A thief in the night abt-2

by David Chandler

  “If you have to fight a man, you want to know if his name means ‘killer’ or ‘coward.’ It’s useful information.”

  Croy opened his pack and took out a jug of ale. He sipped at it, then handed it to Slag, who took a deep pull on it. Morget, of course, drank no spirits, so the dwarf handed it back to the knight. “So,” Croy said, “what does Morget mean? Something violent and forceful, no doubt.” He pumped one fist in the air and laughed.

  “Hardly. It means simply that I am the son of Morg. Morg’s get.”

  “And who’s Morg when he’s not at home?” Slag asked.

  Morget looked as if he’d almost rather not say. It was the first time Croy had ever seen the barbarian look less than enthusiastic about something. And yet he knew from Morget’s own lips that his father was a great chieftain of the barbarians, a commander of men.

  “Sometimes they call him Morg the Wise. He’s the closest thing we have to a king,” Morget said, his eyes dark.

  Croy spread his arms wide. “There you go. A proud name indeed.”

  The barbarian ran one thumb along the blade of his axe. “It is not meant that way. It is meant as a mark of shame. Among my people, no man is worth anything but what he seizes for himself. My name is meant to always remind me that I am not special, nor am I to be favored, just because I am the whelp of a great man. I must achieve something great in my life, or my people will always remember me as someone’s child.”

  “Once you kill this demon-”

  “Then I will change my name. I will have earned a better one.”

  “I can see why you would travel so far to carry out your quest,” Croy said.

  “Yes. And now you know about my name, for what good it does you. You. Dwarf.”

  Slag looked up. He’d started dozing halfway through Morget’s explanation. “Huh, yes?”

  “Your name seems strange to me. What is a ‘slag’?”

  “Slag is a waste product of the smelting process. It’s just what humans call me. A sodding insult, to be true, though mostly they mean it affectionately.”

  “I knew it was unusual,” Croy said, slapping his knee. “I was under the impression all dwarf names end with the suffix ‘in.’ Like Murdlin and Snurrin and Therin.”

  “Many do. It means ‘descendant of.’ Murdlin, for instance, is the seventh direct grandson of Murdli, the dwarf who invented the blister process of making steel. One of our great heroes. In our land, that is a mark of honor.”

  “We come from very different worlds,” Morget told the dwarf.

  “You’re not fucking kidding.”

  Croy laughed. “But what’s your actual name, then, Slag? I hate to think this whole time I’ve been calling you after some noxious substance, when you had a real, proud name I could use.”

  “It’s not important,” Slag told him.

  “Of course it is,” Croy said. “I have nothing but respect for you, and wouldn’t want to insult you, even in affectionate jest. Why, I-”

  “Be still,” Morget said, jumping to his feet. The axe in his hand pointed out into the dark.

  “I told you, it’s not fucking important,” Slag said, squinting at Croy.

  The knight was too busy staring at Morget to hear him.

  “What is it?” Croy asked.

  “I hear footsteps. And they’re close.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Lad, lass, get up,” Slag said, shaking Malden and Cythera to get them moving. Croy paid no attention as the dwarf explained what was happening to them. He had Ghostcutter out of its sheath and was busy preparing himself for a fight.

  His first inclination was to douse the lanterns and hide. But there was no good place to cower, and he had a feeling that whatever was out there could probably see better in the dark than he could. It showed no lights of its own. He couldn’t see it at all in the murk but he could definitely hear it now.

  Its footsteps were dragging and slow but it was making no attempt to muffle them. And it made another sound, too, a rhythmic scraping sound Croy couldn’t place.

  “It’s this way,” Morget said, and pointed into the dark with his axe. “And there’s more than one.”

  Croy strained his ears to the limit of their ability to pick up sounds, but he lacked Morget’s wild-born sensitivity. The knight squinted his eyes against the musty darkness and tried to see something. Anything.

  And then he had it. A figure, human-shaped, moving toward them very slowly. It wasn’t walking so much as shuffling its feet forward. One arm held something that it dragged along the cobblestones. That was the source of the rhythmic scraping sound they had heard. By the sound of it, the figure was dragging a piece of metal along the cobbles.

  “It’s armed,” Croy said, presuming the piece of metal had to be a weapon.

  “They all are. And armored.”

  “All?” Croy asked, near panic. He fought his fear down. He had to keep the mask of fearlessness in place, if only for the sake of Cythera and the others. In a moment he saw two more figures, just behind the first. It was impossible for him to make out any real detail in the darkness, but they were definitely clad in metal that reflected more light than their pale faces. As they drew steadily closer, he could see a little more. The one in front was dragging a sword. It gleamed yellow along one edge. Like gold-or bronze.

  He could see now they were not human. They were far too slender, even when covered in plates of armor. Their heads were longer than a human’s, as were their hands. They wore helmets that hid their ears, but Croy was certain the ears would be pointed if he could see them.

  “Elves,” Croy said. “But how? There can’t be any living elves down here, not after so long.”

  Apparently there weren’t. As they came even closer, no more than twenty yards away now, he could tell they were dead. The one in front had no eyes in its sockets. Its long, thin nose was partially eaten away, and the skin of one cheek was furry with mold.

  Malden came up beside Croy and stared at them. “Ghosts,” he breathed, his voice thick with supernatural dread.

  “No,” Croy said. He had fought ghosts before. Those had been thin, ethereal things, almost invisible and utterly silent. The sound the lead elf’s sword made as it dragged along the ground told him these were material creatures. Dead bodies, animated by some foul sorcery and made to walk again. “Revenants,” he corrected. “Malden, keep Cythera safe. Use Acidtongue if you must-I don’t care if you haven’t been trained with a sword. Just don’t let them-”

  He stopped because he saw the other two revenants clearly. One had a grinning skull for a face, with tatters of skin hanging from its forehead to obscure one blank eye socket. The other had no head at all.

  “Morget, be ready,” Croy said. He’d never faced a revenant in battle before, but had heard tales, and he knew a little of what to expect. “They will attack without attempting to parley. And they will not stop to beg for quarter. They want only our deaths.”

  “Death is my mother,” Morget said. “Let them come a little closer, so I can give her a kiss.”

  Croy had no doubt the barbarian thought he could take all three revenants on himself. If they had just been elves, or even just animated bones, Croy was certain the barbarian would defeat them handily. But if, as he feared, these were true revenants-spirits of vengeance, animated by a desperate hunger for justice-they would be far harder to overcome than any living opponent.

  “Just be careful. Whatever you do, don’t let them grapple you. They’ll cling to your neck with preternatural strength and never let go.”

  “Consider me warned,” Morget said, and then he howled like a wolf.

  The nearest revenant opened skinless lips and screamed at them, a dreadful sound of loss and rage that chilled Croy’s blood. Then the three of them brought their weapons to bear and charged, no longer shuffling painfully but running with great speed.

  The leader came straight at Croy, bringing its sword up and whirling it over its head, just as a living commander might to ra
lly his troops. Its bony feet slapped on the cobblestones, slipping and sliding, but it never fell or faltered. In the space between two breaths it was on him, and its intent was clear: it meant to slaughter him as quickly and as violently as possible.

  Fear surged through Croy’s body, like rivers of ice coursing through his veins. He remembered another of Sir Orne’s lessons. Fear could make a man run away-or it could make him fight like a wildcat, if he thought he had nowhere to run. Fear could be used, channeled. It could make a man fast and strong.

  He brought Ghostcutter high and caught the bronze sword on his forte. He pushed the blow away from him and the revenant reeled. He spared a heartbeat-long glance at Morget, and was glad to see the barbarian was not just attacking like a berserker-he was moving around to the side, to flank the three while he himself took the brunt of their attack.

  Sound strategy-but it meant he was exposed to a torrent of blows. The skull-faced revenant had a double-bladed battle-axe that it brought around in a clumsy swing Croy had to jump backward to avoid. The headless one’s sword came around in a wild arc, as if the revenant were merely waving it in front of itself, hoping that he hit something. The leader’s sword came down in a powerful overhead driving cut, and Croy could only bring Ghostcutter up to catch the bronze sword on his quillions. He swung around to kick the revenant backward, then jerked his foot away as the dead elf’s free hand reached for his ankle.

  Morget’s axe took the headless one in the back, a clanging blow that might have cut a human opponent in half. The headless revenant staggered forward under the pressure, then straightened itself up and swung its blade again.

  Croy ducked sideways, away from the flailing blow. The skull-faced one’s axe was carving through the air toward him, but he knocked it away easily.

  “Everyone, move back, away from the edge of the pit,” he shouted. He didn’t want to be driven into the dark abyss by force of arms.

  He brought Ghostcutter down hard on the skull-faced revenant’s shoulder, and the silvered edge of his Ancient Blade bit deep through the thing’s armor. The skull-face split open in a scream that left its jawbone dangling from one joint. Croy pulled his sword clear of the wound and swung around for a strong cut to the thing’s axe arm. The blow surely would have cut through the revenant’s elbow if the leader of the dead elves had not chosen that moment to thrust its sword hard into Croy’s side.

  Pain burst through Croy’s entire rib cage. It blinded him, and made him drop to one knee. He heard Cythera calling his name, but the blood pounding through his head made her voice distant and small.

  He managed to force his eyes open and looked up just as the skull-face’s axe came whistling down toward his scalp.

  “No,” he had time to say, thinking this was his death.

  Instead Morget grabbed the skull-face around the waist and heaved him off the ground. He rushed toward the pit, clearly intending to throw the revenant into the depths.

  “No!” Croy howled again as the skull-face dropped its axe-and wrapped both its bony hands around Morget’s thick neck.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The barbarian did not panic as the bony fingers dug deep into the tendons of his neck. He brought his axe up and bit deep into the revenant’s back, though the unwieldy position kept him from striking a true killing blow.

  “Malden, help him,” Croy called. He was too hard pressed to rescue Morget himself. The headless revenant brought its sword around in a wild two-handed swing that would have taken Croy’s own head off if he hadn’t ducked out of the way. The leader of the revenants brought his sword up then and aimed a long-armed cutting stroke downward at his chest.

  The knight was still recovering from the blow he’d taken to his side. The metal plates riveted inside his brigantine had held, and he knew he wasn’t bleeding, but the shock of the blow still left his whole left side numb and stiff. Every breath hurt, even as his body surged and gasped for more air. He managed to bring Ghostcutter up to deflect the oncoming blow, but he took the leader’s bronze sword on the foible, the weakest part of Ghostcutter, nearest its tip. Any living fencer would have sneered at that defense-it opened Croy up to a deadly remise, a continuation of the original blow that could pierce his throat or face without any difficulty.

  The revenant wasn’t as fast as a living man, however strong it might be. It tried for the remise but Croy leaned back and the bronze sword point slid harmlessly past his cheek.

  Rolling to one side, he thrust Ghostcutter hard up into the lead revenant’s vitals. It was a blow that would have disemboweled a living opponent. The Ancient Blade met little resistance, even from the bronze cuirass the revenant wore. Once past the armor it felt to Croy like he was stabbing empty air.

  Such an attack would do little to harm a revenant. They felt no pain and had no vital organs to pierce. They could not be killed by sundering their hearts or by loss of blood. The magic that animated them cared little for the state of their bodies, as it only wanted one thing-revenge. The revenant opened wide its mouth as if to mock Croy for such a pointless attack.

  Croy knew what he was doing, though. He twisted Ghostcutter to the side, hard, and the revenant was jerked off his feet. He dropped in a heap of bronze armor and emaciated flesh. Croy jumped with both feet on its throat and felt the sickening crunch as the revenant’s head parted from its body.

  Its bony arms reached up to grab his legs, even still. Croy was ready and leapt away, Ghostcutter already swinging to strike the headless revenant in its chest. The other had been approaching steadily, waiting for an opening in Croy’s defense. Maybe it thought it had found its moment, but this time at least it was wrong.

  Morget’s earlier axe blow had already chopped the headless revenant near in half. Croy’s blow finished the job. With a great clatter of bronze on the cobblestones, the headless revenant fell in two pieces, both twitching with rage.

  Neither of Croy’s opponents was finished-it took a long time to completely destroy a revenant, and a strong stomach-but he had bought himself enough time to look around and see what else was happening.

  Morget was on his knees, his hands clutching desperately at his throat. Malden had managed to use Acidtongue to cut the skull-face’s arms off at the wrists, and the thief was chopping the handless body to pieces with the magic sword. The disembodied hands were still wrapped tight around the barbarian’s windpipe, however. They were already dead-being severed from their body wouldn’t stop them.

  Morget’s face was turning purple. His eyes stood out of his head and his red-stained lips were pulled back in a grimace of agony. In an incredible display of fortitude, he managed to grasp one finger of the bony hands and tear it from its joint. He cast it away from him, into the darkness.

  Croy jumped in and helped as best he could, pulling the fingers away from Morget’s flesh as the barbarian thrashed and heaved. Morget was getting no air, though, and soon would suffocate if they couldn’t get him free.

  “Stand back,” Cythera insisted, coming up behind Croy. “Damn you, get back! I can help him.” Croy did as he was told and let her lay her hands over the bony digits that were choking the life out of Morget. She closed her eyes and spoke some magic words-or perhaps just a prayer. Then she let out a deep gasp and staggered backward. The bony hands fell away from Morget’s throat, completely lifeless now.

  Cythera’s own hands writhed with dark tattoos. No flowers this time-only thorn vines and briars.

  “They burn,” she said. “So cold…”

  The barbarian gasped for breath, but he was already moving. He grabbed the now headless lead revenant by the ankle and swung it around in a great arc. The revenant tried to snatch at Morget, but before he could find purchase the barbarian had cast it over the edge of the pit. It disappeared instantly, and a few seconds later Croy heard a great splash from below. Morget repeated this performance with the two halves of the headless revenant and the severed head of the leader.

  And suddenly the five of them were alone again in the d
ark, all of them wheezing with exhaustion and fear.

  “Is that the last of them?” Slag asked. The dwarf had a lantern in either hand, and he waved them around, trying to illuminate the vast open space. The candles inside the lanterns fluttered and sighed, and one of them went out. Slag shrieked and set it down, then rummaged desperately in his pack for flint and steel to get it going again.

  Croy wanted to comfort and reassure the dwarf, but he was exhausted and pained by his wound. He could only listen to his heart pound in his chest and try to breathe. Then he saw Cythera staring at her hands and started dragging himself over toward her, to help in any way he could.

  Morget staggered over to where Malden stood, still gripping Acidtongue in both hands. Drops of vitriol spattered the cobblestones and made them smoke at Malden’s feet.

  Malden looked up at Morget as if he expected the barbarian to strike him down where he stood, for not having saved him.

  The barbarian stared back into the thief’s eyes, his huge body pulsing with life. Then he slapped Malden hard on the back.

  The blow sent Malden sprawling forward, to almost crash on his face. He caught his footing and whirled around with Acidtongue up and ready.

  Morget let out one of his booming laughs, this one hoarse and painful-sounding but no less enormous. “We have fought together,” he told Malden, “and I call you brother! You may now touch me, without causing offense.”

  “Maybe later,” Malden said.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Do you hear any more of them?” Morget asked, when they’d all had a chance to catch their breath.

  Croy shook his head and went back to tending Cythera’s hands. She clenched and opened them stiffly as if they pained her greatly, letting out a little gasp with each motion. The skin under the tattoos was red and irritated. He blew on them and then rubbed them briskly, surprised to find them still ice cold.