Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2)

by Lucas Thorn

  She shook her head. “No fucking idea. It was Talek’s. Something his family protected since the Godwars. Even he didn’t really know what it was. Just figured it was some kind of puzzle box.”

  He drew the box from one of his pockets and held it in his palm. Looked at it with a spellslinger’s curiosity, a frown pulling at his brow. “You know, since dragging you here, I’ve been looking at it. I can’t quite understand it. You know what I find more strange than anything else?”

  “Give it to me,” she demanded firmly. Reached for it, but he pulled away from her.

  “It doesn’t open. You say it might have been a puzzle box, but it’s not. There’s no trick to it. It’s a box not meant to be opened by anyone less than a mage. Maybe more than one. In any case, a good mage. Better than me, though that’s not difficult. And yet, it opened for you.” He traced his fingers along the crisp alien runes. “And what’s this writing? I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s in no language I’ve ever seen, and I’ve spent years in the Library of Hatejaw. I’ve studied goblin, ork, dwarf and elf writing. Seen languages you don’t even know exist. Since before the Gods arrived. And this is nothing like any of them. Where did Talek’s family get this? Do you know? And how did you open it?”

  “It’s mine,” the elf hissed, overwhelmed by the speed at which the warlock shot his questions at her clouded mind. She lurched forward, but the pain in her side made her flinch back and let out an involuntary moan. “Give it to me, you spellslinging fuck! Or I swear, I’ll cut it from your corpse!”

  He eyed her calmly, apparently unmoved by her threat. Then, casually, tossed it to her. It bounced once in the moist earth and came to a rest near her hand.

  The elf snatched it with a snarl and stuffed it quickly into her jacket.

  “Just remember this, Nysta. Whatever was in that box, I didn’t save you from it,” he said. “If I were you, I’d take it to Doom’s Reach. Maybe even Godsfall. Give it to the mages. It’s too powerful for you. It should be studied. You should make sure that whatever it was, it’s not still inside you. Somehow, that thing is important. Too important for you to run around carrying in your jacket.”

  “Fuck you, spellslinger,” she growled. “It’s mine. You can’t have it.”

  “I don’t want it. Believe me, Nysta. I really don’t. It gives me the creeps. There’s something about it which says it shouldn’t be here. It’s wrong. Whatever was inside, it got into you and wrung the life from that Lichspawn shit. And if Gaket was right, that was a gift from Veil. Strangled. Then spat out of you like dust.” He licked his lips and leaned forward, almost desperate to get through to her. “Whatever it was, it did that. And if that doesn’t frighten you to death, then it should.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what it was, Chukshene. It’s gone. And I’ve got other shit on my mind. Raste is getting away. He’s halfway to fucking Grimwood Creek by now and that means he’s almost out of my reach. And I ain’t having that. I won’t fail again.” The elf felt a surge of rage hotter than anything she’d felt in her life. Her eyes felt like they were glowing with hate. She didn’t want to think about Talek’s box. Didn’t want to know. Not yet. Time for that later. “I’ve failed too many times in my life. No more. I’ll find him. And I’ll have his fucking head!”

  “You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known, Long-ear. And that’s really saying something. Did I ever tell you about my wife? One of them. Well, either of them. Okay, let’s not start that again. Let’s just say you’re stubborn.” He waved his hands in annoyance. “You know, you might not believe it, but I do kind of give a shit about you. Not much. A little shit. Like, one that squeezes out your ass, but it’s not quite the whole shit? Just a little fucking ball of shit? You know the kind. But it’s enough of a shit to care about whether some fucking thing eats you from the inside out or not. So I’m telling you, you should get help. Not from someone like me. My magic doesn’t run that way. A mage. A real one. I might even know a few who’d help.”

  A flash of fear and anger shot through her as she thought of spellslingers. A mage had crippled Talek. It was a mage who had ruined any chance at happiness she had.

  “Don’t talk to me about spellslingers, Chukshene,” she said through her teeth. “Not if you want to keep your tongue inside your head.”

  The warlock tapped his book in frustration. “I know you don’t like mages, Nysta. I know why. And it’s a fucking good reason you’ve got. But it was a Caspiellan who torched your husband. Not a Fnord. There’s a big fucking difference. And you should learn that difference quickly, because your life might depend on it. I’m serious now. If it’s still inside you, it could do worse than fucking kill you. You need to be sure it’s gone. You need to be examined.”

  She struggled to her feet, feeling the stiffness in her legs give way to the pain of swollen wounds. “Whatever,” she grunted. Rolled her shoulders. Began strapping the bracer back onto her arm and checking her weapons.

  “What are you doing?” The warlock shot her an incredulous look.

  “Taking your advice, ‘lock.” She started limping south, following the treeline. “I’m checking myself out.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  South of Spikewrist, the land grew more treacherous with every step.

  Cracks in the ground which had surrounded the town grew deeper. And the shale skirting along the trenches made for uncertain footing. There was nothing beautiful in the long undulating dunes of brittle stone and everything to fear in the sullen echoes of a hellish war.

  Ice and snow clung to boulders and shredded stones, promising a cold grave to careless travellers. The odd bone here and there were testament to this.

  Forced to leave the relative cover of the twisted treeline, the elf led the warlock along the path winding crookedly through the trenches. Her eyes glittered as they caught sight of the heavy tracks left by the Bloody Nine. They were pushing their horses too hard, she reckoned.

  Perhaps the fear felt by the younger men had infected the more experienced soldiers.

  Fear of her, she thought with a tight grin.

  Raghead, they’d called her. So now they knew what was on their trail. They would ride those horses to death, she figured. And then they’d run to the town. Where their ultimate destination lie, she couldn’t say. But she knew once they made Grimwood Creek, there’d be little chance of catching them after that.

  They’d disappear.

  East or west?

  Most likely east. Toward the coast. Catch ship to anywhere and lose themselves in any city in the Fnordic Lands. She’d hunt for decades and never find them.

  She couldn’t risk it. She had to move quickly, too.

  Which meant moving off the path and taking a more direct route toward the bordertown. It was a slim hope. One she knew depended on her luck in avoiding any sudden shifts in terrain. Or worse, any Draug haunting the shadows.

  Inwardly, the elf groaned in anticipation of a few more scrapes and bruises.

  Always a few steps behind, the warlock kept muttering to himself. An irritating noise given the pounding ache behind her eyes.

  An ache which didn’t seem to want to fade.

  As her thoughts turned toward the warlock, she realised with cold certainty that she couldn’t trust him.

  Spellslingers could never be trusted. They were dangerous. Even the weakest could kill with a wave of their hand. And he’d managed to kill more Lichspawn than even she could have.

  All with a few words.

  And then there was his story about what had happened while she was unconscious. But what had really happened?

  She looked down at her wrist. A few specks of dried blood were all she had to show. Not even a scar. Something so powerful as the cables of solid shadow Gaket had unleashed couldn’t just disappear. He had to have done something. Must have. So what really happened? And why would he heal
her and then tell her he didn’t?

  And what did all that have to do with Talek’s box?

  She’d been gripping it in her fist since reaching the path. And despite the warlock’s insistence that only a mage could open it, the lid flipped open easily enough even now. Her fingers explored the empty container and her mind puzzled at the absent contents, though she didn’t yet remove it from her pocket.

  All she’d wanted was something to remember him by. A token of a the love she’d found so difficult to reveal, even to him. But which she still felt burning in her chest every time she thought about him.

  About his eyes. His wry smile. The sound of his voice.

  His smell.

  Hands, cupping her face.

  The elf’s expression hardened, and she pushed thoughts of her husband aside.

  The box, once a symbol of the chains which had bound them together, had become a curse.

  “You alright up there?”

  Looking over her shoulder at him, she caught a look of concern on his face which quickly fell away behind a curtain of weariness. He looked tired to the point of passing out. But she had to keep moving. Had to catch up. “I’m fine,” she grunted. “Stop fucking asking. It’s pissing me off.”

  “Everything pisses you off,” the warlock shot back.

  She let it go. Ahead, the path wove between two hills. Formed from pebbles, shale, and shattered bones, they stood like guardians of the pass. In an age long past, they could have been barrows.

  Could have just been natural hills, too. The elf didn’t care.

  But she’d been watching them for the past few minutes and did care that she couldn’t see the path beyond. Couldn’t see if Raste had left a few of his men behind to take care of her. She scratched at the palm of her hand and the corner of her mouth leaked cruelly upward toward the scar on her cheek.

  As she led the warlock toward the gap, all the elf was expecting was an arrow in the teeth.

  “Nysta?” Chukshene said behind her. “I’ve got a bad feeling-”

  His words were cut by a hollow roar which exploded between the hills like an eruption of wind. She dropped into a fighter’s stance, A Flaw in the Glass glowing in one fist. In the other, the blade called Kindness which she’d taken from the body of a wagoner who’d tried to bury it into her face. She could hear a rumble. Followed by another.

  Another.

  And, with horror rising like frozen mist from her belly, she realised it was the footsteps of something big.

  And then she heard the chains.

  The warlock’s hand fisted around the back of her jacket as he lurched sideways, pulling her toward the closest trench scarring the earth. At first she resisted, but then caught the look of terror in his eyes as he hissed; “Move it, Long-ear. Trust me, you don’t want to fuck with it. I know. I’ve seen it! And if I see it again, I’ll shit myself. Please. Just fucking hide this time!”

  He dove into the trench, gulping air as he rolled down on a landslide of shale. She followed with no greater balance and ended up flat on her back with his leg under her ass. Water from a stagnant shallow pool seeped through her jacket and she shivered. The cold was so sharp it was like being scratched with glass.

  Making to roll away, she blinked in surprise as the warlock clapped a hand over her face and held her firmly still.

  Furious, she lifted her hand to his. Intended to tear it free. Maybe break a few fingers off in the process. But he pressed hard against her and it was the terrified look in his wide eyes which stopped her.

  “Don’t move,” he breathed. “Please, Nysta. Kill me later. But don’t move now. Trust me this once.”

  It moved slowly, step by ragged step. Dragging chains behind it as though they weighed more than a mountain. And, by the sound of them, she figured they probably did.

  Yet, despite the aching slowness of each step, it didn’t take long for the creature to be close enough to hear its heaving breaths.

  The elf battled horror and curiosity. She wanted nothing more than to scramble to the top of the trench to get a look at it. Yet, she could feel the trembling mage beside her and knew if he was so afraid of the creature, then it must be something truly terrifying. Because, for all his apparent cowardice, she knew not much truly frightened a spellslinger.

  And even a warlock could deal with one beast, no matter its size.

  So she stayed frozen, feeling the water spread across her back like a layer of ice.

  Only the warlock’s hand, still covering her mouth, kept her from crying out in surprise as something moved under her. Too soon since the crawling feeling of Gaket’s tendrils sliding into her flesh. She drowned in frantic thoughts of worms chewing through flesh, feeling panic rise like bile in the back of her throat.

  The next thundering step shocked all thought of insects away. Followed fast by a shriek of metal across stone as several lengths of chain as thick as her wrist swept along the lip of the trench in which they were hiding. Shale rained down in a frightened clatter. The warlock squeezed his eyes shut even as the elf’s widened at the sight of the thick rusted metal sweeping overhead.

  Bitter fumes of magic tore through the trench. So acidic her eyes watered.

  Heart pumping hard, the elf struggled with the conflict of fear and the fires of rage which continued to burn inside. Could taste the need to kill like metal shavings between her teeth and imagined A Flaw in the Glass humming in its sheath as it too thirsted for blood. But each hulking step from the monstrous creature kept her warring emotions from reaching a violent agreement.

  The creature let out another roar, soaking the air in a terrible viscous howl. The wet sound echoed among the deep trenches and shook the ground.

  It echoed, the roar bouncing off the hills.

  Then, a whispering sound as though the air itself was breathing. Followed by a grinding crunch which made the ground shake in distress.

  And then silence.

  Only the sound of Chukshene’s ragged breathing reached her ears.

  “Get off me,” she breathed.

  “Quiet,” he pawed at her, trying to keep her still. “It’s still there.”

  “I said get off me!” She shoved him hard, lurching to her feet and slapping at the back of her neck. Her shoulder. Feeling icy water and sludge clinging to her jacket and skin. No insects. Just her imagination running wild on a greasy river of fear.

  The warlock fell back on his ass and looked up at her in shock, confusion and terror. The three expressions slicing his face into a cartoon mask. “What-”

  She struggled irritably up the side of the shale trench, sending stone skittering into the trench behind her. Winced as her fingers caught between a few heavier rocks, but finally made the top. Looked over the lip and grunted. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone? How can it be gone? It was right there!”

  “I don’t fucking know,” she growled, hauling herself out. “But it is.”

  “Impossible!” He scrambled after her, losing his footing more than once. When he reached the top, he staggered over to where the tracks came to an abrupt end.

  Nysta crouched on the path, eyes scanning the long rolling hills and ugly cracks in the earth. Controversial to the End held in her left hand. The thin throwing blade wasn’t too sharp, but she had no doubt it could still give the creature a headache should it suddenly reappear.

  Her back itched.

  Using the tip of the blade, she carefully scratched between her shoulders as she watched the warlock prod the earth where a large scorched circle still smoked. He got down on his knees and sniffed.

  She twisted her mouth into a crooked smile. “Gonna lick it now, ‘lock?”

  “I might.” He dusted off his hands and got to his feet. Frowned. “I saw this thing last night, too. Big fucker. I guessed it was attracted to the burning town like everything else. It killed and ate a troll, a couple of wolves, a
nd about a dozen bandits. Those chains it carried? They tore everything apart. Wasn’t a pretty thing to see. It’s powerful, Nysta. More powerful than I am. I really don’t think there’s anything I have in this grimoire which could bring it down.”

  “Can’t be a good one, then,” she snorted with a nod at his spellbook.

  “Actually, it’s one of the best.”

  The elf sheathed Controversial to the End. “Where’d you think it got to?”

  “Could be anywhere,” he said. “Looks like it can go wherever it wants. Not sure how, though. I’ve never heard of any magic that could move you around like that. It’s a terrifying thought. Thing like that able to skip about with such ease? Imagine if it wanted to pop into the nearest city for lunch. Way this thing eats, it could depopulate Doom’s Reach in an afternoon. Not sure if that’s a bad thing or not. My wife’s family lives there. I ever tell you about them? My motherin-law has a head like a pumpkin peeled with a fork. And the tongue of a viper. You know, now I think of it, I wouldn’t mind giving it directions. Can’t stand Doom’s Reach. Shit of a place.”

  “Reckon it could appear as quick as it disappears?”

  “Probably.”

  She looked down at her feet as though half-expecting it to rise from the earth. “That could be fun.”

  “If that’s your idea of fun, maybe you should go to the capital, too. You’d fit right in.” The warlock rubbed at his eyes and yawned. Sighed. “You do know we’re never going to catch them now? They’re on horseback. We’re on foot. We both need rest. Me probably more than you right now. But you can’t move fast with or without me.”

  She knew he was right.

  Knew the chances of catching Raste were getting slimmer by the second.

  But knew she had to try.

  “Then we’ll head off the path. Take a straight line.”

  “What? Are you mad?” He blinked. Looked out across the shattered landscape and its promise of a gruelling and painful death. “Yes. Of course you are. What am I asking? You’re batshit lunatic fucking insane. And I’m obviously losing my mind just staying with you. I mean, did I hear you right? You want to cross that?”