A thief in the night abt-2

by David Chandler

  Croy almost never blasphemed, but he muttered a curse concerning the Lady’s left elbow then. It wasn’t particularly vulgar but it made him feel better.

  He called for Morget but there was no answer.

  He got to his feet, his boots crunching on the pebbly sand. He had no idea where he was, though considering the darkness he decided he must still be in the Vincularium. Stretching out his hands, he walked away from the sound of the water, moving forward one tentative step at a time until his hands encountered a brick wall. He pressed his back up against it and tried to think of what to do next.

  Feeling his way along the wall, he headed away from the sound of water. The floor was even and he only tripped a few times as he made his way up a modest incline. The bricks under his fingers were uniform in size and shape, and he counted them as he went along, keeping track of how far he’d gone.

  Fifty feet along the wall ended. He reached around its edge and found another wall at right angles to the first, headed away from him. He took a few halting steps forward but couldn’t find a far wall, and decided he had come into a larger room.

  How long could he keep doing this, he wondered, moving blindly forward with no weapons and no light? How long would it be before he stepped over the edge of some pitfall-or blundered into the resting place of more revenants?

  As long as it took him, he decided. If he stopped now, if he did what he really wanted to do-which was to sit down, hug his knees, and wait for death to come-then he would be a failure. A disgrace. All his vows, all his beliefs, would be for nothing. He would die alone in a dark place and the best he could hope for would be that nobody ever found his bones. That nobody ever realized what a dishonorable end he’d found.

  The one thing Croy still possessed was honor.

  He could not stop now. Cythera was out there-somewhere-in the darkness. He had made a bad mistake by bringing her to the Vincularium, he knew. He had put her in mortal danger. He had no choice now but to find her and rescue her from this place. No matter what that took. No matter if he was killed in the process, because at least then he would die striving to accomplish something.

  He put one foot in front of the other and walked forward, into the darkness.

  One step. Another. He felt the floor before him with his outstretched boot. The stone below him seemed solid enough. Another step.

  That was when he heard the chittering.

  It was a soft sound, like leather being rubbed against leather. It was all around him. He could not imagine what nature of monster made that noise, but it came from every side at once. It rose and fell in pitch, like the song the crickets sang in the trees around Helstrow. A sound he’d known well as a boy. He associated it with long summer days playing with wooden swords and mock-jousting against the quintain. A sound that made him think of his mother’s hands, and his father’s beard.

  Only now it was a hundred times louder, and it might come from the throat of the beast that finally slew him.

  He reached up and touched the cornucopia charm that hung around his neck. Lady, make me fit for Your purpose, he prayed. Silently, of course. If he had to fight with his bare hands, he would. But if he could walk through this room without alerting the creatures in it, all the better.

  Honor allowed a man to be a little bit stealthy, after all. If it made the difference between life and death.

  He took another step forward-and walked right into something big and hard that scuttled away from him on many legs. The chittering sound increased in volume and intensity until he thought it would deafen him.

  Then he heard another sound-the sound of metal striking stone. And a light erupted into life before him.

  Croy threw a hand over his eyes to protect them, but the light was dying away again already. Metal struck stone once more, and Croy finally saw what he faced.

  Morget, holding Dawnbringer. The light came from the blade.

  All around him stood giant cave beetles, as docile as cattle. A whole herd of them-enough to make the chittering sound. The same as the creature they’d seen up on the surface, what felt like a lifetime ago. The giant beetle that “attacked” Malden, and done no worse than cover him in goo. Malden realized that the monsters he’d thought surrounded him were, in point of fact, just livestock.

  He imagined himself standing in a field full of cows with a hoodwink over his eyes. Would he have been as frightened? Would he have thought so hard about what honor demanded of him? He felt an utter fool.

  “We won’t starve, at least,” Morget said.

  And Croy laughed until tears shot from his eyes.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Morget had both their packs open and the contents spread out on the floor of the room. Everything had been soaked through when they hit the water, and he was drying out what could be salvaged. “The candles won’t light,” he explained. “The wicks are soaked through.” He struck Dawnbringer against the floor, and Croy saw their equipment arrayed before him. No rope, nor any lanterns, but they had two of the tents and the bulk of the climbing gear.

  “You shouldn’t bash your sword about like that,” Croy chided the barbarian. “You’ll blunt its edge.”

  “Better that than going about blind,” Morget told him. “But all right, let us sit down in the darkness, and I’ll tell you something of what happened.”

  It was good to hear Morget’s voice. It filled Croy with hope and cheer. He drank some ale from one of their bottles-the cork had held-and listened without hearing all of the words. He caught the gist, anyway.

  Morget had carried him over the edge of the shaft and together they hit the water very hard. They had sunk like stones in their armor, and should by all rights have drowned. Croy was knocked unconscious by the impact, but Morget kept enough of his wits to swim for the surface. He had hauled Croy upward, hoping only that he was swimming in the right direction.

  “In the dark, with my head ringing like a bell, it was not so easy to tell. Luck was with me, it seems. I broke free into air and gasped for breath, and knew I was alive. I wanted to stay that way. So I picked a direction at random and swam for the side of the shaft, pulling you along behind me. I think you swallowed much water and I was certain you would drown, but I did not wish to leave your body behind, even though it slowed me greatly.”

  “I thank you,” Croy said. The barbarian had certainly saved his life. “You could have faltered under my weight, and then we would both have died.”

  “Bah, death is my mother! I don’t fear her embraces. Anyway, I figured if you were dead, and I found myself trapped down here, I could always eat you if I couldn’t find any other food.”

  “Oh,” Croy said.

  Morget continued with his tale as if there was nothing grisly or disheartening about the prospect of eating a friend. “I found the wall of the shaft and then swam along it until I found an opening. I quickly discovered one fact about this place-the lowest level is completely flooded. We are now actually upon the second floor.”

  “Hmm,” Croy said, and drank some more ale. The pain of his bruises started to fade.

  “I dragged you up onto a gallery and tried to revive you, but to no avail. I pounded on your back and chest until you stopped vomiting water, but still you did not wake. For a long while I sat by your side, waiting for you to stir. Then I decided I would use my time better by learning where we ended up. You see what I found. There are more rooms beyond this one, which we will explore together.”

  “Ah,” Croy said. He leaned his head back against the brick wall. “You deserve some reward for saving me, but I fear you will have nothing but my eternal gratitude, brother.”

  “Recompense enough, surely.”

  “Yet I have one question,” Croy told him. “My blade, Ghostcutter. Was it lost when we struck the water? It is not on my belt. Nor is its scabbard.”

  “Hmm? Oh, no. I took it from you while you slept. I have it here on my belt now, next to Dawnbringer’s sheath.”

  “That’s very good news. I’d be bre
aking a powerful oath if I lost it.”

  “As I well know.”

  Croy hefted the ale jug. It was half empty. He must have been very thirsty. “Morget,” he said, when the barbarian didn’t say anything more. “May I have it back?”

  The barbarian boomed out a laugh. “Of course, brother! I was only keeping it safe for you!”

  They laughed together, though Croy wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t asked for Ghostcutter. The barbarians, he knew, would love to get their hands on more of the Ancient Blades. They were a people who subsisted on conquest, and they longed to take Skrae for their own-and possessing the magical swords would certainly help with that goal.

  But no, surely Morget wouldn’t have kept the blade. Morget had honor of his own, even if it didn’t come from promises made to the Lady. Croy was certain the barbarian had meant no harm at all.

  He drank more ale and put suspicion out of his mind.

  They sat together, drinking and eating from their water-logged food supply, while Croy regained some strength. Eventually it came time to begin exploring. Once the candles had dried out enough to burn, they each took one and waded through the herd of beetles. Croy counted at least sixty of the beasts, and while natural philosophy was not his strong suit, he’d spent enough time around farms in his youth to wonder what they were doing there. “The elves kept them here, mayhap as a food source. That much I comprehend. Yet that was centuries ago. They still act like a herd of livestock,” he said. “Huddling together for safety and warmth. Wild animals don’t flock so close. They roam farther, the better to graze on open land.”

  Morget shrugged. “A mystery. Perhaps not the most pressing.”

  “Of course,” Croy said, but he couldn’t defeat his own curiosity. “I suppose it’s possible they simply huddle together because of predators. Perhaps the demon comes down here and feasts on them from time to time.”

  “I hope it is so!” Morget crowed. “Then we will see it soon, for it had a terrible hunger, if I remember correctly.”

  The presence of the demon might well make the beetles cower together, Croy decided. Though why, then, didn’t they just leave? One of them had escaped the Vincularium, so why hadn’t they all tried to get away?

  Perhaps they were just too stupid. Croy shrugged. It was all the answer he would get, so he considered it answer enough.

  The two warriors made their way out of the room, heading still farther from the shaft. The floor sloped very gently upward as they proceeded. Croy wanted to get up to the third level from the top-the level where Cythera and the others had gone-so he was glad for the rise in elevation, though he kept his eyes open for any stairwells or ramps that might lead up more quickly.

  The rooms they explored, however, were mostly featureless and plain. Whatever purpose they had served when the dwarves carved them out of the rock was unclear now. There were signs that this level, too, had flooded at some point in the past. The walls were mottled with fungus and draped with a strange white plant like albino seaweed. Perhaps it was this strange vegetation that had drawn the cave beetles. Beneath the plant life, pale stains ran along the walls like a high water mark. In some places bits of ironwork must once have been stapled to the walls, but all that remained were dull red streaks where rust had claimed them. When Croy held his candle high, he could see long stalactites hanging down from the ceiling, like dripping candle wax cast in stone.

  Morget took the lead while Croy covered their rear. The beetles were no threat, of course, but the two of them had agreed it was best not to be surprised by any more revenants if they could help it-and there was always the demon to worry about. For the most part they moved in silence, but it seemed that Morget couldn’t bear the stillness, and after a while he broke it with a statement that puzzled Croy greatly.

  “These rooms call to me,” he said.

  “In what sense?”

  “When I think of the lair of a demon, this is much what I see,” Morget explained. “Dark, abandoned places, with a ready supply of game. Such are rare enough, but that is exactly what we have here. I think perhaps our fall was fortuitous. Perhaps it was fate that drove me down here.”

  Croy frowned. “Morget-I want to vanquish this creature as much as you do.”

  “Of course! It is our very nature.”

  “But-we have to rescue the others first. And it would be wise to secure a way out of the Vincularium. Only then should we track down the beast.”

  The barbarian turned to face him full on. His features were quite calm-his mouth a straight line under its coat of paint, his eyes half shrouded by their lids. “I have a destiny to complete,” he said. “It can brook few delays.”

  “Just one small delay. Maybe two,” Croy said. “I believe you possess a code of honor just as I do. No honorable man would leave a woman or a defenseless dwarf to the horrors of this place. Have I misjudged you?”

  The barbarian raised one hand in dismissal. “Of course not. Very well, we shall rescue the weaklings first. Unless, of course, along the way we catch sight of our quarry. We must not lose the opportunity if it befalls us.” He turned and started walking up the slope again. “What about the thief, though?”

  “Hmm?” Croy asked. Thoughts so occupied his brain he barely heard.

  “Malden. Your friend. You did not mention him when you listed those you must preserve.”

  Croy tilted his head to one side, considering why he had omitted Malden from his list of objectives. “Ah. Well, he has Acidtongue. He can defend himself.”

  Of course, he thought, it would help if Malden knew how to use a sword.

  The possibility that his slip had been meaningful, that he left Malden out of his goals for a reason, troubled Croy, but he already had enough to worry about.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Malden climbed into the brazen cage and braced himself by holding on to one of the bars. He had to stoop or bash his head against the top of the cage. Cythera, standing beside him, looked as uneasy as he felt. “This-device-travels upward and down along its chain?” he asked. “Like a bucket on a rope, lowered into a well, and then brought back up by winding a windlass. Only-instead of water, this carries people.”

  “Brilliant deductive powers, oh gormless human,” Slag said, rolling his eyes.

  “But-what if the chain breaks under our weight?” Cythera asked.

  “Then my ancestors built it wrong,” Slag told her. “You’re going to insult my ancestors now?” The dwarf closed the door of the cage, its hinges making a hideous squeal. “Malden, help me with this.” A loop of chain dangled between them-not the same chain that held the cage in its shaft, but a much finer one that looped around a complicated arrangement of gears in the ceiling. “Just pull down, and keep pulling. Normally there would be a team of huge cave beetles at the bottom of the main chain, walking a wheel to make it move. This is just for emergencies, but it’ll serve our purpose. No, no, no,” the dwarf grumbled, “you’re doing it wrong. Just take hold of one length of chain and pull down.”

  The chain Malden held was actually joined to itself in a loop. He pulled down on it and the gears in the ceiling creaked. The whole cage dropped a fraction of an inch-far too fast for Malden’s liking. Slag grabbed the chain as well and together they pulled until the cage moved smoothly down through the hole in the floor.

  It was not magic that moved the cage. Malden understood that. The chain he pulled somehow did the work, and it was his own muscles that moved the chain. Yet the chain moved so freely in its gears, and there was some strange proportion to it-he had to pull it a very long way, very fast, before the cage moved even a bit-that he knew he would never grasp the principles involved. The cage might as well be enchanted, for all he understood.

  Yet it worked, he could not deny that. They descended through the floor below without stopping. Slag claimed it was a level of workshops and smithies. Malden could see very little of that floor by the stray beams of candlelight thrown from within their cage.

  What he
could see didn’t please him much. Beyond the bars lay a vast expanse of dust and stone. He could make out walls of ancient brick, and a doorway, the door hanging loose by one hinge. The candlelight reflected dully from every surface, casting long shadows that danced around the stillness. There was nothing there to alarm him, nothing that looked like it would come racing out to snatch at his face. Yet the very quiet of the place, the sense of vast time and stone left undisturbed for centuries, was somehow worse than the sudden fear and desperate action of the fight with the revenants. Anything could hide back there. Great treasures piled in heaps, maybe-but far more likely dead things, laying sprawled on the floor like inert piles of bones, just waiting for a reason to rise again. A reason to climb stiffly to their bony feet and come forward.

  He’d known he was a fool to come here. It was far too dangerous, and the constant fear was preying on him, making him act like a dullard. Making him angry and snappish, so that he’d fought with Cythera when he should have been comforting her. Reassuring her (despite the obvious fact they were far from safety), telling her everything would be all right.

  Cythera pressed her face against the bars and peered out into the darkness. Perhaps she was thinking exactly the same thoughts. But he didn’t dare ask. As angry as she was with him right now, he thought that saying anything might be a bad idea.

  Yet he was glad when she spoke, if only because it broke the silence. “I am very glad to have you with us, Slag,” she said. “I fear we would be utterly lost without you. You seem to know this place, though you say you’ve never been here before. Do you have some map of the Vincularium you haven’t shared with us?”

  “I don’t need one,” the dwarf said, grunting from the effort of constantly pulling the chain. “It’s all fucking standardized.”