"You felt sorry for him," he accused as they crawled through a tight gap between two sides of a collapsed tunnel. "Admit it. You actually felt pity for something other than yourself. How do you feel about that?"
"How do you feel about choking on my fist?" she replied between grunts. Lost some skin as she squeezed through. Tumbled out the other end as though spat out and rolled lightly to her feet.
The warlock's glowing yellow orb hovered further down the tunnel. He'd cast it again as soon as they were shrouded in darkness.
"I'm not crazy about the idea," he admitted, reaching out a hand. "Hey. Would you mind giving me a hand? I'm not as skinny as you. Must be all the sweet rolls. Ever been to Ravensholme? Of course you haven't. You should. Best fucking sweet rolls in all the Fnordic Lands. And, trust me, I've tried them all."
She grabbed hold of his outstretched arm and began tugging him through.
Not very gently.
"Not so fast!" he yelped. "Fuck. My leg's caught. And I think you're gonna break my fucking back!"
"Pity it isn't your mouth," she said, and pulled harder.
He let out a startled shriek and then burst from the gap to fall in a heap at her feet.
His torn robe slithered up around his legs and she could see blood glistening across his knee.
"Ah, shit," he groaned, holding up a corner of ripped cloth.
The elf gave him a tight grin. "Don't you mean, pooh?"
"What?" Blinking, the warlock struggled to his feet. Winced as he took a few steps. "Look what you've done to my robe."
"Dress."
"Robe. It's a fucking robe. And look what you've done to it! And my leg. I was caught on something. Now you've made me bleed. Look! I'm actually bleeding. Grim's tits, I could use a drink."
"It ain't bleeding much. So, I'm sure you can bear it. Now, get a move on, 'lock."
"You know, I can't wait to go home," He muttered as he dusted off his grimoire. "I'll never leave again."
His words made the elf think about her own future.
For most of her life, the streets of Lostlight had been her home. A home of vacant dreams and a jagged spiral of self destruction. Warmth was rare. Even the arms of strangers and the satisfaction of a few coins still couldn't heat her blood.
Home. What could the word ever mean to her there?
A dream, always out of reach.
Then Talek had appeared. He promised an end to her life of survival and a chance at finding a real home. Maybe even a taste of redemption. Then he was blasted by a Caspiellan mage's fireball, leaving him horribly scarred and in constant pain.
And Lostlight was a cruel place to be a cripple, so they left his Hold.
Sought a small measure of peace far from judgemental eyes.
But this was the Deadlands.
And peace couldn't be bought in the Deadlands. Not for any price.
Her lips drew back into a grim line. With so much blood on them, it should have been no surprise that death would be drawn to anything built with her cursed hands.
Where, then, would be home?
"I'm hungry," the warlock said suddenly, cutting into her thoughts.
"Put your foot back in your mouth, then."
"Funny," he said with a disdainful sniff. "Would it hurt if we stopped for a minute? I'm not like you. I can't walk forever on an empty stomach."
The elf sighed, but nodded. "I ain't got all day, though."
He dropped gratefully to the ground.
Shrugged himself out of his pack and began rummaging quickly in the enchanted depths. Not for the first time did she wish she had a few pouches with similar enchantments.
"You must hate him a lot," the warlock said. "This Raste guy, I mean. The way you keep going on about him. You've got a one track mind. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm close to falling over and never getting up again. I know you elfs can take a shitload of punishment. You can walk forever. But given the hurt you've been taking lately, I don't think you can take much more yourself. It isn't your body keeping you moving now. It's your hate."
"More than that," she said. "Could be hate's not a strong enough word. Maybe there ain't been one invented yet for how I feel about him."
"I pity him, then."
"Ain't right to pity the dead, Chukshene. Got to let them go."
"Funny you say that," he said with a sad grin. "When you've still got the ghost of your husband leaning on your shoulder."
She felt an uncomfortable thrill at the thought.
It hadn't occurred to her that his spirit might watch her.
But, however comforting that thought might be, she could only think of the guilt she felt at the terrible wounds inflicted on him.
And the violent death he'd been dealt at the hands of a man she should have killed so many years ago.
"Reckon he's got reason to wait," she said, turning from the warlock's piercing gaze. She stared instead up into the darkness which throttled the tunnel ahead. "Talek will sleep well when that red-haired motherfucker is dead."
"Why'd you try killing him before? And why let him go? You feel sorry for him?"
"No. Maybe. Truth is, I ain't sure." She ran her fingers through her hair. Touched the knot of cloth she'd taken from the corpse of Fenis. "I had my knife at his throat. Wanted to kill him so bad I could taste it."
"I can imagine. You do seem to go a bit kill-crazy now and then…"
"The thing with Raste was, it wasn't him I was sore at. Was someone else. But when I went to cut him, I found I couldn't do it. He was so weak. Helpless. Bastard begged for his life." She summoned a memory of that moment. Could even smell the perfumes he'd put in his hair. "It was before he joined the Musa. And I'd just started training. I hesitated. Then let him go. After that, I avoided him. Hard to do for a while. He trained with the Jukkala. Never saw him again after that, though. Not until Spikewrist."
"And back there? Why let that thing live?"
The elf scowled. "I don't have to explain everything I do to you, 'lock."
"You like jokes, Nysta, I can tell." He stuffed his face with something from his pack. She couldn't tell what he was eating, and didn't care. "So, humour me."
She considered ignoring him. Considered also punching him in the mouth.
But there was something about the man she was beginning to trust, and trust didn't come easy for the elf.
It was earned.
And though he spent most of his time looking weak and fragile, he still possessed a power that made him dangerous. Not only that, he had a determination she'd seldom seen in a human.
He'd kept her pace with only verbal complaint. Even when exhausted. Hadn't run away or failed while in the grip of terror. Instead, he fought as hard as he could, pushing himself to the point of burning himself out.
Something she knew wasn't necessary.
She had no doubt he could move on at any time. That there was nothing in the Deadlands he couldn't deal with in his own way.
Yet, despite the grip of trust on her shoulder, she still had to deal with the fact she couldn't quite shake the feeling he wanted something else from her.
And the more she thought about it, the more she figured it had a lot to do with Talek's box.
Cage, she reminded herself.
Whatever.
Adding to her confusion, he'd made a promise. A promise to help her find out what had been released. But could she trust him to keep his word? Or was he stringing her along? Was he trying to find out for her, or for himself?
Looking down at the smug expression on his face, she couldn't tell.
"I know a lot about failure," she said at last. "My whole life has been a shining fucking temple to it. When I had that chain around his throat, I was ready to squeeze until his eyes popped out of their sockets. But I saw. In that moment, I saw something in him that scared the shit out of me."
He leaned forward, eyes sparkling in the putrid light of the yellow orb hovering near his shoulder. "What was it? What did you see?"
"I saw me." She let him digest those words along with the rest of his mouthful. "Every decision I ever made, 'lock. It was fear which drove them. Fear of everything. See, I grew up drowning in it. Streets ain't tough because everyone's angry. They're tough because we're all afraid. Afraid of losing what little we had left to hold onto. Soon, that fear is all you know. Sucks at you, pulling you so deep you can't see anything. Hear anything. Can't even feel. Bastard back there was afraid. Not afraid of me. Not afraid of dying. He was afraid of losing the only thing he had left to live for. The hope his master might return."
The warlock's gaze was knowing and his voice rasped in the tunnel as something occurred to him.
"You said something which made him forget his fear," he breathed. "And that's why he's laughing."
"Reckon he feels free now," she said.
He thought about that for a while before asking, "Did you see that throne? Did you feel it as we passed?"
She frowned, put off by the sudden change in the warlock's direction.
But she did remember the throne.
Black as obsidian. Greasy-looking. As though it had been carved from a still-living pupil. And how it gleamed as they'd passed it.
Like it was watching them.
She felt a shiver swim between her shoulders. "What about it?"
"Just wondered what you thought of it," he said. "Because it gave me the fucking creeps. He said it was his master's. Who was his master?"
"If that old chair means that much to you, 'lock, feel free to go back and ask him. I got other shit on my mind right now."
"Go and ask him?" He seemed to consider it for a moment before throwing a dismissive grin and beginning the process of closing his pack. "Yeah, fuck that. Black throne, though. Sounds familiar. Like I heard about it somewhere. Something about the old gods. Before Grim and Rule came."
He kept talking to himself as they headed further up the tunnel, dodging a few minor collapses. Crude stairs were carved more frequently into the ground as the slope grew steadily steeper.
How long they'd been climbing, she couldn't tell. It annoyed her that she'd lost track of time. Because time was all she had to measure her chances of catching Raste by.
With no real idea of how fast or slow the sun was moving overhead, she couldn't tell if she was catching up or falling behind. So, it was with a sigh of relief that she caught the first breaths of cooler air hanging in the tunnel like silky whispers.
Because cool air promised a way out of the oppressive tunnel.
Also promised another glimpse of death, if the chained creature was right.
Whatever he meant by the lights trying to kill him, she didn't reckon on it being so simple as a bit of sunlight. They'd already seen him walking around in daylight.
So, it had to be something else.
And he said there were many lights. Too many to fight.
"We're nearly there, aren't we?" The warlock sounded more relieved than concerned.
"Reckon so."
"What do you think the bright lights are going to be? Trolls with torches? Or a school of Caspiellan mages ready to throw fireballs at us?"
She bared her teeth at mention of the mages and their cursed fire. "Wouldn't mind a school of mages," she said. The tone of her voice made the warlock grimace. "On account I could learn a thing or two. And I'm a quick study, Chukshene. Reckon at killing mages, I could get to be top of the class."
"Careful what you wish for, Nysta," he said. "You might get it."
She rubbed at the scar on her cheek. Could taste the sweetness of fresh air and saw the subtle glow of light ahead. Drawled; "Don't test me, Chukshene."