A Thief in the Night (45 page)

Chapter Eighty-eight

M
örget slammed Dawnbringer against the side of a dwarven tomb. The blade flared brilliantly, shedding daylight stronger even than the light of the false red sun behind him. The revenants threw up their arms to protect their eyeless faces and staggered backward, away from the barbarian.

A few of them had the strength of will to try to surge in low, under the sword's glare. Croy smashed in their heads with Ghostcutter and sliced off their hands before they could grab Mörget and quench his light. The revenants shook and their feet scrabbled on the cobblestones as they tried to escape. Yet they could not, for just behind them another wave of undead elves was rushing in, rushing to attack, to destroy, to avenge themselves.

Croy could sympathize, in a way. It didn't stop him from slicing them to pieces.

One of them came straight at Croy, a bronze flail whirling around its head. Mörget smashed through its rib cage with his axe, the bones splitting apart like dried wood, the bronze armor squealing as the steel axe tore through it like paper.

On Croy's other side a revenant rushed at him with nothing but its bare hands. Croy got his shoulder down and leaned forward into the revenant's charge. He caught his shoulder in the arch made by its rib cage and sternum and then stood up straight, lifting the dead thing up into the air. Its fingers grabbed for Croy's hair, but Mörget smashed the revenant away with his sword. Light blossomed over Croy's head and the revenants drew back, arms flailing in horror.

“Quickly, dwarf,” Croy shouted. “We can't keep this up much longer!”

Mörget made his sword ring on the cobblestones again. Did the revenants fear the light because it reminded them of their failures in the world above? Did it remind them of battles lost, and hasty retreats? Or was it simply that they were unholy monstrosities, and the pure light of the Lady's sun was enough to pain them?

It didn't matter. The revenants attacked and were repulsed. The light drove them back, and the steel and iron blades hacked them apart.

The two warriors had been holding them off for nearly half an hour this way.

“Just a little longer,” Balint shouted back.

The revenants seemed far less aggressive when the red sun shone on them—or perhaps Croy had simply learned better how to fight them. Their attacks were nowhere near as fast or furious as the first time he'd faced them, back when he first came into the Vincularium.

Perhaps he was the one who'd changed. Perhaps the need for vengeance drove him now just as it propelled them. Back then he'd come here to slay a demon. Now he just wanted death, endless death. One could take strength from a drive like that, he knew. Patriotism, piety, vows sworn, and the hands of ladies fair, those things gave a man the spirit to fight. But hatred trumped them all.

“I just have to make a—what's the word—a fuse,” Balint shouted back. She'd wrangled the five barrels around until they encircled the massive, arching support pillar. Now she took a hammer from her belt and knocked a hole in one of the barrels.

Mörget struck the stones, and his light bought them a moment's breathing room. Croy looked back and saw black dust spill from the hole Balint had made.

“No!” he cried. “You were wrong—it's rotted away to dust over the centuries!”

“Don't take me for a dizzy virgin. That's what it's supposed to look like,” Balint told him. “For fuck, it's pretty. Now—if I'm right, I can fill this pipe with the powder, and it'll burn steady as a candlewick. Just one touch of fire will be enough to bring this place down. And then no dwarf will ever be tempted to come back here.”

Mörget's sword rang. A revenant came in from the side and Croy cut it in half. “What? I thought you did this for revenge, like myself.”

Balint shook her head. “I didn't care about Murin and Slurri that much. It's not elves I hate, but this place. Its history—it holds my people back. How can they face a dismal future knowing what glory they once possessed?” She glanced up from her work to stare at him. “But why do you care what my reason is for doing this? You'll still have your revenge, and the pillock will still slay his demons.”

Croy scowled. He didn't like this. His own thirst for revenge had not receded, but he understood now that he'd been tricked into such fury. Still—she was right.

It didn't matter.

Mörget raised his sword to strike it off the stones again. As if anticipating the light it would shed, the revenants stumbled backward. The barbarian paused.

“What are you doing? We need that light,” Croy said, grabbing Mörget's arm.

The barbarian shrugged him off. He held Dawnbringer high, the blade still dark.

The revenants were retreating.

One by one they pulled away from the main group and ran for the shadows. They did not look back. They made no last attempt to kill the warriors. They simply turned and ran.

Then Croy heard a low chanting. In the distance he could just make out a human figure. It sat cross-legged on the cobblestones, hands pressed together as if in prayer.

“What do you make of this?” Croy asked Mörget.

The barbarian shrugged.

When the last revenant had gone, the figure rose to its feet and walked slowly toward them. In the red light of the subterranean sun Croy could just see that it was a man—a human—wearing the undyed woolen habit of a priest.

“Be not alarmed,” the newcomer said. “I am a holy man, and I drove the fiends away with the blessing of my god. That is all. You are Sir Croy, are you not?” The man had come close enough that Croy could see his round, smiling face. His eyes were small and dark but they glinted in the red light. “My new friend Herward told me you had come inside the Vincularium.”

“Herward?” Croy frowned. “The old hermit sent you in here? Why, to aid us?”

“I came for my own reasons. You must be Mörget, the man of the East,” the priest said. “You're bigger than I expected.” He reached into one sleeve of his habit and twisted something Croy couldn't see. “I was under the impression your dwarf was male as well. My new friends weren't entirely clear. That may change things slightly.”

The knight shoved Ghostcutter into its scabbard. “If you've come to do the Lady's work,” he sneered, “you've come too late. What's your name?”

The priest laughed pleasantly. “I didn't say I was a priest of your Lady.” He brought his hands down to his sides. “My name is Prestwicke.”

His left hand shot upward and something flickered across Croy's vision. Balint screamed, and her knocker leapt down to the cobbles and ran off into the shadows. Croy stared in horror as he saw a dart sticking out of Balint's neck. Her scream ended in a gurgling hiss and then she slumped against one of the barrels, her eyes fluttering closed.

Croy gasped in surprise and reached for Ghostcutter's hilt. Before he could even reach it, the priest threw another dart that struck Mörget right in the chest, just left of center.

“The elves had a very poor description of you. Never mind. The dosage may be too low for your weight, but applied directly to the heart, it should be effective,” Prestwicke said as Mörget came storming toward him. Dawnbringer came up to slice the priest in half, but before the blow could connect, Mörget stumbled and pitched face-first onto the cobbles.

“Not now,” Croy growled, and yanked Ghostcutter free of its sheath.

The priest flicked his wrist. Croy couldn't see the dart coming—he only felt a sudden pinprick in his shoulder. He howled and lifted his weapon high, but before he took a step toward the priest, his blood slowed in his body and his head spun.

And then everything went black.

Chapter Eighty-nine

F
or a long while Croy heard nothing but a voice roaring close to his ear. He could not seem to open his eyes, or move his hands, but he could hear just fine. Unfortunately all he could hear was Mörget.

“—pull your tongues from your mouths, flay the skin off your backs, the clans will tear you out branch and root, your stomachs burst open, your eyes spitted, your—”

Croy felt like he was trapped at the bottom of a well, with only the curses echoing down to him from above. He tried to swim upward, to reach for the light, but his body felt like it was made of lead. Straining and groaning, he stretched his consciousness as far as it would go and it snapped back, rubbery and ineffectual.

He was moving, always moving. He very much wanted to lie still. He felt sick and afraid. He felt like he was going to throw up, but still he couldn't see where he was.
Open one eye
, he told himself
. Just open one eye and take a quick look. Find out where you are, at least
.

His body refused to acknowledge his desires. He was barely aware of it at all, aware only of the motion and the noise.

“—guts steaming on the hot ground, eat your liver, tear it apart with my own teeth, smash your brains with a rock—”

If Mörget would just be quiet—but no. No, it was helping. The bellowing imprecations were anchoring his consciousness. Without them he would be lost, adrift. So instead of ignoring the foul words, Croy focused on them. Struggled to hear them better.

“—grind your bones, stretch your skins on frames, the death of one cut, blood on the rocks, blood to paint our tents, blood, blood, blood—”

Open one eye.

Open it.

Croy's left eyelid parted, only a crack. Light streamed in and for a moment he was swimming again, swimming and spinning and lost, but then the light dimmed, became almost bearable. He turned his eye left and right.

He was in a room with walls of every possible color. Music was playing somewhere, no, not music, just the sound of bells, rattling bells.

If he pushed his eye all the way over to the left, he could just see the side of Mörget's face. Thick cords bound the barbarian's head, one holding his chin, others crossing his forehead, holding him in place. Croy grunted and tried to move his arms, and felt similar cords holding him down as well. He was bound. Immobilized.

An elfin face surrounded by black cloth appeared before him. The bells were attached to the elf's black cloak, and they stirred and jingled every time he moved. The elf was speaking. Croy had to force himself to ignore Mörget so he could hear what the elf said. He was soon sorry for it.

“—in a different era, we had a special torment for humans who despoiled our lands. We would stake them out in the forest, in a clearing where a little sunlight came, and underneath their bodies we would plant the seeds of fast-growing trees. Over a period of months, the trees would grow, spreading branches upward toward the light—through the bodies of the interlopers. The agony was supposed to be beyond measure, as the woody growths pressed against their skin, then penetrated their flesh. Special care was taken to make sure no branch pierced a vital organ, because then the human would die too quickly. No, we wanted them to understand why this was done. We wanted them to know what despoiling felt like. Intimately. Of course, now we have no trees. I imagine we can think of something else, given time.”

The black-clad elf fell silent. He nodded politely as someone else spoke. Who, Croy could not have said—he couldn't see the other party. He tried desperately to open his right eye, to twitch his fingers, anything, but it seemed his strength was used up.

“Of course,” the elf said, replying to something Croy hadn't heard. “You have done us proper service, and you will be rewarded. You will have the one you seek, to kill as you desire. His name was . . . Malton?”

“Malden, milord.” Croy heard the other's voice this time. It was the voice of the priest, the man in the undyed habit who had drugged him. Who had captured him and turned him over to the elves.

“Malden. I must . . . remember that.” The elf's eyes turned inward then, and he sank back onto a waiting couch. “I must take my leave of you now,” he said. The elf lay on his couch and stared up at the ceiling.

Croy searched the room with his one open eye but could find no one else in it. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, except Mörget, still raving:

“—slit along the forehead, just at the hairline, then slip the knife under the skin and cut a flap, peel back, we will take your hair and make plumes for our helmets, we will slaughter your children and make slaves of your women, we will—”

It was too much. All too much. What little energy Croy had marshaled had been used up, just for that one moment of lucidity. His eye fluttered closed again. He could not have kept it open for any price. Soon even the sound of Mörget's cursing receded, and he sank into a heavy velvet sleep, fighting all the way down.

In the last part of his mind to stay awake, his own voice rang out, echoing off the walls of his skull.
Malden
.
You're still alive. Malden, you're alive.

Though not, apparently, for much longer.

Chapter Ninety

C
ythera stretched upward on the balls of her feet to bring her face into the little patch of sunlight. She closed her eyes and sighed in deep pleasure. “I'd begun to think I'd never smell fresh air again,” she said.

Aethil smiled sadly and turned away.

It was Malden's only chance.

He grabbed the elf queen by the shoulder and pulled one arm across her throat. She screamed and every crystal in the grotto shivered. Pulling the queen off her feet, he held her close to his body to keep her from breaking free.

He'd been considering this move for some time. He'd put it aside for a while—when Aethil confided in him, when he felt sorry for her, it seemed like the last thing he should ever do. He still felt terrible about it, guilty almost to the point of letting her go. But not quite.

There was no other way. Their best plan had been to get Aethil to let them see the sun. Their only plan. But this route wouldn't work—he couldn't fit through the crystal tunnel, couldn't escape that way. And now he was out of time.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “If there was any other way, I'd take it. But I will kill you if it means we get out of here alive.”

“What are you doing?” Aethil demanded. “Sir Croy! Defend me!”

Cythera wheeled around and stared at Malden. “No—not like this,” she said, shaking her head. “Please, Malden.”

“You asked me once if I believed in anything,” Malden told her. “Well, I do. I believe in freedom. I won't let myself be dissolved in that slime pit. I will not be imprisoned with a thousand dead elves for all eternity. I won't be this one's pet any more either.”

Aethil started to scream again. Malden put pressure on her windpipe until she stopped. He felt like a cad. He felt like a villain. It didn't matter. This was their only chance. He would save Cythera and Slag, and he would buy his own freedom at any price.

“But what of Croy and Mörget?” Cythera said. “We know they're alive, now—would you leave them here to be tortured to death?”

“What choice have we?” Malden demanded. “Slag, grab that candlestick,” he said. “We can use it to break away the crystals. I don't know where we'll find ourselves once we climb up there, but it's better than being stuck down here.”

The dwarf didn't move. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

The body in Malden's arms went limp. White smoke wreathed Aethil's head, streaming out of her mouth and nose and eyes. As Malden watched in horror it coalesced and formed a demonic visage, all horns and gnashing teeth. The white face came looming toward him, jaws stretched wide to snatch him, and he panicked.

He fell backward, crashing against a wall of sharp crystals that exploded into choking, glittering dust. His arms flew back and Aethil was free. She did not waste another moment on beseeching Slag's aid, but dashed toward the exit of the grotto, back toward her apartments.

The demonic face broke up into swirling vapor that dissipated almost instantly.

“Blast!” Malden shouted. “She'll have every elf in the Vincularium down on us in a moment. I'll go after her. Cythera, Slag, start breaking the crystals. Don't wait for me, just get out of here!”

Malden ran toward the grotto's exit and into Aethil's bedchamber. Ahead of him the waterfall curtain had become a pounding torrent, a cascade of water that roared violently and foamed on the floor. He put one arm over his face and dashed through—

—and felt watery hands grab at him, holding him in place as the rushing water bashed and beat at his face. Water filled his mouth and nose and he had to fight his natural instincts to keep from breathing it in. A trap, a magical trap.

But Malden was very good with traps.

The hands that clutched at him weren't solid enough to be beaten away with his flailing fists. He couldn't move his torso or his head, for they were held fast by the very same water—it was solid enough when it wanted to be. Everywhere the water touched him he was stuck fast. One of his legs, however, had passed through the curtain before the trap activated—and now it was mostly dry. It extended out into the main chamber beyond. He could see nothing out there—the water filled his eyes—but he could still move the leg. His foot struck the floor and found the leg of a table. Hooking his foot around this anchor, he dragged himself out of the waterfall, pulling for all he was worth against the watery hands that tried to hold him fast.

When his face broke the surface of the water, he sucked in air and made one desperate, convulsive push that sent him sprawling onto the carpets beyond, soaking wet and bruised. Black spots swam before his eyes.

Ahead of him the door to the royal apartments stood open. Just a few feet away. He pushed himself up, forced himself to stand. He ran out through the door and into the stone passage beyond. An elf maid in a patchwork dress stood there, staring at him in horror. Malden pushed past her and kept running—

—straight into a massive intersection of tunnels, where a dozen elf soldiers in bronze armor stood waiting for him. Aethil stood among them, her face a mask of imperious rage.

Malden stopped where he was and raised his hands in surrender.

He expected Aethil to speak, to say how disappointed she was in him, or to chide him for abusing her hospitality. Instead she simply turned her face away. Then someone else pushed through the rank of soldiers to face Malden. Not an elf—a human, dressed like a priest, with tiny dark eyes that displayed a malicious intelligence.

“Prestwicke?” Malden asked. “But . . . how?”

“Not easily. I followed you all the way from Ness. I've never had to travel so far on a contract,” Prestwicke told him.

“But the elves—”

“My new friends? I did a small service for them. In exchange they've agreed to give me a gift. Your life.”