Crypt of the Moaning Diamond

by Rosemary Jones

  Perhaps he should wait until the magelord had retrieved his prize. The Siegebreakers needed money, and Archlis would not be in this place unless he sought a very great treasure. Kid remembered the magelord’s greed was considerable, but so was the mage’s cunning. Archlis would not risk losing Fottergrim’s patronage for a mere trifle.

  So, wait until the magelord had what he sought in hand and then kill him, Kid decided, glancing up at the long-nosed wizard striding beside him. As Ivy would say, it was a plan. Then Kid’s sharp hearing caught another sound coming from behind them—the sound that a pair of well-made bootheels make when their owner thinks he is being stealthy. Kid’s eyes slid sideways as he checked the bugbears. They were busy with one of their growling arguments about poetry—love poetry in particular.

  “One could say that a past love drives all chance of other loves out of the heart,” said Norimgic in a bitter tone.

  “Yet, one could still express desire for the nearest female, even long for her,” answered Osteroric.

  “True. And how much more moving that would be,” mused Norimgic. “I want, I need, but I cannot love.”

  “Two emotions but never the third.”

  “Yes, but how to express this, my brother?”

  “It needs a good strong rhythm, such a love poem.”

  Clearly the bugbears were paying no attention at all to anything but their own concerns. Archlis also was concentrated on the way before them, checking the corridor’s turns against a page in the spellbook that he had stolen from the unlamented Toram.

  Kid’s right ear twitched back. Yes, that was definitely a pair of proper Procampur boots following them. Which meant a proper Procampur gentleman who believed that such things as duty and loyalty were as real as the crystals studding the walls. Once Kid would have called such a man foolish, but that was before he had met the Siegebreakers. Now he was just pleased that another mad dreamer was following them. Sanval would take care of the bugbears nicely, while Kid found a way around the charms that Archlis wore and slit his throat. Or maybe the charms only worked on metal, Kid suddenly thought, and a good solid rock right to the base of the skull would work.

  A pair of golden doors blocked their way.

  “Open this!” commanded the magelord.

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Kid, scurrying to where the magelord pointed. He kept his head down so Archlis could not see the malice in his eyes. The door locks were easy to pick and easy to leave open, all the better for any followers who might be coming after them.

  And once they found the magelord’s treasure, Archlis would be distracted and so much easier to kill. It seemed like an excellent plan to Kid.

  Once down the stairs, a quick glance showed Sanval that the crystals lining the corridor generated a magical light, a twilight glow that seemed almost bright after nearly a day of tramping through dark tunnels. It made it easy to see the long scratch on the wall, left by the rake of a bugbear’s claws. Osteroric was holding to his bargain, and marking the way for Sanval to follow. Of course, Osteroric thought Sanval was just following them to find a way out. The bugbear wasn’t going to be too pleased when Sanval ambushed them, and that worried Sanval a bit. Was it honorable to turn on an ally, even if the ally was essentially helping you for a bright piece of armor and was also a creature not particularly known for its social graces? Sanval tapped his helmet to make sure it was straight and decided to deal with events as they happened.

  Moving back up the stairs rapidly and as silently as he could, Sanval left his last candle burning on the top step. He remembered what Ivy had said about the keen eyesight of the dwarf and the others. Surely they would spot that light and understand that he meant them to follow him. Certainly the Siegebreakers would have destroyed the destrachans. If they had not … Sanval refused to consider that possibility. The beasts were just animals, and Sanval knew that Ivy, Mumchance, Gunderal, and Zuzzara were far cleverer than any animal.

  Besides, as much as Gunderal did not fit Sanval’s concept of a wizard (he tended to think of all wizards as strange, old, white-bearded men, never mind that the Pearl was the most powerful wizard in Procampur), he had seen her perform magic. Like most of those educated in Procampur—where wizardry was strictly regulated by the Pearl and largely discouraged altogether—Sanval believed that magic could give anyone an overwhelming, and rather unfair advantage in a fight. Which, of course, was why he needed to stop Archlis before the magelord returned to the walls of Tsurlagol and hurled his devastating fireballs against Procampur’s troops. And there was that poor little chap, Ivy’s friend Kid, who was probably terrified by the magelord. He could not leave a child in the grasp of someone so evil.

  So, all he had to do was ambush Archlis and overpower the magelord. Once the fellow was captured or dead (captured would be preferable and more legal, but one did what one could in times such as these), Sanval knew that they would be able to find a way out. The magelord was obviously carrying maps. And with Kid’s truly extraordinary tracking ability, they could also find Ivy and the others (assuming they had not seen his signal at the top of the stairs and followed them).

  It was a plan, Sanval decided, and then he heard an odd scuttling noise. Something was hunting for him. The shadows filled with sounds of scratching, as though an army of insects skittered within the walls. Sanval stopped, stood motionless on the bottom stair, and moved his eyes from side to side then up and down in case a few thousand spiders were dropping toward his head. Nothing there.

  He considered flattening himself against the wall and slipping noiselessly along the corridor, except Sanval was honest enough to admit to himself that sneaking in metal armor and sturdy leather boots might be beyond him. Soundless was not a choice. The crystals studding the stone walls brilliantly lit the corridor stretching before him; so he would be easily spotted if he got too close too quickly. Luckily, he could track Archlis by sound alone. The bugbears were arguing so loudly in their growling language that he could follow them easily.

  Sanval tapped the top of his helmet to straighten it properly on his head, squared his shoulders, and stepped from the shadow of the stairwell out into the tunnel. Then he heard the sound again. It was just behind him.

  Glancing back at the stairs, he saw a crack running up the wall, thick enough at the bottom for a slender man to crawl through. Water oozed out of the crack along the floor. Sanval wondered if the water was making the odd noise, but then he saw long threads, a bit like feather tips, protrude through the crack, vibrating, reaching, touching the stones, shivering away. He leaned closer, trying to see what they were. The two threads reached out, withdrew, disappeared, then shot out, whipping feathery ropes of an odd brown color and a couple of feet long. They quivered as though they were sniffing. Sniffing? Sniffing feathers? The Procampur captain’s hand went to his sword hilt.

  Quietly, he started to slide the sword out of its scabbard, trying not to make any noise that would attract the attention of Archlis. He was torn. If he delayed too long, the magelord might slip out of his grasp. On the other hand, if this was some type of trap set by the magelord, some type of feathery magical rope, then Ivy and the others might be attacked by it if they followed him down this stair. He could not leave such a danger behind him to threaten them.

  Sanval crouched down on his boot heels and squinted at the crack in the wall, but beyond the opening was heavy darkness, and he could make out nothing in the way of shape or size. Then, looking like something out of the horrific tales that his nurse once told to keep him in bed at night, a head poked out. It was reddish brown with bug eyes; in fact, the whole head was insect shaped. Yes, it was exactly like the giant bug that his nurse claimed ate little boys who were foolish enough to go wandering outside in their nightshirts.

  The long, twitching, fuzzy things started below the bug’s eyes and arched out, moving like feelers, turning and doing that sniffing thing. One shot out toward Sanval. Antennae! A giant bug head with antennae! Sanval fell backward off his heels and sat down har
d on the floor, so fast that he gasped with surprise and his armor rattled.

  The antennae swiped in front of him, almost touching him but missing him by inches. They stopped, quivered, and the bug’s eyes blinked.

  While Sanval sat open-mouthed and watched, the creature wiggled slowly through the opening in the wall, scratching along the stones. Sanval kept thinking that must be all, but the thing kept oozing out, a humped body covered with rust-colored lumps that looked a bit like a giant turtle’s shell, and peculiarly hinged legs. It was almost as large as a small bear. Trailing behind it was a long tail covered in armadillo-type plates and ending in a prong.

  Don’t get much uglier than that, Sanval thought and again started to unsheathe his sword.

  One of the antennae whipped forward, catching him by surprise, and slithered rapidly across his metal shoulder guard. Annoyed, thinking the creature had probably trailed some goop that would mar his armor, Sanval scooted back on the floor and then turned his head to look at his shoulder.

  He leaped to his feet and darted to the far corner. The guard wasn’t scratched and wasn’t covered in goop, but it was rusting as he watched, little flecks of rust dropping onto the floor. The creature’s antennae scraped along the stones and caught the loose bits of rust, drew them back to its mouth, and it chewed.

  “Hey, there, that’s my armor!” Sanval howled.

  The creature rolled its bug eyes upward and stared at him.

  “How fast can you run?” Sanval asked it politely. Its yellow eyes blinked. “That fast, my friend?” Sanval glanced down at his sword and knew that pulling it out of its leather scabbard would be the same as handing it to the monster for lunch. He left his sword where it was.

  The yellow eyes rolled upward to stare at the top of Sanval’s head, and Sanval could imagine the thing thinking, “Aaah, a beautifully burnished helmet, how delicious!” Oddly, in his imagination, the creature spoke in the exact fussy tones of a former tutor who used to warn him about the dangers of the Vast and the folly of leaving an ordered life lived under the silver tiles of his district.

  He tried to think of a plan, because surely a noble of Procampur, even one who had not traveled nearly as much as he wished, should be able to outwit a bug-brained monster. While Sanval considered his options, the monster’s antennae made another attack. It snapped toward his helmet, which Sanval had expected. He pivoted and dived away. The antennae hit his elbow, slithered across the metal elbow guard, then whipped back. Sanval reached across with his opposite gloved hand and touched his elbow just in time to feel the guard crumble, crack, and fall to the floor in a pile of rusting metal. The monster lurched forward at surprising speed.

  Sanval dashed past it to the opposite wall. The monster ignored him, arching its curved back and going at the rusting pieces on the floor. It bent its legs so that the joints stuck out, and hunched itself over the rusting metal and lowered its ugly little mouth. The scrunch scrunch of Sanval’s elbow guard being devoured like a hard-crusted loaf was more than annoying.

  What he needed was a wooden pole, he thought, and scanned the tunnel. But there was nothing, not a crossbeam, not a door that could be dismantled, nothing. And the monster effectively blocked the staircase. If he dashed down the corridor, would the thing follow? Would Archlis hear him coming? What if he ran into one of the magelord’s firespells? Sanval glanced down at his scorched boot—his manservant would be in tears when he saw what had happened earlier. Sanval’s gleaming boots were the envy of the camp, and his manservant Godolfin made a fair amount taking bribes for his polish recipe (of course, Sanval paid him even more to keep the true recipe off the feet of his rivals). So, rust or fire? Which would be worse? Both would be hard on the outfit that he had left.

  “I was trained to meet worthy adversaries,” he complained, “fighters with swords. Even a bugbear has a sword. Or at least a glaive.” He glanced down at the front of his chest. “Just as well I gave Osteroric my breastplate. I suppose if you had it to rust off me, you’d keep right on chewing through my body.”

  The monster tilted its head and looked up at Sanval.

  “Please forget that I suggested such a thing,” he muttered. He looked again at the crystals studding the wall. Some were as big as a man’s head. He reached up and grasped the one that protruded out the most. By swinging his entire weight off the crystal, he was able to force it out of the wall. He hefted it in one hand, then jumped back as an antennae whipped toward him. The gem was heavy for its size. Sanval clutched it, bent his arm back, and aimed the stone at the monster. It bounced off the lumpy back but certainly did no damage. The monster eyed him, then took a step closer.

  “Very well, you disliked that but took no harm from it. Another approach is needed here,” Sanval said. Was there a weapon he could put together from his gear that did not contain metal? He glanced at his arms, with metal shields still in place on one shoulder and elbow. His gauntlets featured metal cuffs and guards. His body armor lacked the breastplate, but there was still a fair collection of chain mail and smaller plates, with a few bits of banded armor protecting his thighs and knees. All good for nothing except a meal for the monster.

  And last, there were his beautiful leather boots. He had never liked armored footwear, finding it impossibly clumsy; also when he had tried it, he had been rewarded with blisters. Now, as he considered ways to destroy the creature, he was doubly glad that he had chosen leather boots. Walking out of these ruins in his stockings would be less than dignified.

  The monster shot out its antennae again, and Sanval dodged again, but how long could he keep this up? Furious at the unfairness of a beast that would not fight with proper weapons, the Procampur ripped off one gauntlet and tossed it into a far corner. The creature swung around, caught it with an antennae, rusted it on impact, and—like any other wild animal—hunched over the nice new addition to its meal.

  With the monster busy with its lunch, Sanval pulled off a shiny leather boot. He pried a couple of fist-sized crystals out of the wall, dropped them in, and grabbed another.

  The beast made a disgusting gulping noise and swung toward him. Sanval unbuckled his other elbow guard and tossed it in a high arch. The creature raised its head to watch, tracking the guard’s path until it clattered into the far corner. Slither, snap, into rust, crunch, crunch.

  “No sense of a fair fight, and no table manners, either,” Sanval complained as he grabbed up handfuls of smaller stones and dirt dislodged by his digging of the crystals. He jammed everything into his boot. With foreboding, he pulled off his remaining gauntlet and tucked it into his belt. He had to trust that the creature went for metal before attacking flesh. But what if that were wrong?

  By the time the creature had eaten his elbow guard, Sanval was ready. He had undone the remaining shoulder guard and held it in his hand. As the bug-head swung toward him, Sanval did another arched toss, and the bug-head did another follow-it-with-the-eyes turn. The guard crashed into the corner and was rust almost before it landed—a large pile of rust: a feast for the beast. The rust monster curved its humped back, crouched as close to the floor as possible, and let its wicked tail sag as it chomped away.

  The back was leathery, the tail was hard-as-shell plates, which only left the head and legs. Clutching his boot closed by its cuff, Sanval leaped forward and landed on his stocking-clad foot. The silk of his stocking made his landing a little slippery, but he managed to stay upright. Sanval swung the stone-filled boot down on top of the creature’s head while kicking his booted foot at a jutting joint of its back leg. The joint cracked. The monster’s head swiveled so that the bug’s eyes stared up at him. Sanval saw an antennae quiver, ducked, and was hit by the other one. It slapped across his banded shin guard. Rust flew. He didn’t bother to watch it crumble; he could feel the weight dropping away. He stomped down on the beast’s front leg with all his weight and held fast while bending over the monster to beat on its head with the stone-filled boot.

  Although pinned to the floor by his weight, t
he creature flipped its head to glare up at Sanval. Even as he brought the boot down toward its face, an antennae slithered up, way up, straight to the brim of his beautiful helmet. That helmet had been carefully designed for him. It carried family crests as well as military insignias in its elaborate, etched ornamentation, and he loved it almost as much as he loved his sword. He did not feel the tap, but he felt the disintegration. With the helmet pressed around his ears, he could hear the rust eat through—a sound much like the monster’s chomping, crunch, crunch—and the rattle of falling pieces.

  Sanval thought of himself as a rational man, possessed of self-control as well as courtesy, but even as he tried to remember this he heard himself screaming, “Do you know how much my armor cost? And how long I had to wait to get a perfect fit? And how much time it takes poor Godolfin to polish each piece? And how much I have to pay him to do that?”

  With each scream he beat at the monster’s head, hitting its eyes until they rolled shut, smacking at the antennae until they shriveled and curled away from him, and finally catching a soft spot between the skull and the first protective plate at the top of its spine. He heard something crack, and the beast gave a horrible gurgle. Sanval continued whacking away until the rust monster slid flat to the floor, its legs stretched out, its tail twitching but unable to lift the fanned tip of spikes. The antennae collapsed, their tips touching the wall in front of the monster’s head, then sliding slowly down the stones until they, too, were stretched lifeless across the floor.

  “Very dramatic. You died with style,” Sanval said to the carcass, trying to regain his self-control. He stepped away from the beast and looked down at it. It was not the sort of battle to go home and brag about—not like besting a dragon or a famous orc warrior. The creature might have been destructive to his gear, yes, but dead it simply looked pathetic.

  Shaking his head at the pile of rusted armor under the monster, Sanval assessed his remaining equipment. He emptied the crystals and stones from his boot, pounded it to knock loose any small bits, then pulled the tail of his silk undershirt out at his waist, and used it to try to rub his boot clean. Would his boots ever be bright again? Could he even ask Godolfin to polish them? And wasn’t that the way it always went—he had used the boot that was not scorched across the toe. Now it, too, was thoroughly scuffed from beating it against the monster.