South of Spikewrist, the land grew more treacherous with every step. Torn by violence, trenches were carved deeper into the earth and wound through the landscape like scars. Their edges were crumbling and steep.
Around them, dunes of broken shale rose in jagged waves. Shards of brittle stone piled high, shifting underfoot with every uncertain step.
Nothing lived there.
The wind carried silence and the whispers of screams long since ended. Ice gripped the occasional boulder, and snow gathered in the cracks like bones in shallow graves.
Forced to leave the relative cover of the trees, the elf led the warlock along a path which wound precariously through the dunes and between countless trenches.
Her eyes glittered as they caught sight of heavy tracks left by the Bloody Nine. She wasn't much of a tracker, but she could see they were pushing their horses too hard.
Perhaps the fear felt by the younger men had infected the more experienced soldiers.
Fear of her, she thought with a satisfied 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 for the perceived safety of town until their legs gave out.
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 be forrced to 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 which did nothing to ease 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 shouldn'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? Had he told her the truth, or only what he felt she deserved to hear?
She glanced down at her wrist. A few specks of dried blood on her bracer were all she had to show. Her skin looked clean. 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?
Had Chukshene locked it inside her body himself? Or taken it out and kept it?
Then what? Healed her?
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 her husband by. A token of a 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, his irritation making his words sharp.
She let it go. Ahead, the path wove between two hills. Formed from pebbles, shale, and shattered bones, they stood like guardians. 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. It was an ideal place for an ambush. She was sure the Bloody Nine might have thought so, too.
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 massive.
And then she heard the chains.
Long dragging chains whose metallic clinks and clangs hinted at the solid weight of them.
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 this thing. 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.
That and the way the ground vibrated under her with each step from the thing above.
"Don't move," he breathed. "Please, Nysta. Kill me later. But don't move now. Trust me this once."
"Fine," she murmured, closing her eyes. "I reckon I'll let you have this stealth roll."
***
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