Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1)

Revenge Of The Elf (Book 1) Page 1

by Lucas Thorn

  Nysta #1: Revenge of the Elf

  Lucas Thorn

  For:

  My patient wife, Kyungsil

  First Digital Edition, published in June 2012

  by Lateral Books

  Copyright © Lucas Thorn 2012

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9873421-0-2

  www.lucasthorn.com

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of love.

  A love for fantasy books not often being retold. Where action heroes forsake all pretence at playing the reluctant mercenary and seek out danger with an enthusiasm matched only by their skill with a sword. Or, in Nysta’s case, a knife.

  It is swordpunk for the new millennium and I feel influenced as much by Spaghetti Westerns as the Fantasy genre. Nysta is certainly the culmination of many years of dissatisfaction in the presentation of female characters in fantasy.

  As such, Nysta will never heal anyone with amazing healing powers. She will never drink tea and discuss dresses. She will not stand back and watch her boyfriend fight the monster.

  She will not be rescued by a hero, because in my book, she IS the hero.

  Our Lord divided Caspiella into Four Kingdoms. To each, he gave an army.

  The Black Blades of Cornelia patrol the border between the north and the south. They are unmatched in strength of arms and have sworn to bring down the cursed Wall of the Dark Lord which bars our way to the Fnordic Lands.

  The Grey Jackets inhabit the mountains of Leibersland to the south-east and live a monastic life. Stout of heart, their holy zeal is unquestioned. It is said that for our Lord they would march even into the Shadowed Halls.

  Cunning and enigmatic, The Star Swords of Linkata control the seas to the west. What secrets they find in the embrace of the Seas of Blood we can only guess, for they keep their secrets well.

  Farthest to the south in the heartland of Caspiella, lies Jalavnia, home to the Green Arms. They defend our borders from the barbarian hordes of Sharra who will surely receive our fullest attention once Fnordland is Cleansed of the Tainted.

  - from In Defence of the Realm by Lux Corepith, being a crudely translated extract of a Caspiellan text, The Tower of Light. It did not sell well outside of Doom’s Reach and many were quickly turned to pulp.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Talek opened his eyes to slits and stifled a yawn as he peered out across the snow-spotted valley from the shadowed shelter of the porch. He sat with his back to the stone chimney, feeling the warmth bleeding through his scarred flesh and into his bones. He knew he should go inside before the sun burned too low beyond the grey clouds, but he ignored the silent admonishing of his absent wife and chose to enjoy the crisp air.

  Winter had descended early on the Deadlands, scattering pockets of snow which left the elf remembering stories of his childhood. How snow was the icy spit of Grim, the Dark Lord of the North. Old stories, he thought. Stories being quickly forgotten now that Grim was dead.

  As though aware of the elf’s mind turning toward the fallen god, the shadows behind him shifted and a bitter wind cut across the valley to rake at the small cabin.

  It wasn’t much of a cabin, he allowed. Nothing like the Hold he’d grown up in. But it was comfortable. And the smoke drifting from the chimney at his back hinted at the warmth the interior promised were he inclined to shuffle back indoors.

  His wife, Nysta, had chosen the location of their cabin. It was, he thought proudly, the perfect choice.

  Perfect because the nine figures which flickered into view were unable to find an angle of approach with any stealth regardless of their intentions.

  His gaze drifted toward the small ginger cat hunched on the steps. A dishevelled ball of mottled orange fur with a crooked tail and no name.

  Where it came from was a mystery. It’d shown up in the middle of the night to mew at the door, and only Talek’s amusement saved it from one of his wife’s many knives. She claimed not to like cats, but sometimes he caught her touching the creature’s fur with a haunted expression on her face.

  The cat’s ear flicked toward a small pen of goats beside the cabin. And, as Talek eased himself into a more upright position, it glanced at him with sparkling emerald eyes.

  “Reckon they’re friendly?” he asked the cat. Talking to the little animal was becoming a habit, he thought with a sardonic smile.

  The cat returned its gaze to the approaching black shapes and rolled its shoulders as it settled into a patient crouch. Its sharp ears flicked nervously and the crooked tail twitched.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “Me neither.”

  He hauled himself painfully off the bench, using one withered hand to steady himself against the wall. His flesh was not withered by age. But instead by burns which had chewed deep into his skin.

  Beneath his simple clothes, his skin was horrific. He knew this for a fact not just because of the constant pain, but because he’d seen Nysta flinch every time she helped remove his shirt.

  His leg, too, had taken heavy burns and much of the muscle vaporised and never returned.

  Silently he cursed the spellslinger who’d thrown the fireball at him. Not for throwing it. But for not having better aim. For leaving him alive.

  It would have been easier on Nysta if he’d died, he thought.

  She shouldn’t have to see him in such pain. Shouldn’t have to look at the monstrosity he’d become. He found his thoughts more often turning toward ending it. To cutting his wrists and letting his life bleed out.

  Anything to spare her the burden of supporting the wreckage he’d become. She was young, he told himself. She could recover. Move on.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Not yet.

  He had one final responsibility.

  Talek ran one twisted hand through his hair. Though it grew in patches over his burnt scalp, it was enough to hide much of the damage to the back of his head. His fingertips travelled the grooves in his skull and he no longer noticed as his arm passed through the ghost of the pointed ear melted clean off by magefire.

  He kept his eyes on the nine shapes as he hobbled to the edge of the porch. Fingered a narrow sword leaning against the rail and pressed against it to keep himself upright.

  Wondered if he could still draw the blade.

  Afraid to fail, he hadn’t tried since the mage had devastated his body.

  The nine were elfs. He could make out the thin ears jutting from their heads like sharp spearblades. Could tell their hair hung in a military style of long plaited locks. Also saw they were armed to their teeth.

  He grunted, looking down at the cat bumping against his leg. It wasn’t purring.

  He wondered when Nysta would return. He knew she needed time to herself, and never pressed her to return quickly. It was one of the reasons they were so comfortable together. They were much the same in this way. But right then, he would have given anything to know where she was.

  As they reached the clumsy gate, the strangers paused to peer silently up at where Talek leaned on the porch.

  He gave them no sign of his own intentions, though he doubted any of them felt even a brief thrill of fear.

  Coolly, they drifted through the gate, led by a red-haired elf. The others kept a respectful line behind him, one busying himself with stowing a cloak in his pack.

  Feeling uncomfortably fragile, the elf studied their approach with a mix of jealousy and nostalgia. Remembered his life among the Kulsa’Jadean. He’d strutted with the same calm confidence. Their hands crept around the pommels of their weapons.

  So it was he, rather than they, who felt the first trickle of fear slide over his neck and around his guts like a frozen wyrm. His gaze moved over the valley, half-expecting to see N
ysta rising out from behind a rock or twisted tree stump.

  Was disappointed when she didn’t.

  He wanted her near.

  Just having her at his side was enough to make him feel immortal even in his damaged condition.

  A wave of dizziness licked through him without warning and he cursed his damaged body. While he’d been crippled long enough to come to terms with his sudden bouts of giddiness, they were still a constant source of frustration.

  The men were soon close enough for him to note the finer details. Three of the nine looked to be barely blooded. One so nervous he kept glancing at the red-haired elf for some sign as to what to do next.

  But the rest were veterans. Their weapons functional and with little or no decoration on the hilts. They wore plain grey tabards draped over armour as though trying to hide their squad’s origin. Perhaps they were deserters, Talek thought with distaste.

  But this was the Deadlands. There was worse living in this barren wasteland between North and South than soldiers sick of fighting for a few meaningless coins.

  All the same, he couldn’t keep the frown from forming as the red-haired elf halted within speaking range.

  The elfs behind him stopped as one. A well-oiled team despite the few nervous cogs.

  Talek locked gazes with the leader, intrigued by the nagging feeling that he should know him. “Morning, feller,” Talek said. “Help you with something?”

  The grey eyes of the the red-haired elf barely registered emotion as he motioned the others to take another step back. Which they did without hesitation.

  The stranger draped his hand over the hilt of a long dagger at his hip. The kind of dagger Nysta would find irresistible. There was something about the stranger’s manner which reminded Talek of his absent wife. He realised it was the way his palm rested on the hilt of the short blade echoed her.

  Figured it meant the red-haired elf knew how to use the short blade.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well’s out back if you want to bring your horses in. Ain’t much food so won’t offer you any,” Talek said. Licked his lips and eased them back into a rueful smile. “Reckon you ain’t here for that, though.”

  “Reckon not,” the red-haired elf said wryly.

  “Fucking cold, Raste,” the nervous kid muttered. “We get this over with?”

  “Until I ask your opinion, Doket, I reckon it’s best you keep your trap shut. Or I’ll cut your tongue out. Feed it to the cat,” Raste said. As he spoke the threat, his voice was dull. Neither warm nor cold. A voice which made the pores under Talek’s arms begin to squeeze droplets of sweat. The red-haired elf hadn’t shifted his gaze from Talek. “She around, Talek?”

  He felt like Raste had hit him in the chest with a hammer and knew right then and there that he was going to die. Couldn’t decide how he felt about that, but was suddenly more aware than ever of the invisible ties binding him to his wife.

  He let his hand drop away from the sword, hidden from view.

  Rubbed his shoulder to ease the sudden spikes of pain. Once, he might have rushed them. Even bare-handed he knew he might have killed them all. Because no matter how much he respected their training, he knew he’d been trained by much better.

  When guilded, he’d been Kulsa’Jadean.

  The King’s Guard.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Nowadays he found it difficult just to get out of bed. A near impossible task to dress himself.

  He deliberately turned his back on them, ignoring the sound as they went for their weapons.

  His body shuddered in pain as he limped to the bench. Lowered himself on it, his eyes drawn to the cat whose tail swished as it studied the nine strangers. He wondered if it realised what they were or the danger they carried and, not for the first time, he envied the animal.

  Turning, he saw Raste was the only one who hadn’t drawn a weapon. The red-haired elf studied Talek’s every move, his expression giving nothing away.

  “You know who I am,” Talek said eventually.

  It wasn’t a question, but Raste shrugged in reply. “Yeah. Been looking for you for a while. Some folks said you’d headed north. Had about given up on finding you. Can you imagine how surprised I was to find you were out here all along? Right on the path we were heading down to begin with? Hadn’t really believed you’d gone north anyway. Heard you don’t even like Fnords.”

  “Nothing against them, really,” he said. “Just don’t like their food is all.”

  “I’ll ask again. She around? Hiding inside?”

  The scarred elf shook his head, relishing the chimney’s warmth as it spread into his shoulders. Saw no reason to lie. “Went to Highwall. Head back the way you came. You’ll find a crossroads. Take a left. Couple hours, depending how fast you walk. She’ll be in the inn. From there, good luck to you.”

  The nervous kid gave a surprised giggle. “Don’t like her much?”

  “Love her more than life,” Talek said simply.

  “Can’t love her that much if you’d tell us where she is,” the kid sneered. “Know what I’d do to her?”

  Talek’s smile lacked warmth. “Know what she’d do to you, is all.”

  The kid, eager to impress the group with his bravado, took a half-step forward. Rubbed his crotch as he cooed; “She’d warm my cock all night.”

  “Sure would,” Talek agreed mildly. “Over a small fire. Probably eat it in the morning if she were hungry.”

  The little elf snarled and made to step forward but was blocked by Raste’s firm arm. “Step down, Doket,” the red-haired elf growled. “Now.”

  “Good kid,” Talek commented. “Got him toilet trained, yet?”

  Raste’s answering smile was icy and his eyes glittered. “Heard you’ve got a sense of humour, Talek. That’s good. You’re going to need it. Reckon you should know why we’re here. Here to collect something is all. And I reckon you know what it is. So. How about we skip all the bullshit where you fuck me around and I let my boys do what they do best until you tell me everything I want to know? Make it easy on yourself, Talek. Tell me. You got it on you? Tell me where the box is.”

  “You’re in for a disappointing day, Raste,” he said, his voice soft. “I ain’t one to open up.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The words had barely left his lips when fear bloomed wildly inside him.

  The box.

  He could see it in his mind.

  Big enough to fit snugly in the palm of his hand. Seamless, and with no visible lock. Dark wood bound by thick metal straps. What it contained was a mystery his family had protected for generations.

  His father told him many stories when he was a child. Family legends guessing at the box’s contents.

  The key to a city of gold.

  The finger of one of the long-vanquished Vampire Kings.

  The last breath of a dying god.

  Many nights he sat with his father around the family hearth, staring at the box. Mesmerised by the alien runes scorched into the wood. What did they mean?

  When he was young he’d been desperate to understand them. But now he was older, it didn’t matter. Whatever lay inside wasn’t important. All that mattered was it should be kept safe It must never be opened, his father told him.

  Over and over.

  Earnestly repeating what had been passed down from father to son for centuries.

  Never open it.

  It must remain hidden.

  He looked into Raste’s burning eyes and believed in nothing else. “It ain’t here.”

  “It better be,” Raste said. “Or you’re a dead man.”

  Talek laughed. And was momentarily pleased to see it rattled them. The young one, Doket, shuffled on his feet. He’d be easy to rile, Talek thought absently.

  “Dead man?” he held up
a twisted hand. “Open your eyes, you stupid son of a bitch. I’m already deader than a fucking three-day corpse. Just ain’t fallen over yet.”

  “We can do worse than kill you,” one of the others said coolly. He slid an ugly hooked knife from its sheath and held it up. The blade glinted. “Get my meaning?”

  Despite fear peeling apart his insides, Talek grinned. “Boy, you ever tried to piss through a cock that’s been burnt to a fucking stump? It ain’t easy. And it hurts more than anything you can do to me. Every fucking day.”

  “Figure I like that challenge. Bet you I can make you scream louder than you ever screamed before.”

  “I doubt that,” the elf drawled. “But stick around ‘til my wife gets home. She’ll teach you how it’s really done.”

  “Enough!” Raste boomed. He charged onto the porch and grabbed Talek by the shirt. “Tell me where it is! If you tell me, I’ll kill you quick. End your pain. End everything. I mean, what the fuck, Talek? You got nothing to live for. King Jutta turned his back on you when you were no use to him anymore. Why protect him? And others like him? With the box, I can make a difference. I promise you, all those who turned away from you will die. I’ll give you that.”

  “You think I want revenge?” Talek blinked. “For what?”

  “Look at you.”

  “I’d rather not. I look like shit.”

  “They tossed you aside! You stood in front of a Caspiellan spellslinger as he torched the fucking palace to ashes! You stopped him in front of the King himself. Killed him, too. And what you get for it? Nothing. They kicked you out on your ear for offending Jutta with your new good looks.”

  “So?” he shrugged. “I’d have done the same. What good am I to him like this? The palace doesn’t need doorstops.”

  “You’re lying.”

  And he was. A cold ball of hate rested in his guts. It simmered there every day since he’d left Lostlight.

  They’d used him. Used him until he was no good to them anymore. Then, without even a soldier’s pension, they pushed him aside. Because his scars made the King feel guilty. Guilty for hiding behind the throne like a frightened child.

 

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