The Wall of Darkest Shadow (Nysta Book 5)

by Lucas Thorn

  “Fuck this,” Melganaderna's voice was shrill. She threw herself across forward and grabbed Tophead by the front of his shirt. Then stumbled awkwardly with the shocked goblin toward the doorway.

  Jabbed him with a finger in the chest and shouted; “Open this fucking thing!”

  Pale green with fear, he shook his head. “We moving. We not open door. Not open door until stop. It bad thing to open door when moving. Badleg die that way.”

  She lifted Torment over her head. The room swayed crazily, its wounded side screeching. Black slime bubbled from the crack, vomiting onto the floor in thick gobbets. “Open it now, or I open you! Take your fucking pick, little man.”

  He let out a squeak, unsure if he was more frightened of the room spinning out of control or the axe. Caught the fury in her eyes. Decided. Slapped the crystal to the door and knocked four times. “Time to go! You open! Open now, fucking thing! Open!”

  The door trembled.

  Melganaderna lifted the axe higher, eyes wild.

  “Open now,” the old goblin shouted, beating the stone with his fist. “You please open. Eventide say open. Please, door. You best door there is if you open!”

  The door shook terribly, sending vibrations grinding across the floor. A piece of the floor fell away, revealing darkness so thick it was like a void. A gush of black inky substance gasped out of the wound, leaving a spiderweb of shadows around the opening.

  Whatever the worms of shadow inside her were, they were whipped into frenzy at the sight of it. They shot through her veins, rampaging through her body.

  The goblins clutched each other in the centre of the room, terror leaving them screaming gibberish.

  The elf heard only Eventide's name repeated over and over.

  She lifted herself. Began to back away slowly to where Tophead was pushing the crystal as hard as he could against the stone. Managed to reach down and grab Bucky's head still in its filthy sack.

  Winced at the stink. Kept moving.

  The top of the door splintered. Chips of stone skipped away.

  Then it split right down the middle with a crunch that sent pieces of the wall exploding outward. The elf turned her head away with a snarl at the last moment, but still got her cheek sliced open. Was lucky it didn't slice through her neck as the shard shot past.

  When she turned back, her mind struggled with what she saw.

  The corridor outside was quiet and steady, but inside, the room was rocking and spinning. She couldn't understand why the doorway didn't move. It didn't make sense. Her mind battled to understand.

  Her vision blurred.

  “Move,” she croaked. Then shouted to the stunned goblins. “Come on, you little bastards! Get the fuck out of here!”

  She beat them to it, following Melganaderna who had one hand on her battleaxe and the other dragging Tophead.

  They tumbled through the doorway as one, senses spinning as their bodies adjusted to the stillness of the corridor.

  Stingnose was last, dragged into the narrow hall by Dimrod, who pulled the other goblin close and held on as though he'd never let go. The goblin's leg was pulled free just as the door let out a savage burp and wrenched itself back into the darkness. They saw the room shoot off into the dark, a rectangle box of stone that puffed away into nothingness.

  Tentacles of pure shadow hovered within the mist of powdered stone which filled the doorway. They shivered, stretching long arms which exuded eldritch strength of will. Paused for a moment, then flung themselves at the doorway.

  The goblins screamed as one.

  Except for Deadeye, who tumbled to one side of the group and threw up.

  The tentacles hit an invisible barrier which sent them bouncing backward.

  But they came again.

  And again. Punching and tearing.

  Getting larger each time. Fuelled, it seemed, on desperation and rage. The elf felt the shadows within her own body pulse in response, pushing and squeezing through muscle. She wanted to run. Wanted to leap headfirst through the doorway and fight.

  Wanted to stab.

  And stab.

  And stab her way through.

  Just when she was about to dive inside, the invisible barrier ballooned out like a bubble absorbing air. Then popped.

  The explosion sent a wave of acrid wind washing out, and the sound left their ears ringing. Specks of wetness flicked against her skin and she scrubbed at her cheeks to loosen it. Sent what might have been demonic spittle spattering free on wings of panic.

  Goblins writhed on the ground with her, their wails piercing and wild. Melganaderna knelt with both hands pressed to her ears.

  Tophead sat back against the wall, holding his shoulder, which slumped a little too low.

  Sparks danced, cascading from the wall in steady streams. Streams which pounced across the stone like electric cats. Gnashing and spitting. Huffing more sparks to the stone ground.

  “What the fuck.” Nysta slowly pulled herself together and rounded on the old goblin as the tremors ceased. “What the fuck was that?”

  His face was ashen with pain. “I not know, Bloodhand,” he said hoarsely as the last of the sparks coughed free of the rock. “Me not know. Room never do that before. Never ever. Right?”

  Deadeye took the elf's arm.

  A gentle touch. Her green eyes looked into the elf's violet ones and there was something in the young goblin's expression which made Nysta stop breathing. “It okay, Bloodhand,” Deadeye said. “It not Tophead's fault. Wall not always do right thing even for Wallrats. It worse this time, that all. Please, you not kill Tophead. He good boss and I not ready to be boss yet.”

  The elf's mouth was dry. The sour taste of magic still stuck to the roof of her mouth. Still poisoned her tongue. She wanted to ask why the young goblin thought she was going to kill Tophead, but then she found Queen of Hearts was in her hand, and the black mist was coiling around her wrist.

  Cold and hungry. Needles of rage prickled her skin.

  Like the mist which had left Talek's Cage and filled her veins.

  She slammed the knife back into its sheath and spun away, reaching for the nearest wall. Leaned hard against it, pushing her forehead close to feel the slick frozen stone on her skin. Her breathing came in ragged gasps.

  Ragged gasps she forced to slow.

  Behind her, Melganaderna wiped her mouth with the back of her mailed fist and was still scowling. A thick bruise birthed down her neck, reaching for her jaw. A deep gash along the top of her scalp bled scarlet rivers down the side of her face. Neither of which she seemed to notice.

  “Let's not do that again,” she said, pushing the long rope of her hair back over her shoulder.

  The elf spat against the stone. “Fucking place gives me the shits already.”

  Watched the wetness drool down the rough surface. Felt the worms inside her body slink back into the darkest corners. Burrowing away as though embarrassed of their reaction to the darkness within the Wall.

  Unsure what she should feel, the elf turned, slowly, to find the goblins watching with uneasy respect. Their goblinknives were in their hands, but held defensively.

  “Bloodhand?” Kickleg's voice was concerned, more than scared. “It okay now?”

  “Relax, fellers,” the elf said, sliding back down the wall and letting the last of her fear melt back into her guts. Drew her legs up against her chest and rested her arms across her knees. “Reckon I was a little shook up is all.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A slight breeze trickled down the corridor from the eastern side. Smell of moist dirt and salt water. Something else, too. Something she couldn't put name to.

  “Maybe we've gone too far,” Melganaderna offered. “Maybe we're at the coast. The wall goes that far, doesn't it?”

  “It go to big sea,” Tophead confirmed, rolling his shoulder which didn't seem as damaged as it had appeared. Or maybe he was hiding it well. “But we not far from Big Gate.”

  “How can you tell?”

&nb
sp; He slapped a green hand against the wall. “They still black. Sticky black stuff only around Doomgate. Not know why.” Wiped his hand on his pants. “Other places, no black stuff. Eventide say it Grim's fault. He say Demon Man and Grim not make Big Gate right. Wall need Grim fix it. Or Demon Man. But Eventide say they dumbheads and probably can't.”

  “Me bet Mother would know,” Kickleg said, her mouth a cheerful line though her words were soft. Dreamy.

  “Mother know everything,” Tophead conceded. “But Eventide say Demon Man and Grim need fix Big Gate. It no strange thing. It smell bad near Big Wall sometimes.”

  The elf's mouth was a straight line. She had a bad feeling about the goblins' Demon Man. Either they meant it was a demon who walked like a man, or it was a man who could summon demons. In which case, Chukshene was either going to be vital or in trouble.

  She suspected the latter.

  Hemlock had spoken a lot about the mage called Lornx since leaving the Bloods. It was all him and Chukshene seemed to want to talk about. Hemlock's grimoire, though written by the ancient necromancer, seemed to give little in the way the man thought.

  Or who he was.

  But she doubted he was a nice kind of spellslinger. Doubted it even more with the way the goblins didn't want to talk about him.

  She looked at Melganaderna and knew without asking that the young axewoman was thinking the same thing. They gave each other a nod, and the elf pulled herself to her feet.

  Rubbed her thighs with her palms. “Reckon we won't know shit by sitting here.”

  “I'm ready,” Melganaderna said. Tapped the flat of one of the axe's massive twin blades. “But if you try dragging me into another of those rooms, I'll kill you. Just letting you know so you can take this thing in the face instead of the back. And don't think I won't get you first. I did it once. I can do it again. And I'll use the sharp end this time, I swear it to Rule's piss-stained pants.”

  Nysta smiled and quickly looked away.

  She couldn't afford to let the girl in. To let the embers of friendship grow. Everyone she'd let close, she thought with a bitter growl, always got burnt.

  One way or another.

  But Jagtooth's voice teased her. A life without friends is a life without colour.

  She grunted, and kept her eyes on the hallway. Away from the girl. Away from the goblins.

  “Big Gate this way,” Deadeye said, pointing away from where the breeze was coming.

  “It not that way,” Stingnose said. “It this way. Smell air. Smell bad that way. Smell like ork this way. Where ork, there Big Gate.”

  Kickleg looked up, lifting her goblin knife with pleasure. “You smell ork? Where ork?”

  “We not kill ork now, idiot,” Deadeye snapped, clipping the other goblin's ear with the back of her hand. “Bloodhand say they fight for Big Wall.”

  “Oh.” Kickleg rubbed her sore ear. “I sorry.”

  But she brightened when Deadeye showed a cruel leer. “We fight man instead. Eat ear of man by morning time.”

  “Ear of man is good ear,” Stingnose said.

  “Time to go!” Melganaderna's impatience showed as she lifted Torment. The purple runes flickered deep within the twin metal blades and it hummed softly as she whirled it in her hands before resting the weapon's handle across her shoulder. “So, will you bastards just agree which way to go? We're in a fucking hurry here.”

  Tophead, still rubbing his shoulder, moved to stand next to Deadeye. “You take us to Big Gate. We fight now. Fight with Asa. Eventide says so.”

  “We fight with Asa,” Deadeye echoed, causing the others to mumble the same. She then turned to the elf. “It this way, Bloodhand. Me sure. Not listen to fuckheads.”

  Nysta allowed the young goblin to lead, and Melganaderna moved quickly to follow. The rest of the goblins scuttled along at the rear, chattering excitedly about the battle to come. Making bets and setting costs in random chewable bodyparts.

  Dimrod used a crude wrench to make sure some of the heavy spikes on his goblinknife were bolted tightly in place and this led to the goblins passing their ugly weapons to him one at a time to ensure nothing was going to fall off when they started to chop and saw at their prey.

  Which surprised the elf, because the rust and damage to the blades had given the impression they didn't care about them. But the way Dimrod worked was similar to the way she worked on her own blades.

  With care and an eye for detail. It's just the details he thought were important weren't the same. She looked away, unsettled.

  As she walked behind Deadeye, the elf couldn't shake the feeling of growing discomfort. The icy ball in her stomach felt like it was disintegrating into small chips which rushed around inside her belly. Bouncing off the hollow of her guts. Ringing her spine.

  Up the back of her neck, leaving the hairs tingling.

  She knew some of the discomfort was down to being surrounded by goblins. She'd always been taught not to trust them. They could turn on you in an instant and for reasons which seemed childish and darkly playful.

  The other reason was in the bag she'd finished tying to her belt.

  Bucky's head.

  She'd taken it while he was still alive. While the act itself wasn't the most gruesome thing she'd ever had to do, it was something she hadn't been instructed to do. She'd only been told to bring his head. She could have killed him first. Killed him quick like she'd promised.

  But something had stopped her from fulfilling that promise.

  Something bitter and cynical. Something which had been trying to shake Jagtooth's words through an act of extreme violence. Perhaps as if, with that act, she was thumbing her nose at him. Proving something she couldn't put into words.

  Something about pride, maybe.

  She couldn't say why Jagtooth had left such an impression. Sure, he wasn't as bad as most orks she'd met. And for one who didn't look quite so old, he seemed to carry an enormous weight of wisdom earned through experience. She didn't doubt that, to him, he had a valid reason for his opinion of her.

  And could she say he was wrong?

  He'd set thoughts in her head she thought she'd left behind. Thoughts which had been turning in her head during the last days before Talek was burned by a Caspiellan mage. Her marriage to Talek had been a simple thing. His family weren't many, thanks to a hideous plague which had swept Lostlight years before, and they hadn't approved of his choice. They'd been hoping he would marry into a large family with royal connections.

  Not to someone who worked the grisly fields of the Jukkala'Jadean.

  But despite their disapproval, she'd been learning to accept a measure of happiness. Had been wondering if she could slowly loosen the chains she'd bound around her emotions. To let him inside.

  She'd even begun to dare to think of having a family of her own.

  All those dreams had been shattered in one awful day. With one terrible choice and a burden of guilt she still found hard to carry.

  Now Jagtooth had resurrected those lost dreams of connections beyond those required just to survive. And Melganaderna's presence was disturbing them, too. Muddying them. Her offers of friendship. The risks she'd taken to be here. These worked to wriggle through the elf's psychological armour and brush at wounds she'd thought were long healed.

  So, in killing Bucky with such ferocity, had she also been trying to remind herself of what she was? To sabotage any hope of redemption? Grief and guilt were all she'd brought from the Deadlands and a part of her really couldn't let that go.

  After all, it was all she had left of her husband.

  Bucky's head bounced against her thigh, the moist sack dribbling a few thick droplets of old blood. Slack jaw open. A ghostly laugh mocking her from the back of her mind.

  You promised...

  “Yeah, feller,” she whispered. “I did. But I always break everything in the end.”

  “Nysta?” Melganaderna moved close enough for the elf to feel uncomfortable. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Don
't sweat it, kid,” she said. “Could be I'm just a bit numb I am is all.”

  Melganaderna eyed the stained walls with obvious distaste. “You were right, I think. This place really is like that keep in the mountains. Even feels like it. Do you think it'll collapse, too?”

  “After the ride we just had, I wouldn't be surprised if it did.”

  “Great.” The young axewoman licked her lips as another thought crossed her mind. “You don't think there's a Vampire Lord in here? That'd be worse.”

  The elf thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Doubt it. Grim and Rule made a habit of killing them. Seems about the only thing both of them ever agreed on. Still, I reckon Grim was fucking with the same magic they liked to use. Could be this is Grim's attempt to build something similar.”

  “Maybe.” But she didn't seem convinced. She chose to look away from the walls. To look at Nysta instead. “You know, I met Rule. I saw him a few times, but I spoke to him once. He ranted to me for a long time about Vampire Lords. About their evil. He was obsessed with it. With finding evil. He said he could smell it. Taste it. He said he'd never let it get a foothold on this world. He said that if just one part of it survives, we'll never be safe. The Lord of Light is a lot of things, Nysta, but he really believes that. And, looking at this, feeling the cold darkness bleeding from the walls? I wonder how much of his insanity was right.”

  “Sounds like a priest's thinking.” Nysta rubbed at the scar on her cheek, absently working at the lumpy edge of it. Feeling the itch crumble under her touch. “They're always talking like that. Looking for evil in shit they don't understand. Do you even know what evil is? Told you before, I grew up on streets where you could get your throat cut just for looking at someone the wrong way. I went hungry most nights. Was cold every night. Couple of times, they'd come down out of their temples and give us bread. Walk around and tell us about Veil and Grim. And the horror of the Lord of Light. Didn't seem to matter to them that our gods were dead. Far as they were concerned, it was business as usual. Have faith, they'd say. Pray. Everything happens for a reason. That kind of shit. And have you ever seen a hungry priest? I ain't ever seen one who didn't have his thumb in a political pie, neither. But, the strangest thing was they sounded more desperate than us. I remember an old feller called Parri. He said to one of the priests that if Veil cared about us so much, we'd all have warm beds and clean food every night. Priests called him evil for not having faith or gratitude. Said that's why he was on the streets. I reckon from their point of view, the only evil in this world is a feller who thinks for themself.”