved,” she said softly. “They'd never believe you if I just let you go. Had to cut you. But I reckon your cleric can fix you right up. I still ow
e you, though. And who knows? Maybe you'll live to collect.”
With that, she turned to sprint through the brush, feeling the wild shards of adrenaline pour into her blood. She ran hard, ducking and diving through the forest. Despite the terror in her heart, she couldn't resist a savage grin as she led her pursuers deeper into the shadowed depths of the forest.
In her ears she could hear their shouts, and though many stayed with Daved when they found him, the rest kept coming.
Arrows sliced the air, sometimes coming close. Other times just probing.
The darkness grew more and more oppressive, and she soon found it harder to move with speed through the undergrowth. But so did those behind her.
Their curses rang out more frequently. Their swords cut at the thorn-crusted bushes.
Frustration quickly turned the soldiers into a mindless mob. A bonus she hadn't expected. She'd figured them to be more efficient. They'd certainly looked to be more professional. But they weren't even communicating with each other.
Instead, they rushed blindly with no thought of how to recapture her.
But it didn't stop them coming.
And that made her more nervous. Did they have something else up their sleeves? Some surprise she couldn't take into account?
Mouthing her own curses, but fearful of making too much sound, the elf pushed onward. Even if it meant moving into a trap. After all, she had no other choice.
She strained to get through a small wall of thorns, accepting the raking cuts that came with it. Shielded her eyes from the sharp needles which were sometimes longer than her fingers. And burst out through the other side with a gasp.
Which quickly turned into a yelp as she tumbled down a relatively steep incline. She landed with a heavy crash before rolling across a pebbled bank into a narrow stream. The icy water froze her for a moment, the numbness spreading through her body as the shock of both the fall and the sudden cold left her mind searching for coherent thought.