by Lucas Thorn
Might his be the next face to rise in front of her?
And what would she do?
She still owed him.
More screams to her left made her blink and she wiped the dripping sweat from her eyes. Sweat which defied the biting cold of the wind as it promised more snow.
An archer dropped his bow to leap onto the back of a Caspiellan who'd burst over the wall too fast for the mercenary to stop. Shrieking in fear, he used an arrow to stab the soldier repeatedly in the back of the neck until Hudson rushed up.
The hooded mercenary brought his hatchet in a sweeping uppercut which ploughed into the man's chin with enough power to tear up through his face and erupt free through the top of his head with a monstrous flash of red.
Metal clinked, but the sound didn't register. Her mind was floating on the mist which explored the edges of her brain. She could almost feel its fingers, probing into her memories as though her skull was a box of treasures.
“Nysta!” Hicks cried. “Behind you!”
She jerked her eyes back to her own position. Buried A State of the Art in the face of a man with eyes almost as violet as her own. Had to tug the blade to pull it free of bone. If she'd kept her gaze for another second on Hudson, she'd be dead.
The thought made her want to throw up.
But she had no time to think on it, or to thank Hicks for his warning. She had to deal with the body on the wall before more of the desperate young Grey Jackets could climb up behind him.
Still thinking of the man's violet eyes, she held the back of his head by his hair and considered lifting it to look into them again. Then frowned and pushed him off the wall.
And, as suddenly as it had begun, the violence stopped.
A horn blew into the wind and the Grey Jackets stopped climbing. A grim sound which made even some of the mercenaries shudder.
“Stop shooting! Save your fucking arrows!” Lord Sharpe yelled, and the archers lowered their bows. One glanced down at his bloodied fingers and looked ready to weep in relief.
Then silence filled the defenders, and they looked to each other in confusion.
“Is that it?” Hudson asked.
Eli grinned at him. He was practically vibrating on adrenaline. “Happily, they will be back. But not too soon, I am thinking.”
“Happily?”
Teeth bared, Eli's grin was that of a maniac as he chuckled. “It means we get to kill them all over again. It is a pleasant experience for us, but I do not think they would agree with us!”
Hudson blinked, not knowing what to say, but the elf knew Eli's words were hiding the hopelessness he felt.
Those guards and mercenaries still able to stand, pressed against the wall and peered out.
Each wondering what the enemy was thinking.
Why they'd suddenly stopped.
The elf listened to the buzz of muttered talk before impatience made her guts brittle.
She jumped up onto the parapet, ignoring Sharpe's shouted warning to watch for arrows, and looked down to see the Grey Jackets scurrying away. They took a few of the ladders, but mostly seemed concerned with the bodies of those they thought might be healed.
There was nothing in their manner which suggested defeat. Only acceptance that the wall might not be overcome by sheer numbers as they'd hoped.
And there were more numbers than she'd thought. Certainly more than the fifty or so she'd seen. Now there seemed closer to a hundred.
A hundred of them against less than a quarter of that in exhausted fighters along the wall. She thought it no wonder many of the defenders looked ready to weep.
She glared at their backs as they carried their wounded fast toward their own lines.
Then her eyes were caught by the sight of a man on horseback. A man who didn't move. Whose sword was drawn, but unbloodied. The weapon shivered icily and the elf's eyes narrowed as she realised the sword was enchanted.
And not, she reckoned, in a nice way.
Lord Sharpe stepped up beside her, stinking of sweat and blood. “How many?” he growled.
Knowing instinctively what he meant, she looked down at the base of the wall. Didn't bother counting the corpses. Less than a dozen. Shrugged. “Not enough. Reckon their cleric knows what he's doing. And they've got more soldiers than before. Look to be more than a hundred. And there, through the trees? See that?”
“I can't see shit.”
“I saw something moving about. Reinforcements? They must've been crawling all over the Deadlands and decided to converge here.”
“Why hide them in the trees? What are they fucking waiting for?”
The elf shook her head. “Fucked if I know. Most Caspiellan armies you can predict. But Grey Jackets? They're fucked in the head. Something to do with their devotion to Rule. Most of them ain't got room in their heads for anything resembling thought. But they're persistent fuckers.”
“Shit.” He wiped blood onto his trousers and stepped up beside her to get a better view of more Grey Jackets arriving. “This was all a waste of time, then. Just a test. See if we'd crack. They'll just grind us like meat while we hardly make a dent thanks to that fucking cleric of theirs.”
“Reckon so. But he can't heal forever. Even clerics can burn out if they cast too much. Looks to be only one of them.”
“Can't burn out soon enough,” he grunted. “And one's more than enough. But you could be right. They'll wait a while now. Let the bastard regain his strength. Then they'll try the gate.”
She nodded. “Best place to attack. Surprised they didn't do it the first time.”
“They were impatient,” he said. Then raised his voice so he could be heard by those around him. “I'll wager those bastards thought we wouldn't defend ourselves. Thought we'd just give up. Or die fast. But they're used to killing farmers. Burning down towns. Unarmed folk is all they're good at killing. Useless against real fighters, eh, lads?”
The cheer was loud, but not echoed by everyone. The older, more experienced, had little to cheer about. They stood mutely, staring out at the Grey Jackets assembling themselves back into ordered ranks.
Her eyes narrowed as they followed the cleric. His grey robe now stained thick with the blood of his own soldiers.
A few of the Caspiellans seemed to have noticed her along the wall. Some even pointed in obvious frustration and hatred. Grey Jackets would go out of their way to kill an elf. So, to see her standing in front of them was a beacon for their obsession.
The cleric rushed back toward the General, and though she couldn't hear what they were saying, she guessed none of it would please her.
Storr's gaze, even from this distance, pierced her own.
For a heartbeat, he was frozen at the sight of her. Recognition obviously dawning on him.
And then, slowly, he raised the awful sword in his hand and aimed it straight at her heart.
The air in front of the sword shimmered and a brittle cold wave slid toward her. She felt it ripple in the air but kept herself unmoving.
He shouted something she couldn't hear as the wind dragged his words back over his shoulder.
The elf waited for him to finish, aware of how everyone along the wall of Tannen's Run was holding their breath. Heart frozen in her chest, she felt the icy ball of fear roll sharp in her guts. She wanted to turn and run away. Hide in the darkest corner of the town.
Her jaw clenched hard as she allowed the ball to freeze harder and harder until it was a solid diamond cutting through the fear to get at an ocean of rage which bubbled beneath.
Then deliberately spat out off the wall in contempt. Raised her hand in a gesture of her own.
The elf's defiance caused another round of cheers to explode from the wall, and the mercenaries waved their swords and spears as they shouted insults into the wind. Even the older ones managed a few grins.
They knew their words wouldn't harm anyone. Nor would they cause the Grey Jackets to leave.
But they served to lift the flagging spirits of men still stunned by
the hopelessness of their situation.
“Don't think that'll slow them down any,” Sharpe said reluctantly as she climbed down. “But you did good, Long-ear.”
She shrugged. “Quicker they come, the quicker they die.”
“Or the quicker we'll die?”
“Could be,” she allowed. “Either way, we get it over with.”
Her violet eyes slid away from him, and she caught Eli scowling at them from further along the wall. The older man turned away, cheeks mottled with red spots of rage.
Lord Sharpe followed her gaze and sighed. “You probably figured out that Eli and me, we've got history. Bad history, though mostly because of a misunderstanding.”
“Ain't my business.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn't. But you're part of it whether you like it or not. Eli's always been drawn to the best, and I can see you know how to handle yourself. But you'd better learn to pick your friends carefully, Long-ear, if you want to survive.”
The elf rubbed lightly at the scar on her cheek. “I look like the kind who has friends?”
“No,” he admitted. “You don't. But some people can't help being friends. Even if they don't want to.” He turned his back to the wall and looked up at the dark mountains looming over the town. “Some say friendship's a lot like love. Sometimes it just happens.”
“Ain't ever been too good with love, either,” the elf said softly, thinking of Talek's cold dead skin pressed against her cheek. And, above that, the shrill screams as he writhed in agony from a mage's fireball. Sighed bitterly at both memories. “Burned that bridge a long time ago.”
He studied her carefully, expression unfathomable. But she saw something in his eyes she could relate to. Something she seldom saw.
Pain.
The kind of agony which tortured not the flesh, but the soul.
And knew he saw the same in her.
He nodded, accepting her words. “Then remember what I said. Pick your friends carefully. Because Eli's a scorpion. You'll think he's on your side, and then he'll sting you in the back. Looks more likely that me and him will want to settle our differences if we live through this. You wouldn't want to get between us if that happens.”
“No sweat, feller,” she said, pushing at her temples. But the pain refused to leave. “For the record, I ain't with Eli. I'm with me. All we shared was a table.”
“It ain't my place to choose your friends for you,” he growled, turning away. “But I'm glad to hear it. You fought well. We need you out here. Be good to know I only have one knife in the back to worry about.”
She watched the self-styled Lord as he marched off the walkway, shouting his orders as he went. The guards scrambled to obey, while the mercenaries, some mingling with the guards, mostly began cleaning their weapons.
She frowned. Felt a sudden shock as she realised what it was she saw in him that had given her pause. That had stopped her from snapping at him. Stopped her from wanting to gut him for telling her what to do. Who to speak to.
It was in the way he moved.
The way he carried the bloodied sword in his fist. He still hadn't sheathed the heavy blade.
The arrogant strut.
So much like the way Talek used to walk. And talk, when he was whole. Before he'd been burned. Before they'd been exiled from Lostlight.
Her skin crawled at the thought and she felt the blood drain from her face.
Hudson, watching mockingly, drawled; “What's the matter, Long-ear? Been hit by a whole different kind of arrow?”
Thoughts of Talek faded as irritation bubbled inside her. “My business still ain't your business, feller.”
“Don't act all hard, Long-ear,” the man teased. “I saw how you looked at him. No shame in it. He's a fine-looking man. In some lights.”
“Reminded me of someone, is all,” she said evenly. “And if you keep fucking with me, Hudson, you'll remind me of him, too.”
“How's that?”
“You'll be dead.”
“You really shouldn't talk to me like that,” he hissed, hand on the hatchet at his hip. “This ain't no toy I got right here.”
“If that's the way you want to play it,” she invited, dropping her hand to one of her blades. Felt the curve of the handle smooth against her palm. “Just start.”
“Hudson!” Hicks called, desperation in his voice as he rushed over toward them. Eager to stop what was about to happen.
Hudson scowled and took a step away, frustration leaking into his voice. “One day, long-ear. We'll end this.”
Nysta showed her teeth as Hicks took hold of Hudson's arm. “Reckon on that day, it'll be game over, man.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eli ignored the ramp to drop down off the wall. Landed with a wet splash in the bloodsoaked ground. Pushed through a few townspeople trying to help wounded guards and ran up behind the elf, boots kicking up mud.
“Wait, my friend,” he called. “I wish to speak with you.”
“I'm tired, Eli,” she said. Her body felt numb, poisoned on the edge of exhaustion. A fact which should bother her. She wasn't human. She should be able to take many days of fighting. It's what her species was known for.
Yet, after just a few minutes of battle on the wall, she felt as though she'd been killing Caspiellans for months.
Again, she pushed the worry from her mind. Refused to submit to it. Tried to tell herself she was just hungry.
And as if to confirm her suspicion, her stomach twitched in expectation of more food.
He grabbed at her shoulder. “But what did you speak about with that bastard? What did he tell you?”
Pulling herself free, the elf twisted around to face the dangerous mercenary. Noted the fiery look in his eyes. Her anger for being touched by him was muted by the pain thudding up her neck and through her brain. But it was there. Bubbling in her guts and swiftly turning molten.
“Don't touch me,” she said through her teeth. “Don't ever touch me, Eli.”
“Please, my friend,” he spoke urgently. “Nysta? It is true you do not think of me as a friend. Maybe you don't like Eli. But I tell you this. What that bastard says to you, even the smallest thing, is important. I have to know what he said to you. I know he spoke about something which is not to do with the Grey Jackets. He spoke to you, and it was personal. I see this in the way he looks at you. He told you something, and you may not know what it is he told you. But I need it, my friend. I need to know his words. And you need to tell me. You may not know this, and you may not believe me. But I swear to you, Nysta. I swear to you on the body of my dead brother. I swear to you that you are in great danger from that man. You need to tell me everything he said. Absolutely everything.”
She eyed him sceptically. She'd heard almost every story there was about this man. He was a notorious thief. A liar. A ruthless killer.
Since he first saw her in Highwall, he'd shown more than a little professional competitiveness. He'd threatened her with a duel to the death. Once tracked her for two days.
And she was beginning to suspect he'd followed her here to Tannen's Run.
All the same, there was something about him that made her trust him even when every instinct in her bones told her not to.
Sourly, the elf turned away and kept walking toward the inn. “He said you were a scorpion,” she said. “I didn't disagree. He also said I should stay away from you.”
“You never do what others say, my friend. All the world knows this.” He picked his words carefully. Aware if he said the wrong thing, she'd stop talking.
“I don't give a shit what he tells me,” she snorted. “But I wasn't going to be close to you anyway, on account of you never washing. You stink, Eli.”
He grinned, a tentative grin. “But you cannot resist talking to me. Because no matter what that bastard tells you, you know we are the same. We understand each other, I am thinking.”
“I don't get you at all,” she sighed. “And I don't really want to. Eli, we're surrounded by fucking G
rey Jackets, who I hate more than any other Caspiellans in the world. Hate them because they scarred my husband. Scarred him bad enough we had to leave Lostlight. Had to make a home in the Deadlands. And you already know what happens to a man who can't hold a sword out here. Well, it happened to him. What I'm saying, Eli, is I got enough grudges to keep me fighting for a while. So, that thing between you and Sharpe? That ain't my business. Like to keep it that way if it's all the same to you.”
“I understand this, my friend,” he said. “And I would not come to you if it was not important. Maybe I will tell you what it is that happened between us. Maybe I will even tell the truth about it. Who knows? I am unpredictable. But you need to understand one thing, and this is not a lie. That man is an evil bastard. Not just like you and me. Not just a killer. No, he is evil. His evil stinks worse than my clothes. He is dangerous, Nysta. Now, it is true we may not live until tomorrow. These bastards, they might just get through the gates and kill us all tonight. But if we survive, then Sharpe has a dream he tells only a few of his most trusted men. A dream in which he is a King, not a Lord. And to be this thing, he will need the best. This I know. You trust me on this. He will come for you. He will give you a choice. Do everything he tells you, or die. And you? You will choose what Eli will choose. You are no servant. So he will try to kill you. And when he does, you will need me beside you. You will see this.”
“I can look after myself, Eli.”
“And you are known across the Deadlands as someone who can fight like a fiend from the belly of the darkest pits of the Shadowed Halls, my friend. I would not say otherwise. But this man, he is not what you might think he is. And this town is full of bastards who would fight for him. Even you cannot fight everyone here. It is not possible. No, you will need someone at your side. Someone you know would not stick a knife in your ribs when you were not looking.”
The elf couldn't help but laugh. “And that's gonna be you? Eli, whenever you're around, I always expect a knife in the back.”
“You hurt my feelings when you say such things. I am not like this.”