Fenis.
Torak. Neckless.
The Twins.
Spirik.
Six of the Bloody Nine were already dead. Four to her blade. But none had died with any real satisfaction. None had put up a fight. And it was the fight she craved. The bloody pummeling of their bodies. The thrill of cutting them to ribbons while spitting her hate in their faces.
Revenge, she knew, wasn't meant to be easy.
She needed Raste.
Needed him dead.
But she was close now. So close she could almost smell him.
A Flaw in the Glass and Entrance Exam in her fists, the elf's face twisted in fury as she sprinted down the street. There were three steps leading up the porch. There might as well have been none.
Her shoulder blades rippled as something felt like it walked across her back, but the hate screaming in her veins kept her mind firmly focused on the heavy doors barring her way.
With a shriek of rage, she smashed her boot hard into the door. The vibration thundered up her leg as the lock shattered and door exploded inward. The kick had perhaps been overkill, and she found herself losing her footing as she tumbled through the doorway into the open bar.
It was nicely decked out, she thought. Warm. Inviting.
A large barrel on tap behind the immaculately polished bar.
Small tables.
Plenty of stools.
The kind of place she could get comfortably drunk in.
And a quick casual count gave about twenty Grey Jackets.
Each wore the same expression of surprise and fanaticism. An expression that froze her in place, A Flaw in the Glass burning venomously in her hand.
Ugly bastards, she thought ruefully. The lot of them. Their strange short ears looked out of place. Worse, even, than Chukshene's. And their crazed religious beliefs regarding the cleanliness of their souls hadn't quite carried through to the cleanliness of their bodies. She wondered how Rule put up with it as the sour stink of unwashed bodies made her draw her lips back into a mirthless smile of disgust.
She figured they'd assembled here to escape the rampaging demon outside.
Made a quick recount of closer to thirty as a few heads popped up from the back and suddenly felt a little less sure of herself.
Nothing moved.
No one blinked.
Didn't even breathe.
The silence in the room was so thick she figured with a flick of her wrist she could cut it.
Turning the corner of her mouth up into a cruel curl, she spun Entrance Exam into a reverse grip as the soldiers just as slowly drew an impressive assortment of daggers, swords and hatchets from their belts.
"Looking for a few fellers," she announced, injecting more confidence into her voice than she felt. "Red-haired cunt. About my height. Looks like a troll's asshole? Goes by the name of Raste. Two other sons of bitches are probably sucking on his balls. One with more hairs in his nose than on his nuts and the other with an axe too big for him. Any of you short-eared motherfuckers gonna tell me where they're at? Or we have do this the hard way?"
"Abomination," spat someone from the back. "Tainted blood."
"Hard way it is, then." She scratched the palm of her hand. Swept her gaze over the cautious men. "So. Who's it gonna be? Who's gonna be the first to die? You? Or you? Come on. Who's got the biggest balls in the room?"
No one answered.
One looked nervously at his friend for support, twitching as her eyes skipped over him.
A few shared looks of surprise.
Confusion.
Then outrage began to bubble to the surface as her words penetrated their surprise.
But before they could make the first move, patience slid from her grasp like a thrashing eel.
"Ah, fuck it," she growled.
And sprang at them, blades flicking out. Entrance Exam shot from her grasp to drill through eye, bone, then brain as the closest soldier dropped screaming in front of her. She was already drawing Go With My Blessing by the time A Flaw in the Glass was slashing the throat of the next.
To many thugs who clawed a living on the streets of Lostlight, knife fighting was an art form. Often, they fought duels to first blood. Second blood. Death, sometimes.
The greatest duelists were feared and revered at the same time. Poems were written about them. She'd grown up with those poems in her ears and the occasional glimpse of them dueling in the dark.
She felt those memories streak through her mind like lightning flashes.
The fluidity of their movements as they seemed to glide into each other. Their strikes so elegant and graceful. Their years of practice showing in every subtle parry and thrust.
They were beautiful warriors of the street. And she'd been in awe of them.
It was only as she knelt in a filthy ally, bloody hand fisted around a makeshift shiv, that she realised something that rocked her to her core. That everything they were, with their delicate forms methodically executed in grim tranquility, was bullshit.
Fuck forms.
And fuck the relentless practice against shadow warriors.
The way she saw it, the one who survived was simply the one who wanted to survive the most. The one who would do anything to live.
So she taught herself to be brutal. And then she'd been trained to be more brutal than that.
To cut. Slash. Little stabs to bleed out the enemy. No need to rush in for the kill. Let them die drowning in their own blood. Close your ears to their screams. To their whimpers. Or relish them, if you're that kind. It makes no difference.
A quick three thrusts in the arms, the chest, or the neck, and your enemy goes down.
Bleeds out.
Dies.
The crooked grin on her face practically glowed with cruelty.
She moved like a blur, cackling insanely as the pure thrill of being so close to death washed through her brain and pushed her body to its extreme edge.
She kicked. Punched.
Stabbed and slashed.
Smashed one soldier's face with her forehead.
Cut her path through the panicked crowd, ignoring the screaming barmaid. Slapped a hand on the top of the polished bar as though marking time. Left a bloody hand print as she spun without pause.
Cut through the crowd again.
Spat in as many faces as she could even though her mouth was dry. It didn't matter. Soon her spit was red with blood as she took as many hits to the face as she dealt out.
She should've fallen over.
Should have been swamped by their number.
Should have collapsed in an exhausted heap.
But hate fueled her. It pumped through the spiderweb of veins like gasoline.
A sword nicked her shoulder.
Heavily notched hatchet ripped into the bracer, cutting another strap and taking its toll of skin. Clubs battered her ribs, and she felt one crack with an awkward crunch. A punch landed on her cheek, sending her head snapping back.
More fists.
A few kicks. Someone had metal-capped boots.
Sharp pain in her mouth. The smell of sweat.
Blood.
Piss.
She spat a thick string of blood.
Was that her tooth?
Couldn't tell.
Everything hurt.
The world swayed drunkenly around her. But the pain quickly steadied everything. She could use more pain, she told herself. Grinned madly at the horrified soldiers.
Pain didn't kill you.
She willed herself onward, determined to stop only when the Old Skeleton himself was pawing at her face. And even then, she'd stab his bony skull and keep going.
Her vision blurred. Then refocused in time to see a chair swinging at her head.
Threw herself down and forward so the soldier directly behind took the chair with his head and doubled over. A Flaw in the Glass screamed as it ripped into the thigh of the man who'd swung at her.
Then he screamed again as Go With My Blessing streaked up to thud into his guts.
It was a shame, she reflected as she ripped her blades free. She'd been aiming lower.
Caught another savage kick to her head.
Wrenched herself around and spat again into a youthful face. Like the others, he jerked back, fingers scrubbing his cheek. She pounced, burying A Flaw in the Glass up to its hilt in the kid's throat. Tore it free and brought it down again into his chest.
Anarchy ruled as the desperate survivors relied on numbers to press her into a corner. Though surprised by her presence, they'd expected the fight to have gone their way. As blood quickly covered the floor, they skidded and slid as they surrounded her, barking at each other like dogs trying to coordinate somehow around the tornado of blades that was the elf.
But she wouldn't be contained.
She roared and howled as blood gushed from wounds she inflicted. The sobbing wails of men dying filled her ears and served to keep her moving. Keep away from the walls. Stop them from cornering her like a rat. She danced across a small table.
Kicked a face.
Exploded into a bundle of shocked soldiers.
Never stop, she told herself, nearly drunk on violence. Never stop.
And it became a mantra in her head.
Her breath coming in scorched gasps.
Sweat sprayed from her skin as she spun into the arms of a barrel-chested soldier with biceps as thick as her legs. Aware of her knives, he reacted like a man who'd just been thrown a snake. Tried to kick, claw, and push her off even as she rammed A Flaw in the Glass up under his chin.
She felt the satisfying crunch as it slammed home. Tore it free with a frenzied giggle as a short sword sheared into her shoulder from behind. The blade glanced off bone, but she howled as the flesh tore beneath the blow.
Shuddering free, feeling the blade slide away.
Her arm was encased in numbness, but she ignored it. If she paused, she'd be dead. She knew it. They knew it.
Lashing out with her boot, she smashed a kneecap with a crunch that made her want to laugh. Cut short another giggle forming in the back of her throat and followed with a punch to the dazed head of the last surviving Grey Jacket which sent him sprawling across a table.
Her violet eyes studied him critically as he tried to curl up on his side. Blood formed a wet trail from one of his ears.
She stole a breath.
He glanced up, a glimmer of hope sparkling in his eyes. "Please...?"
"Sure, feller. If you insist," she grunted. Brought Go With My Blessing down to pierce his chest and drill into his heart.
He cried out as she gave the blade a brutal twist.
Twitched.
Stopped moving.
Silence.
The elf snapped her head toward the bar and showed a mirthless grin to the barmaid trembling behind the counter. The woman was gripping a heavy wooden cudgel in both hands, her face a mix of terror and disgust.
"Best you put that down, lady," Nysta growled with a nod to the dead and wounded. "I ain't into clubs. But if you're that eager, I'll let you join theirs."