Den of thieves abt-1

by David Chandler

  Croy nodded. He understood. “Who’s he?” he asked, looking across the room at Kemper, who was paring his fingernails with the silver edge of Croy’s unusual sword. He had trimmed his beard and his hair as well with the blade, for the first time since he’d been cursed. He’d never had access to a silver knife before.

  “A friend. My friend,” Malden said. “You needn’t concern yourself with that right now. You sent a messenger to find me last night. Luckily for you he did. I had a physick look at your wound. He said it will most likely be your death. When he was finished treating you, I brought you here, to get you out of the public eye. So you owe me something, Croy. First off, you owe me an answer. Why did you send for me, of all people in the Free City?”

  Croy pushed himself upright in the bed and put his feet down on the floor. Under Malden’s thin blanket he was naked. “Is it still raining out?”

  Malden sighed. He drew his bodkin and showed it to Croy.

  “You can do better than that rat-skinner,” the knight told him. “My shortsword should be around here somewhere. I assume you brought it when you moved me. It’ll make a cleaner cut, and kill me quicker.”

  “Smart talk, for one’s weak as a kitten just now,” Kemper said. “Ye’d be wise to just answer the question, m’lud.”

  Croy nodded. “You’re quite right, good sir. And I fully intend to do so, as soon as Malden stops threatening me with death. I have no fear of it now, so it’s hardly useful as a spur. I just wished to make that clear.”

  Malden sat down on the windowsill and sheathed his knife. He’d seen the way Croy moved when the water hit his face. For a man with a life-threatening wound, he was still fairly quick. He’d heard, too, of what Croy had done up at the castle. A man that dangerous wouldn’t go down easily. Perhaps it was time to stop threatening him and start getting actual information out of him, after all. “I’m sure there’s something you’re afraid of. If I need to, I’ll find it. But for now, very well.” He sketched a mock bow. “I won’t kill you until I have a reason. Tell me first how you even know my name.”

  Croy scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Cythera told me, of course. She told me that you stole the Burgrave’s crown and sold it to Hazoth. Ordinarily that would be a problem. I’m still technically the Burgrave’s vassal.”

  “He banished you to the kingdom of the dwarves. Then when you returned he tried to have you hanged.”

  Croy lifted his hands in resignation. “He never discharged me from his service. I swore an oath to defend him until my last breath.”

  “And you still intend to keep it?” Malden asked.

  The knight’s brow furrowed. “Yes, of course. How could I break that troth and still live with myself? I would die a thousand deaths before I dishonored myself.”

  Malden stared at the knight. Then he looked to Kemper, who seemed as uncertain as he was. “So you came looking for me-why? To bring me to justice? Did you expect me to turn myself in, to show contrition now that the theft is done?”

  “I thought you might know where Hazoth is keeping it. I thought you might know how I can recover it. If you stole something once, you might know how to steal it again.”

  Kemper started to speak, but Malden held up a hand for silence. He had no reason whatsoever to let Croy know that he was already bent on that very endeavor. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it would be to try? Can you think of any reason I would even consider the job you’re talking about?”

  “He’s askin’ how much yer payin’,” Kemper suggested.

  “I can’t give you any money,” Croy said. “But you would have the greatest of rewards-knowing you struck a blow for justice.” Malden started to laugh, but Croy stopped him by speaking again. “Cythera is a prisoner of the sorcerer Hazoth. As long as he possesses that crown, she will never be free.”

  “And what, exactly, should that mean to me?”

  Croy blinked. “Everything, of course. You’ve met her. You know she doesn’t deserve that fate. When last we met, Malden, I got the sense you cared for her in some way. If I was wrong I’ve slit my own throat, clearly. But I don’t think I was wrong.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Malden said. “You found yourself in the Smoke, all but dead, hunted by the entire city watch. You knew your only way of surviving was to get the crown back from Hazoth. So you sent for me, the thief who stole it, thinking I would help you simply because there’s a woman in peril who needs to be rescued.”

  “Yes,” Croy said, as if very glad that Malden finally understood.

  “What in the Bloodgod’s name are you?” Malden asked finally.

  “In the name of the Lady, I am an Ancient Blade,” Croy answered.

  As if that explained everything.

  Well… it did answer a few questions. Malden knew the story of the Ancient Blades, seven legendary warriors so called because they wielded sacred swords. Those swords had been made by human hands in a time so long ago the Free City of Ness wasn’t even a tower on a hill. The method of their creation was lost in time, but it was said even the dwarves could not create weapons of such power or with such keen edges.

  Kemper looked down at the bicolored sword in his hands. Then he carefully set it down on the floor.

  “That thing’s one of the blades? It doesn’t look like much,” Malden insisted.

  “None of them do. They weren’t forged as parade weapons. They were made to do one thing. To fight demons.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Kemper held the sword as far away from himself as possible.

  Malden understood his reticence. Looking at the blade, a strange feeling passed over him. What had been a simple weapon before had taken on new dimensions, now that he understood what it was made for. He remembered the way he’d felt while holding the magicked crown. The voice in his head had the power of command, the ability to rouse men to deeds of foolish valor and great sacrifice. The sword had no such enchantment on it, yet he could almost feel the power contained in its length.

  It was old, he knew. Older than he could imagine. It was a fragment of another time, a relic of when the old stories were all true. Malden disbelieved most of what he’d heard of Skrae’s ancient history, of the war against the elves, of the forests full of giants and goblins that preyed on the first human settlers. He had discounted such stories as fit only for children and the feeble-minded. Yet here was a thing that had featured in its own share of those stories, and its reality could not be questioned. It was cold metal, and a kind of magic.

  Suddenly all the stories seemed real. All those tales of brave knights wading into sorcerous peril, into the very maws of demons-they might actually be true. The seven blades, who stood alone against all the forces of the pit that would corrupt and defile the very world should they ever be set free.

  “Demons are rarely seen now,” Croy explained. “Thanks in no small part to the seven swords and the men who wielded them. We have almost wiped their kind from the face of the world-them, and the dread sorcerers who summon them here for nefarious purposes. There was a time, though, when they were thick upon the land. When they tore great swaths through Skrae, leaving destruction and madness in their wake. In that time the Blades were created, and without them I have no doubt humanity would have perished. They are that important.

  “Any piece of iron,” he went on, “is capable of killing a man, or a dwarf, or even an ogre. It just takes a strong arm to wield it. Demons, however, are different. They are native to the pit, where the laws of nature do not apply. Even dwarven steel is little use against them. To make matters worse, this quality that makes them so strong-that they are counter to nature-also makes them horribly dangerous. They were not created to breathe our air, to trod our earth. When they are dragged up out of the pit, they blight the land that receives them. Their evil is like a disease upon the very fabric of reality.”

  “Fabric o’ what?” Kemper asked, but Malden hushed him.

  “Some will turn milk sour inside a cow’s udders if she so mu
ch as looks on them. Some wither crops wherever they pass. And some are capable of destroying our world, just by being here. The one that brought down the Burgrave’s tower-”

  “It was tiny,” Malden said, nodding, “until it was exposed to the air. Then it began to grow, and did not stop.”

  Croy frowned. “Had it been permitted to continue, it would have grown until it crushed the entire city under its weight. Even then it would not have stopped, until its tentacles could wrap around the world and crush it to rubble.”

  Malden felt the blood rush out of his face. He had released the thing from its watery prison. If it had not been checked…

  “Fortunately, Bikker and I were there to stop it.”

  Malden cried out. “That bastard’s an Ancient Blade, too?” he demanded.

  “Yes. He wields the sword called Acidtongue. Just as I wield Ghostcutter.”

  “Then you know him,” Malden said.

  “Oh, yes. Very well, in fact. He trained me.” Croy rose carefully from the bed, walked over to the window and looked out at the rain, which had grown stronger overnight. “The swords are immortal, but the swordsmen are not. As each Ancient Blade ages and grows infirm, he finds a suitable heir to take the sword and the oath that comes with it. It’s up to the others to teach this new blade how to fight. It is a sacred duty and not lightly conferred-but only twice has a blade failed to be passed on correctly. Two of the swords, Fangbreaker and Dawnbringer, were stolen from us by barbarians. Where they are now, no civilized man knows.”

  Croy stared into the middle distance, as if he could find the lost swords in his own memory. Then he shook his head and continued with his tale.

  “When I received Ghostcutter from its previous owner, there were five of us, gallant knights all. We were in service to the king, at his fortress at Helstrow. It was our duty to protect him from any demons his enemies summoned to attack him.”

  “Why aren’t you there now?” Malden asked.

  Croy lowered his head as if he were ashamed of the answer. “The king died. He was poisoned by one of his courtiers. His son, the new king, discharged us. He claimed we were bad bodyguards who had failed to protect our master. We tried to explain that our brief was not to protect against poison, but only demonkind. He didn’t listen. Demons are rarely seen in this world nowadays. Our sacred work is rarely called for-as vital as it may be, it’s difficult to explain to people how important we are when no one has seen a demon at large for nearly fifty years. The new king didn’t understand why he should pay us to train endlessly for a threat that never came. He expected us to do other service to earn our keep. The five of us were forced to split up and go out into the world and find new occupation, wherever we could. Bikker brought me here, where we both swore allegiance to the Burgrave.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be working so well,” Malden pointed out.

  Croy glared at him.

  The thief shrugged off the knight’s disdain. “I speak nothing but fact. Neither of you works for the Burgrave anymore. Bikker’s working for the Burgrave’s enemies now. And the Burgrave sentenced you to death.”

  “I haven’t forgotten my oath, all the same. As for Bikker-something changed inside him. With nothing much to do, he grew bored here. There was not enough action to satisfy his bloodlust, and a man like Bikker must fight or he begins to die inside. Everything that was noble and valiant in him perished for lack of use. It was a great tragedy-but I cannot forgive him for what he has become. He broke his promise to the Burgrave and now he sells his services-and Acidtongue’s-to the highest bidder. I called him faithless when he left the Burgrave’s employ. I insulted his honor.” Croy shook his head. “Now he seeks satisfaction for that slight. He will kill me if he catches me.”

  “What, because you called him a bad name?” Malden asked.

  “Sure, son, an’ only apologize, an’ make it better, like,” Kemper suggested.

  “It was unforgivable, what I said. Don’t you understand? Honor is everything to such as Bikker and myself. An insult like that is a mortal blow.” Croy studied Malden and Kemper with a questioning eye. “You don’t understand at all. Is it true what they say, then, that there is no honor among thieves?”

  “Aye,” Kemper said.

  “Yes,” Malden agreed.

  Croy grunted in distaste.

  Malden felt the need to explain. “If that’s how you define honor, anyway. When you’re poor you can’t afford to take offense. If I had to kill every man who ever swore an oath in my presence… well, Ness wouldn’t be so crowded anyway. But I suppose it’s different for the nobility. When two men in the Stink come to blows in a tavern, it’s assault, and they’re both put in the stocks. When a baronet and an earl hack away at each other with their swords, that’s a duel, and half the city comes out to cheer.”

  “I’m sorry you see it that way,” Croy said.

  And Malden believed him. Looking into the knight’s eyes, he was convinced, utterly, that Croy’s world really was that simple. That honor meant the difference between life and death. That there were more important things in the world than a full belly and a warm place to sleep.

  And of course, in that world damsels in distress had to be rescued.

  “Where does Cythera come into all this?” Malden asked.

  Croy’s eyes sparkled at the sound of her name. “It was while working for the Burgrave that I first met her. She and her mother lived in the Golden Slope then. Her mother is a witch, did you know that?”

  “She mentioned it,” Malden said.

  Croy smiled. “Perhaps you think that I mean she is some toothless hag, selling powdered bat wings and working simple hexes on strayed lovers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Witchcraft is simpler than sorcery, but it’s cleaner, too. Coruth-Cythera’s mother-counted half the best families of Ness amongst her clients. She consulted with the Burgrave on matters magical… and once, when she came to the palace, she brought her daughter with her. Cythera. I was enchanted when I first laid eyes on her.”

  Malden looked away. He could understand only too well.

  “We barely exchanged a half dozen words at that first meeting,” Croy said. “Yet I knew when first we met that I would love her forever. I asked her to promise she would be mine someday. She wanted to say yes but she knew she was not her own mistress, not so long as Hazoth lays claim to her services. Anyway, she was too young then to make such a weighty decision. Now she has flowered into womanhood.”

  “Flowered is the right word,” Malden said, thinking of her tattoos.

  Croy didn’t seem to get the joke.

  “Never mind. Tell me more of Coruth. How did she end up in Hazoth’s thrall?”

  “For defying him. About ten years ago she decided to take Cythera away from here-she considered Hazoth to be an ill influence on Cythera’s education. She knew Hazoth wouldn’t like it. Should Cythera ever get more than a few miles away from him, the link between the two of them will cease to function and he’ll be prey to every demon in the pit. Coruth knew he would do anything to keep that link in place. She tried to flee Ness with Cythera anyway. They made it as far as the city gates, but then-then Hazoth worked a spell on Coruth. He forced her to march back to his villa and submit herself to imprisonment in a magic circle. His power was just too great to resist. Cythera was immune to the spell, but for her mother’s sake she could only watch in horror as Coruth struggled and writhed, fighting every step.”

  “Coruth has been locked away in the villa ever since?” Malden asked.

  “Should she become free even for an instant, she could wreak a terrible revenge on Hazoth. He’ll never let her go willingly, and as long as he has her, he has Cythera, too.” Croy laughed. “That’s where we come in. Together we’ll fight our way into the villa, striking down every man who-”

  “Sneak,” Malden said.

  “What?”

  “We aren’t going to fight our way in. We’re going to steal in during the night and get the crown before Hazoth even knows
we’re there.”

  “And free Coruth in the process, yes?” Croy asked. He looked like he didn’t like what he was hearing.

  “If I can. For Cythera’s sake,” Malden said.

  Croy seemed to take that as a yes. He clapped Malden on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, even if you are a thief. For Cythera! You can keep the blasted crown. Once Cythera is free of Hazoth’s bondage, she and I can marry. She will bear me a son, and if he is worthy, I will pass Ghostcutter to him when I am too old to lift it.”

  He strode over to Kemper and took the sword from the card sharp’s hands. Kemper didn’t try to stop him. The silver edge of the sword was one of the few weapons that could kill him, after all. Croy lifted the sword above his head and made a swooshing pass through the air with it, careful not to break any of Malden’s simple possessions.

  “In the past, I have been… confused. My duty to the Burgrave and my devotion to Cythera were at odds. Now I see, though, that destiny has led me to this pass. By freeing Cythera, I will recover the crown-and keep to both my oaths. My heart is clear.”

  He seemed lost in a reverie. Malden took the opportunity to whisper to Kemper, “What make you of this story?”

  Kemper laughed. “Methinks we’ve a walkin’ fairy tale in this ’un. Never once did I hear such piffle afore. Yet I heard he fought his way out o’ Castle Hill ’gainst two dozen men or more. I wouldn’t cross him, if’n I was you.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe we should have just cut his throat when we had the chance.”

  “O’ course, mayhap there’s a way to profit o’ this anyway,” Kemper pointed out. “There’s liable to be some fightin’, afore this is all through.”

  Malden looked over at the knight and the swords he was holding in his hands. “We could use a man who’s good with a sword, it’s true. This one’s wounded, though. He wouldn’t last five seconds against Hazoth’s guards.”