The three soldiers who hunted him had long angular faces, their features sharp and elegant. Their eyes were cruel but sparkling, their lips thin but red. Their hair fell around their shoulders but could not conceal their delicate pointed ears. Their skin had little color to it, true. Like dwarves, they were so pale that they might have been albinos if not for their dark hair. Yet if a dwarf’s skin was like marble, cold white veined with blue, the soldiers’ complexions had the warmth and subtlety of fine alabaster.
They were elves. Living elves, in this place-living, surviving, after eight hundred years in the long shadows underground.
Malden nearly gasped in astonishment.
The elves searched the foundry as if it was beneath them. They poked their bronze swords into various piles of scrap. They picked at the lengths of red string that crisscrossed the floor, the remains of Balint’s trap. They seemed wise enough to avoid disturbing the pile of arsenic. When they reached the door to the Hall of Masterpieces, one of them sighed in distaste.
“I suppose we’ll have to open it,” he said. He looked to the others and rolled his eyes. One of them snorted out a laugh. The three of them found a bar and started to pry open the door.
Malden knew how much resistance it would give them. They could not be as strong as humans, not with those stick-thin arms, so they would have to struggle with the door. He waited until they were wholly occupied with this task, their weapons stowed securely on their belts and away from their hands.
Then he jumped out of the pile of copper scrap and ran as fast as he could toward the lift shaft.
Chapter Sixty-three
A cry went up immediately, and someone shouted, “He has a sword!” but Malden paid no attention to the clamor. He reached inside his tunic with his good hand and skidded to a stop as he came before the great furnace.
More elves waited there. More heavily armed elves, and while some of them slouched against the walls, he knew he would never make it past them all and reach the lift unmolested. But that had never been his plan.
Cythera was there as well, all but carrying Slag. The dwarf looked as if he had only minutes to live. Just one guard stood near the two of them, and he looked more confused than vigilant. Malden shifted the antidote to his bad hand-he could barely close his fist around it-and yanked Acidtongue from its scabbard. As he leapt toward the guard, he shouted, “Only one drop!” and threw the vial of antidote toward Cythera’s outstretched hand.
The guard was taken completely by surprise. Had Malden any training with his sword, he could have taken the elf unawares and cut him in half. Instead he merely managed to swing at the guard’s head, and miss completely.
Behind him, he heard a great clattering of bronze armor as the other elves-he didn’t bother to count how many-came rushing to attack him. The guard he’d threatened lifted his own weapon high in both hands, ready to defend himself.
“What a fool,” one of the elves said. “Take him.”
It had never been Malden’s plan to fight his way out, however. “Hold,” he called, and shoved Acidtongue back into its glass-lined scabbard. “I surrender.” He lifted both hands in the air, fingers spread wide to show he meant it.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cythera dab a drop of the antidote on her finger and stick it down Slag’s throat.
The dwarf gagged and spat, but she held her hand where it was.
“What is she doing?” One of the elves came forward. He wore a circlet of fine silver on his brow, and his armor was in far better condition than the others’. He had a short cape across his shoulders made of very fine cloth, and as he walked he leaned on a slim-bladed sword as if it were a cane. Malden decided he must be the commander of this elfin company. He grabbed Cythera’s hand out of the dwarf’s mouth and held it up to the light.
She stared at him with fierce defiance, but the look in her eyes burned out quickly. When she’d lost her rage, she stared down at her feet.
“Milord,” one of the soldiers near Malden said. “What should we do with him?”
The lord’s face flared with anger. “Get his sword away from him, obviously! And then strip him naked and check him for other weapons. And then-and I really shouldn’t have to tell you this sort of thing again — beat him until he can’t get up.”
Malden’s eyes went wide. He considered drawing Acidtongue and fighting desperately for his life, but he knew that was futile. Reasoning with the elf might prove the better course. He kept his hands above his head as an elf soldier unbuckled his sword belt and took away his bodkin. “I offer you no resistance. I’ve hurt none of you!”
The elfin commander favored him with a thin smile. “And I have express orders to take you alive, if possible.” His eyes twinkled. “But you know, I’ve never actually seen a human before. I’m curious what color your blood is. Finding out might alleviate a little tedium.”
An elf grabbed Malden’s cloak and tore it from his neck. Malden’s bad arm was wrenched badly in the process and he cried out in pain.
“No!” Cythera shouted. She tried to run toward Malden, but the elf commander still held her hand. He must have been stronger than he looked, because she couldn’t break his grip. “No, you can’t, I–I love him!” she screamed.
“Why, that just adds a certain-” the commander began, but then stopped abruptly and stared at Slag.
The dwarf convulsed around his middle and made a horrible gagging sound. Then he leaned forward and vomited all over the foundry floor. Great gouts of black liquid rolled across the flagstones, edging toward the bronze boots of the elfin soldiers.
Every single one of them danced backward, gasping in disgust. Not one of them stood their ground-not even the commander, who yelped like a girl.
Suddenly Malden, Cythera, and especially Slag were standing alone, with no one guarding them or in a position to stop them from running away. Malden would have made a break for it, except that he was watching Slag. The dwarf slumped forward, falling down into the pool of his own sick. Then he vomited again. The elves cringed backward again, while Cythera bent down to grab Slag’s shoulders and pull him back before he drowned in his own vomit.
“In the name of the ancestors-what a stink!” the elfin commander wailed. He pulled his cape up around his nose and mouth and wiped at the tears that dripped from his eyes. “I’ll have no more of this.” He turned and started walking toward the lift.
One of the soldiers managed to regain enough composure to ask, “But milord, what should we do with the prisoners?”
This is the moment he orders us all killed, Malden thought. This is the end.
But it seemed the lord had lost his desire to see the color of human blood. “Follow your orders! I don’t really care!” he shouted back over his shoulder.
Stepping gingerly over the mess on the floor, the soldiers moved in and grabbed at Malden’s arms. He offered them no resistance at all. Others grabbed Cythera, who didn’t even look at them-she was clearly too concerned for the health of the dwarf. There was a great deal of discussion and argument over what should be done with Slag. None of the elves wanted to touch him, and they argued bitterly over which of them should have to do it. In the end, the three of them were searched and all their possessions taken way. Then they were marched toward a section of the wall that looked different from the rest. It was made of crude brick, and when an elf pushed on it, it opened like a door. Beyond lay a narrow tunnel bored inexpertly through the rock.
Chapter Sixty-four
Croy signaled for Morget to come forward. It looked like the way was clear. They had been traveling for miles through empty halls and dusty corridors, intentionally staying away from any place that looked like it might have been recently occupied. It wasn’t difficult-the enormous volume of the Vincularium seemed mostly to be deserted, unused for centuries. However many elves might still live, there certainly weren’t enough of them to fill the place up. So far they’d seen no more elves or demons or revenants or anything else.
Croy imagined
that a paltry few survivors must be clinging to life in some tiny corner of the vast place, as afraid of the haunted corridors as he had been. He thought of how they had blundered through the place, all through its long night, and not seen any elves at all until the dwarven sun had come to life. Perhaps if they’d been quicker, if they hadn’t been separated by the revenants, they could have gotten into the place, killed one of the demons, and gotten out before the elves even knew they were there. How he longed it had been so. Morget would have been satisfied, his manhood thoroughly proven. He and Cythera could have left without incident. This whole adventure could have been over in a few hours. Something they could laugh about whenever they recalled it in their later life, something to tell their grandchildren about.
Instead, now, he had slogged for hours through a place that offered death at every turning.
He estimated they had come halfway around the central shaft, and passed through miles of dark rock, when they came into the dormitory level.
He gestured for Morget to follow him while he crept forward, seeking danger wherever it might hide. The two of them crept up a spiral ramp into the reddish light of this new level. A wide plaza opened onto another gallery before them. Croy stood well back from the opening on the central shaft-there was no telling who or what might be watching, and he tried to stay out of the light as much as possible.
Silently, he moved away from the gallery, deeper into the level. In his hand Ghostcutter moved back and forth, covering every shadow.
This place was supposed to be deserted-yet clearly it was not. The revenants on the top level, the demons on the lower floors, were not the only enemies he must be wary of. Elves might be the worst threat yet. They would be capable of subterfuge, of laying traps and ambushes. As he studied this new district he was constantly in fear of discovery.
He found himself in a place of narrow towers and squat structures that must have been residences for dwarves long since gone. It looked a great deal like the living quarters he’d seen in more modern dwarven cities-unadorned, perfectly functional, but far from what a human would have considered so. It differed only in that here there were so many more rooms than he was used to, so many that they had to be piled atop each other in great towers. He leaned in through the door of one of the low rooms and saw only scraps of rotting wood-what had been furniture, perhaps, centuries ago. Now it was nothing but rubbish. He stepped back outside and continued his search. Moving carefully through the red-lit lanes, he saw that outside each tower stood a spherical lamp on a pole. A fountain stood in the midst of the towers, its spouts crusted with white mineral deposits now, but the water still flowed. It smelled faintly of sulfur, but it was clear and free of scum. He stopped to take up a handful and scrub some of the grime off his face.
Ahead of him, Morget clucked his tongue. A small sound, but in that empty place it made too many echoes. Croy hurried forward to chide his friend for disturbing the stillness.
Yet when he saw what Morget had found, he let out a quiet sigh himself.
Lying on the flagstones was the body of a dwarf. The corpse’s face and hands had been slashed violently, and its blood pooled beneath it and ran away through the cracks between the flagstones. In the reddish light of the streetlamps, the blood looked almost black. An expression of utter terror had frozen on the poor dwarf’s face.
It was not Slag. “A dwarf, here? He didn’t come with us, and we know the builders of this place abandoned it long, long ago,” Croy whispered, shaking his head. “What does this mean? What is he doing here?”
“It means the Vincularium is getting crowded,” Morget said, frowning. “Perhaps we were followed. Perhaps this dwarf came in on our heels, hoping to steal something of value while we fought the demon.”
Croy shook his head. “Dwarves don’t steal. Nor do they have any interest in their own history. Or at least, I thought they didn’t. There are abandoned dwarven cities and mines all over the continent, and I’ve never heard of dwarves returning to any of them before. Honestly, I was quite surprised when Slag said he wanted to come here. In my experience, dwarves are content to leave their old places to molder and collapse. Yet here we see evidence to the contrary-this dwarf must have come here for some good reason. But why? It’s a mystery. I’ll admit I’m confounded.”
“Does it really matter?” Morget said.
“In times of danger, the unknown is one’s greatest enemy. At the very least I’d like to know how he died. If we knew who killed this dwarf, we might be better prepared when they come for us, next.” Croy knelt down to close the corpse’s eyelids. The flesh did not resist him. “He died recently,” he whispered. “He’s not even stiff yet. And these wounds weren’t made by your demon, I can tell that much. These are sword cuts.”
Morget nodded but wasn’t looking at the body. He was staring down a side street. Croy looked and saw the end of a rope lying on the flagstones. It ran toward one of the towers, and then up its side.
“That looks like some kind of trap,” Croy suggested. “Dwarves make them all the time. Perhaps this poor fellow was hoping to catch his killer in it.”
Morget approached the rope cautiously-then reached up and pulled it down, even as Croy waved his hands in warning. The rope fell with a thud from the top of the tower in an untidy coil. The other end was tied off in a loop to make a snare. “This trap was not set properly. There’s no counterweight,” he said.
Croy raised an eyebrow.
“In the East we make similar snares, for hunting,” Morget explained. “You suggested the dwarf must have been setting this trap when he was killed. Which meant he wanted to ensnare someone up there.” The barbarian pointed at the top of the tower. “Maybe the killer came from on high.” Before Croy could stop him, Morget scurried up the ladder.
Croy followed close behind, not wanting to get separated. When they reached the rooftop, he found it deserted and empty. Morget gave the barest of glances around, then went to the edge of the roof to look down.
Croy took a slightly closer look-and found something that excited him. “Here,” he said, running a finger across a small grouping of pits in the stone at his feet. “Look! These marks were made by vitriol.” Morget looked at him without comprehension. “Acid! I’ve seen similar spoor before, many times. Malden must have been here, holding Acidtongue. The blade drips its essence constantly, etching the floor wherever it’s drawn. Malden was here!”
Chapter Sixty-five
“Malden stood here, yes. He must have been under attack as well, for he was holding a naked blade,” Morget said. “Perhaps that explains this.” He went back to the side of the roof and pointed down. Another dwarf lay on a rooftop far below, half its body cloaked by shadow. Its face was even more bloody than the other’s. Croy couldn’t even tell if it had been male or female. “The dwarves must have beset our little thief. He defended himself ably.”
Croy shook his head. “No-Malden didn’t slay these dwarves. He couldn’t have. Our laws are very strict on that sort of thing.”
“And he is known for abiding your laws,” Morget said. “Our thief?”
Croy supposed the barbarian had a point. Malden was a criminal. But he wasn’t a killer. Croy had known him long enough to understand that Malden had his own moral code. It might be quite liberal, and include all kinds of things that he himself wouldn’t countenance, but Malden wouldn’t kill unless his life depended on it. And no dwarf would ever attack a human, not unless they had no choice. So how could such a fight have even started? “I just don’t know,” Croy admitted. “This does mean one thing, though.”
“Oh?” Morget asked.
“Malden was here. Not so long ago. And that means Cythera must be close by. We’re on the right track.”
“Good,” Morget said. “The sooner we find her, the sooner we can get back to our real purpose here.” He headed to the edge of the roof and started climbing down the tower. Croy followed close behind, invigorated by what they’d found.
They began to head deeper
into the residential level, toward a place where the walls narrowed to a point, when Croy called a halt.
Morget grimaced in annoyance at yet another delay, but he waited expectantly while Croy craned his ears back the way they’d come.
“I know I heard something back there. A grunt of pain-or fear,” Croy insisted.
“Then we are best served going the other way. We cannot waste time investigating every little noise.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Croy said, and started walking forward again-only to freeze in his tracks a moment later.
“No!” someone screamed. He didn’t recognize the voice but it had a dwarven accent. “No, you stinking sack of pus! You can’t have him! Get back!”
“Someone’s in trouble,” Croy said.
“Good! One less enemy for us!” Morget growled. But Croy had already turned on his heel and was headed back into the dormitory. His boots beat like drumsticks on the flagstones as he pulled Ghostcutter free of its scabbard. He came around a sharp corner toward the fountain, then drew up short as he viewed a scene of horror.
The demon-one of the demons-had come to claim the body of the dead dwarf. Its amorphous mass had flowed over the lower half of the corpse and it was absorbing the rest while Croy watched.
Yet not without resistance. Another dwarf-a female-beat at the faces under the demon’s skin with a wrench. She had a bad cut across her face and another gash in her leg, but she battled more fiercely than a wounded badger. Still, she couldn’t possibly win. Already the demon reached a thick tendril of its substance toward her, clearly intending to have two meals for the effort of securing one.
She looked up when Croy approached and stared at him with blazing eyes. “Stop fiddling with your dubious manhood and help me!”
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