Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2)

Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) Page 6

by Lucas Thorn

  “So? That’s good enough for me!”

  “You don’t understand. They’re fucking dead!”

  “And I, for one, am fucking glad they are! Just wish they’d stay that way!”

  “You stupid fucking spellslinger!” She tried to grab him again. Drag him back outside as the grinding sound deep below grew louder than thunder. The tearing sound bubbled under the earth and seemed echoed in the shivering cliffs. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t going to be good. “Can’t you hear that? They’re too fucking afraid to come in here! What the fuck would scare a Draug?”

  He paused, turning slowly toward the inside of the fortress. Then back at her. Eyes wide and sparkling bright with fear. The ground quaked and the heavy gates moaned under the shifting pressures. “Umm, Nysta? I think we should get out of here.”

  “Oh, you think?” She put one hand on her hip. Sarcasm dripped like acid. “Any more wisdom, oh great fucking one?”

  “There’s something here.” His face paled. “Shit. Why didn’t I see it before? It’s bad. Oh, Nysta, it’s fucking bad.”

  “I told you there was something here,” she growled. “You said it was a simple fucking enchantment.”

  He shook his head and clawed at the gap, trying to drag himself back outside. “No no no. It’s bad. Fucking bad. That enchantment was hiding it. This place. It’s something else. A trap, maybe. And we’re the mice. Run. Run!”

  She turned to run, but the ground lurched wildly beneath her feet. The crack they’d so easily jumped only a few minutes before suddenly split open like a mouth beneath her feet. She felt the lash of dread as she realised they couldn’t make the other side.

  Then from the black depths, a scream. Not the scream of a living thing, but one as though the rock itself was shrieking in pain. Steam poured upward. A foul-smelling sulphuric steam from the deepest bowels of the earth.

  She had to scramble up against the gates to avoid falling into the chasm and her boots slid across the buckling stone.

  The Draug howled and started running back toward the trees, barking crazily to each other in a tone which left no doubt in the elf’s mind they were afraid. And probably with good reason.

  Thick black sludge bubbled out of the chasm. It fizzed and spat, smoke pouring from the ground where it touched. The elf fought for balance, desperate to get her feet out of the way. Chukshene chose that moment to shove her in the back, still trying to get out.

  “No!” she cried. Twisted around to face him. “Back! Get fucking back!”

  His head poked out through the gap, followed by an arm as he wriggled like a maggot from meat. “Inside? Are you mad?”

  The elf’s words were spat between her teeth. “Not yet, but I’m getting there.”

  And with a gush of slime, foul-smelling ribs of rough black stone powered out of the ground like the fingers of an insectoid god clawing at the old fortress. Each rib as thick as several tree trunks lashed together.

  She shot a curse and shoved the stunned warlock back inside before corkscrewing through the gap between the shuddering gates. Felt the wall brush against her heels as she squirmed inside.

  Chukshene rattled out a few curses of his own as slime rained down around him. He had to dance around to avoid being splashed. Where it touched stone, it melted clean through on a blanket of smoke. Drilling back into the earth which was its home.

  The heavy ribs screeched as they raked the cold stone walls outside. A tidal moan vibrated under the awful sound as though a million voices were keening in agony.

  And chains. Massive chains guiding a mechanism from deep within the cliffs. Chains which were channelled deep below the fortress itself. Hauling the great ribs high above the ancient walls. Between the ribs, a grotesque gelatinous web of greasy-looking shadows and lumps of eldritch red formed a wall. The deathly stench carried into the fortress.

  Nysta spun away, unwilling for a closer look and more concerned with falling debris and slime. Mouth dry with the flavour of fear, she pushed the warlock further inside, away from the gate and into the courtyard.

  Everything was veiled in mist and shadows. Shadows which increased as the putrid wall swatted sunlight away.

  But she could make out a few things through the gloom. A huddle of small buildings. A well. A tower reeling in the middle of the courtyard. Black slime stained its peaked roof, giving the impression whatever was enclosing the fortress had done this before.

  She hoped it meant the dome forming over the fortress wasn’t the kind which crushed everything underneath it.

  Risking everything on that hunch, she decided to choose the most fortified building she could initially see. Snatching the exhausted mage by his robe, she dragged him toward the tower. It was a struggle to stay on their feet as the ground shook in protest and clumps of black sludge landed wetly nearby.

  The tower’s heavy door opened smoothly and she kicked it shut behind them. Sent the warlock tumbling across the floor as she slammed the heavy iron bolts in place.

  Then stood with her back against the shuddering door and allowed the fear to drain slowly from her body as she tried to take comfort in the relative safety of an enclosed space.

  There was no sign of life inside the decaying building, and the stone tiles were almost completely covered in thick dust. Only a few tracks dimpled the grey, and these she figured to be rats. Light puffs of dust speckled the air as it was dislodged from the ceiling by the rumbling earth.

  She reckoned nothing had lived in the tower for a long time. But it didn’t do anything to still her nerves and she half-expected an army of wraiths to emerge from the shadows, shrieking in ghostly hunger.

  The grey stone walls were thick. No windows or rooms on the lower level. Just a winding staircase of stone leading upward. It looked defensible. At the very least, it was a place to hide while they figured out what was going on.

  Chukshene followed her up the stairs, groaning with each step.

  Then, without warning, the ground stopped shaking as the ribs thundered into place with a monstrous crunch. Silence swallowed a few stray echoes.

  They froze, ears straining for any sign of what might happen next. Unable to see outside, and with only the merest hint of light creeping down from above, they waited for several heartbeats.

  Could hear only liquid dripping from somewhere above.

  “What do you think?” the warlock asked, chewing at a fingernail.

  “Not sure. Could be anything. Figured you were the expert on magic, Chukshene.”

  “Not this kind. This is old magic, Nysta. And I’ll bet both my balls it’s from before the gods.”

  She led him upward, seeking the source of light.

  It turned out to be the windows inside a large room. Thick velvet curtains, long since rotted, left wide holes for the dank air to sweep into the room. The warlock stepped up to the curtains and nudged them aside.

  Following his example, she peered out at the dark fingers which enclosed the fortress. Light still speared between the fingers, but not much of it. And soon, with the late afternoon lending itself to dusk, there wouldn’t be any light at all.

  “It’s a fortress within a fortress,” he said dully. “Too high to climb. No way in. No way out. We’re stuck.”

  “Looks like it.”

  The warlock frowned. “I’m liking this less every second. It’s worse than when I got stuck inside Lifeblight. Two days, that was. I remember-” he broke off, jaw falling open in horror.

  “What is it?”

  “Look,” he pointed out the window, his arm shaking. He looked ready to throw up.

  “What?”

  “Just look at it.”

  She stepped up beside him, but couldn’t see anything through the gloom exciting except the wall and brief glimpses of the cold landscape beyond. Thought she caught sight of a few shadows moving about among
the smaller buildings, but decided it was just her imagination. Shrugging, she made to turn away, but he grabbed her shoulder and jabbed a finger toward the outside wall. “Don’t you see them?”

  Frowning, she considered stabbing him in the face for touching her, but the urgency in his voice made her look again. The glistening wall looked unsettling, but didn’t invoke the horror in her that it seemed to in the warlock. At least, not until she allowed her eyes the chance to really take it in.

  It wasn’t just slime which formed the webbing between the ribs.

  It was people.

  Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of silently screaming people, twisted around heavy stone ribs in a macabre sculpture of death. Their skin peeled away to expose their organs. The glistening she had seen was simply the wetness of their flesh covered in foul sludge.

  More horrifying, they looked fresh enough to still be alive.

  Which was impossible. Unless the magic which made the walls also kept them alive. Her heart lurched and she took a step backward in revulsion.

  He followed suit, leaning against the closest wall before sliding to the ground. Brought his knees up to his face and dropped the grimoire beside him. “That’s it,” he announced. “We’re fucked.”

  The elf shook her head. Looked around the room. They were in some kind of office. Military, judging by a few stained banners still clinging to the wall on their last threads of honour. Caspiellan, probably.

  Cobwebbed shelves. A heavy wide desk. high-backed chair. Empty fireplace yawning cheerlessly against the wall near the slumped warlock.

  “You stay here,” she told him. “I’ll look around.”

  “We should stick together.”

  “You’re exhausted and you’d slow me down,” she said bluntly. “It’s going to be night soon. And we ain’t finding our way out by creeping about in the dark. So, whether we like it or not, we’re here until morning. Like to be sure nothing’s going to sneak up on us while we wait. While I’m gone, you keep quiet. And careful. Don’t want to end up like them fellers out on the wall. So don’t drink anything.”

  He gave her a puzzled expression, but already his eyes were drooping low as the promise of sleep clawed at his mind. Even the terror he was feeling couldn’t serve to keep him awake much longer. “What’s drinking got to do with anything?”

  “Look outside, ‘lock. Figure they’ve all been where we’re at. They were here trying to survive. Just like us. So it could mean that if we ain’t careful then all in all we could be more bricks in the wall.” She curled her lip crookedly up toward the scar. “And that’s got everything to do with what’s in Waters.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Leaving the exhausted warlock, Nysta padded up the stone stairs.

  Rubble from fallen debris made stealth something of a challenge, but the constant dripping of water from holes in the roof high above masked the slight sound of stones shifting with each step. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but she accepted if it was difficult for her, then anything lurking in the shadows above would have similar problems.

  Tremors made the walls vibrate. Not for the first time since leaving the warlock slumped in the room below did the random quakes force her to pause. Each one robbing her heart of a few beats. Waiting to see if the tower would suddenly collapse on top of her.

  More and more, the grinding sound seemed to be coming from the cliffs behind the entombed fortress than the ground below. What this meant in the long run, she couldn’t yet guess. But she didn’t think it was going to be good.

  Her fist worked the hilt of A Flaw in the Glass as she headed up, knuckles flexing before releasing slightly. Ready to draw and strike at the slightest hint of threat.

  The third level held nothing of interest, but it was darker on the fourth and a sense of malignancy hovered in the crumbling walls. Her violet eyes widened as they sucked at the vagrant light, searching for sign of movement.

  Could smell rot and mould.

  And something else. Something more familiar.

  The tip of her tongue slid across her lip. Ears starved for sound. She took a step toward the doorway where the door itself clung desperately to its frame by perhaps the barest thread of metal hinge. Cracked open wide enough to permit a glimpse inside.

  But all she could make out was a sea of sodden gloom which revealed nothing of the interior behind the door. Shadows gathered sullenly around its edges.

  Nysta moved with deliberate care, eyes latching onto something which appeared to confirm her need for caution. Crouching, the elf touched the cold stone ground. Kept her gaze firmly fixed on the doorway.

  Fingers moved slowly over rubble and found splashes of wet. She lifted her finger to her nose and her eyes glittered at the rusty smell of blood.

  The elf picked her way forward with care, taking her time. Slow to avoid disturbing the rubble at her feet, though there seemed less of it as she passed the stairs leading upward and in front of the doorway.

  Angling sideways, she placed a hand on the ancient wood. Probed the iron ribs binding it together. Didn’t push on it, though. Just felt it. Willing a sense of the room beyond to somehow transmit up her fingertips.

  But felt nothing.

  Wondered if anyone was waiting behind the door. Sword raised. Ready to split her down the middle.

  Or an archer, opposite the doorway. An arrow in the chest might be waiting.

  Or nothing at all.

  Maybe the blood belonged to something which had wandered further up the stairs. A rat, caught in the falling debris and crawling away to die?

  Impatience bubbled away in her belly.

  Twisting her fear into a ball of fire. She battled the desire to kick the door down and rush inside.

  A muffled sound intruded on her thoughts.

  Cough?

  It was the far side of the room, though. Not close to the door.

  Her palm itched.

  She started to slide forward, to push on the door. Then tried to throw herself back as she caught the barest whisper of noise from behind. But froze as cold steel whipped around to press hard into her throat, angled firmly against her jaw.

  “Well, now,” a thin voice cooed into her ear. “Didn’t figure to catch me a raghead so easy as that. Guess Raste was right. You’re just a whore pretending to be something you ain’t. Now take your hand off that blade before you cut yourself. And let’s go inside, shall we? Someone’s waiting for you. Real eager to meet you too, he is. Ain’t stopped talking about you since we made it out of Spikewrist. Wouldn’t want to disappoint now, would you? That’s it. Arms out. Come on.”

  The elf scowled as she lifted her arms away from her sides and let him guide her forward, rigid with fear pulsing hard in her chest between the drumming of her heart.

  She’d been stupid.

  There wasn’t enough rubble on the ground around the door. Should have noticed it straight away. He must have cleared it so she wouldn’t hear him coming. Waited on the stairs above the doorway. And she’d walked right into it like a rabbit.

  She could feel his triumph as he prodded her forward.

  Annoyed, she kicked the door with her boot. The door swung open with a splintering of wood and slammed hard into the wall.

  For a moment, she thought she could take him. Thought she’d got him off-balance.

  But he was quick. His free hand snatched a fistful of her hair. Jerked her head back and hissed into her ear; “Don’t do that again, bitch. I’ll let that one go. Reckon you know you ain’t making it out of here alive. And that’s gotta be a disappointment. But there’s more than one way to die, if you get me?”

  She said nothing.

  Nudged into the room, she expected to see Raste gloating. Instead, a crumpled shape huddled in the corner. She couldn’t immediately see his features, but she’d know Raste even if she was in an alley with her eyes closed. And this wasn’t him.

  This one looked to b
e in a bad way. Was probably wounded, she thought, which would explain the blood.

  The short sword at her throat didn’t move even a hair. He kept pace with her, but his body inched just slightly back from hers to allow some room for him to move without giving his stance away. His spare hand hovered somewhere near her head. Any move she could make would be easily countered if he was any good.

  And she figured he’d be good enough.

  So she waited.

  A steady rumble under the ground made the walls tremble and he paused with her as they shared a moment of mutual anticipation. The ceiling above creaked and the large wooden beams dropped puffs of grit and dust.

  Whatever was outside, it wasn’t finished.

  The trembling faded and the swordsman behind her cleared his throat. “Torak? Wake up, boy. I got her. Told you I heard something. It was her, wasn’t it?”

  “You got her? You ain’t fucking with me, are you, Neckless? You really got her?” The voice was wracked with pain, but hardened as the wounded elf found strength in hate and the joy of potential vengeance. “Yeah. That’s the bitch. Can tell from here. You hurt me, you fucking whore. Fucking hurt me.”

  Her mouth was dry and a drop of sweat slithered down the nape of her neck. The muscles on her shoulder twitched and for a moment, she thought they would cramp. Frowned at the sensation.

  Then the shape staggered to its feet. In the dim light, she could see a stained rag covered half his face. A face which had once been handsome but which was now marred forever. Blonde hair hung lank around his head, stained with blood and muck. She felt a twinge of disappointment. Wished it could’ve been Raste.

  He edged closer, hunched over in pain. In one hand, he gripped Fulci’s Last Joke. She gave a grunt as she recognised the blade.

  “What’s that?” the wounded elf rasped. He was close enough for his breath to wash over her like a cloud of rancid air. “Lost for words?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry?” he cried, reeling back. The blade flashed in the slender ray of light peeling through the dark from the curtained windows. “I’ve only got one eye, you bitch! I’m half fucking blind! And all you say is you’re sorry? Piss on your sorry. I’m gonna kill you bad. Fucking bad. Your being sorry won’t change a fucking thing.”

 

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