The elf said sheathed her knives, then allowed gravity to dictate her pace down the shallow slope. Shale slithered down like snake scales and clattered to a halt against the dark shape.
He didn't move.
She squatted beside the cloaked figure and rolled him onto his back. Stringy black blood stained his cloak and he let out a thin groan. The kind of groan which comes as much from the soul as the body.
The kind that drew the pitiless gaze of Death.
She eyed him critically before standing tall to scan her surroundings. Looked for sign of an ambush.
Just in case.
"You think they're out there?" The warlock called down from the top of the hill.
She shook her head. Called back; "Nope. Reckon he was left behind. He was slowing them down." She nudged the dying elf with her boot. "That right, fuckhead? They leave you behind?"
Blood bubbled over his lips and he tried to roll away.
Casually, Nysta rested a boot on his thigh, pinning him in place.
His body shuddered and he gave up trying to resist.
"Please," he breathed, voice husky and weak. "Help me. I'm dyin'."
She sat close beside him, crossing her legs. Cocked her head as she studied his face.
He looked older than Raste. A little younger than herself. Not too ugly. But even if it weren't for the deathly pallor of skin and slackness of expression, there was something about his features she didn't like. Something that told her she wouldn't want their roles reversed.
Thin chainmail glittered against the dark shirt and pants. A pin clasped the cloak beneath his neck. Made of silver, it was carved to resemble a round earless face. A human design, then. Odd for an elf to wear. Especially one of the Musa'Jadean.
Several sheaths clung to his hip and thigh. Short blades. So, in this way, he was like her. But many Musa who'd trained with the Jukkala preferred small blades as they aped those who'd taught them. A few sheaths were empty, and one caught her eye.
Her jaw tightened as she drew the hooked dagger she'd pulled from her husband's corpse.
Slowly, almost reverently, she slid it home in its sheath on his hip.
A perfect fit.
He didn't notice.
A slick puddle of blood seeped into the stone beneath him, staining a few sparse patches of nearby snow. Pain wracked his body as he suffered a small coughing fit.
He didn't have much life left to cling to. In fact, it was amazing he'd made it this far. But, she thought grimly, the Jukkala taught the Bloody Nine belligerence in the face of death.
Still clutching his grimoire, the warlock finished his achingly slow descent. He slumped back onto his ass and leaned against the hill. Red-faced and gleaming with sweat, he watched with exhausted eyes but said nothing. Perhaps sensing the rising hate boiling in the elf's heart as she touched her fingertips to the scar on her cheek.
Her eyes were hard as they bored into the dying elf. Yet, despite the hatred clawing at her heart, she kept her tone neutral.
"What's your name, feller?"
"Fenis."
The name meant nothing to her. "You a soldier, Fenis? Musa'Jadean, right?"
"Was." His breath came in wet ragged sobs.
She touched her hand to the pin. "Interesting design, this. Looks Caspiellan. Want to tell me why you're wearing it?"
"He gave it to us."
"Raste?" She glanced southward as a bitter wind crept around them.
"No," the young elf shivered.
"Who, then?"
"You think he's the enemy, but he's not. He forgives," Fenis spoke quickly, forcing his words through the pain. "You just gotta ask. Make sacrifice. Save… Save your soul."
The warlock muttered something dark. Spat into the wind and began shrugging himself free of his pack.
She pulled A Flaw in the Glass and slid the tip of the blade across the pin. "Figured I've seen it before," she said with a slow nod. "On a bunch of Grey Jackets. Didn't think much of it at the time. Was busy killing them. That was a long time ago, Fenis. And not a day I like to recall. You see, I've made a habit of missing a lot of good chances. Reckon I ain't gonna do that anymore."
"I'm dyin'," he rasped. "Really dyin'."
"Yeah." She looked out across the thin patches of snow dusting the shale. Death had a smell of its own, and that smell was on the air. "Yeah, you really are."
"You're the one," he said through clenched teeth. "He spoke about you."
"Who?"
"That other feller. The cripple. One we killed."
"Talek," she said. Felt a molten force of rage crawling up her arm and it took every ounce of will to not punch the blade into his chest. She still had questions. Had to know more about Raste's plans if she wanted to hunt down the remaining members of the Bloody Nine. "His name was Talek. He was my husband."
"Yeah, that's right." His voice was dry and cracked. "Raste called him that. Talek. That was his name. Raste said he was special."
"Was Kulsa'Jadean."
"Said that, too." The dying elf dribbled blood from his lips. "Didn't seem that tough. He said you were, though. Didn't believe him. Do now. You really a raghead?"
She sucked her teeth and leaned closer. "Fenis, I'd like you to tell me if Raste is still headed to Grimwood Creek?"
"They left me behind."
"You slowed them down."
He gave a pained shake of his head. "Not that. Accident. It came. Out of fucking nowhere. Took us by surprise."
"What came?" But she already knew the answer.
"Big thing. Fucking chains killed my horse. Tore it to pieces. It was like something from the Shadowed Halls."
"It kill them?"
"Who?"
"Your friends!" she hissed. "Did it kill them?"
"Don't think so." He sounded confused. "Everyone split up. Fucked if I know. Neckless headed this way. Maybe the Twins, too. Can't be sure. Figured I could catch up. Can't get far with Torak like he is. If he's still alive. We're both dyin', raghead. Maybe a matter of who bites it first?"
"They plan to hole up somewhere on the way?"
"Tubal and Spirik wanted to wait," the dying elf said. "Ambush you. Raste said no. Said you weren't a real raghead. Must be a trick, he said. Said you probably went mad out here. No way you could be a raghead. Said the shit in your hair were bows. Just pretty bows covered in mud. Besides, he reckoned you were dead back there." He struggled to move. She put her hand on his chest and held him down. "Said you were a whore. Didn't believe him. Saw your eyes. You're fucked up, ain't you? Worse than us."
"Why Grimwood Creek? What's there?"
"Not saying." He let out a long whine as fresh agony made his face convulse. "Shit, raghead. It hurts so much. Just do it."
"Just relax, feller," she said, forcing herself to stay calm. "Killing you quick ain't part of my brand."
***
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