Nysta kept her troubled thoughts to herself as they rode the knotted paths toward Spikewrist. The lifeless trees huddled in thick walls on either side and she was often reminded of the tight alleys of Lostlight.

The familiar dead and claustrophobia made the space between her shoulders itch. Enough so that, despite her thirst to catch Raste and his men, she forced herself to slow her pace further.

There was a chance she would lose them if they passed the town before she did. Also a chance they'd fall to whatever evil had taken residence there which would rob her of her revenge.

But the elf wasn’t crazed enough to rush into a nest of unfamiliar demons without some caution.

In the Deadlands, encounters with demons were expected. There was no doubt in her mind that the ork had seen one or two in his time. Demons were drawn here by the decaying energies left by the magics unleashed by the warring gods.

It was thought they fed on it.

But something about the breed which infested Spikewrist had unsettled the ork. And she knew from experience that not much unsettled an ork.

To hear an entire town might have fallen to demons wasn't something she would take lightly, but it still seemed unlikely. Demons preferred to hunt alone. They were savage by nature, and unwilling to share their kill. Whatever could force them to congregate would have to be powerful.

Or it could be that whatever waited in Spikewrist was something else.

And anything else was always bound to end up being worse.

She turned her mind back to Raste, summoning an image of him in her mind. His youthful face and red hair. Arrogant strut. His clothes of the finest make. While she’d lived alone on the streets, he’d lived a life of luxury.

Her teeth ground hard against each other and her fist absently gripped the hilt of A Flaw in the Glass.

Why had he come all this way to kill Talek?

Spite?

She wouldn't put it past him.

The fact there were nine of them made sense and she wondered if the stories were true. Snarled at the small flicker of fear which uncoiled inside her as she thought of their reputation. Knew it would be well-deserved, too.

The Bloody Nine.

A violent splinter in the ass of the Musa'Jadean. Trained by the most lethal assassins ever known, the Jukkala'Jadean.

She knew he'd risen in their ranks years ago. It figured. He always was a slippery motherfucker, she thought. His name, too, made it easy for him to climb greasy poles and she had no doubt it had been his intention to rise to the top of the Musa'Jadean.

Nysta found herself gnawing more and more on the skin inside her cheek as they squeezed along the cramped path. While not as efficient as the Jukkala, the Nine had earned a reputation for brutal combat.

Grudgingly, she admitted to the rumours he was supposed to be good with a knife.

His viciousness was a reputation Raste had taken one step further with the massacre at Logen's Run. A massacre where unspeakable and perverse acts had horrified even the most depraved of Lostlight’s elite.

In the resulting scandal, the Musa'Jadean had tried hiding his name. A favour to his father, no doubt. But she'd always known it was him.

She wondered, for the first time, if she shouldn't just turn back.

Let it go.

Talek would understand. He might even consider it a positive sign of her growth.

“You sure you want to go there at night?” the spellslinger asked suddenly, breaking her thoughts.

“Demons are hunters of men,” she said with a light nod of her head. “Means they're only active when their prey is. Usually not awake much at night no matter what old wives say.”

The spellslinger threw her an odd look. “Usually? That's quite a fucking leap of faith,” he said carefully. “I can tell you know fuck all about demons. That they sleep at night like everyone else? That's your hope?”

“It's what I'm going with,” she confirmed. “Unless you got a better idea? Always willing to learn.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. Then shrugged instead. “I ain't got shit.”

“Guess there's nothing in your book that'll help, either?”

“Here and there,” he said. He was being evasive, she thought. But in the Deadlands that didn’t mean much. Everyone was evasive. “Question is more how much time I get to cast. Some spells take time. More time than I think I'll get. I'm still not fast enough to cast like a master. Sorry.”

The elf said nothing. Uncomfortable as she was with mages, she pushed her feelings aside to save for when she'd need them. For now, she was willing to accept she might need him and, unproven as he was, he was all she had. Grimly, she set her jaw and told herself that to kill Raste, she'd use Rule himself.

The trees suddenly gave way as though a line had been drawn in the land. Chukshene breathed a sigh, relieved to be free of the ghastly embrace of the forest. The horses, too, seemed less skittish and took to the widening path with lighter steps.

“Glad to be out of that,” Chukshene said, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension.

“Keep your eyes open, spellslinger,” she said softly. “Ain't much in the trees could hurt you, but out here, there's plenty.”

“Thanks,” he winced. “Just what I need. More shit to be afraid of. Like I didn't have enough.”

“You're welcome.”

They rode over a steep, but small hill shaped like a squatting spider. The path zigzagged over its back and angled sharply down onto a wide plain where only a few splintered trunks remained to show it had once been a forest as thick as the one they abruptly emerged from.

Slapped down into the middle of the plain, the town of Spikewrist was little more than a scattering of small buildings huddled together for warmth inside a tall stone wall.

A few small farms dotted the land around it, though they looked deserted.

A wide gatehouse swallowed the path and the elf could see even from this distance that the gates were open.

Not a good sign.

Uneven and littered with steep hills and gullies, the ground was the same ashen colour as much of the Deadlands. Snow sprawled in ghostly clumps across the plain. Dry twigs stuck up from between many rocks but if there had ever been anything alive out here, it'd long since died and turned to dust.

There were, she figured, many places to hide in the trenches carved into the plain. Like scars criss-crossing an already wounded face, the narrow channels had been dug by armies long since dead and each line closer to the old ruined fort which formed the bones of the town had no doubt been carved at great cost in blood.

Scanning them with narrow eyes, the elf could almost feel the ghosts which surely haunted this place and wondered if perhaps they had tired of huddling in the damp ditches and sought the relative warmth of the town.

Wondered, too, if anything alive was waiting for them to pass. She half expected an army to rise up from the trenches and charge toward them.

Quickly dismissed the thought as a fear-driven fancy, confidant that whatever waited for them was inside the walls rather than hidden in the treacherous landscape surrounding them.

Her eyes swept further across the gloom-drenched land, searching for proof of the nine she was hunting, but saw no signs of life.

No tracks. No trees.

Just grey stone, dark mud, and white snow as far as she could see.

“Doesn't look inviting,” the spellslinger said. “You know, even if I hadn't been told demons were running amok inside that place, I still wouldn't want to go there. Looks like a trollish whorehouse. Can't we go around? You really think those bastards you're chasing are stupid enough to go inside? And who are they, anyway? What did you mean when you called them the Bloody Nine? Is that some kind of gang name? We get gangs in Doom's Reach, too.”

“Ain’t a gang. Were a Jadean. Musa'Jadean. A guild of warriors. The Bloody Nine are led by a feller named Raste. He took them to fame, fortune, and the King's favour. All that bullshit. But favours change, and all it takes is one mistake. The Nine made theirs when they butchered a town down to the last child in ways even the Jukkala were revolted by. Town wasn't even Caspiellan. Some of the kids were elfs. The Musa'Jadean expelled them. Jutta would've put a price on their heads. But Raste's family is powerful. Reckon that's why the king settled on exile instead. It was a long time ago,” she spat irritably at a skull half-buried in the ground. “Figured they'd gone their own way. Disappeared up north or something. Seems they stayed together. Or, could be Raste just kept the name. Likes to make an impression, does Raste.”

“If not soldiers, then what are they now? Or don't I want to know?”

The elf shrugged. “Bandits? Mercenaries? Who gives a fuck? Just another pack of vicious bastards roaming the Deadlands. Plenty more fellers like them out here. They're nothing special.”

“Nothing special,” he echoed, obviously not believing her words any more than she believed herself. “Since when do a bunch of mean bastards responsible for a massacre translate into nothing special?”

“Relax, Chukshene,” she said tightly, kicking the mare forward. It responded with a sullen lurch. “I'm a whole lot meaner.”

They rode side by side down the path. While she didn't believe the Bloody Nine would be stupid enough to enter the town, there was enough of a possibility they had.

They'd need fresh supplies. That they'd taken one of her goats was sign of how low they must have been. And, out here, there wasn't much else to eat unless you figured on eating each other.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself it was also very possible they hadn't survived. That they were already dead. If not by whatever haunted the town, then by any number of savage creatures which roamed the land. A group of nine could attract all kinds of hungry evil out here.

Rage trickled through her veins like mercury through water at the thought of being cheated of her vengeance. She would have to live her life feeling she'd failed Talek.

Again.

Her jaw steeled. If they'd entered the town and whatever was in it had killed Raste and his band of murderers, then she swore she'd kill every last demon in the place.

Kill everything in the Deadlands.

Still smouldering in hate, she didn't notice the mage growing more and more disturbed until he started muttering to himself and flicking through the pages of his grimoire. She glanced at him as he held his hand up toward the town, feeling it out.

She'd seen enough of magecraft to know what he was doing. Scrying, they called it. Tasting the air.

An acrid smell wafted on the frozen wind and the elf wrinkled her nose. The smell of magic. Her guts twisted as the stench of it made her think of Talek's shattered body and she fought her instinct to pull a knife. Wrench his head back and slit his throat.

The spray of blood, she snarled inwardly, would be most satisfying.

Tearing her gaze away, the elf returned to staring at the town drifting closer. Its walls were blackened as though smeared with smoke. But she couldn't see any evidence of a fire. It was as if the walls were stained with something darker than shadows.

She didn't like it.

Her fingers dug deep into her pocket and wrapped around Talek's box. She was getting used to the feel of it nestled in the warmth of her jacket and there was something vaguely comforting in its presence. As though Talek was with her in some small way.

The icy coldness of it felt strange between her fingertips, but it didn't feel the same as the icy coldness of the wind gnashing at her cheeks. It was more fresh. Somehow a little more crisp.

One fingertip found a light groove in the wood. The alien runes. She traced them absently, her mind drifting like the snow peppering the air.

Her thumb pressed against one of the iron straps.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Softly, almost tentatively, Talek's box pulsed.

Shocked, the elf froze and her horse breathed a soft whinny as it felt her sudden shift in mood. Her heart raced as she remembered how the box had felt before. And now, in her fingers, it was growing colder again. Colder than ice. Perhaps cold enough to burn her skin.

It pulsed one more time.

Possessed with the sudden urge to pull it free and break it open, she scrambled to drag it free from her pocket. Her mouth opened and her brain, though it screamed at her to leave the box where it was, fumbled for an explanation as to what was happening.

“There's something wrong,” Chukshene said sharply, shattering everything.

The elf froze, her heart stopping. “What?”

“The town,” he jerked his head toward the stained walls. “I'm not sure, but there's something wrong. Very wrong. It doesn't feel right.”

Shaking her head to clear the fog from her mind, the elf let go of the box and slid her hand from her pocket and rested it on her thigh. “Yeah, well. It wouldn't feel right. It's full of demons. They ain't known for feeling right.”

“That's just it,” he said quietly. “I have to tell you something, Long-ear. I've been lying my ass off to you since we met. Told you I'm not much of a mage. That's true. I'm shit at it. I came out here to study, and I don't mean fireballs. That was an accident. See? You do get a little truth from me sometimes. I came here because it's said this place is cursed. That there's more demons here than anywhere else in the world. So, who'd notice if someone summoned a few more, right?”

She halted her mount and glared at him. Her mouth was dry and a suspicion spiralled between her shoulders like a length of razorwire. “What the fuck are you talking about, Chukshene?”

“What do you know about magic?”

“Enough to know spellslingers are liars, assholes, and worse.”

“True enough,” he allowed. “But there are many schools of magic. Magecraft, of course, is commonly accepted. And who'd argue with someone who could melt your face off? Among the Fnords, there's more mages than anything else. They're the majority of spellcasters, if you like. They're more powerful than most. They're the cream. Caspiellans have more clerics than mages. Maybe a few wizards. We don't get many clerics because magic is god-aspected for the most part, and Grim was never much for healing. Our Dark Lord was always more cheerful around death. So we got Deathpriests instead.”

The elf shuddered at the thought of Deathpriests. She'd met one when she was young and had no wish to meet another. “What are you trying to say, Chukshene? You ain't a Deathpriest,” she said firmly. “I know that much.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I'm not. My skin's too pretty for starters. But there's other schools, too. Not so well-liked. In fact, we're hated. Even the Dark Lord hunted us down and killed us. Our magic is considered so foul that it's the only thing Grim and Rule ever agreed on. To be honest, it scares the fucking shit out of me. I'm a warlock, Nysta. Demon-aspected. So, while I know fuck all about magefire, I know about demons. And that town out there? Nysta, Rockjaw said there were demons in it. Well, I'm telling you there aren't any in there at all. There's none around for fucking days. Hardly any left in the Deadlands right now. I should know. I've hunted three of them already. Left the last one spread halfway up a mountain.”

Her eyes drilled into his. “This the truth, Chukshene? Or are you fucking with me again?”

“It's the truth,” he said. “And maybe you can see why I didn't tell you. If just one wrong person knows what I am, I can look forward to being burnt on a fucking stake somewhere.”

“Not a good way to die,” the elf allowed, her nostrils remembering the smell of Talek's burning flesh.

“No, it's not.” He turned toward the town and shook his head anxiously. “Whatever's in there, it's bad. I can feel that much. I mean, the hairs on my ass are standing up and my balls are shaking. But it's not a demon. I don't know what it is. And not knowing is making me want to piss my pants.”

“This warlock thing? It make you more dangerous than you look?”

His lips parted into a grim smile. “I know what I look like, Long-ear. I can guess what you think of me, too. But there's more to magic than magefire and there's a reason the gods didn't like us much.”

“There better be,” she snorted, leading them forward again. “I ain't carrying your ass.”

The spellslinger lifted his hand and spoke a word of power. Light flared. A bright pale orb with a sickly yellow glow. It hovered at his shoulder and he beckoned it closer so it hung over his book. “I can look after myself,” he said. “I might not know my way around these parts, but I've been around. And I'm still alive. Just didn't want to do anything in case you knew enough about magic to know I wasn't a normal mage. In case you knew I was a warlock and figured you'd prefer to cut my throat than let me live.”

“It could still happen,” she said lightly, her lip curling crookedly up toward the scar.

The elf allowed his revelation to sink in as she led the way up the crooked path. As far as she was concerned, she'd never much thought about the differences between spellslingers. Cleric or mage, they were all the same in her mind.

Still unsure if she could trust anything he said, she was prepared to accept he was what he said he was and, oddly, it settled a little more comfortably on her shoulders.

Now he seemed less like the Caspiellan mage who'd waded through the palace kicking up death and spewing fireballs into Talek's screaming body. She rubbed at her scar, feeling the rough edge of it. Could almost taste the steel which had stuck clean through her cheek.

As they rode, she listened to the buzz of Chukshene's mumbling as he flipped through his grimoire. What he was looking for, she didn't know. Glancing at him, she admitted the man who seemed so clumsy and useless suddenly looked capable of something more.

It was an odd moment, and she crossed her arms over her thighs as she leaned across the mare's neck to peer into the scratchings of light across the horizon.

Long shadows poured from the town like ghostly fingers. Night was fast approaching and she felt a buzz of disappointment at the thought. The day had gone by too quickly with no sign of Raste.

Unable to visually penetrate the shadows of the town, the elf wondered what really lay inside. Whatever it was, she didn't feel it was going to be pleasant.

It would be mean. It would have to be mean to live in the Deadlands.

And tough.

Again, she glanced at the spellslinger. Frowned. A quicksilver part of her had been screaming to kill him since they'd met. She'd almost been hoping he'd give her an excuse.

But now he was like her. An outcast among his own kind. Something which didn't fit into the world any more than she did.

The impulsive need to kill him had retreated to a dull hum.

She wasn’t sure if trusting him was a good thing. Also wasn’t sure she had much choice.

She grunted, turning her gaze back to the haunted town in hope it would suddenly reveal its secrets.

The warlock looked up from his grimoire. His expression suddenly curious. “You know, I expected more,” he said. “I've only told a handful of people before. And they all looked like they wanted to run away. Frankly, I'm a bit fucking disappointed. And a little worried.”

“Worried?”

“Maybe you're waiting for me to turn my back? Maybe then you'll shove a blade between my shoulders?”

“I ain't afraid of you,” she snorted. “If I was going to kill you, Chukshene, I'd stab you in the eye to see your expression. Spit in your face, too.”

“Thanks,” he said drily. “I appreciate that.”

“You're welcome,” the elf yawned. Ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the knotted scraps of cloth brush against her palm. “You like the Deadlands, Chukshene?”

“Like it? How could I? Fucking place is a shithole.”

“I like it,” she said. “Know why?”

“Why?”

“My father was one of Jutta's advisors. Maybe not the most important, but big enough so I had everything I ever wanted when I was a kid. I still remember this dress I had. Red. With peaches on it. Might surprise you, but when I was that young, I thought a lot about dresses. But everything eventually falls to shit, right? My world fell to shit when my mother died. Was a convenient time for my father. Maybe too convenient, I'm thinking. One of Jutta's cousins had reached an age, and the King was looking for someone to marry her off to. He felt sorry for my father. Figured a nice young bride would cheer him up. Did, too. Know why, 'lock?”

He gave a start at being called 'lock, but let it pass. “I don't think you mean what I'd be thinking, so not really. I suspect you're talking politics, and I don't know much about that. If I did, I wouldn't be out here gutting demons to see how they work. I'd be back in Doom's Reach whispering into some nobleman's empty head and fucking his daughter. Daughters, if I'm lucky.”

“Means he was a bigger shit than the shit he was before. Wormed his way into the King's Inner Council. Became a Duke. Got his own Hold. Talked about starting his own guild. Big things,” she spat bitterly. “But his new wife didn't like me much. Feeling was mutual. So, my father found a solution. Easy one, too. One night, he tossed me out onto the street.”

“Bullshit,” the spellslinger blinked. “How old were you?”

“I was seven. In human years, that's young. In elf years, I'd barely been born. But my father had a reputation for ruthlessness,” her eyes glazed as she remembered the coldness of the streets. “Earned it, too. Let me keep my dress, though. Which is maybe why I didn't die that first night. Snowed more that night than it had in fifteen years, they say.”

“No wonder you're fucked up.”

“Grew up on the streets of Lostlight, 'lock. Where a lot of people knew me. Knew my name. Knew where I came from. What I was forced to become. Some men liked that,” she drew her lips back into a disgusted grimace as Chukshene tried to comprehend the weight of her words. “Yeah, 'lock. I survived by doing what I had to do. It wasn't pleasant, but the streets of Lostlight aren't known for being pleasant. Fact is, they'd make a goblin's pisshole look clean and pure.”

“We all do things we despise ourselves for,” Chukshene said slowly. “Things we have to do. To survive. There's no shame in that.”

“Maybe not. But it got to me. And all the hate I had for him. My father. It boiled and boiled for years. And then, one night, I was kneeling in an alley with a nobleman's cock in my mouth and I realised what it was I wanted.”

The warlock blinked, shifting on his horse as he tried to picture her as a back alley whore and just couldn't do it. “What?”

“Wanted to let it out. All the hate. The rage. Just let it out. And it was easy. So fucking easy. I had a knife. Well. Not so much a knife as a shiv. Just a street urchin's tool. Hardly good for cutting paper, let alone skin. But it cut him. Cut him deep, the fucker. The gutters of that alley ran red. He bled so much, I couldn't believe it. I can still feel the slickness of his blood,” she held up her fist, squeezing as she remembered. Could almost hear the wet sound of it pushing out through her fingers. “And it felt good. So good just to let it out. He begged me to stop. But I didn't. Kept stabbing him until there was no more blood left in him. Why should I stop? No one ever stopped when I asked them to. Talek found me there. At first he thought to kill me. I'd just killed a nobleman. A minor Baron, as it turned out. By law, I deserved death. And I accepted that as a fair price to pay. It was Talek's duty to end my life. But he recognised me. Knew me. Said later he pitied me and wanted to give me a chance at something more. So he took me to some friends of his. And they taught me to let that hate run like a fucking river.”

“It sounds more like he used you,” Chukshene said cautiously. “I've seen it before. Take you from a bad situation and train you up into something they can use. A tool.”

Her eyes burned and her heart clenched fiercely. “Used me?” The elf twisted her mouth hard up toward the scar. “Of course he did! Why wouldn't he? But that was the first lesson I'd learnt on the street, 'lock. That there's fuck all in this world that's free. Somehow, everyone gets used. That's the price, and I gladly paid it because I was the richer. I got what I wanted.”

“A home?”

“To be free. Free of the names they called me. The spit they spat on me. The cum they shovelled into me. I was free, 'lock. You don't have any idea how that felt. For years I'd hidden in alleys. Snuck around taverns hoping to get lost in the shadows. Lost all shame. All pride. Swallowed it up in a river of fear and self-disgust. Talek set me free. More than that, he saw me as something more than just a place to wet his cock,” she closed her eyes, allowing the horse to lead itself. “He did his best to help me forget what I'd done on the streets. But no matter how high you rise, you can't run from what you are. In Lostlight, I was never completely free of my past. Many men who'd bought me worked in the highest offices of the King. I was always afraid they would recognise me if I lowered my hood. Afraid of what they would say. Words, 'lock. I was afraid of words!”

“I'm a mage, of sorts,” he said softly. “I know the power of words.”

“That is different,” Nysta's said with an angry shake of her head. “I ain't so fragile their words could hurt me. Didn't much give a shit what they said to me. But for him. For Talek. It would've hurt him, though he'd never admit it. They'd have judged him because of me. Because I weren't good enough. But no one judges you out here. They wouldn't dare. Here, I am unleashed. Ain't nothing to be afraid of. No need to hold my tongue. No need to keep my blades sheathed for fear of offending one of the guilds. I'm fucking free! I love it here, Chukshene. Finally, I'm home.”

“It's never that easy, though,” the spellslinger said, refusing to meet her gaze. He picked his words carefully, and she wondered what he was afraid of. Guessed he didn't want to risk offending her for fear of getting a knife to the throat. He touched his lips with his tongue before continuing. “I tried that, too. Running away. Looking for trouble to ease the pain. But you'll wear out all your blades right up to their handles and still never find the release you're looking for. Know why?”

“Guess you're gonna tell me,” she said, feeling the rush of emotion slide away like sludge down a waterpipe.

“Because you've got a river inside you, like you said. A river of hate. And you'll never be able to hold it back no matter how hard you force yourself to become. You've got to take control, Nysta. Turn the river. Direct it where you want it to go. Don't let it lead you,” his voice sounded awkward, as though he wasn't used to motivating anyone. She wanted to tell him to shut his face, but her protests shriveled in her throat. “There's a whole world outside the Deadlands. A world which is changing. Grim has fallen. His body sealed in the core of the world by Rule, who even now prepares his armies to sweep across the Wall and into the north to wipe us out. He'll drive us all, Fnords, Orks and Elfs, right up to the icy wastes. He'll break us on the glaciers. All who refuse to bow will be destroyed. And the Dark Lord is no longer here to stop him. We are alone. We face the wrath of a god. You understand what that means, Nysta?”

She struggled to see what he was getting at. “What's that?”

“Means there's still so many people out there who need you. The Grey Jackets. Black Blades. Starswords. Mages. Clerics. Even a few Green Arms. Every last motherfucking Caspiellan in the world. Who knows? Even a King? Or four. All of them. They need you more than ever. Right now.”

Shooting him a suspicious look, her hand fisted around A Flaw in the Glass. “Should tell you, Chukshene. If you're recruiting for Rule, I'll kill you slow. There ain't a fucking thing in this world I'd do for a Caspiellan short of ventilating them with a blade.”

“For them?” he grinned, and surprised her with the nastiness of the expression. “Not for them, you fool. To them! Imagine that, Long-ear. Hundreds. Thousands. Maybe millions of Caspiellans. All needing you to kill them. Think of the crime you commit by denying them the honour of falling beneath your blades while you wallow in self-pity out here in the fucking Deadlands. You could do so much more. Be so much more.”

A chill swept down her spine as he spoke and her violet eyes glinted. There was a note of urgency in his voice which disturbed her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why do you think I'm here? To piss all over this blasted place? I'm here to practice. To master my art. So I can kill Capiellans. The Dark Lord may have protected us from them. But he's not here anymore. We need everything if we're going to survive. We can't fall apart. Not now. Lostlight won't last forever. There's still time.”

The elf waved a hand dismissively. “Lostlight has already fallen. Weren't no need for Rule to lift a finger. The clans fight among themselves like ferrets in a beer barrel. And if it's happening here, then it's happening all over the land. Fnords will fight Fnords for power to fill the hole left by the Dark Lord. And Rule will sit back and laugh at us.”

“Perhaps. It's true it'll take a strong hand to unite the north again. A hand almost as strong as Grim's. And that hand will need help. Think about it, Nysta. You could spend your life sucking on shit out here in the middle of nowhere, or maybe you could do something a bit fucking useful. Think of it as a chance. And take it,” he finally met her gaze. “Or leave it and die pointlessly. Your choice.”

“I'm sick of being used,” she growled. “By anyone. That time is past. I ain't out here looking to find a cause, 'lock. Just to kill the Bloody Nine.”

“And then what?”

“I ain't a fortune teller.”

“Then think about it. Because when that last bastard dies on your knife, you're gonna feel empty. Vengeance isn't very filling, no matter what they say. And I think you know that already. It'll leave you hungry. Hungry for something else to fill the void. Think about what I'm offeri-” He broke off suddenly as a black shape tumbled through the gates of Spikewrist. It moved awkwardly and was followed by a handful of equally graceless shapes. “What the fuck is that?”

The elf's eyes narrowed to slits and she lifted her head, peering through the evening light and slender curtains of snow.

Could see it was a man, big and round. So big he was almost rolling down the road rather than running. Could tell he wasn't going to make it very far if he kept running as he was.

Fear was all that was keeping him going, but it wouldn't count for much if his own body couldn't keep up with his horror.

He looked over his shoulder and screamed, visibly pushing himself desperately up the road.

His pursuers moved in a jerky manner, but looked determined to catch him. She couldn't make out anything of their features except their eyes. Large black circles which looked to suck in the light and spit out the shadows.

“Guess it looks like something you were about to offer me,” she told the spellslinger, kicking her heels to send her horse lurching forward. Her fingers itched and her heart thudded in expectation of explosive violence.

He screwed his face up, trying to make out her meaning. “Huh?”

Glancing over her shoulder, the elf drawled; “A fat chance.”