The last of the wisps flickered and died, but the elf didn't turn to watch.
She led the warlock across the smooth glassy plateau which reflected moonlight like pale marble. Her mind turned over the events of the past few days as she tried to focus herself again.
The wagoners, brutally put down.
The ork, Rockjaw, left bleeding. And the Fat Man pursued by Draug. More victims of the Deadlands.
Gaket, writhing in the cords of darkness fashioned from the very fabric of a long-dead goddess' soul.
A box, opening its fathomless jaws to spill an ocean of shadow into her veins.
Draug howling for meat.
A creature with his chains laughing as he contemplated a single word whispered into his ear. The wisps guarding the exit, dying in explosive flashes of light.
In the few days since Talek's murder, she'd repaid the Deadlands in kind many times over. But none of it meant anything.
And what about Fenis? Torak and Neckless? The Twins?
Sure, they mattered. But not enough. Not enough to satisfy the ache brewing in her heart.
An ache which wouldn't go away until Raste bled the last drop of blood from his dead body.
But she was close. So close she could almost taste the son of a bitch.
"You still want to do this?" the warlock asked quietly. "Knowing they know you're coming?"
The elf gave a curt nod. "I owe it to him. To Talek. And to myself. I've come this far, 'lock. Spilled a lot of blood getting here. Some of it mine. But I'll pay any price right now to get Raste. Spill all my blood. Take any curse." She felt the hard wooden box sitting coolly in her pocket. Considered the warlock's promise to find out what it had contained. And, if it had cursed her, then what she could do to be rid of it. Grunted; "Fuck it. I don't feel any different anyway."
The plateau ended abruptly, sliding down the other side at a relatively easy slope. The trees clinging to the path leading down the shattered mountain were mostly dead. But here and there one still lived precariously.
They stood together at the top, looking down into the dark. A glint of light far out on the horizon drew her gaze and held it.
Somewhere, possibly between her and the shining beacon which was Grimwood Creek, Raste was breathing.
"We'll need some rest, first," he said. "It's going to be a tough day tomorrow, I'm guessing."
"Reckon so." She glanced at him and saw not the weak apprentice she'd taken him for. Saw instead a powerful spellslinger. A warlock capable of summoning creatures from the foulest pits of the Shadowed Halls. A man with more secrets than she had knives. But one who'd done his share of killing. And more.
Whatever his reasons, they were his reasons now. She no longer cared.
Although she still suspected him of using her in some fashion, the elf felt obliged to hold onto the thin thread of trust they'd tied around each other.
Respect, she reflected, was a strange thing.
Tucking her thumbs over the hilts of A Flaw in the Glass and Kindness at her hips, she let her shoulders relax. Felt the knots unwind slowly.
Stifled a yawn.
And said; "You don't have to come with me if you don't want. I can get him on my own."
"I believe you," he said. "And I'm sure I'll get in the way. But you led me this far. And though I've got nothing to do with your search for revenge, Nysta, I told you I understand it. I had help getting mine, too. I wasn't able to pay out that debt. Maybe this can go toward it."
She didn't understand the reference, but she understood the sentiment.
Clapped him on the shoulder and nodded. "Obliged." She looked back out at the gleaming dot. "But you leave Raste, 'lock. You leave him and his men for me. No matter what else you do, you remember that."
"I will."
"Good. Then we'll get to Grimwood Creek by late morning, I reckon. I'll kill Raste and the rest of his assholes. And anyone who gets in my way. Then we head our separate ways. Nothing more owed."
"Nothing more owed," he echoed.
There was something softly unspoken in his voice, but she chose to ignore it.
Instead scratched at her scalp as she headed toward a twisted tree winding uncomfortably from the rocky earth. Long dead, it'd left a hollow curved against the sharp wind. Wide enough for the two of them to fit inside.
She kicked the loose rubble out and squatted beside it.
"We'll bed down here," she said. "Don't want to use a fire just in case that bastard's slinking around here somewhere in the dark. I doubt it, but best to be sure."
The warlock accepted without argument and tossed his pack into the hollow before settling back against it with a sigh. "Grim's teeth, I ache all over," he said.
"Think you ache today, 'lock?" She squeezed in beside him to share any feeble warmth their bodies had managed to hold back from the wind. "Wait until tomorrow."
He curled his legs up against his chest and rested his grimoire across his knees. Put his chin down on top of it. He looked like a dog staring into the dark. Eyes glittering.
Restless of mind, the elf looked down at her hands.
They didn't look much different. Still a little sticky. Whose blood, she couldn't tell. But there was nowhere to wash them. They'd smell of old death in the morning.
Something crawled up her side and she rubbed at it, hoping it died beneath her fingers.
Scowling, she hoped they hadn't taken shelter in a nest of bugs.
She waited, anxiously, but didn't feel anything else for a while. Content it had only been one, she relaxed again and listened to the warlock's breathing.
It didn't take long for his slow shallow breathing to break into long jagged snores.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes, leaned back and looked out at the moon doing its best to dodge the clouds.
When she finally slept, she dreamt of Talek.
Of his face before it had been twisted by magefire. Of his hands, brushing her cheek.
An apple, dipped in a cold mountain stream.
His laughter.
The way he moved.
And, finally, his mouth. Warm against her own.
She woke with tears frozen on her chin and scrubbed them away with an irritated grunt as she pushed out of the hollow. It had snowed a little, and she stood alone in a thin patch of ice and stared out at the cruel landscape.
Leading to the town was a landscape of harsh grey stone which looked to be mostly shattered shale. Large craters pockmarked the earth. It was hard to wrap her head around the destruction this place must have seen.
More patches of white littered the grey as snow masked the echoes of violence with the pretense of purity.
A river, thin and narrow enough for it to have been called a creek, marked the border between the Deadlands and the lands of Rule beyond. To make it more clear, on this side of the creek, the land was a blasted landscape of past horror and death while the other was a lush forest which hinted at what the Deadlands had been before the gods chose to make war.
She wanted to head toward the creek, beckoned by the cool promise of washing the blood from her clothes. From her skin.
But revenge had the greater pull, so she swung her gaze back to the town.
And couldn't stop thinking about the streets of Lostlight.
The smell of garbage, piss, and blood.
How much she'd endured. The pampered child she'd been when pushed to the streets had so quickly had all her privileged dreams shattered. How quickly she'd learnt the savagery needed just to survive.
Just the thought of all she'd suffered made her want to vomit.
Want to cry.
Want to kill.
And then, as always, her thoughts led to Talek. And the vivid change of paths guided by his hand. A path which so cleanly channeled all that savagery into something she could almost believe would wipe the stains free.
But killing for her Jadean could never clean her soul.
And the fragile dream had broken. Broken by a Caspiellan mage.
And broken again, at the hands of Raste.
Her fists balled tightly at her side, the elf felt the bitter wind cut across her skin and whip at her hair. The heavy grey clouds reflected the darkness of her mood.
Given the way her luck had travelled, it was only inevitable she'd clash with Raste again. She should have known that years ago. Should have guessed. Should have drawn the blade across his throat when she had the chance.
Slowly, the elf wiped her eyes and studied the ground leading toward the town.
Picking her path.
The quickest path.
Toward a town which had been built by orks hundreds of years ago. Built on the furthest reaches of Grim's once mighty empire. Now a border town used by smugglers and thieves.
A town of opportunity, if you wanted it to be.
A town of greed.
A town of hate.
And, today, she thought grimly, that town would bleed.
"Can't we sleep a little longer?" The warlock rubbed at his red eyes and let out a moan. His face looked swollen and groggy as he slid awkwardly from the hollow.
Put his book down on his pack.
The first time she'd seen him deliberately set it aside.
He yawned. Blinked some more. Stared up at her blankly, his thoughts too blurred by weariness to focus.
"Town's just down there, 'lock," she told him. "Walk a few hours and you can sleep in the inn."
"Yeah?" he yawned again. Peered out toward the town. Noticed a few small ghosts of smoke rising over the walls. "I'll believe that when it happens. Tell me, Long-ear. You ever met a town you didn't destroy? Looks warm, though, I'll admit. I could use warm."
The elf thought of Raste's blood gushing over her fist and her grin was cruel. "Yeah, me too."
But a more exciting thought suddenly occurred to him.
His head shot up. The weariness left his gaze in a snap.
"Food!" He spun back toward the hollow with sudden energy. Snatched his pack. Hugged his grimoire close, hitched his robe, and began dancing down the hill, his skinny frame looking like a wounded spider scrambling to escape. "Come on, Nysta! Food! Real food! Hot, too! Gravy. Potatoes. Bread. Meat. I'm gonna eat a whole fucking cow! Maybe a pig, too. And a chicken. Wash it down with wine. No. Rum! Maybe ale. And then I'm gonna fuck the barmaid until her brains shoot out through her eyes! Fuck. Come on, Long-ear! What are you waiting for? Can't you smell it? That's food!"
She watched as he slid down the hill and shook her head, bemused by the sudden shift in attitude. "You ain't all there, are you, 'lock?"
"Hurry up! Or you'll miss out!"
"Ain't no rush, 'lock," she called back. "I got a different kind of buffet in mind, and it's best served cold."