A Thief in the Night (47 page)

Chapter Ninety-four

C
roy's arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets. He gasped in pain and his eyes shot open. He was still only semiconscious, but the pain was good—it helped drag him back from the black void he'd been swimming through.

What he saw shocked him even further into wakefulness.

Before him, lying on the ground like the spoils of war, lay three Ancient Blades—Ghostcutter among them. He tried reaching for the sword, only to find his arms were securely fastened behind him. They had been chained together and pulled upward, forcing him to bend low.

It was a kind of torture known well in Skrae—the strap, accounted by some the most painful excruciation of all. As ingenious as it was devious. The chain was not quite long enough to let him stand comfortably, but just long enough that if he tried to drop to his knees it would pull his arms back and wrench them from their sockets. His own body weight would pull him to pieces if he didn't stand perfectly still, and fatigue would eventually claim him no matter what he did.

The elves . . . he remembered now. But it wasn't an elf who'd taken him when he was captured. It was . . . some human in a priest's robe, wasn't it? That made very little sense, and he wondered if he had hallucinated it.

Weariness passed through him in a wave. He longed to just surrender to it, to drift off into sleep. Yet as his eyes fluttered closed his arms were pulled up behind him. The drug in Croy's system kept him from feeling the pain fully, but every time he tried to move, white light threatened to explode behind his eyeballs.

He stopped struggling—and saw more to confuse and confound him.

Malden was there. Malden—Malden was still alive, he remembered now—Malden was alive, but . . . but the elves were going to . . .

Malden dashed toward him, and Croy wondered if he was being rescued. That would be . . . nice. But no. No, it was too much to hope for. Instead of releasing him from his chains, Malden rushed instead to the swords and snatched Acidtongue from the ground. Croy tried to call to the thief, but before he opened his lips he saw Malden run away again, as if he hadn't even seen him hanging there. It was all Croy could do to follow Malden with his eyes. The thief was running again, headed over toward a group of elves, elves and—and some others, among them—

Cythera.

Cythera was alive. She was—alive.

There was a silver chain around her neck but she looked unharmed. He had been living with the fact of her brutal death for so long he could scarce believe it. She was alive! His heart sang, his body thrummed with waves of joy, and—

Cythera grasped Malden's face and then leaned in to kiss the thief with passion and desperation.

Was this some drug-induced nightmare? Croy wondered. Had his sanity itself deserted him? He could make no sense at all of what he saw. He could only stare with wide eyes at this vision before him, and hope that it was, in fact, delusion.

Then his arms were hauled upward again and a brilliant wash of pain swarmed over all of his senses. His eyes squeezed shut and he felt his face contort in a grimace of excruciation.

“Knight! Wake up, Sir Knight!”

It was Mörget's voice calling him. Mörget his brother, Mörget his fellow Ancient Blade. Croy fought through the pain and opened his eyes to look for the barbarian. He found Mörget and saw at once that they were chained together. The chain had been looped over a post, high above their heads. Mörget hauled downward on the chain, which had the effect of pulling his own arms ever farther, painfully, upward.

“Help me, knight,” Mörget demanded. “Are you too addled to even hear me? Help me—pull with all your strength, and we're free. Our swords are right there—we can fight to freedom.”

Croy watched the barbarian's face as the words formed. Mörget's red-stained mouth snapped and bit at the sounds. His eyes rolled in fury. It was like the man's face and his voice were separated, as if the words emerged from him long seconds before his lips started to form them. More hallucinations. More delusions brought on by the drug, of course. How much of this was real?

“Knight! Pull, for all you are worth!” Mörget howled.

Croy pulled downward on the chain, and at the same time Mörget pulled down on his length of it. Croy nearly lost consciousness as the links bit deep into his wrists, chewing on the tender flesh there.

“Again!” Mörget screamed.

Croy pulled downward. The skin on his wrists stretched and tore.

“Again! Once more!”

There was a creaking sound and then a snap, and a piece of wood fell and struck Croy on the ear. It made his head ring. He barely heard the chain rattle and fall and smack the wooden cart. Mörget's booming laugh was the sound of distant thunder.

Croy slumped forward, free of the chain. Free of the only thing that had been holding him upright. He crashed to the stone floor, his face not inches from Ghostcutter's sheath.

He was . . . he was free. Free.

He thought he might be sick.

Chapter Ninety-five

M
alden moved slowly, watching always the little knife in Prestwicke's hand. He circled the priest, heading to his right to keep the knife in view.

Prestwicke didn't move. He didn't turn to follow Malden. He didn't even seem to be watching him very closely.

Prestwicke didn't so much as flinch as Malden roared and came at him. He stood perfectly still—until the last possible moment, when he stepped away from the descending blade. Acidtongue came crashing down on the flagstones, its foaming vitriol burning a deep trench into the stone. Only when Malden was committed to the swing did Prestwicke move. The priest stepped inside of Malden's reach until their shoulders touched.

Then he pulled his knife across Malden's back, digging deep through robe and skin and the muscles beneath.

Malden screamed and staggered forward, past Prestwicke. The weight of Acidtongue dragged him downward until he was doubled over in pain.

For a long while he could do nothing but try to breathe through the agony. Prestwicke could have finished him off easily while he was down, but instead the priest merely stood to one side, waiting for him to get up.

Malden caught his breath. He pushed himself upward, using the sword like a cane. Eventually he regained his feet.

From behind him, he heard a sound as soft as a lover's whisper. The noise of soft shoes slapping on flagstones. Malden whirled to see Prestwicke dashing at him. The bright knife in his hand came for Malden's kidney, and Malden just managed to roll away from the attack.

He had let himself get distracted. It nearly cost him his life.

Or, no, not his life. At least not yet. He understood now why Prestwicke had kept to his little knife. Why he was taking so long to finish this. Prestwicke wanted him to bleed. He wanted his blood to flow.

Little cuts, but deep ones. Blood loss would kill him—eventually. Malden had seen men bleed to death before, and he knew how it would progress. He would weaken, and then falter, and then struggle for breath. His skin would pale and his lips turn blue. Eventually he would lose consciousness, and drift off to a sleep from which he would never awake. That was exactly how they said the priests of Sadu had once slaughtered their sacrifices, by bleeding them dry.

It was a painful way to die.

Desperate, driven by fear, Malden wheeled up to his feet, Acidtongue flashing out in a broad arc before him. Prestwicke was nowhere close enough to be cut.

Damn. Malden could feel blood sheeting down his back. The cut there had not severed any of his muscles, but it bit deep enough that he could feel blood rolling down his legs. He did not have much more time.

The priest raised his knife high and started to chant. Malden cast a quick glance toward the onlookers. Cythera looked terrified. Aethil the elf queen was staring with eyes that showed no emotion at all. What was her game? Why had she consented to this grotesque spectacle? Malden knew Slag had beseeched Aethil on his behalf—but surely this wasn't the dwarf's idea.

He needed to concentrate. He needed to focus. None of it mattered—not Mörget's escape, not what Cythera was doing. Nothing but where Prestwicke happened to be, and where his knife was.

The next attack came while he was still turning in place, looking for the priest.

The blow came down fast. Malden managed to parry it with Acidtongue, thinking the blade's acid would burn right through the knife. But Prestwicke must have thought the same thing, for he withdrew his attack before it had even really begun. Then, while Malden was bracing for the impact, Prestwicke slipped the knife under his guard and stabbed him in the stomach.

Malden shrieked in pain and jumped back, away from the knife.

Blood from his newest wound splattered on the flagstones. He had yet to even touch his opponent.

Chapter Ninety-six

C
roy's breath came in ragged pants. His eyes snapped open and he saw Malden again. Malden, with Acidtongue naked in his hand. The thief was advancing on a man dressed like a priest. Priest—priest—Prestwicke. Croy knew the priest's name. For some reason Prestwicke was holding a very shiny knife.

Mörget tore at the chain around Croy's wrists. It came off with scraps of his skin still woven through the links. Croy gasped in pain, but he was still watching Malden. The thief was—was—what in the Lady's name was the thief doing?

As Croy watched in horror, Malden took a step toward Prestwicke. He held Acidtongue high over his head, as if he were going to chop wood with it. Then he started to circle toward the priest's right.

Toward his strong side. What was Malden thinking? No trained swordsman would ever make a mistake like that.

“Knight! Collect yourself! Take this.” Mörget shoved something into Croy's hand. It was Ghostcutter's scabbard. Croy looked down at the sword, thinking that at least one thing still made sense. He still had the blade that he thought of as his soul.

The familiar weight of the blade and its scabbard helped bring him to his senses. How many times had he held this sword? How many times had he drawn it, and turned to fight an enemy?

He turned now, and saw a dozen elves holding drawn swords come screaming toward him.

Ah.

That, he understood.

Yet as he drew Ghostcutter from its sheath, he felt like he was struggling through a mire. He moved so slowly, and the elves were so fast.

“This way! Only cover my move, and I will love you forever,” Mörget shouted at him. Croy lifted the sword. It felt far heavier than it used to. “This way!” Mörget said again, and grabbed his arm and spun him around.

Ahead, he saw a wide gallery lit red by the dwarven sun. Mörget was running toward the light. Croy followed, unable to make his legs move very fast. Soon the elves were upon him, hacking and slashing at the steel-plated brigantine he wore.

Croy brought Ghostcutter up in a defensive posture. Bronze swords rang off the silver edge of his blade. A blow came in from his left that Croy barely had time to parry. Another darted in low and he shifted his leg back an inch, so the weapon merely grazed his flesh.

He turned his head and saw Mörget run for the gallery, and then leap over its railing. What was the barbarian doing?

A bronze sword struck the side of Croy's head. Only the flat of the blade connected, but it was enough to knock Croy sideways and throw him off balance. He went down on one knee, and then a dozen more blows dropped him to the flagstones. A boot came down toward his jaw. Croy grabbed it and twisted with all his strength, and its elfin owner fell backward, into the surprised faces of three of his comrades.

Croy's blood surged in him. Heat burst in his chest as his heart, made sluggish by the drug, labored to keep up with his screaming muscles. The fog started to lift as Croy stretched and danced, holding off his enemies. The exercise was burning off the drug and he was starting to move faster, to think more clearly.

Then the flat of a bronze blade struck him across the ear, and he dropped like a bag of stones.

Around him the elves debated his fate. “Are we supposed to kill him, or take him alive?” one asked.

“Kill him quick! No one will blame us,” another said. “How many of us did he slay?”

“But we had standing orders not to—”

“He's a beast, a wild beast!”

Croy struggled to get one hand under him, to push himself up off the flagstones. The elves drew back in terror as if they couldn't believe he was still standing. Free of them for a moment, Croy raced over to the edge of the gallery. He looked for Mörget again, and saw the barbarian on the far side of the central shaft. How had Mörget gotten all the way over there so quickly? It seemed impossible—yet the barbarian seemed a man possessed as he leapt from gallery to gallery, his hands barely connecting with the wall of the shaft before they reached for another handhold. He climbed up the sheer wall as quick as a spider, hauling himself upward by the woody growths of fungus that studded the wall.

But—why?

Croy's brains had cleared enough that he had it in an instant. Mörget was headed to the top level, to the support column where they had left the barrels. Where Balint had placed them, in just such a way that they would break through the column and bring down the entire mountain on their heads.

Mörget was going to finish what had been interrupted. He was going to put fire to the—what had Balint called it?—the fuse. It was his last chance to kill the demons, to end his personal quest.

And it meant the death of every living being in the Vincularium.

“No,” Croy said, because his brain had finally started working again. “No—he's going to—to bring this place down! But Cythera is still alive!”

Then a boot connected with his jaw, and elves piled on top of him until he was unable to move at all.