The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye (9 page)

“
What's the point of this?”

“
For the third time, I ask the questions here. Do not make me tell you again.”

“
Or else what?” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.

It was silent for what seemed a long time, but was likely only seconds. The figure was almost at the bottom of the stairs, hidden by a corkscrew turn.

“
Else I will show you what you least desire to see.” With those words, I felt a sick dread begin to worm its way through my guts.

The figure descended to the floor, suddenly somehow right side up. It held a lamp high, illuminating its face, and laughed. I screamed.

Its face was the face of my dead father. Guilt and terror crashed down on me.

I couldn't face him, wearing my father's face. I couldn't. I fled into the labyrinth of passageways, past staircases and intersections and dust-choked, empty rooms in that hellish, twilight world. I scurried away like a rat, a cockroach. Like the nothing that I was. I fled. The voice followed wherever I went, just a step behind.

“
What was it like, plunging the knife into your own father's back? Could you feel the blade strike bone, the shock of it run up your arms? Could you hear the steel grate along his rib? A clumsy kill, but you got better at it, didn't you? You learned to keep your blade parallel to the ground. You learned where to thrust, and why. You learned to kill quickly and quietly.”

I ran, panting, down another torch-lit corridor. I remembered everything. I remembered my father, I remembered the time after his death, before Arno took me in; death struggles over scraps of food or begging territory, pitched battles on rooftops and in alleyways, filthy, starving boys and girls dying alone and terrified. Not me. Never me. I remembered the mantra I would mouth silently as I rocked myself to sleep every night: I
will
survive. I
will
survive. I
will
survive...

I rounded a corner and plunged down darkened stairs, the voice hard on my heels.

“
How he must have screamed, though. Even in his drunken stupor, it must have been agony, feeling his own daughter's blade in his back, in his lung. Feeling his life seep away. Unable to breathe once you pulled that filthy scaling knife out of him and his lung collapsed.

“
Do you remember how he writhed, bloody bubbles at the corner of his mouth, mewling like a dying kitten? Do you remember how he kept kicking, feebly? How he clawed at the floor? Do you remember? Do you? Of course you do, Amra. You remember very well.”

And I did. I remembered the night I killed my father in perfect detail. I remembered coming home to a darkened house, hearing my father's fists thudding into my mother's body, her dazed pleas for forgiveness, for mercy. My mother, who didn't even know what she was begging forgiveness for, whose only failing had been choosing a viper-mean drunkard for a husband.

I had picked up the scaling knife from the muddy ground next to the loose, splintered front steps, where it lay next to a pile of fish guts. The worn wooden handle was tacky with fish blood and viscera. Flies buzzed clumsily around the pile of guts and fish heads in the chill autumn air, and inside my mother was being beaten. Yes, I remembered.

I walked into our one room hovel on the dying edge of Hardside, found my father hunched over the prone figure of my mother, beating her in the face with a cold, wordless fury. I remember his fists hammering down again and again, methodical, almost workmanlike.

And yes, I remembered holding that filthy, slender single-edged knife over my head in a two handed grip, and driving it down into my father's back with all the force my eleven-year-old body could muster.

I'd held my mother's unconscious body, cradling her bloody head in my lap as my father bled his life away on the floor next to us.

She never woke up.

The terror and sick guilt of what I'd done were suddenly replaced by anger. I knew then that it had not been natural. Fecking magic.

“
So many have died around you, at your hand. How very many deaths you are tangled up in, little thief. How great your guilt must be.”

“
No,” I said.

“
No? Are you unrepentant then? Will you not plead for mercy, for forgiveness as your mother did before she died?” I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. I balled my fists at my side, took hold of my remaining fear and strangled it to death.

“
No. I won't. What deaths I've caused, I regret for the most part, but I've rarely had any choice, and I've never killed for profit or pleasure. Only survival, mine or others'. If you know so much, then you have to know that, too.” I took a deep, ragged breath. “Was I supposed to lie down and die? Everyone has the right to try and survive, if they can. I won't beg forgiveness for it. Not from you. Not from anybody.” I steeled myself and turned around.

A tiny, blue-white flame bobbed at eye level, somehow casting a warm golden glow. No robed figure. No father's face.

“
Spoken truly, Amra. I've waited centuries for one like you to come to me. You were almost too late. The umbrals attack even now.”

“
What are you talking about?”

“
You are the one. Receive my mark.” The flame flew at me,
into
me. It didn't burn. That hellish maze disintegrated around me. I fell to the cold, coarse winter grass, and into another kind of hell entirely.

I was on my back at the base of the pyramid. Night had fallen and massive, shadowed creatures roamed the ruins. Their wicked blades flashed in the moonlight, but every movement they made was warped, blurred, like ink in water.

Holgren stood near me, flinging bolt after bolt of pure white fire at the attackers, with little effect.

“
Oh, Kerf,” I swore.

One, the largest of them
, was bearing down on us. It swung a blade as long as I. Each swing was measured, precise, the space of a slow heartbeat. The thing was a juggernaut. Nothing Holgren threw at it did more than rock it in its course. It was going to be on us in three or four more strides.

I estimated the distance between us and it, watched the rise and fall of its sword. I timed it as best I could, hoping the thing had poor reflexes.

Just as another of Holgren's bolts splashed harmlessly off the thing and its sword began a downward sweep to the left, I darted out toward it, knife in hand. I heard Holgren call my name, and felt the whispering passage of its blade on the air near my head. I swung the knife up toward the cleft between its massive thighs.

My blade shattered like a cheap wine bottle dropped on paving stones.

Not the servants, but their Master
, hissed the Flame's voice in my ears. I cursed and rolled through the thing's legs, pulling my last knife.

It turned quickly to try and face me. I kept behind it. It kept turning. I moved to stay behind it.

“
This is not a long-term plan,” I muttered.

It swung its blade behind its back and nearly took my head off. I'd found only a momentary respite.

It had to see, I reasoned. Which meant it had to have eyes. I hoped. I sprang from the muddy grass onto its massive back, clawing for purchase. Its skin felt like nothing so much as a bankfish's underbelly—cold and soft, and smooth in a distasteful way. I slipped an arm around what I had to assume was its neck and began to poke at where a face generally went. I jabbed less fiercely than I might have otherwise. I couldn't afford to lose my last knife.

I have no idea whether I had much of an effect. Holgren screamed at me to drop—but he was too late. I heard the low, terrible hum of a blade slicing air in the split second before it connected. I knew I was dead. I didn't have time to see my life flash before me. I didn't even have time to curse. It struck me in the neck.

It should have decapitated me. I felt the links of that cursed necklace bite into the flesh of my neck under the weight of that terrible blow—and then the monster's sword bounced away and buried itself in the shoulder of the creature I was clinging to. Thick black blood sprayed up from the wound and drenched my face. It stung and smoked, and smelled much like the death lands had. I dropped instantly, retching and clawing the stuff away from my eyes and mouth with my free hand. I landed hard on my back and instinctively rolled away. Good thing I did. The one that had been cleaved fell on the space I'd just quit. It made no sound, and it didn't get back up.

The creature that should have decapitated me was still very much alive, though, and was right on top of me. It had left its sword in its brethren. It crouched above me, and with thick fingers began to probe its own stomach. I scrabbled back on my elbows in the slick grass. A fissure appeared there on the thing's torso that stretched from groin to neck. The thing pulled it open wider, revealing a blackness that beggared the darkest cave. A sigh escaped that black opening, and I swear it formed whispered, groaning words.

“
Come to me, my love. Come inside...”

“
Not on your best day,” I muttered, and hurled my last knife into that perverted talking womb.

The fissure closed with an elastic snap and the creature rose up with fists raised, ready to pummel me into the earth. I heard Holgren uttering more strained, liquid syllables. I didn't want to be anywhere near when he was done. I was positive whatever Holgren was about to unleash would be quite unhealthy for me, if not the beast.

I started running, sure I'd never get out of the creature’s reach in time. The top of my head tingled, where its fists would come down and turn my brains to jelly. All my hair began to stand on end. I didn't dare look back.

Holgren uttered a final word and lightning pounded down out of a cloudless sky. Once. Twice. Again.

I looked back over my shoulder and the thing stood, fists raised above its head, smoking and sizzling. It wasn't blurry anymore.

I saw then that it did have a head of sorts, a massive bulge atop its torso with three holes spaced in a triangle, point down, in the center of it. It had no neck to speak of. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, it began to topple. When it fell
, the ground shook and the meadow echoed with the impact, leaving a momentary silence in its wake.

The rest of the creatures hardly seemed to notice. They were too busy bearing down on me and Holgren. They formed a terrifying skirmish line, weaving a wall of steel before them as they came. Holgren was face-down in the grass, unmoving.

Not the servants, but their Master
, the Flame hissed again.
Flee, Amra
.

I fled. Scooping him up under the armpits, I pulled Holgren back from the creatures. I was delaying the inevitable. They'd mow us down. I couldn't move fast enough, carrying him.

“
Holgren! Wake up, you heavy bastard!” Nothing.

Inside the pyramid is an escape, of sorts,
hissed the Flame.
The doorway is hidden.

“
How do we get in?”

How did you enter before?

The monsters were coming, relentless. There was about a forty foot gap between them and us, and it was narrowing by the second.

We could escape. Through that pale fire at the pyramid's point. Now it was a race.

I got a better grip on Holgren and, digging for every scrap of strength and speed I had, dragged him up the stepped slope of the pyramid as quickly as I could. I held Holgren by his shirt to keep him from sliding back down the pyramid, hoping he would be transferred along with me to the Flame's halls beyond. I reached up over the stone bowl's lip to touch that pale blue fire. That's when one of the creature's swords came whistling down from out of the dark to cleave the bowl of fire in two.

What happened next was over in a matter of moments. I looked back over my shoulder and the creature was raising its sword again, to bisect me this time. But its blade was now coated with a living, dancing flame that was crawling rapidly toward the sword's hilt. As the sword descended, pale blue flame found the inky flesh of the creature’s hand.

The effect was explosive.

The creature disintegrated instantly, along with pretty much that entire side of the pyramid. The roar of the explosion was like nothing else I'd ever heard. The blast threw me back onto what was left of the stepped side of the pyramid and ripped Holgren from my grasp. I landed hard, my right arm twisted behind me. I felt the bone of my upper arm snap. The stone beneath me groaned, shifted, and suddenly gave way. I tumbled into darkness. I struck something, bounced, and then lots of rocks beat my body to a pulp. I don't know how big the one was that nearly took my head off but it was big enough. The pain was excruciating, nauseating.

Luckily I passed out before I vomited. I hate vomiting.

I don’t really remember much of what passed after that. Hours flew by, and I drifted in and out of consciousness. I was pinned in the rubble,
legs immobile, facing down into the great hall where I’d first faced the flame when it was wearing my father’s face. In the dim moonlight I could see that rubble and earth made a perilous slope from the meadow above down to the hall’s floor, perhaps forty yards from top to bottom. I was somewhere in the middle.

At one point I started to cough, which brought on agony from my shattered arm. I suppressed it before I passed out, and just lay there for a time, concentrating on each breath.