Duel At Grimwood Creek (Book 2) (25 page)

“Seemed the right thing to use,” she said. Her head felt light and she needed rest. Wanted to sleep. It felt like an army of worms was crawling all over her skin. “And he'll read it. Then he'll come. Might not want to, but he will. On account of when you see a message like that on your wall, you can't help but feel a thirst to do something about it. After all, blood's thicker than water.”
 

CHAPTER TWENTY

The elf called Nysta sat on a large stone beside the old tree hollow and looked down at the wreckage of the landscape leaking into the horizon. Outwardly she appeared to be relaxed and at ease. Inwardly, however, she was an adder waiting to strike. Prepared at all times to counter violence with the same callous disregard for life she'd shown so many times before.

She thought about this as she waited.

There must have been, she reasoned, a time when she wasn't so dead inside. When she might have seen the world through innocent eyes. But though she pressed her memory, she couldn't remember such a time.

Her earliest memories were foul. Ribboned with fear.

The looming echo of her father's cruelty tugged at her mind. As though her life had begun in that moment when he'd tossed her onto the street.

Perhaps it had.

She looked down at her hands. Remembered the taste of rotten food rescued from the garbage. Haunting food stalls in hope of stealing leftover mouthfuls of soup from discarded bowls. Drinking water from the gutters.

All the time, the pressure inside was brewing.

Growing like a virus. Spreading through veins and into her teeth.

That feeling. That flash of rage and joy as the shiv splashed into flesh for the very first time. Her fist squeezed around the rag-wrapped handle. Finally. Some sense of control in the shadows of chaos.

Her fingers twitched as the memory sluiced through her.

She'd met a courtesan, once. A woman who performed many of the same acts she herself had given away for a copper or two. The only difference being the location and quantity of perfume. Staring at the courtesan's hands, she'd wondered if her own fingers had ever been so soft.

So gentle. And clean.

The elf blinked the memories loose and her jaw tightened. She let her hands drop to her knees.

Looked instead at the small circle of snow clutching her boots. Glittering crystals of ice smothering a pale green weed. Some kind of grass which grew only on the outskirts of the Deadlands. She frowned. Did it ever flower?

She couldn't remember. And, in that moment, the thought bothered her.

The sharp wind crawling up the hill carried the dusty smell of more snow. It had been a frozen Winter so far. The kind of Winter which promised to get worse. It was as though the bitter northern land was sending its frozen breath in vengeance of its fallen god.

As though Grim's spirit wailed at the edges of his brother's land.

She heard him coming before he stepped into the small clearing. His boots making more noise than necessary as he allowed her to hear his approach.

So, when he emerged from behind a wall of dead trees, she didn't look up.

Knew already the look of hate which would be on his youthful face. And, underneath it, the guilt.

“You alone?” he asked.
 

She nodded, letting a sigh squeeze out in front of her reply. “You?”

He shrugged, eyes sliding away. “You look like shit, Nysta.”

“So do you.”
 

He grunted at the loosely veiled insult, but let it pass. “What happened to the spellslinger?”

“The warlock? He's gone. He wanted to warn his emperor or something. Let them know Rule was moving north. I let him go. Didn't need him for this.”
 

“Warlock, huh?” His eyes skimmed the surrounding forest, lips twitching as he slowly convinced himself she was alone. “Explains that nasty piece of shit he summoned, I guess. Made Storr's cleric shit his pants. Sure he ain't just hiding in the trees? Gonna jump me soon as I kill you?”
 

She shook her head. “Only just met him. He wanted a way out of the Deadlands. Useless fucker's got a gift for getting lost. But he ain't much for fighting and your cleric made him piss, too. Spellslingers, yeah? You didn't bring your cleric, Raste?”

“You think I need one? To kill you?” He gave a snort. “Whatever the fuck you think you are, you ain't nothing to me. Doket, he wasn't much more than a kid. And Tubal? I guess you got lucky there. Fuck him. He was a psycho, anyway. I mean, who uses an axe? Sure, they had their uses. But you did me a favour. They were getting on my nerves anyway.”
 

“You always were a good friend, Raste,” she murmured. Tried not to think of the sharp pain in her shoulder which was making her arm feel like it wanted to cramp. Her face, too, was numb and it was beginning to hurt just talking.
 

“Fuck that. Friends are for children.”
 

“Your mother teach you that?”
 

He opened his mouth to say something, then grabbed his rage tightly and buried it. His expression loosened up, but his fingers flexed as they moved closer to the jutting handle of a large knife at his hip. It was the only weapon he carried. “Well. Alright. You brought me here. How you wanna do this?”

She looked up.

He was just as she'd remembered. Red hair and pale skin. Sharp blue eyes.

She worked her jaw before answering; “What's your hurry?”

“I got better things to do,” he snapped.
 

“Like what?”
 

“You wouldn't understand.”
 

“Guess I wouldn't give a shit, either,” she allowed.
 

“Fuck you, then. Why'd you ask?”
 

She let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats, her violet eyes clinging to his. To his credit, he held her gaze and refused to look away. “You know, I met you once,” she told him at last.

“I remember. A fucking market. You spat on me and then ran away.”
 

“That weren't a meeting, Raste. That was two flies passing over shit. No. I met you after that.”
 

His curiosity got the better of him and he squatted down opposite her, his arms resting over his knees. Squinted at her. “Bullshit. I'd remember. I ain't in the habit of talking to whores. Especially ones who pretend to be ragheads.”

“Six years ago. You were fucking some kid in the Merchant Quarter. You remember her? Blonde thing.”
 

“Tastra,” he said with an impish grin. His eyes glazed over cheerfully. “Remember her alright. She was a fucking animal. Nearly fucked my cock off.”
 

“You'd meet her every other night. Follow the same street to the same shitty inn. You remember that? Each time. I watched you for weeks.” His face tightened and a shudder rippled down his spine as she spoke. “You remember that alley, Raste? You had to go down it to get into the back entrance? Brave of you, I figured. All alone without your bodyguards. Had to be, though, didn't you? No one could know you were fucking the Minister of Trade's own daughter. Fuck who you are, he'd have had your balls on a fucking plate under your fucking head. So you had to sneak around. And I found you. Remember that? The knife at your throat? Remember how you begged, Raste? Even pissed yourself. Bet you never told anyone about that.”
 

“That was you?” He smothered his fear with a flush of anger.
 

“Should've cut your throat right there, Raste. Wanted to. Believe me, I wanted to. But I didn't.”
 

His voice sounded hollow. “Why didn't you?”

“You had everything I never had. While I was on the streets, you were in your bed. All tucked up and warm. You had servants. I had men. Disgusting men. Men who'd pay a few cheap coins to do anything they wanted to me. The fucked up shit I saw, Raste. Yeah, you were right to call me whore. I was.” She rubbed at the scar, keeping one hand drifting over the butt of
Go With My Blessing
. Felt her heart pound in her chest as her emotions skittered over each other like glass fragments. They fought for dominance. A frozen sense of determination won, mirroring the determination which had driven her to drag herself through the Deadlands in search of the man in front of her. “And I survived it. Ain't ashamed of what I did, no matter what you call me. Not anymore. Figured I did what I had to. So, when I had you, your neck in my hands and my knife right up against your throat, I was ready to spill your blood all over that shit-stained alley. An alley I grew up in. An alley you had no right to be in with your fancy fucking clothes and your purse full of gold. Well. Seemed the right thing to do at the time. Bleed you out like I was bled out. But then I realised something, Raste. Wasn't you I was pissed at. I was pissed at him. And her. But my father most of all. Because he had his mind set on his ambition instead of his own fucking blood. Because he most probably murdered my mother just to make way for yours. But I told myself that weren't your fault. I figured you were like me. A victim. Caught between two wyrms. So, I let you live. A moment of weakness a long time ago. And now, here we are, brother. Correcting a mistake.”
 

The red-haired elf avoided her steady gaze and she found herself reacting to his uncanny resemblance to their father. She clearly recalled the moment she'd changed her mind. When she'd felt confused by both his similarity to the man who'd discarded her like garbage into the street, and by the innocence which made him fear the shadowy hand wrapped around his neck while pressing a knife to his throat.

Feeling him tremble had made her feel powerful.

And ashamed.

Those feelings coursed through her blood again. She'd wanted so much to kill him. Yet, couldn't fight the knowledge he was still her brother.

Half-brother, she reminded herself. As if it made a difference.

Her jaw tightened as she also reminded herself this was the man who'd murdered Talek.

As though intimate with her thoughts, Raste licked his lips nervously and his fingertips brushed the handle of the long dagger. He finally let his breath ease out slowly as he said; “We don't have to do this, Nysta. What happened to Talek was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen. But Fenis? He couldn't keep his cool. Your man pushed him too far. We'd have left him alive. All he had to do was give me the box he had. That's all.”

“The box? Little thing with black runes on it?”
 

“Yeah.” His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You know of it?”
 

“I've seen it.”
 

“You know what it is? What it can do?”
 

She shrugged, feeling the muscles like frozen wires over her shoulders. “He never spoke of it much. And I never gave a shit about it. It's just a fucking box.”

You're wrong, Nysta. It's not just a box. Rule would give a lot to have it, Nysta. More than a lot.” He leaned forward, speaking in earnest. “You know he wants us dead? All elfs. We're Tainted, you see. Our blood. It ain't pure, like humans. We're the leftovers of what was here before. Humans, they're the chosen ones. And they'll be the ones to survive all of this. Elfs. Orks. Trolls. Shit, even the giants. All will be pressed against the northern ice eventually. And all will die by the Lord of Light's hand. It has to happen, Nysta. To cleanse the world. And you can't fight that. With the Dark Lord dead, there's no one to stand up to him. So we must adapt. We must change. I know you think I'm a traitor for saying it, but all I want to do is save our people. Rule has already accepted some of us. Those of us willing to make the sacrifice. Accept that, and be forgiven. Or die. That's the only choice left to our people, Nysta. Right now, we ain't trusted by anyone in the Four Kingdoms. We've got no power except what Rule lets us have. But with the box, I can make a difference. I might be able to show him we're not what he thinks we are. Not what the Dark Lord made us. That we can be devoted to him. Think about it. Thousands, maybe more, saved. And all it would take is that box. That one little box. So, if you know where it is, please. You have to tell me!”

Without a word, she dug her hand into her pocket and tossed it on the ground between them.

His eyes widened impossibly wide and he started forward, but froze as her hand fisted around
Go With My Blessing
with lightning speed. She didn't think she could draw and throw, though. Her arm hurt a lot. But he couldn't know that. She let her lip curl slightly toward the scar and shook her head as though admonishing a child. Clicked her tongue. “Now now, Raste. Not so fast.” She slowly released her grip as he crouched back down on his haunches, eyes narrowing to slits as he understood. “If you want it, you're going have to work for it.”
 

“There's more going on here than just you and me,” he said irritably. “I know you're pissed for what our father did to you. Maybe you got good cause, too. But that's between you and him. This is more important than all that bullshit. Can't you see that? It's the future of our people.”
 

“Not to me it ain't, Raste. And you know it. It's about Talek. My husband. Remember him? Only man I ever cared for. And you put a hole in his chest and left him on the porch for me to find.”
 

“Oh, cry me a fucking river. Fuck! You're so fucking pathetic, Nysta. Aren't you even a little ashamed of how fucking screwed up you are? Talek was already dead. Even he said so. He wouldn't tell me shit about that box. And you know why? Because he wanted to die. He all but begged us to kill him. Shit, Nysta. This is all so fucking pointless. Can't you see how much bigger this is? With that box, I can save lives. Besides, haven't you already had your fill of blood? You already got Fenis. He was the one who cut up your man. Quit being a selfish fucking bitch and give it up!”
 

She felt another rush of emotion at his words, knowing in her heart they were true. Not about the box. But about Talek wanting to die. “Of course he wanted to die,” she breathed. “He figured it would set me free. He wanted to let me go. He thought I didn't love him anymore.”