The barbarian had Dawnbringer half out of its sheath.
Croy shook his head violently. Morget frowned and lifted his sword another few inches clear of its scabbard. No, Croy thought, desperately trying to communicate with the barbarian. No, not now. He wasn’t in any shape for a desperate fight. One demon had nearly butchered him. Backed up by undead elves, another might succeed. If he was slain now, what hope would Cythera have? She was trapped down here, surrounded by nightmarish creatures and unknown dangers. And she had only Malden to protect her.
Croy stared directly into Morget’s eyes and pleaded with him silently. He reached out and grabbed Morget’s sword arm. He felt the barbarian’s arm tense, and for a moment thought the bigger man would attack him rather than the elves. But somehow Croy’s desperation won through. The barbarian relaxed his arm. Croy held up a hand for patience. Morget looked deeply disappointed but nodded and put his sword away.
Croy let out a breath in relief. He was careful to make no noise.
Still, it was enough to give them away. One of the revenants froze in place, then turned slowly to face the shadows where Morget and Croy hid, its eyes scanning the darkness. The other moved back to cover it while the demon stayed where it was, its faces craning toward the shadows.
It was over. The revenants had found them, and Croy knew he could not win. He reached for Ghostcutter’s hilt anyway — but did not draw it. The revenant took a step into the darkness. Croy felt like it could reach out and grab them, like it would lunge at any moment. Yet it waved its sword around ahead of itself as if it were blind in the dark.
How was that possible? The revenants they’d seen on the top level had no trouble seeing in the dark. None of them even had eyes. Why was this one so tentative? It almost seemed afraid of finding them.
In the shadows, Croy could barely make out its features. Yet he sensed there was something different about this one. It wore the same bronze armor as the revenants he’d fought, and it carried the same bronze sword. Yet it didn’t move like they did. It was at once more graceful and less resolute. As its sword came closer, pointing almost directly at him, he squinted hard and studied its face, and got quite a shock.
Its skin was intact-he couldn’t see the bones breaking through rotted flesh. Its nose was unscarred by time, its lips not even cracked. And its eyes glinted with the few stray beams of red light that made it back into the hiding place.
In fact, it didn’t seem to be dead at all. It seemed… alive.
It looked almost exactly like Croy’s idea of what a living elf would look like.
Of course, at that moment its looks mattered far less than the fact that it was about to stab him through the vitals. He pressed himself back against a wall and prayed to the Lady that he would not be discovered.
“Aengmar!” someone called from out in the main room. “Over here!”
The revenant-or whatever it was-in front of Croy turned and looked over its shoulder. “I thought I heard something over here,” it shouted back, its voice enormous in the shadowy hiding place. It had an accent Croy didn’t recognize, thick enough that he had trouble understanding even the simple words. Yet he knew one thing for sure. The revenants didn’t talk. They couldn’t speak.
“Never mind that! Quickly!” the other cried.
The revenant-the elf-Aengmar-turned away from the hiding place and dashed off to catch up with its partner. Leaning out of hiding-exposing himself a little to the light-Croy saw the demon and the two armored figures run into the throne room, out of sight.
Croy gestured for Morget to emerge from their hiding place. Still keeping silent, the two of them moved away from the arch, their only light the reddish glow that spilled in through the gallery ahead of them. Croy moved cautiously around a building with high marble walls and headed to his left, looking for any way out of the level. He found a side passage leading along another gallery. It looked deserted. When he was reasonably sure they were alone, he leaned close toward Morget’s ear and whispered, “Did you see that thing? It was no revenant.”
“Aye, I agree. But so what?” Morget asked.
“So what? I think we both know what those were. They were alive. That woman we saw swimming in the central shaft-the girl you saw back at the mushroom farm. It adds up, now, to only one thing. Those weren’t revenants. They were-Lady preserve us all-they were living elves!”
The barbarian shrugged. “Probably easier to kill than the dead kind.”
Croy shook his head in frustration. Didn’t this mean anything to Morget? The fact that there were living elves in the Vincularium was extraordinary! It meant-it meant “It means nothing to us,” Morget pointed out. “We are here to kill demons. Any other inhabitants of this place are merely in the way. Now I understand you wished to avoid detection back there. At first I thought you were a coward.”
Croy’s brain was so wracked with understanding what living elves could mean that he didn’t register that at first. Only slowly did the heat of anger light up the chambers of his heart. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, very carefully. If Morget said that again, it would be a slight that had to be answered.
“I thought it briefly, but then realized the truth. You simply wish to lay an ambush for them, yes? It makes sense. You do not let the enemy come for you. You lay in wait for them! I am learning so much from you, western knight.”
“You thought I wanted to… no,” Croy said. “No, no-we can’t fight those things now. We must find the others. If there are more of these elves here, then-”
“You think a thief, a dwarf, and a witch’s useless daughter will be any help against them?” Morget demanded.
Croy studied the barbarian’s face. “Not at all,” he said. “But that’s exactly the point. We must get them to safety.”
“And postpone my glory even longer,” Morget said. “I like it not.”
“I like nothing about this,” Croy said. “But I know my duty. Innocent lives are at stake.”
Morget snarled in disgust. “Innocence is not a quality admired by my people,” he said. “It’s just another name for weakness.”
“I’ve taken a vow to aid those who can’t help themselves. If you want my help with your demons,” Croy said, “you’ll have to do this my way.”
The barbarian glared at him, clearly estimating how much he valued Croy’s help after all. Croy very much hoped he would come around and see reason. He had no desire to split up, not as weak and tired as he felt. He did not want to have to leave Morget here and go looking for Cythera on his own.
But if that was what it came to, so be it.
Luckily the barbarian was still capable of seeing reason. “All right,” Morget said. “All right! We’ll do it your way.”
Chapter Sixty-one
Malden hurried forward through the red-shadowed streets of the dormitory floor, retracing his steps toward the lift. Every footstep made his arm bounce and throb, but it wasn’t as bad as when he’d been on the ladder. Every rung had been a new chapter in a book of agony. Now he just ached abominably.
It didn’t matter. He had to keep moving. He heard the sound of the knocker desperately tapping its way across the floor, moving fast, its rhythm even more broken than usual. It had nothing to do with him.
The lift cage waited for him in its chamber. The lift shaft was mostly in darkness-the red light from the main shaft didn’t reach that far, and the streetlamps had stopped at the edge of the dormitory. Yet there was enough light for Malden to crouch into the cage and close its door and start to pull on the loop of chain inside.
As the cage began to climb up the shaft, toward the foundry level above, he heard one last shriek of surprise from Balint. “Don’t you touch me,” he heard her screaming, “Or I’ll cut off your prick and use it as a paperweight!”
Something had her. The revenants, or, who knew, Morget’s demon, or It didn’t matter.
It had nothing to do with him. He kept pulling, and pulling, and pulling on the chain before him. The mechanism was so s
imple anyone could use it, not just a dwarf with a brilliant insight into engines and devices. You pulled on one side of the chain to make the lift go down. If you pulled on the other side the lift went up.
Inch by inch the cage rose through the shaft. Soon Malden was thrust into inky darkness again. He still had Slag’s makeshift lantern, and the flint to light it with, but he kept pulling on the chain, pulling and pulling and pulling until his good arm felt numb. Better, he thought, to balance the searing pain in his bad one.
Even in the dark he could sense when the cage had reached the foundry level. He stopped pulling and let the chain go, so that it rattled in the dark. He pushed the door of the cage open and stepped out. He fumbled with his pack, intending to strike a light. Just getting the knapsack off his back was a trial. He clamped it between his knees and reached inside with his good hand until he found the flint. He drew it out of the pack.
Then, in the dark just behind him, he heard a clink of metal.
The lift chain started to rattle and move and he knew someone was pulling the cage down through the shaft.
The revenants must have finished off the Redweir dwarves. Now they were coming for him.
Panic gripped Malden’s brains as he listened to the lift chain rattle. He wanted to sit down and just gibber in fear. He wanted to run away.
He forced himself to stay calm. To stop himself from following his natural instinct-which was to find the darkest place he could and hide there until all the bad things and nightmarish enemies went away.
In a place like the Vincularium, that meant hiding forever.
Malden cast about him in the foundry and quickly discovered what he sought-a long rod of iron, thin but strong enough so it wouldn’t snap. He set his lantern down and hefted the rod like a javelin. He watched the lift chain ascend for a moment, then shoved the rod forward as fast as he could, trying to thread it through one of the links. The first time he missed, and the rod was deflected to the side, jangling in his hand. The second time he drove the rod home perfectly, tangling it in the lift chain.
The chain continued to rise through the shaft. As it rose it took the rod with it until the rod hit the ceiling with a sharp crack of noise. It held against the ceiling, obstructing the hole there and keeping the chain from climbing any farther.
Instantly the lift chain froze in place. Malden peered down the shaft and saw the cage stuck down there, well below the foundry level.
The chain jumped and the rod nearly came free. It jumped again, and again, as whoever-whatever-was in the lift cage tried to unjam the mechanism. It was to no avail. The rod wedged the lift in place.
He had bought himself a little time.
It was the most precious commodity he could imagine. One thing mattered, still, and only one thing. He had to get the antidote to Slag. He lit his tin lantern and then hurried through the foundry level, careful not to trip on the red strings that hung loose now from the walls. Ahead of him lay the door of the Hall of Masterpieces. He could hide in there with Cythera and Slag, he thought. They could barricade the massive stone door and-and — and wait for Croy to come rescue them. Croy, who was probably dead, and who anyway wouldn’t be able to fight his way through a legion of revenants, even with Morget’s help.
It wasn’t a wonderful plan, but there were no options. Malden hurried up to the door and was only a little surprised to find it closed. Cythera was no fool. She lacked any weapon better than a belt knife, and if anyone but he came by, her best defense lay in keeping that door closed. Malden thumped on it with his good fist, then found a piece of iron and started prying it open once more. He expected Cythera to come and help him from the other side once she realized he had returned, but he had to fight with the door unaided, just as he had the last time. A little annoyed, he heaved and shoved at the bar. It took far too long-his pursuers could arrive at any moment! — and it made his damaged arm ache fiercely-but he kept at it, grunting and cursing and pulling until the door opened just wide enough to let him slip inside.
Beyond the door, the hall lay in perfect darkness.
Malden frowned. That seemed odd. Cythera had a good store of candles-there was no reason for her to conserve them, and surely she would not want to sit in the dark in this place if she didn’t have to.
He called her name, softly at first-then louder. There was no response. Malden slipped into the hall and held his lantern high.
Gold, gems, glass, and polished stone all threw back bright and cheery reflections at him. Of Cythera, or Slag, there was no sign.
They must have left, he thought. Cythera must have decided to move Slag somewhere else-somewhere safer. Maybe she’d heard something of the screaming down on the residential level. Though that seemed unlikely-there was far too much stone between here and there. But perhaps Cythera had another reason to flee. Maybe the revenants had come here first.
It was just possible that Slag had thought of some way for the two of them to escape the Vincularium, and they seized the opportunity. But surely they would have left some message for him, some words traced in the dust, or, or… something.
He could find no clue at all to their disappearance.
There was no sign of a struggle. No blood on the floor. Nothing knocked over or moved out of place. Malden frowned. He very much wished he knew what was going on. Or what to do next.
He slipped back out of the hall, intent on finding his friends. Yet when he looked across the foundry level toward the lift shaft, a new terror crossed his soul.
He could see light there. It wasn’t the flicker of candlelight but the great guttering flare of torchlight, and there was a lot of it. He could hear footsteps, and thought there might be as many as a score of revenants coming for him, from elsewhere on the foundry level. He imagined they must have followed him up from the dormitory level, using a flight of stairs he had not seen. They didn’t need the lift after all, and jamming it had only slowed them down.
Wherever they came from, though, didn’t matter at all-what did was that they were coming closer. Coming right for him.
Malden had a magic sword on his belt, and one good arm to swing it with. He had never trained as a swordsman, though, and lacked any manner of killer instinct. He knew he would be no match for even one persistent revenant, much less twenty of them. He had trained as a thief-and so he did what a thief would do in that circumstance.
He hid.
Chapter Sixty-two
The foundry offered a hundred good places to conceal Malden. He considered hiding inside the great furnace. Perhaps up in the smelting ladle-but no, he would be trapped up there. If the revenants spotted him, he would have nowhere else to go. The same difficulty eliminated the Hall of Masterpieces as a refuge: again, there would be no way to escape once he was inside. If his pursuers found him there, he would be cornered.
In the end he chose a hiding place out in the open-a place, perhaps, that would be overlooked in the abundance of more secluded spots. Moving aside some of the pieces of scrap, he buried himself as best he could inside the small mountain of copper heaped up against one wall. He chose the copper because its color was obvious-he had no desire to accidentally bury himself in arsenic, or something else poisonous that he didn’t recognize. Once he was concealed, he put out his light, then pulled more pieces of copper on top of himself. He left just a bit of his face exposed, enough that he could breathe, and see.
Then he settled in and tried to make himself as quiet as possible.
He did not have to wait long. Torchlight filled the foundry, and he heard footfalls coming toward him. Many footfalls.
He didn’t dare raise his head to see the revenants coming for him. He would have to wait until they came closer.
He was not prepared at all to hear Cythera’s voice.
“He’s not here, you see?” she insisted. She sounded very tired, and even more frightened than she had been before. It sounded like she was over by the lift room. “I told you. He’s a thief. A scoundrel! At the first sign of trouble, I’m
sure he fled this place entirely. He’s probably running for Helstrow, as fast as his legs can carry him.”
Malden almost climbed out of his hiding place then, intending to tell her she was wrong. That he would never desert her. That he had the antidote.
But then another voice spoke.
It was a sneering voice, high-pitched but distinctly male. It dripped with sarcasm and had an accent Malden couldn’t place, so thick he could barely make out the words. He’d never heard that accent before, he was sure of it.
“I’m certain you wouldn’t lie to me. Humans are known far and wide for their scruples, after all. But I think we’ll have a look anyway.”
He heard many people moving around, and then the jingling of the lift chain. “What’s this? Look! A piece of iron has jammed itself in the chain, all of its own accord. Fascinating. Pull that free.” The iron rod was removed from the lift chain and fell to the floor with a noise like a church bell ringing out an alarm. Malden’s body tensed as his ears thrummed with the noise. They’d found his clever ruse, it seemed. Silently he cursed his luck. There would be no doubt that he had been in the foundry, then, and recently.
“You three-search this area completely. Find him and bring him to me. Don’t be gentle about it either.”
Malden tried not to even wince.
He was deeply confused now. The revenants they’d seen on the top level did not speak. Even if they could, he doubted they would sound so jaded or so bored. Who was taunting Cythera? Had some other group of explorers entered the Vincularium? Between Morget’s demon-hunting party, Balint’s dwarves, and the revenants, it seemed the deserted tomb of the elves was experiencing a population explosion. But who were these new people, and what had they come for? The mystery was solved quickly enough. His pursuers came into the dark part of the foundry, carrying torches to light their way, and he saw they weren’t revenants at all.
They wore the same bronze armor he’d seen before, battle scarred and falling apart, held together with patches and bits of string. They were as gaunt as the revenants, and as pale. And yet-they were beautiful. They were graceful. And they were decidedly alive.
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