A Thief in the Night (34 page)

Chapter Sixty-four

C
roy signaled for Mörget to come forward. It looked like the way was clear. They had been traveling for miles through empty halls and dusty corridors, intentionally staying away from any place that looked like it might have been recently occupied. It wasn't difficult—the enormous volume of the Vincularium seemed mostly to be deserted, unused for centuries. However many elves might still live, there certainly weren't enough of them to fill the place up. So far they'd seen no more elves or demons or revenants or anything else.

Croy imagined that a paltry few survivors must be clinging to life in some tiny corner of the vast place, as afraid of the haunted corridors as he had been. He thought of how they had blundered through the place, all through its long night, and not seen any elves at all until the dwarven sun had come to life. Perhaps if they'd been quicker, if they hadn't been separated by the revenants, they could have gotten into the place, killed one of the demons, and gotten out before the elves even knew they were there. How he longed it had been so. Mörget would have been satisfied, his manhood thoroughly proven. He and Cythera could have left without incident. This whole adventure could have been over in a few hours. Something they could laugh about whenever they recalled it in their later life, something to tell their grandchildren about.

Instead, now, he had slogged for hours through a place that offered death at every turning.

He estimated they had come halfway around the central shaft, and passed through miles of dark rock, when they came into the dormitory level.

He gestured for Mörget to follow him while he crept forward, seeking danger wherever it might hide. The two of them crept up a spiral ramp into the reddish light of this new level. A wide plaza opened onto another gallery before them. Croy stood well back from the opening on the central shaft—there was no telling who or what might be watching, and he tried to stay out of the light as much as possible.

Silently, he moved away from the gallery, deeper into the level. In his hand Ghostcutter moved back and forth, covering every shadow.

This place was supposed to be deserted—yet clearly it was not. The revenants on the top level, the demons on the lower floors, were not the only enemies he must be wary of. Elves might be the worst threat yet. They would be capable of subterfuge, of laying traps and ambushes. As he studied this new district he was constantly in fear of discovery.

He found himself in a place of narrow towers and squat structures that must have been residences for dwarves long since gone. It looked a great deal like the living quarters he'd seen in more modern dwarven cities—unadorned, perfectly functional, but far from what a human would have considered so. It differed only in that here there were so many more rooms than he was used to, so many that they had to be piled atop each other in great towers. He leaned in through the door of one of the low rooms and saw only scraps of rotting wood—what had been furniture, perhaps, centuries ago. Now it was nothing but rubbish. He stepped back outside and continued his search. Moving carefully through the red-lit lanes, he saw that outside each tower stood a spherical lamp on a pole. A fountain stood in the midst of the towers, its spouts crusted with white mineral deposits now, but the water still flowed. It smelled faintly of sulfur, but it was clear and free of scum. He stopped to take up a handful and scrub some of the grime off his face.

Ahead of him, Mörget clucked his tongue. A small sound, but in that empty place it made too many echoes. Croy hurried forward to chide his friend for disturbing the stillness.

Yet when he saw what Mörget had found, he let out a quiet sigh himself.

Lying on the flagstones was the body of a dwarf. The corpse's face and hands had been slashed violently, and its blood pooled beneath it and ran away through the cracks between the flagstones. In the reddish light of the streetlamps, the blood looked almost black. An expression of utter terror had frozen on the poor dwarf's face.

It was not Slag. “A dwarf, here? He didn't come with us, and we know the builders of this place abandoned it long, long ago,” Croy whispered, shaking his head. “What does this mean? What is he doing here?”

“It means the Vincularium is getting crowded,” Mörget said, frowning. “Perhaps we were followed. Perhaps this dwarf came in on our heels, hoping to steal something of value while we fought the demon.”

Croy shook his head. “Dwarves don't steal. Nor do they have any interest in their own history. Or at least, I thought they didn't. There are abandoned dwarven cities and mines all over the continent, and I've never heard of dwarves returning to any of them before. Honestly, I was quite surprised when Slag said he wanted to come here. In my experience, dwarves are content to leave their old places to molder and collapse. Yet here we see evidence to the contrary—this dwarf must have come here for some good reason. But why? It's a mystery. I'll admit I'm confounded.”

“Does it really matter?” Mörget said.

“In times of danger, the unknown is one's greatest enemy. At the very least I'd like to know how he died. If we knew who killed this dwarf, we might be better prepared when they come for us, next.” Croy knelt down to close the corpse's eyelids. The flesh did not resist him. “He died recently,” he whispered. “He's not even stiff yet. And these wounds weren't made by your demon, I can tell that much. These are sword cuts.”

Mörget nodded but wasn't looking at the body. He was staring down a side street. Croy looked and saw the end of a rope lying on the flagstones. It ran toward one of the towers, and then up its side.

“That looks like some kind of trap,” Croy suggested. “Dwarves make them all the time. Perhaps this poor fellow was hoping to catch his killer in it.”

Mörget approached the rope cautiously—then reached up and pulled it down, even as Croy waved his hands in warning. The rope fell with a thud from the top of the tower in an untidy coil. The other end was tied off in a loop to make a snare. “This trap was not set properly. There's no counterweight,” he said.

Croy raised an eyebrow.

“In the East we make similar snares, for hunting,” Mörget explained. “You suggested the dwarf must have been setting this trap when he was killed. Which meant he wanted to ensnare someone up there.” The barbarian pointed at the top of the tower. “Maybe the killer came from on high.” Before Croy could stop him, Mörget scurried up the ladder.

Croy followed close behind, not wanting to get separated. When they reached the rooftop, he found it deserted and empty. Mörget gave the barest of glances around, then went to the edge of the roof to look down.

Croy took a slightly closer look—and found something that excited him. “Here,” he said, running a finger across a small grouping of pits in the stone at his feet. “Look! These marks were made by vitriol.” Mörget looked at him without comprehension. “Acid! I've seen similar spoor before, many times. Malden must have been here, holding Acidtongue. The blade drips its essence constantly, etching the floor wherever it's drawn. Malden was here!”

Chapter Sixty-five

“M
alden stood here, yes. He must have been under attack as well, for he was holding a naked blade,” Mörget said. “Perhaps that explains this.” He went back to the side of the roof and pointed down. Another dwarf lay on a rooftop far below, half its body cloaked by shadow. Its face was even more bloody than the other's. Croy couldn't even tell if it had been male or female. “The dwarves must have beset our little thief. He defended himself ably.”

Croy shook his head. “No—Malden didn't slay these dwarves. He couldn't have. Our laws are very strict on that sort of thing.”

“And he is known for abiding your laws,” Mörget said. “Our thief?”

Croy supposed the barbarian had a point. Malden was a criminal. But he wasn't a killer. Croy had known him long enough to understand that Malden had his own moral code. It might be quite liberal, and include all kinds of things that he himself wouldn't countenance, but Malden wouldn't kill unless his life depended on it. And no dwarf would ever attack a human, not unless they had no choice. So how could such a fight have even started? “I just don't know,” Croy admitted. “This does mean one thing, though.”

“Oh?” Mörget asked.

“Malden was here. Not so long ago. And that means Cythera must be close by. We're on the right track.”

“Good,” Mörget said. “The sooner we find her, the sooner we can get back to our real purpose here.” He headed to the edge of the roof and started climbing down the tower. Croy followed close behind, invigorated by what they'd found.

They began to head deeper into the residential level, toward a place where the walls narrowed to a point, when Croy called a halt.

Mörget grimaced in annoyance at yet another delay, but he waited expectantly while Croy craned his ears back the way they'd come.

“I know I heard something back there. A grunt of pain—or fear,” Croy insisted.

“Then we are best served going the other way. We cannot waste time investigating every little noise.”

“I suppose you're right,” Croy said, and started walking forward again—only to freeze in his tracks a moment later.

“No!” someone screamed. He didn't recognize the voice but it had a dwarven accent. “No, you stinking sack of pus! You can't have him! Get back!”

“Someone's in trouble,” Croy said.

“Good! One less enemy for us!” Mörget growled. But Croy had already turned on his heel and was headed back into the dormitory. His boots beat like drumsticks on the flagstones as he pulled Ghostcutter free of its scabbard. He came around a sharp corner toward the fountain, then drew up short as he viewed a scene of horror.

The demon—one of the demons—had come to claim the body of the dead dwarf. Its amorphous mass had flowed over the lower half of the corpse and it was absorbing the rest while Croy watched.

Yet not without resistance. Another dwarf—a female—beat at the faces under the demon's skin with a wrench. She had a bad cut across her face and another gash in her leg, but she battled more fiercely than a wounded badger. Still, she couldn't possibly win. Already the demon reached a thick tendril of its substance toward her, clearly intending to have two meals for the effort of securing one.

She looked up when Croy approached and stared at him with blazing eyes. “Stop fiddling with your dubious manhood and help me!”

Croy leapt in immediately, slashing away with Ghostcutter at the demon's thick skin. Its glassy blood poured out in gouts but it only redoubled its efforts at seizing the female dwarf, shooting forth a second rope of pale flesh to snare her ankle. She fell backward, her arms wheeling in the air, and dropped her wrench. Inch by inch the demon started reeling her in.

“I've never seen them do that before,” Mörget said, rushing in to slice through the tendril with one quick stroke of Dawnbringer. The blade flashed with light as the dwarf tumbled free.

“What's that?” Croy asked as he cut again through the thing's hide. He couldn't seem to find the central mass, its only truly vulnerable spot.

“Grow arms,” Mörget said. A new tentacle slapped out toward the dwarf, but the barbarian grabbed her by the belt and tossed her to safety. As the tentacle attempted to grab Mörget around the waist, he brought his sword down in a close arc. The limb came off neatly and spun in the air for a moment before splattering wetly on the flagstones. As Croy watched, the monster surged forward to reclaim this piece of itself. It absorbed it as hungrily as it was swallowing the dead dwarf.

“We know little of these things,” Croy agreed. “Yet I fear learning more would be a dangerous enterprise.”

“Perhaps,” Mörget said, slicing off a wide strip of the demon, “yet it might profit us well, should we encounter very many more of them.”

“Excuse me!” the female dwarf shouted, drowning out the warriors. “If you two giant teat-suckers don't mind winding up your colloquium—I want to kill this thing.”

“What do we appear to be doing?” Mörget asked, civilly enough.

“Wasting my fucking time.” The female dwarf ran off, toward the fountain. “Draw it this way! I have a plan!”

Chapter Sixty-six

T
he female dwarf hurried ahead, while Mörget and Croy took turns slashing at the demon and then dancing back before it could strike them with its fleshy appendages. Croy was growing tired again, and he hoped she was as good as her word—he could not keep this up much longer, nor could he see the spherical mass inside the demon that he must strike to kill it once and for all. If her plan did not succeed, he would have to suggest that they run for it, something he liked not at all.

Yet the female dwarf showed no sign of flagging confidence. Her wounded leg slowed her down but soon she had taken up a position near the fountain and started waving her arms, trying to draw the demon's attention.

Mörget laughed wickedly and stabbed deep into the demon's body, then jumped away. Croy pushed forward, slashing shallow cuts in its back with Ghostcutter. The demon was as easy to herd as a sheep, once you knew the secret. It would always move forward to attack whomever had struck it last. Between the two of them they got it to move exactly where the female dwarf pointed, toward a particular flagstone that looked exactly like the others.

“This was meant for that poxy prick with the magic sword,” she explained, “but it might work on yon pimple-leaving as well.”

“Might?” Croy asked.

She shrugged. They all held their breath as the demon flowed over the indicated flagstone.

Nothing happened.

“Blasted buggering bastard! Murin never could set a trap right. You,” she shouted, pointing at Mörget, “cut that rope over there.”

Croy turned and saw the rope, hidden along one side of a tower block, but only for a moment. One of Mörget's throwing axes cut through it neatly. The lower end fell instantly to the ground, while the upper part disappeared, flashing up toward an eyelet mounted on the side of the tower. Meanwhile something dark and huge came hurtling down from the ceiling.

It proved to be a sheaf of paving stones tied together in a stack, suspended from high above by the rope Mörget had just cut. They came down straight and true, right on top of the demon's body. With a sickening wet crunch they struck and sent vast wet ripples through the monster's body. Its blood squirted out through the perforations Croy had made in its skin, hot clear fluid splashing on nearby walls, landing with a grotesque sloshing noise in the fountain. The faces under its skin pushed hard against the fleshy envelope, their mouths open wide in silent howls of torment. The whole creature writhed in pain and rage, slapping wildly at the floor with its tendrils, stretching them out toward the knight, the barbarian, and the dwarf.

It was pinned, trapped, grievously wounded. The blow must have missed the central mass, however, for the demon did not perish instantly. Instead it raged and struggled and threw out wild tendrils, as if trying to crawl out from under the weight by moving in every direction at once. No matter how hard it flailed, however, it could not seem to get free.

“That should hold it,” the female dwarf said, panting for breath. She took a long stride back from the demon, never lifting her eyes from its squirming mass.

“It certainly makes our job easier,” Croy said.

Mörget sneered. “A coward's way. A creature like this deserves to be beaten in close combat, not trapped like a food animal and slaughtered at our leisure.”

Croy found it difficult to agree. Killing demons was a sacred duty—he'd taken vows to that effect. Yet nothing in the oaths he swore ever said he had to do it the hard way. He hefted Ghostcutter and stepped warily toward the convulsing monster, intending to cut pieces off of it until he found the central mass and could finally kill it.

A tendril whipped out toward his leg and he danced back. He started to bring his sword down to sever the tendril, but instead of rising to meet his blow, the appendage reached out farther—past his foot—straining and pulling on the flagstones until its substance was stretched like taffy. Then, with a sudden snap, it broke off from the main mass. The broken-off tendril flattened out and quivered while Croy watched, nauseated and fascinated at once. It formed a puddle on the floor, no wider than his two hands could cover. A single small face peered up out of its skin. And then it started to slither away, a tiny replica of the demon from which it had split.

“Don't let it get away!” the female dwarf insisted.

Croy did his best to stab the thing, driving downward into its flesh with Ghostcutter's point again and again until he worried he would blunt the sword on the flagstones. This miniature demon moved far faster and with far more agility than its larger parent had, however, and in moments the thing had escaped him, racing for the gallery. It did not slow as it reached the edge, but instead flung itself into empty space and the water below.

“Oh, for fie,” Croy said, one of the worst profanities he ever used. He leaned out over the edge and looked down but could see nothing but a faint splash, far below.

“Croy!” Mörget called. “Beware!”

Croy turned around, not knowing what to expect. He changed his grasp on Ghostcutter's hilt and ran back toward the trapped demon, only to see that it had spawned more limbs, which stretched and strained outward like the first.

With a series of sickening popping sounds, the arms snapped off and quivered to life on their own. One by one they started rippling across the floor, straight toward where Croy stood waiting for them.

“Any suggestions?” Croy asked, but Mörget could only shrug. The barbarian drew Dawnbringer and came running toward the smaller demons, howling in battle fury, but there were far too many targets and they clearly had no intention of engaging him.

Croy whirled and struck as fast as he could, slicing at each of the miniature demons as it came past him. Most merely veered away from his blade. He caught some of them, but managed to do little more than spill their glassy blood, which barely slowed them. Mörget smashed one with his boot, but as soon as he lifted his foot the demon reshaped itself and came dashing for the edge of the shaft again. Croy had time only to leap out of the way as an especially large one came oozing toward him at speed. One slid over his foot and he felt its corrosive touch burn into the leather of his boot. He yanked his foot backward and then spun around to watch the horde go flying off the edge of the gallery, to splash into the dark water far below.

“They're gone,” he called, and Mörget nodded. “The main body, though—what of it?” Croy asked.

The two warriors traded a look of horror, then hurried back to see what remained of the demon they'd trapped.

Not much, unfortunately. It had ejected most of its mass, leaving behind nothing more than its skin, which it shed like a snake. The limp envelope of the demon was already fuming and decaying in the cool air.

“No!” Mörget howled. “No! This is too much!”