A thief in the night abt-2

by David Chandler

  Croy leapt in immediately, slashing away with Ghostcutter at the demon’s thick skin. Its glassy blood poured out in gouts but it only redoubled its efforts at seizing the female dwarf, shooting forth a second rope of pale flesh to snare her ankle. She fell backward, her arms wheeling in the air, and dropped her wrench. Inch by inch the demon started reeling her in.

  “I’ve never seen them do that before,” Morget said, rushing in to slice through the tendril with one quick stroke of Dawnbringer. The blade flashed with light as the dwarf tumbled free.

  “What’s that?” Croy asked as he cut again through the thing’s hide. He couldn’t seem to find the central mass, its only truly vulnerable spot.

  “Grow arms,” Morget said. A new tentacle slapped out toward the dwarf, but the barbarian grabbed her by the belt and tossed her to safety. As the tentacle attempted to grab Morget around the waist, he brought his sword down in a close arc. The limb came off neatly and spun in the air for a moment before splattering wetly on the flagstones. As Croy watched, the monster surged forward to reclaim this piece of itself. It absorbed it as hungrily as it was swallowing the dead dwarf.

  “We know little of these things,” Croy agreed. “Yet I fear learning more would be a dangerous enterprise.”

  “Perhaps,” Morget said, slicing off a wide strip of the demon, “yet it might profit us well, should we encounter very many more of them.”

  “Excuse me!” the female dwarf shouted, drowning out the warriors. “If you two giant teat-suckers don’t mind winding up your colloquium-I want to kill this thing.”

  “What do we appear to be doing?” Morget asked, civilly enough.

  “Wasting my fucking time.” The female dwarf ran off, toward the fountain. “Draw it this way! I have a plan!”

  Chapter Sixty-six

  The female dwarf hurried ahead, while Morget and Croy took turns slashing at the demon and then dancing back before it could strike them with its fleshy appendages. Croy was growing tired again, and he hoped she was as good as her word-he could not keep this up much longer, nor could he see the spherical mass inside the demon that he must strike to kill it once and for all. If her plan did not succeed, he would have to suggest that they run for it, something he liked not at all.

  Yet the female dwarf showed no sign of flagging confidence. Her wounded leg slowed her down but soon she had taken up a position near the fountain and started waving her arms, trying to draw the demon’s attention.

  Morget laughed wickedly and stabbed deep into the demon’s body, then jumped away. Croy pushed forward, slashing shallow cuts in its back with Ghostcutter. The demon was as easy to herd as a sheep, once you knew the secret. It would always move forward to attack whomever had struck it last. Between the two of them they got it to move exactly where the female dwarf pointed, toward a particular flagstone that looked exactly like the others.

  “This was meant for that poxy prick with the magic sword,” she explained, “but it might work on yon pimple-leaving as well.”

  “Might?” Croy asked.

  She shrugged. They all held their breath as the demon flowed over the indicated flagstone.

  Nothing happened.

  “Blasted buggering bastard! Murin never could set a trap right. You,” she shouted, pointing at Morget, “cut that rope over there.”

  Croy turned and saw the rope, hidden along one side of a tower block, but only for a moment. One of Morget’s throwing axes cut through it neatly. The lower end fell instantly to the ground, while the upper part disappeared, flashing up toward an eyelet mounted on the side of the tower. Meanwhile something dark and huge came hurtling down from the ceiling.

  It proved to be a sheaf of paving stones tied together in a stack, suspended from high above by the rope Morget had just cut. They came down straight and true, right on top of the demon’s body. With a sickening wet crunch they struck and sent vast wet ripples through the monster’s body. Its blood squirted out through the perforations Croy had made in its skin, hot clear fluid splashing on nearby walls, landing with a grotesque sloshing noise in the fountain. The faces under its skin pushed hard against the fleshy envelope, their mouths open wide in silent howls of torment. The whole creature writhed in pain and rage, slapping wildly at the floor with its tendrils, stretching them out toward the knight, the barbarian, and the dwarf.

  It was pinned, trapped, grievously wounded. The blow must have missed the central mass, however, for the demon did not perish instantly. Instead it raged and struggled and threw out wild tendrils, as if trying to crawl out from under the weight by moving in every direction at once. No matter how hard it flailed, however, it could not seem to get free.

  “That should hold it,” the female dwarf said, panting for breath. She took a long stride back from the demon, never lifting her eyes from its squirming mass.

  “It certainly makes our job easier,” Croy said.

  Morget sneered. “A coward’s way. A creature like this deserves to be beaten in close combat, not trapped like a food animal and slaughtered at our leisure.”

  Croy found it difficult to agree. Killing demons was a sacred duty-he’d taken vows to that effect. Yet nothing in the oaths he swore ever said he had to do it the hard way. He hefted Ghostcutter and stepped warily toward the convulsing monster, intending to cut pieces off of it until he found the central mass and could finally kill it.

  A tendril whipped out toward his leg and he danced back. He started to bring his sword down to sever the tendril, but instead of rising to meet his blow, the appendage reached out farther-past his foot-straining and pulling on the flagstones until its substance was stretched like taffy. Then, with a sudden snap, it broke off from the main mass. The broken-off tendril flattened out and quivered while Croy watched, nauseated and fascinated at once. It formed a puddle on the floor, no wider than his two hands could cover. A single small face peered up out of its skin. And then it started to slither away, a tiny replica of the demon from which it had split.

  “Don’t let it get away!” the female dwarf insisted.

  Croy did his best to stab the thing, driving downward into its flesh with Ghostcutter’s point again and again until he worried he would blunt the sword on the flagstones. This miniature demon moved far faster and with far more agility than its larger parent had, however, and in moments the thing had escaped him, racing for the gallery. It did not slow as it reached the edge, but instead flung itself into empty space and the water below.

  “Oh, for fie,” Croy said, one of the worst profanities he ever used. He leaned out over the edge and looked down but could see nothing but a faint splash, far below.

  “Croy!” Morget called. “Beware!”

  Croy turned around, not knowing what to expect. He changed his grasp on Ghostcutter’s hilt and ran back toward the trapped demon, only to see that it had spawned more limbs, which stretched and strained outward like the first.

  With a series of sickening popping sounds, the arms snapped off and quivered to life on their own. One by one they started rippling across the floor, straight toward where Croy stood waiting for them.

  “Any suggestions?” Croy asked, but Morget could only shrug. The barbarian drew Dawnbringer and came running toward the smaller demons, howling in battle fury, but there were far too many targets and they clearly had no intention of engaging him.

  Croy whirled and struck as fast as he could, slicing at each of the miniature demons as it came past him. Most merely veered away from his blade. He caught some of them, but managed to do little more than spill their glassy blood, which barely slowed them. Morget smashed one with his boot, but as soon as he lifted his foot the demon reshaped itself and came dashing for the edge of the shaft again. Croy had time only to leap out of the way as an especially large one came oozing toward him at speed. One slid over his foot and he felt its corrosive touch burn into the leather of his boot. He yanked his foot backward and then spun around to watch the horde go flying off the edge of the gallery, to splash into the dark water far
below.

  “They’re gone,” he called, and Morget nodded. “The main body, though-what of it?” Croy asked.

  The two warriors traded a look of horror, then hurried back to see what remained of the demon they’d trapped.

  Not much, unfortunately. It had ejected most of its mass, leaving behind nothing more than its skin, which it shed like a snake. The limp envelope of the demon was already fuming and decaying in the cool air.

  “No!” Morget howled. “No! This is too much!”

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Malden and Cythera each took one of Slag’s arms, but the dwarf had to move his own legs. He stumbled forward, clearly moving only by instinct. His eyes rolled in his head and eventually caught on Malden’s face. “Lad,” he moaned. “Lad. Is that you?”

  Malden hoisted the dwarf’s head up so he could see better. “It’s me,” he said. They were marching still through the rough tunnel, with elfin warriors ahead of and behind them. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “I think I was sick,” Slag said.

  “Many times,” Malden told him.

  “Oh. That explains it, then.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why my beard smells like somebody’s arsehole.”

  The dwarf’s head drifted forward abruptly and he stopped walking. His dead weight was too much to bear and he slid toward the floor, out of Cythera’s hands, even as she tried to grapple him and keep him upright. Malden tried to prop him up again, but Slag had gone completely limp. He wouldn’t take another step. Malden looked over at Cythera and shook his head.

  “You,” she said, addressing the elf in front of her. “Our friend can’t go any farther. He’s sick and he needs to rest!”

  The elf turned to look her up and down, as if sizing up a horse he was buying. “Carry him. Or, if you prefer, I can run him through and we can leave him here to die.”

  Cythera glared at the elf. “Your orders are to bring us in alive.”

  The elf shrugged. “Orders! We receive so many of them, honestly. And sometimes they contradict each other. By the time we reach home the Hieromagus will have forgotten why he gave that order. Pick him up, keep moving, and don’t bother me again.”

  The elf turned away, and Malden knew it would be no use arguing further. He’d met far too many watchmen, guards, and soldiers in his life-and been on the receiving end of their ire more often than not-to mistake the look on the elf’s face. The elf had been given a job to do, a job he didn’t care for and wanted to get over with as quickly as possible. Slag was merely an element of that task, an impediment at best. Any minor irritation, anything that made the elf do more work, would be enough to spur him to violence. Malden turned to Cythera and whispered, “They may not be human, but it’s nice to see some things are universal.”

  “Please, Malden-I can’t hold him on my own,” Cythera said as she wrestled with keeping Slag from lying down on the floor and going to sleep.

  Malden sighed and bent to help. He got his hands underneath Slag’s armpits-they were slick with sweat-and lifted most of the dwarf’s weight while Cythera took the ankles. She had to walk backward, facing Malden.

  “Watch your head,” he told her. “The ceiling gets lower ahead of us.”

  She ducked her head just before it struck an overhang.

  “I’ve been trying to think of a way out of this,” she told him, keeping her voice low. “I’ve come up with nothing useful. I could turn invisible and make a run for it. I could go and look for… help. But I fear they would hurt you two in reprisal.”

  Malden knew she was probably right. “They have orders to bring us in alive, but clearly they don’t care what state we’re in when we get there. We just have to be breathing. I fear we have no option but to see where they’re taking us.”

  Cythera nodded. She pursed her lips and looked down at Slag. “Will he be all right? You must have caught up with Balint. Did she tell you what poison she used, or what the antidote was?”

  Malden shook his head. “She was hardly forthcoming. She hit me with a wrench.”

  “No!”

  Malden grinned, though it made his jaw hurt. “In her place I would have done the same. She told me only that the antidote will keep him alive, though he will be sick for a time.”

  “You saved him,” she said. She favored him with half a smile. Then she blushed and looked away.

  “I’m glad for one thing, at least,” he told her. “I got to see you smile one more time. I would have preferred different circumstances, of course. But when I got back to the hall and found the two of you gone-well, I didn’t know what to think.”

  She frowned. “They came with no warning. They pushed open the door and suddenly they were all around us. I couldn’t fight them all, and Slag was barely conscious at the time. So I surrendered.”

  Malden nodded in understanding. “I don’t think any of us were expecting living elves down here.”

  “There was no time to leave you a message, or any kind of warning. They asked me where the others were and I said the two of us were lost and alone. Then Slag woke up a little and asked if you had returned yet.” She closed her eyes in frustration.

  “Mind your head again,” he told her.

  “I think they’ve been watching us since we arrived. They know about Mor- I mean, they know there are more of us. I don’t think they’ve caught the others yet. I said a lot of things to try to convince them you had fled the Vincularium, but-”

  “I heard some of them. You called me a scoundrel.”

  “I was trying to throw them off your track, Malden.” Her face changed. “What of Balint and her crew? Did they make good their escape? I suppose it’s unlikely they would help us, but-”

  “They’re most likely dead,” Malden told her. He didn’t know it for a fact. But he had heard their screams, and hoped, for their sake, it was true. Those screams had not sounded like the cries of people who were surprised by being taken captive. They were shouts of agony. “Though I don’t know why they were killed, and we were spared.”

  Cythera looked down at Slag’s feet. “They have orders to kill dwarves on sight,” she whispered. “I think they blame the dwarves for their imprisonment more than they blame us.”

  Malden frowned. “It was the dwarves who betrayed them, and sealed them in here. But then-why is Slag-”

  She glanced over her shoulder, as if to see if any elf was listening. Then she whispered to Malden, “I told them he was a human.”

  “Slag? A human?”

  “A very short human. He wears human clothes, after all. And none of the elves have ever seen a human or a dwarf before. They asked a lot of questions, but I managed to convince them.”

  “And saved his life. I wish Balint and her friends had been so quick of mind. No, they won’t be coming to help us, not now.”

  “So our only hope is…”

  He knew she didn’t want to say Croy’s name out loud. She didn’t want to give the elves any information they didn’t already have. “Assuming he’s still alive. And that he can stay free, with every elf in the Vincularium looking for him.”

  “You two,” the elf behind Malden said, and jabbed him in the back with the point of a spear. Not hard enough to pierce his skin. “What’s that you’re saying? Your accents are so thick I can’t understand you. Are you scheming something? Humans are supposed to be tricky sorts. What are you planning?”

  “We were discussing which of you is the prettiest,” Malden said.

  The elf jabbed Malden again with his spear, harder this time.

  “Actually,” Cythera said, “we were just wondering about your accent.”

  “Accent? I haven’t got one,” the elf replied. “I talk like an elf.” He did not seem to possess much in the way of imagination.

  “Of course, of course,” Cythera said, her voice warm with soothing tones. “Forgive me. I actually meant to inquire how it is that you speak our language, the tongue of Skrae?”

  The elf looked deeply co
nfused. Judging by the way his brow beetled and his eyes narrowed, it was a common expression for him to wear. “I don’t speak Skraeling. I speak the tongue of the ancestors.”

  “Ah, well,” Malden said, “that explains everything.” He made a face at Cythera, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out of one side of his mouth. She almost giggled in response. She had to raise one hand to her mouth to stifle it.

  In the process she dropped one of Slag’s ankles. The dwarf stirred in Malden’s arms. One of his eyes opened a crack. “Lad? Am I dead?” he asked.

  “I got your antidote, old man,” Malden told him.

  “Ah,” Slag said, his chin drifting up and down with the rhythm of Malden’s footsteps. “And then… the elves…”

  “They’ve taken us captive. But they have orders not to kill us. We don’t know why that is.”

  “Well,” the dwarf slurred, a sleepy smile playing around his mouth, “that’s easy. They haven’t killed us yet because… because …”

  “Because?” Cythera asked.

  “… because they’ll want to torture us first. That’s an ancient elfin custom.”

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  “I’m Balint, by the way,” the female dwarf announced when the two warriors had accepted that their demon had gotten away.

  “Well met, milady,” Croy said, bowing low. “I am Sir Croy, a knight of Skrae, and this-” He turned to indicate Morget, but the barbarian was halfway across the room, pouncing on something. Croy thought he must have found one of the demon’s animate pieces, but when Morget stood up with a nasty grin, he held something small and wriggling and humanoid in his clenched hand.

  “Got you!” the barbarian announced. “Croy, look what I found!”

  “That would be mine,” Balint said, sounding annoyed.

  Croy shook his head. “It’s all right,” he told Morget.

  “Some kind of cave imp! It was spying on us!”