The spellslinger swallowed slowly. “I'm sorry,” he managed to croak. “I didn't mean it. I was just testing some spells. I didn't know you were on the path. Didn't even hear you coming. I swear!”

“You're lucky I believe you, feller,” she said, not moving the blade.

“So, you won't kill me, right?”

She tightened her grip on the handle. Thought for a moment she could feel his pulse through the sharp edge of the blade at his throat. Could smell he hadn't washed for some time.

There was something fragile about him. Like he couldn't defend himself. She grit her teeth and reminded herself that he was a spellslinger. A mage. And the fireball he'd just thrown would have reduced her to ashes had it hit.

“Haven't decided yet,” she said through her teeth. “Any reason I shouldn't?”

“None from me,” he paused. “But my wife? Bree. She might have a few. And my four daughters. Letty, Joan, Jessy and Lissa. Love them all. Lights of my life.”

The elf's eyes narrowed. “You're married.”

“Be six years this week. And my youngest turns three. Tiny little thing. Cutest fucking smile you ever saw. I gotta buy her something. A ribbon, maybe? Pink one? Pink's best, don't you think? Was hoping to be home by now,” he sighed. “But I got lost out here. Anyone ever tell you the Deadlands is a complete shithole? There's no fucking signs! No maps. Nothing. Shit’s all over the place.”

The elf grunted and leaned closer. Her lips almost touched his ear. When she spoke, her voice was a dry rasp. “Tell you something, spellslinger. I'm having a bad day. Yesterday was worse, but let's not think it's gonna get any better tomorrow. Because likely it won't. See, I'm hunting some fellers and it ain't gonna be pretty for them. Plainly put, I'm gonna kill them. As painfully as I can. And there ain't nothing else on my mind right now than that. But don't go thinking that the only hate I have is theirs. Because you gotta know that if there's one thing I can't fucking stand, it's fucking mages,” she angled Entrance Exam so the point tucked sharp under his chin. With a flick of her wrist, used it to turn his head toward the path. “So best you turn around and start walking in the other fucking direction. Better yet, start running. And if I even think you're about to utter a single fucking word from that book of yours, I'll cut you into so many pieces if anyone finds you they ain't gonna know what the fuck you were to begin with. Clear?”

He nodded as much as he could, considering the pressure of the blade under his chin. “Crystal.”

“Good,” she shoved him hard, sending him cartwheeling over the fallen trunk. He landed in the snow with a started squeal. “Now. Piss off.”

Muttering darkly to herself about mages and their cursed magefire, the elf stomped angrily through the snow. Sheathing the blade, she spat a thin globule of saliva at a withered tree before rubbing her hands and shoving them deep into her jacket again. Rolled her shoulders.

Heard him scramble to his feet and snatch his pack.

Then his boots hit the ground fast as he ran.

But not in the other direction. Instead, he ran after her. “Wait!” he cried. “Long-ear!”

She spun, violet eyes flaring. Stabbed a finger toward him as her other hand ripped Go With My Blessing free. Drew her arm back, ready to throw. Her body quivered with emotions she was getting tired of bottling up and the slightest thing was going to flip her lid. “I told you! Piss off! One more fucking step and I'll put this through your skull!”

He threw his arms up, shielding his face. “Please!” The mage was close to weeping as he dropped to his knees. “I don't know where I am. This is the middle of fucking nowhere. All these paths, they go in circles. I'm out of food. I can't go much further. You know the way to the closest town? If you lead me, I can pay you. I'll give you everything I have. Shit, Long-ear, I'd give you my soul if you could take it. Just to a town. I promise. I won't fuck with you. I just want to go home. My darling Nataly, Long-ear. She's waiting for me. Lovely girl. Best wife a man could ask for. Long black hair. Big blue eyes. Please, Long-ear. Please don't make her a widow.”

“You said her name was Bree.”

“Huh?”

“Your wife.”

“Did I?” He looked confused. Then snapped his fingers. “No no no. That was my first wife. Blonde? About this tall? Biggest tits I ever got my hands on. Nataly's my second. Well. Third, maybe? A fucking goddess, I tell you. Things she can do with her mou-”

The elf powered forward, seizing a fistful of robe and swinging him around as though he weighed nothing. He crashed into a tree with a startled yelp and dropped his book. Instinctively tried to snatch it, but froze when she pushed Go With My Blessing against his cheek, the point so close to his eye she figured it wouldn't take much to spear into his brain.

“Please, Long-ear,” he tried to smile but it slipped away as she scowled. “Is this gonna be the story of our friendship? You always putting knives in my face? Look. I'm sorry I lied. Okay? Really sorry. But I need to get out of here. This place is driving me fucking batshit crazy, okay? My wife. Hell, all my wives, whatever their fucking names, will thank you for it. I'll thank you even more. Fuck, I'll thank your fucking brains out if you want. But, please. Help a guy out?”

“Who are you?”

“Me?” He twitched awkwardly in her grasp. “My name's Chukshene if that's what you mean. You think you could let me go, now? My grimoire's getting wet in the snow. And this tree's pressing so hard into my ass it's making me think I've spent my life in the closet, if you get my meaning?”

“You said you had a wife. You lied to me. Why?”

“Are you fucking mental? We're in the middle of the Deadlands. You have knives at my throat. You're pretty much gagging to empty my veins in the snow. Why the fuck would I tell you the truth? Huh? So I lied about having a wife. Thought it'd stop you sawing my head off. Worked, didn't it?”

“And kids.”

“I said that? Oh. Yeah, and kids. Fuck kids. Never wanted them. All that screaming and shitting and throwing up on my robes. Look at these robes. I fucking studied my ass off for ten fucking years for these robes. Think I want some shitty rugrat vomiting all over them? Look, Long-ear. Whatever I said, I take it all back. But the truth – Grim's honest truth – is that I just spent six months going around in circles in this place. I'm out of food. I'm out of water. Shit, I'm out of fucking ideas. I need you, Long-ear. You're the first living thing I've seen in weeks and the last one tried to kill me, too. But you can get me out of here, I bet. So, please. Go where you're going. I won't stop you. I won't get in your way. But, please. Let me follow. Just to the next town. Did I tell you I have a mother? She'll be worrying about me. And she's old. She needs me. No?” He licked his lips. “Not falling for that one, huh? Well. I do have a mother, you know. Just don't know where she is.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The elf stared at him, her eyes drilling into his.

Her mind turned over his request. Her first thought was to stab him repeatedly and move on. But there was… Something. Something stopping her. Like a whisper from her dead husband who’d always believed in helping those in need.

And the mage, despite his lies, looked in need.

Finally she gave a snarl and flung him aside one more time. He scrambled for his grimoire and hugged it tight, brushing snow from its cover.

“You can follow,” she growled. “But only to Spikewrist. Then you're on your own. And you get in my way, I'll kill you.”

“Deal!” he cried, shoving out his hand.

She looked at it. Thought about cutting it off. Then turned away and moved quickly down the path.

He looked down at his hand for a moment and frowned. Spat into his palm and wiped it on his robe. “It's not that dirty,” he muttered. “Hey! Long-ear! Wait up!”

“I didn't say I'd walk with you,” she said. “Just meant I wouldn't kill you for following. You keep up. Or you fall behind. Your choice.”

Hitching his robe, the mage ran after her. His knees lifted a little too high and he looked like a crippled spider. Stumbled more than once. “Fucking robes,” he moaned. “Wear the robes, I thought. Look the part. Get respect. Who the fuck was I kidding? Out here, even the rocks don't give a shit. The fuck was I thinking? Can't run in a dress.”

The elf ignored him, still unsure why she didn't just stab him in the eye and leave it at that.

She'd never understood humans. Especially Grim's favourite breed, the Fnords.

They said a lot of things their brains didn't think.

The elf walked for the most part in silence, ignoring the mumbling spellslinger. He attempted to engage her a few times in conversation, but soon gave up when she ignored him completely.

Instead, she kept a relentless pace, pausing only to kneel beside partial tracks in the ground in hope of picking up the trail of Talek's killers.

To her disappointment she found nothing all morning, but comforted herself with the belief the riders had wandered off the path. The way the trees formed cryptic aisles, it often looked like the path forked when it didn't. They may have taken one such clearing, mistaking it for a path. As the mage behind her had proven, newcomers to the Deadlands could easily get lost.

She'd managed to ignore him for most of the day, but toward late afternoon, the spellslinger began muttering to himself. A constant background drone which soon made her clench her jaw in annoyance. It seemed the man was unable to keep his thoughts unspoken.

He rambled on until the sun was a greasy stain leaking through the charcoal clouds on the far horizon and she couldn't keep quiet any longer. “If you keep flapping your jaw, spellslinger, you'll talk yourself to death.”

“Huh?” he scratched at his stubbled chin. “Never heard of that happening.”

She tapped the hilt of Entrance Exam. “Trust me. It can.”

“Oh.” He pursed his lips nervously and managed to be silent for about five steps. “You know, you're not the most comforting of travelling companions. I've met more talkative orks. Also met friendlier trolls. Ever spent time with a troll? Sour bastards at the best of times. Travelled with one, once. He said three words to me the whole day, but at least they were helpful. Don't step there, he said. Saved me getting ogreshit on my boots.”

“We ain't companions. Of any kind.”

“Well. I won't call you that again, then,” he said. “But it doesn't hurt to be polite. Like, I told you my name. What about telling me yours?”

“It important?”

“Not really.”

“Then fuck off.”

“Well. That's a start. But, let's say it is important. I mean, if I see, for example, a bunch of ruffians hiding behind some bushes up ahead of us, what am I supposed to say? By the time I figured out what to call you, they'd have arrows in our heads. And if a tree falls on you, what will I write on your marker?”

“I wouldn't need a marker.”

“And I guess I wouldn't make you one. Probably wouldn't even bury you to tell the truth. Too much effort. But, in theory, what would I write on it? Scar-Faced Bitch doesn't quite do you justice no matter how apt it is.”

“You don't want to make it to town alive, do you?”

“When we get there and I'm introducing you to all my new friends, who do I say you are? Some chick I picked up on the way?”

A part of her flared at the subtle reminder of a way of life she was still trying to forget. “I tell you my name,” she growled. “Will you shut the fuck up?”

“Probably not,” he shrugged. “See? At least I tell you the truth.”

“Nysta.”

“Nysta?”

“I'm not about to repeat it.”

“That means edge in elfish, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” she scrubbed at the scar on her cheek. “You got me on that.”

“How far is it to town?”

“Day and a half, maybe.”

“Day and a half,” he swirled the idea around thoughtfully. “What did you call this town again?”

“Spikewrist.”

“Spikewrist?”

“You gonna repeat everything I say, Chukshene?”

“Maybe,” he said airily. “I'm not a complicated man.”

Nysta dug her hands as far as she could into her pockets. One hand found Talek's box hidden within, and her fingers explored the texture of the wood. It felt cold to touch. Too cold. Like she was holding a solid block of ice.

She felt a need to keep it hidden from the spellslinger.

But another part of her wanted to pull it out. Look at it. Try opening it.

See what was inside.

She licked her lips.

The part of her that won was that which mourned him and refused to do more than carry it for him. She kept it hidden. Kept it close. And did nothing.

“What'd they do?”

His question ran around inside her head like a goblin in a beer barrel. She blinked, clearing the fog. “What?”

“These guys you're hunting. What'd they do? Steal something? Call you names? Rape your dog?”

“They killed someone.”

“Who?”

The elf looked away, shivering as a ribbon of cold air pushed through her cloak and whispered through her jacket. “My husband.”

“Really?” he paused. Frowned. “I mean, you're married? No offence, but you don't look the type.”

“Figured you out, Chukshene.”

“Huh?”

“You're an asshole,” she growled, picking up her pace.

He skipped to catch up. “Might be right,” he shrugged. “But to be fair to me, you don't exactly come off as one of the world's most loving types. I mean, look at you. Ugly as a chicken's ass. Smelly black fucking leather, and more knives than the Royal Kitchen. What do you need that many for? Or you just lose all your forks and spoons? You know, I have a knife, too. I use it to cut cheese.”

“Thought you smelled funny,” she muttered, scratching at the palm of her hand.

“Huh? Smelled funny?” he sniffed at his armpit. Winced. “So I haven't washed lately. So what? It's too fucking cold. Last creek I found was half frozen. Really. Had to chip out a chunk of ice just to wet my mouth. Couldn't drink more than a sip because it nearly froze my tongue off! You think I'm going to bathe in water that fucking cold? Anyway. That's my excuse for smelling like a troll's nutsack. What's yours?”

The elf ignored him as she noticed a flicker of movement through the trees. Draped her hand lightly over the jutting hilt of Entrance Exam.

“What is it?” he asked softly, his tone quickly switching to something more serious.

“Not sure, yet.”

Chukshene patted his gut and peered hopefully through the trees. “Hope it's edible. I haven't eaten in days. Hey, you don't have any food in those pouches of yours, do you?”

Her own stomach growled. She fingered the knife's slim hilt. Ready to jerk it free and send it spinning end over end into flesh. His, she thought, if he didn't shut the fuck up. “Be quiet, spellslinger.”

“I am being quiet,” he hugged his book closer and shifted his pack. He shivered nervously as she led the way through the tangled path. Stopped sharply as she crouched, head cocked. Watched her intently as she listened to sounds he couldn't hear. Wet his chapped lips with his tongue. “But I should let you know, if I don't talk I think I'll piss my pants.”

The elf held up a hand for silence, but not before glancing at him. Her violet eyes glittered in the fading light. “Zip it, Chukshene. This ain't the time for your wee problems.”