Betting he had another canteen hidden away, she slung the canteen over her right shoulder.
Grunted as her shoulder let a few ripples of pain wash outward. "Obliged for the snack, 'lock. But I can still go a long time without food."
"Ah, yeah. Elf endurance. No wonder Rule hates you. Personally, I pity you for it. Eating's one of my favourite things to do so I like to do it as often as I can. Guess that's why this trip's turned out to be so fucking awful. Ever been to Dragonclaw? They have the best food in all the Fnordic Lands. Such variety! The meatballs. I remember the meatballs. Slap those fuckers on some noodles and smother them in red sauce. Bit of fucking cheese. Delicious. And spicy as fuck, too." He rubbed his belly and gave it a slap. "I can almost smell it now. Ah, Nysta. You really should go to Dragonclaw for the meatballs. Really. Give me food, I say. Good food. And lots of it. Especially if I'm casting. And I've got a feeling you'll have me casting a shitload more real soon. I swear, you're more trouble than a gang of goblins in the Imperial palace and you've got more enemies than the Emperor himself. It won't surprise me at all if there's a fucking army of assholes out there right now. Sharpening their swords and cursing your name."
"Could be right," she said, glancing at the rotting curtains. "Got a hunch we'll have to fight to get out of here sooner or later. Sooner would be better. Get it over with."
The warlock got to his feet, dusting himself off and pushing the curtain aside.
He sneezed.
Then sneezed again, before squinting out at the grotesque wall.
Nysta didn't want to look at the wall again. Even in the pale light of day, she was sure it'd look horrific. For his part, the warlock did well to suppress his revulsion and instead held out a palm, murmuring quietly to himself.
Scrying it.
Searching for a weakness. A hole. A way out.
But needles in haystacks are hard to find, so he didn't have to say anything for her to realise he'd found nothing.
Silent and frowning deeply, he tried to understand what had happened. Why there was a wall in the first place. What magic had dragged it up from the bowels of the earth.
And what magic it would take to hammer it back down again.
Shifting his attention to the small buildings circling the tower, the warlock scratched his head.
"It makes no sense," he said at last. "I can't feel anything. Just a big wall which might as well be made of stone. But I can see it's magic. Smell it's magic. Fuck, it even tastes like magic. So it's got magic right up its fucking ass. But feeling out its purpose? Well, it's like there's nothing there. Which is impossible."
The elf leaned hard against the wall as she slid to her feet. Felt a stab of pain down her shoulder and arm. Her pinkie finger tingled as she massaged her elbow. The nerve was twitching, but otherwise she felt as good as she was going to get today.
She licked her lips and hobbled toward the large desk. With every step, she felt surprised to feel stronger. Figured it meant she just needed to stretch the pain away. But was still feeling the sting of cuts and bruises as she reached the edge of the desk.
Holding herself against it as a dizzying rush slipped behind her eyes, she took a few quick breaths.
Then dropped into the ancient chair, half-certain it would crack under her weight. It held, giving only a sharp creak of surprise.
Under the thick layer of dust, the desk nursed a plate. Hard lumps of desiccated food lay in the middle of the plate. A fork dropped carelessly beside it.
Goblet lying dry on its side.
A few scraps of brittle paper. A battered helm. Few bits of rubble from the ceiling.
Cobwebs strung themselves over an old candlestick and a thin spider with long legs and narrow back scuttled awkwardly away from her.
Whether it was a latent aura, or something else, she figured the disorder was the result not of recent movements in the ground, but of the final frantic moments spent by the room's former occupants.
"Left in a hurry," she muttered.
"What's that?"
"Whoever was here. Everything is pretty much in its place. Looks like they were eating. All dried up now, but there was food on that plate. And they were reading something. Just scrap now. Reckon they got up and left without taking their helm. Means they weren't thinking straight. Cared more for their skin than their head."
"You reckon this happened to them? Maybe they're part of the wall now?"
"Wouldn't bet against it."
"Fuck." The warlock frowned harder, his brow pushing hard against the bridge of his nose. "I'm liking this less every second. Poor fuckers. It's a bastard of a way to die."
"Better them than us," the elf said quietly. Then swept the dust from the desk and began rummaging through the drawers.
The handle broke off the first one.
She tossed it over her shoulder.
Inside were more papers. Some more preserved than others.
The writing was Caspiellan.
A few gold coins. Accepting that it wasn't stealing if the owners were long dead, she dropped them into one of her pouches.
Everything else was junk.
"What are you looking for?" he asked, still staring out through the rotting drapes.
The elf shrugged.
Slamming the drawer shut, she put her feet up on the desk. Leaned back and clasped her fingers behind her head. Gazed at a few cracks in the wall and noticed an old painting was hidden under dust, almost perfectly blended into the grey stone wall.
It was hung at a crooked angle.
"Nothing, I guess."
The warlock was right.
It wasn't making any sense. Why would something go to such lengths to keep them prisoner? What would they have to gain? The magic needed to raise a wall like that was incredible. She knew enough about magic to realise it would take dozens of mages to raise such a thing.
And why hadn't whoever built the trap come looking for them in the middle of the night? There had been ample opportunity.
But other than the increasingly devastating seismic shifts leading up to the violence unleashed upstairs, the night had been quiet.
Taking a sip from the canteen, the elf felt a small twinge in her shoulder.
It disturbed her to think of the unusually small amount of blood soaked into the rag. She'd been wounded many times. Had more scars than she could count. So, she knew how her body responded to cuts both deep and small.
Flexing her fist, she felt only a creeping sense of numbness down her arm. But it was nothing like the pain that should be shooting down her nerves considering Torak's hook had punctured her shoulder.
Even though her jacket had managed to protect her from the full force, it had still cut deep enough to need more attention than just a dirty rag and a few hours rest.
It was also beginning to dawn on her that perhaps the warlock hadn't healed her after the darkness had drilled into her arm.
Perhaps he'd been telling the truth when he said he hadn't done anything.
With a shudder, she pushed the rising fear away. Knew it was a foolish thing to just ignore the sudden change in how her body healed. But also knew that there was too much emotion surging through her since she'd found her husband with a knife in his chest.
Knew the hurt to her heart had somehow screwed up her ability to think straight.
There was a good chance she was going to die killing Raste. There was no point worrying about anything right now.
She tossed the canteen onto the table and pressed her fingers to her temples. Sighing, she pushed at the ache beneath, trying to knead the tension away.
It felt like one of Torak's hooks was clawing at her brain.
She could taste iron.
And peaches.
Why peaches?
"Nysta? You sure you're okay?"
The warlock was watching her intently. He gripped his grimoire hard and she noticed his fingers were already preparing to open the book.
A thin acrid smell wafted in the air between them like the ghost of a threat.
A threat she chose to ignore, because his eyes held fear.
Fear of her.
Why should he be afraid of her all of a sudden? She had a few ideas.
Casually, the elf dropped her hand to let her thumb hang off A Flaw in the Glass. Just in case.
"I'm fine, Chukshene," she said evenly. "Just thinking is all."
"Anything in particular?"
"There a reason you give a shit what I'm thinking?"
The warlock's gaze was piercing. "I think you know why. That cage your husband had. It had something in it. Something bad. I still don't know if it's there inside you or not. Still don't know if you're who you were yesterday. Because when I see you holding your head like that, it looks like someone else is thinking with your brain. And I feel like pissing myself and I don't know why."
She kept her face impassive, but her mind raced. Cage? He'd called it a cage. Talek had never thought of it in that way.
"I ain't changed, 'lock. Not much, anyway. Was thinking that time heals all wounds is all. Some maybe quicker than others."
"You've had a bad week, Nysta," he said, trying awkwardly to be comforting. He slid his fingers from the pages of his grimoire. Held it in one hand at his side and she couldn't fault the genuine concern which flitted across his face. And something else, too. Guilt, maybe? Whatever it was, it wasn't something the man was used to feeling. "You know, we haven't exactly bonded or anything. And I'm about as good at it as you are. But, if you need to talk about things. You know, about what's happened? I'll listen. What I'm saying, I guess, is that I'll try not to be a fucking asshole about it."
"Obliged for the thought, 'lock," she said. Felt the pain gently throbbing across her shoulder. "But I already vented enough for one day."
***
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