Chapter 65
— Jarl Olaf Walrus-Cock? — I asked, weighing another stiletto in my palm.
— Amusing, and certainly memorable, but it's too long and not nearly aggressive enough, — Liandra replied, sitting at the opposite end of the room.
We were occupied with the task of choosing my Chaos-Norscan persona's name.
— Angron? Does that sound aggressive enough? — I offered another option, winding up for a throw.
A second later, there was a thud, then a clatter. The blade hit the target board flat and dropped to the floor.
— Yes. It sounds aggressive, — Liandra agreed. — But the name is too long.
I threw the last of the six stilettos. It finally managed to stick into the board, but it was crooked, clumsy, and shallow. The throwing knife didn't hold in the wood for long before tumbling to the floor.
— Guilliman, Jurgen, and now a Chaos name on top of it, — I said thoughtfully. — Isn't it a bit much? How about we call our berserker Jurg? Jurg—that's what Magg used to call me. Short, aggressive, easy to remember.
— Yes. That will do, — Liandra finally agreed. — Now, let's talk about your behavior... — she walked toward the board, picking up the stilettos one by one. — It is better to pretend you do not understand our tongue. It will help avoid unnecessary questions. You have faced Norscans in battle before. Have you observed how they conduct themselves?
— Yes. Brutal, dangerous barbarians with a rather narrow worldview, — I replied.
— Precisely. Many of them are mad. Can you play such a part?
— You wound me!
— The less my kin desire to interact with you, the better.
Instead of the old "be humble and people will like you" approach, I had to practice the "be mean so the elves stay away" method.
Liandra, having gathered the stilettos, approached me and, standing opposite, deliberately and slowly prepared a knife for a throw. A moment later, the blade was buried deep in the board.
— Did you see? — she asked.
— Not really.
— Here... take it. — She handed me one of the stilettos. — Place it on your finger to find the balance point. Yes. Just like that. The balance point of a stiletto is your guide for the grip. Now, hold it by the blade.
I tried throwing the knife again. It felt closer this time. However, the stiletto still smacked the board with its pommel.
— At what point do I release the grip? I can't quite catch the moment.
— You do not need to release it intentionally. Cradle the blade with your fingers like this. The blade should slip out of your hand on its own at the peak of the throw. And reach forward slightly after it.
I tried to follow her instructions. The first time—nothing. The second—thwip! The stiletto sank a quarter of its length into the shredded wood.
— Knife throwing is not the most reliable way to kill, but it is elegant and unpredictable, — the Dark Elf's voice was detached and focused, flowing smoothly like the steps of a stalking assassin. — With your arm strength, even an imprecise throw of a knife or a stone can take the life of a lesser creature.
— Fine. But I'd prefer to make precise throws. Show me again.
— Watch closely. Cradle the blade, move your arm, let the blade slip out...
— Wait. Hold still. Let me get the feel of it.
I gently took Liandra by the wrist, feeling the pulse beneath her thin skin. I stepped closer, mirroring her stance. The girl seemed composed, but it was only a mask. I waited for a reaction—to see if she would pull away, show embarrassment, or lean into it. She chose the same waiting game. She remained frozen with the stiletto in hand as I gradually pulled her into an embrace and...
A knock at the door.
I thought such stupid situations only happened in romantic comedies. Liandra immediately pulled away, donning the mask of cold haughtiness she wore in public. The door creaked open, and the face of a Dark Elf covered in heavy scars appeared in the gap. It was one of the establishment's workers. Like the owner, the elf had been seriously maimed in the past. Her right arm was missing.
— Tarket says he is waiting for the payment for next week, — she said in an unfriendly, slightly raspy voice.
— We will pay this evening or tomorrow morning. Have you prepared the needles?
— Yes. Но first...
— Then get on with it, — Liandra nearly raised her voice, which was rare for her.
In the presence of her own kind, she acted much more aggressively than before, though not as openly hostile as many of them.
— First... — the one-armed elf tried to hold her ground again.
— You have too few fingers left to defy me so stubbornly, — Liandra said, her voice lower now but far more menacing.
This time, the one-armed elf submitted. In theory, she should have obeyed immediately. Liandra belonged to the Black Guard and was Druchii nobility by birthright.
Local society was structured rather simply. In some ways, even human-like. On the second step below the Witch King were the Dreadlords—the top-tier aristocrats. Beneath them were lesser nobility, the wealthy, sorceresses, and specialized assets. Common Druchii like the one-armed woman were supposed to show reverence to the aristocracy, but Liandra looked too much like an impostor. Not dressed richly, carrying looted human gear, with neither servants nor bodyguards.
The real proof of her power lay in her height and the aura of threat that radiated from her professional combatant's poise. These were what forced the one-armed elf to obey. She began laying out the tattooing supplies on the table.
Alas, Orc teeth alone weren't enough to pass me off as a Norscan. The northern savages loved to cover their skin with various patterns. These weren't always the well-known symbols of the Ruinous Powers; sometimes they were just ornaments or marks of tribal affiliation.
Given my regenerative abilities, a tattoo was no problem. It would heal in a matter of minutes. I just needed to absorb a little life force from elsewhere.
I stripped off the remains of my shirt, which had been through hellish trials in the fights against the Nurgle-worshippers. Soon, my shoulders felt the searing sting of the needle. At first, the pain was manageable—a slight pricking alternating with a sting like insect bites. However, the sensations grew increasingly agonizing. I actually had to exert effort to keep from flinching every second. I was certain the one-armed bitch was doing it on purpose. Fine. She asked for it.
During a particularly painful prick, I spun around abruptly. I grabbed the tattooist's wrist with one hand and closed my fingers around her throat with the other. The elven wretch tried to break free, pushing off the floor with both feet, but the strength was mismatched.
I throttled her for about five seconds, watching her pale face turn red and the scars stand out more vividly than usual. Then came Liandra's sharp command in the tongue of the Northmen. She had switched to the barbarian language specifically for my benefit.
— Enough, Jurg. Let go!
I squeezed for another second and a half for good measure and released her, immediately hearing a frantic, raspy gasp for air. The elf fell to her knees before me, coughing violently.
— That was him when he isn't even truly angry yet, — Liandra commented in Eltharin. — Try to play games with my beast again, and he might tear your throat out with his teeth. Finish what we agreed upon. And this time, try to be very careful.
So, there it was. While I wasn't supposed to speak Eltharin publicly, I could use the most universal and well-understood language of the Druchii: the language of violence.
The tattooing took another hour or so. After that short span, I was the proud owner of some abstract dark-blue patterns on my shoulders and shoulder blades. After the corrective beating, the one-armed woman worked with extreme care. The process caused almost no more pain. The irritated skin was itchy, but a rub with a pungent-smelling compound calmed it down. Notably, Liandra first ordered the master to apply the salve to her own skin, having first made a small scratch. A test for poison.
— If you are satisfied with the work, mistress... — the elf said with much more caution. — I would like to receive what I am owed...
— Later, — Liandra cut her off. — Get out of my sight.
Our financial situation was rather dismal. I hadn't yet received the rewards and wages due for my valiant service to Karl Franz. Altdorf was far away, and I doubted they had an instant-payment system running here.
Liandra had spent the last of our savings and practically everything of value Gerard had owned on the ticket here. Druchii corsairs charge a premium for passengers if they don't want to ride in a slave cage for free. Thus, acquiring funds was our first priority.
When the one-armed woman left, Liandra gestured to a pile of themed gear.
— Change into this. A necessary measure, Gil.
— Fine.
The girl turned away, and I began assembling the Norscan berserker look. The kit included a wide belt with a buckle shaped like a snarling skull, woolen trousers with leather knee reinforcements, boots, the tooth necklace, weapon straps, and...
— Is that it? — I asked the elf, looking down at my minimalistic outfit.
— Yes. In temperate climates, Norscans wear little clothing.
I see.
"Now you are dressed like a demon."
Well, alright. I'd have to impress everyone I met with a jacked torso. At least I had pants.
Besides the barbarian clothes, I was taking the Axe of Khargan, the Dawi-Zharr dagger, and three throwing knives—which I didn't quite know how to use yet—out for the stroll.
A few minutes later, we descended to the lower hall, catching the wary gazes of the Druchii society's dregs.
— I hope the mistress does not forget we agreed on payment for next week, — drifted after us from behind the counter as we left the establishment.
Liandra didn't deign to give the brothel owner an answer.
Fresh air again! The streets of Clar Karond didn't reek like the filthy alleys of Friedrichsburg, nor did they belch smoke like the workshops of Nuln. The air was surprisingly easy to breathe for such a gloomy place. However, one could enjoy the fresh air, but not the sun. The looming dark silhouettes of buildings closed over the street. Sharp angles, cracked walls in places, black roofs.
Lines of slaves walked toward us, staring at their feet. Silent shadows of humans, behaving like docile animals even in the absence of a master. Many had shaven heads. The faces and arms of some were crisscrossed with whip scars.
Beholding such a sight didn't exactly increase my love for the Druchii people. They weren't crazed cultists of Chaos, but they still caused humans a lot of grief.
Besides slaves, we encountered the Dark Elves themselves. Men and women, corsairs, slave-drivers, warriors, hunters, and just city dwellers with no obvious profession. All of them were armed. Preference was given to curved blades, compact crossbows, and long daggers. Many of them took notice of us. Some looked on with blatant defiance; others smiled meaningfully and nodded.
The neighborhood around us gradually changed. The street became a bit wider, the houses wealthier. We passed two shops. One offered fabrics, in dark shades of course. The sign on the other read:
"Tools for the Work of Flesh. Knives, clamps, forceps, needles, hooks, dilators. We also offer the services of an experienced master for stitching scars or correcting their form."
Plastic surgery? I imagine such services are in high demand in this city.
Walking through the streets of Clar Karond, I realized what else made it different from human settlements. It was unusually quiet for such a large city. Nuln roared with a thousand voices. The sounds of work drifted from hundreds of workshops and smithies. What was here? The slaves, who made up a significant portion of the population, almost never spoke and tried to be as quiet as possible. The Dark Elves weren't loud either. They moved alone or in small groups, but they almost never formed crowds. This whole city felt like it was lying in ambush.
The loudest sounds were the occasional screams echoing from somewhere and the roars of some beasts.
From the outskirts of Clar Karond, we moved toward the center, toward the spires of the highest towers. The street narrowed along our path. Several houses nearby were clearly abandoned. Ahead, a small group of Druchii was loitering. On their dark-grey cloaks were visible green crosses with sharp points. Likely the symbol of some gang or organization. We had encountered similar groups several times already, but these were behaving particularly aggressively. The leader of the squad, a Druchii wearing a dully shimmering coat of dark mail, stepped forward and declared:
— This is a toll road. Sabiot Sainstorm holds this street. So hand over the gold, dark-eyes, or pay in another fashion.
There were seven of them. Almost like the seven dwarves, only seven elves. Three stood by an abandoned house, leaning against the walls. Four were behind the leader.
— I have no gold for you, — Liandra said calmly. — I will pay in another fashion.
— Is that so, — the leader smirked, eyeing both the girl and me. — That can be arranged. In Clar Karond, we accept payment in more than just gold. And I would even say gold is the dullest of all methods.
— Very well, — Liandra nodded. — But let us do this somewhere else. Is there a secluded spot nearby?
— This place is full of secluded spots, and we know them all, — the thug bared his teeth.
I noticed that several of his teeth were gold prosthetics. The elves here don't take care of their body parts. They're constantly losing something.
The thug pointed out an alleyway, and Liandra and I headed that way. The extortionists followed right behind us. The alley led us to the courtyard of an abandoned house. In the center was a dried-up fountain filled with the fragments of a once-luxurious statue. It seemed a wealthy clan had once lived here.
The click of a cocked mechanism.
— Don't turn around, — came the thug's condescending, dismissive tone from behind. — Tell your slave to throw all his iron to the ground, and you, take off your belt, cloak, and armor.
With a swift motion, Liandra threw off her cloak, tossing it onto the edge of the fountain's rim. Then she unbuckled the scabbard of her hand-and-a-half sword, but instead of throwing the weapon aside, she drew the blade.
— Foolish, — the thug said indifferently from behind us.
— Well then, we shall have to have our fun with a corpse, — said another.
Events unfolded in fractions of a second after that. I lunged to the side. A crossbow bolt hissed past. Liandra didn't try to dodge. She spun around, parrying a second projectile with the flat of her blade.
I turned too, already gripping the heavy axe with my right hand. There were two crossbowmen among the enemies. The others were drawing curved swords and daggers. The local thugs didn't care for shields. That was good news.
The bad news—the opponents didn't rush us in a banzai charge. I was actually a bit surprised that the Dark Elves approached slowly, trying to utilize their numerical advantage intelligently. I was too used to fighting Chaos-worshippers, whose primary military tactic was "run plus scream."
Five Dark Elves with swords and daggers formed a semi-circle to pincer us. The crossbowmen were already aimed but didn't hurry. They were waiting for an opening. I had zero desire to charge into such a formation without magical bonuses and good armor. So, I decided to put my new skills to the test. Taking a stiletto in my left hand, I cradled the blade with my fingers and...
Bink!
Technically, I hit. Not with the right end, not the right target, but I hit. The pommel of the stiletto bounced off the pointed helmet of one of the thugs with a metallic ring.
— My apologies, — I said, not hiding my knowledge of Eltharin. — I've only just started practicing.
The thugs were momentarily distracted. One of them even smirked. I took the second stiletto from my belt. None of the enemies perceived this as a potential threat, which was their mistake. Instead of trying to throw the knife, I flicked it toward Liandra. She reacted perfectly to my idea. A second later, the hilt of the stiletto was sticking out of the eye socket of the most distracted enemy. The first blood was drawn.
The smirks vanished from the thugs' faces instantly. They realized this was going to be a battle, not an execution. Both crossbowmen leveled their sights at Liandra. They probably decided to take out the most dangerous target first. I was pulling another dagger from my belt. But this wasn't a throwing knife. Here in Clar Karond, I didn't have to be shy about using the power of Chaos artifacts.
"Go!"
An ashen lash snaked out from the blade of the Dawi-Zharr dagger, coiling around one of the crossbowmen's waist. With a flick of my left hand, I hurled him toward the other shooter, knocking him off his feet, and then yanked the artifact back toward me. The caught crossbowman was dragged across the ground. I used his body as a battering ram against two of the thugs. Now, it was time to breach.
Liandra and I attacked simultaneously. The elf took advantage of the gap in the enemy formation, slitting the leader's throat with a deft strike of her sword. I set about exterminating those who hadn't yet recovered. First, I slammed my axe into the face of a fallen thug. Yanking the weapon back out was easier now. The Blood Chalice began to fill.
Another thug managed to scramble to his feet. He tried to catch me with a simple feint to the right followed by a real strike to the left. I took his blade on the back of my axe, catching it between the protruding spikes. A quick downward motion to control the enemy's weapon, followed by an upward strike along the same trajectory. The edge of the Axe of Khargan split the elf's jaw.
There are perks to not fighting Chaos cultists anymore. Some crazed Nurgle-worshipper wouldn't have been bothered by such a wound at all, but the elf fell apart. He missed his chance to counter. He coughed and jerked, trying to retreat. I didn't let him.
Axe to the face again. Given the weight of the weapon and the sharpness of the blade, it was an effective way to thin the enemy population.
— In the name of Venil Coldblade! — a booming voice rang out. — Everyone stay where you are!
Someone else had joined the party. It was a small squad of what appeared to be city watchmen. Unlike the thugs, they wore full armor, and some carried shields.
By the time the guards appeared in the courtyard of the abandoned house, Liandra and I had almost finished the enemies. I was still holding the Dawi-Zharr dagger in my left hand. The ashen lash had thinned considerably, but it hadn't vanished completely.
Я yanked my arm up, then sharply down. The still-living crossbowman held by the lash was tossed up and pulled toward me. At that moment, the lash finally disappeared. I raised my axe above me like a goddamn Statue of Liberty holding a torch. The crossbowman's body landed right on the blade. The top edge disemboweled the Dark Elf. Blood sprayed across my face. Through the veil of red droplets, I stared expressively and without blinking at the guards, watching the mix of surprise, awe, and fear for their own skins on their faces.
You could understand them. You peek into an alleyway, and there's a seven-foot giant using a magical lash to toss some poor bastard up and impale him on an axe, plus a pile of corpses lying around.
The audience appreciated my performance. The guard at the head of the squad looked at me once more, then at Liandra, gave her a barely perceptible nod, and announced:
— Everyone fall back! Resume the patrol on the standard route.
A wise choice. The local guards aren't keepers of the peace in the usual sense. Their job is to protect their Dreadlord's interests in the city. They didn't give a damn about the death of some local gang's thugs.
If we had appeared to be vulnerable targets, they might have tried to take advantage. However, after my performance, the desire to continue any interaction with us had completely evaporated. Excellent.
Once the guards were finally out of sight, Liandra and I began searching the bodies. Our first money earned in Clar Karond. The method of earning was perfectly in line with the city's atmosphere.
***
Translator's Note: I've finally caught up with the ongoing!
I didn't want to drag it out—that's just not my style—so I pushed through to catch up as fast as possible.
I've edited some chapters and fixed errors starting from Chapter 30.
Future chapter releases now depend on the original author. I've pulled ALL the chapters, including... well, from his subscription, yeah. So...
Translations will be out on the same day as the original chapters! My poor shekels...
Oh well. Happy reading!
Take care of yourselves.